Sparrow

by Mary Cecilia Jackson

  I pause, panting, looking for other missiles to launch. Suddenly the door flies open, and my mother stands there, dressed in her black suit and pearls, her hair in a French twist. Her non-mom look.

  Horrified, she looks at the window, the twice-ruined wall, then the ruin that is me.

  “Lucas, what—”

  “It’s all my fault, Mom! Everything! I knew! And I kept quiet! What kind of a person does that? I could have done something. I could have taken her away. I could have stopped him! If I hadn’t been such a coward, she wouldn’t be—she’d still—she wouldn’t be broken.”

  I half sit, half fall down beside the bed. My bones feel so heavy inside my skin. My mother kneels on the floor beside me and puts her arms around me. She kisses the top of my head, whispers “Hush,” and then all the meaningless words moms use to try to make everything better. “We’ll fix this, love. I’m right here with you. I won’t let anything bad happen. This too shall pass.”

  But those words have lost all the power they had when I was a kid. Now they’re empty, full of air and impossible promises.

  “Lucas, my sweetheart, what happened to Sparrow wasn’t your fault. Nobody could have stopped it. Not even you, honey. You have got to stop blaming yourself.”

  I will never stop blaming myself. I’ve only just begun.

  I look over her shoulder and see what I’ve done like I’m seeing it for the first time. Like I’m seeing it through her eyes.

  “Oh God, Mom. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  “I know you are, baby,” she says, smoothing my hair, holding me tight. Her voice is thick with unshed tears. “But we can’t go on like this. You need to get away from here. I’m sending you to Granny Deirdre.”

  Sparrow

  I will encounter darkness as a bride,

  And hug it in mine arms.

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Measure for Measure

  25

  Nightmare

  My mother’s bare feet float just above the dead leaves on the forest floor. She drifts closer and closer as I crouch on the flat rock in the middle of the creek. Her wings are unfurled. The white feathers in her hair lift and settle, lift and settle, though there’s no wind. The black stones pour from her eyes, rolling off the rock into the water, turning to deep obsidian pools that swirl in the current.

  Come to me, Savannah. Come down in the dark. You belong to me.

  You’d think that after all these weeks I’d be used to the nightmare, that I’d be able to wake up and shrug it off, to remain unmoved by something that has grown so familiar. But I’m not. Most nights, I wake up screaming. Sophie always comes, dependable as a kitchen timer. At first she tried to hold me, but I never let her. Now she brings me a glass of water and sits in the chair near my bed, reading A Tree Grows in Brooklyn out loud until I can fall asleep again. Some nights it takes a long time.

  “Sparrow,” she whispers, careful not to touch me. “Baby girl, stop. It was only a dream.”

  No, Sophie, I say in my head. It was not only a dream. I let my mother back in, and now she won’t go away.

  Today I’m not even in my bed when the dream comes. I’ve fallen asleep in the living room, under two blankets, which I’ve learned to arrange so I won’t have to look at any part of myself.

  This time I don’t scream. I wake up and swallow it all back down so no one will come. So no one will touch me.

  Sophie wanders in anyway, wearing a black Williams-Sonoma apron dusted with flour. I pretend I don’t see her, turning to look out the window at the last of the gold and scarlet leaves drifting gently to the earth from the maple tree in the front yard. She’s been baking pumpkin muffins, just for me. The smell makes me sick. She smiles and says, “Thanksgiving’s next week. Should we invite the Spensers and the Henrys, like last year?”

  When I don’t answer, she changes the subject.

  “I bought you something, honey, but I’ve been waiting to give it to you until you were a little stronger.”

  I stare at her, willing her to go away.

  “Oh, baby girl,” she says softly. “Remember we talked about this the other night? That you’d try to speak a little more?”

  There was no “we.” You did all the talking.

  “Honey, please?”

  “Great,” I say, in my new raspy voice, the one that sounds like my throat is lined with sandpaper.

  She pulls a book from her apron pocket and holds it out to me like it contains all the collected wisdom of the world.

  Back from Violence: Five Inspiring Stories from Women Who Survived.

  “I’ve read it, sweetheart, and I think it might really help you. Sometimes hearing about other people who’ve gone through similar experiences can help you find the tools you need to heal yourself.”

  “Thanks,” I croak.

  I take the book, then struggle to my feet, limp across the room, and toss it into the fireplace. I don’t turn around to see the expression on Sophie’s face, but I hear her gasp. “Sparrow!”

  Ignoring her, I grab the heavy poker and give the book a savage jab, shoving it back as far as it will go, so the flames will eat it fast. It blazes like a torch before finally turning to ember and ash. I watch it burn.

  The doorbell rings, and Sophie leaves to answer it, her shoulders drooping. Back on the couch, blankets carefully arranged over my boot, my arms hidden from view, I see Mrs. Cranston from next door, holding a couple of foil-covered dishes. Another casserole, another plate of cookies. She cranes her neck and gives me a smile and a wave. I close my eyes.

  If I could tell the truth, I’d tell all the people fluttering around me like demented moths that the thing lying on the living room couch isn’t me; it’s a breathing carcass. Sentient carrion. I’d beg them to put me out in the cold, let me drift away on an ice floe, leave me to the wolves.

  The harder I try to disappear, the more everyone hovers. No matter how many times I beg them, no matter how many times I whisper, “Please, please, leave me alone,” they refuse. Everyone—my dad, Sophie, and a score of other people—insist on coming “to talk.” To bring me food and books, to “sit with” me, to make sure I’m never alone long enough to “dwell on” what’s happened to me. They say I should move forward. But I don’t want to move anywhere at all.

  It started in the hospital, the day after I woke up. First there was a priest. I pretended to be asleep. After a while he went away.

  The next few days brought a psychologist in a tweed jacket and a bolo tie, a gum-chewing social worker with a tattoo of a spider on her neck, and a physical therapist who smelled like tuna fish and Listerine.

  Dr. Sharma was the only one who was never bothered by my silence. She just smiled at me and spoke softly. She didn’t want anything. Sometimes she’d sit in the chair beside my bed and make notes in my chart. Her presence was like the beacon from a lighthouse, silent and calm, reaching out across a dark and stormy sea.

  The police officers and Detectives Gutierrez and Bell have been to see me almost every day since I got home, begging me to tell them everything about what happened that night. They want me to say his name.

  In the rare moments when I’m actually alone, I explore my room like an archaeologist excavating a lost civilization. Three pairs of pointe shoes lined up neatly on the flowered armchair in the corner, toes out, ribbons wrapped tightly around the shanks. The textbooks on my desk gathering dust, the pink-and-white comforter embroidered with swans, the earrings and braided bracelets tangled together on my dresser, the absence of Tristan’s gifts like a splinter buried deep under my skin, always with me, impossible to ignore.

  I always save the best for last, the painting over my bed. It’s the thing I love most, my most prized possession for the last three years. My father gave it to me for my fourteenth birthday. Me as Odette, the tragic Swan Queen. It’s like he knew. The card is still tucked into the gilt frame. “Someday, my Sparrow!” Delaney and I spent hours staring at that girl in the painting, hoping, wishing, planning.

  No
w it’s nothing but a lie.

  * * *

  This time when the nightmare comes, I’m ready. There’s a brand-new candle on my nightstand, along with a pack of matches. After I’ve calmed myself down, after I’ve banished my winged, floating mother to the box I keep stuffed deep inside myself, after I chain her up again and turn the key in the heavy padlock, I sit up and undo the straps of the boot, slowly, so the sound of Velcro doesn’t wake Sophie.

  When it’s off, I stand and limp to the barre across from my bed, the barre my father installed when I was eight and raised every year as I grew taller. The mirrored wall shows my shadow approaching, backlit by the glow of my night-lights. I look away quickly so I won’t see myself. I don’t look in mirrors anymore.

  I turn to light the candle, inhaling the soft fragrance of peony and jasmine, then rest my left hand on the barre’s worn smoothness. Inside the boot, my foot has gone all pale and pruny, except for where it’s still bruised. It looks disgusting and smells even worse.

  I can’t pretend that fouettés are still possible, but I am determined to do one thing that reminds me I am a dancer.

  That I was a dancer.

  I breathe in and close my eyes, then pull up and raise my right leg in an extension à la seconde.

  Unconsciously, reflexively, muscle memory kicks in, and I point my toes.

  Instant, white-hot agony travels up my leg and into my stomach like a lit fuse. The pain comes in waves, so savage that bright spots dance in front of my eyes. Bile rises, burning in my throat, and I fall to my knees.

  I forget not to look in the mirror.

  Oh, sweet Jesus, I forget. Now I see what my father and Sophie have noticed over the last few weeks, what’s caused them to look at each other in barely concealed alarm. Now I know why they’ve been smiling those fake, toothy smiles that people use to mask their shock.

  I’ve lost so much weight that my cheekbones rise like razor blades underneath my skin.

  Before, my hair was brown, with auburn highlights. Now it’s jet-black, dark as the inside of a cave.

  At my left temple, there’s a brand-new streak of pure, snowy white. I reach a trembling hand to my head and touch it. Softer than the rest of my hair.

  I look just like my mother.

  Come to me, Savannah. Come down, down, down in the dark. We can be together forever.

  I do not scream or cry. My breathing is calm and even, my movements slow and sure as I strap the boot back on. The candle flares and sputters, directing me to look up, to rest my eyes on the Swan Queen above my bed.

  I’m holding my huge sewing scissors, climbing up on my pillows, before I realize what I’m about to do.

  My father made a mistake. And Levkova was wrong.

  I’ve never been the white swan, the pure, innocent princess cursed by an evil sorcerer. I do not have Swan Queen blood.

  My father, more than anyone, should have known. I’m the Black Swan. Curses swirl in my blood. Wickedness is buried in my bones, bound to make everyone who loves me suffer. I’m a black hole, a night without stars, drawing pain and grief and heartbreak to me like a magnet. Destined to make no one happy, ever.

  I am my mother’s daughter.

  I’m eye to eye with the ballerina in my painting, the perfect dancer who looks exactly like me. Odette, Queen of the Swans, her feathered headdress anchored with a sparkling tiara, her snow-white tutu covered with sequins and feathers, her face—my face—grave and sad, because she is pure and good and powerless to be her true self.

  Reverently, I touch her long eyelashes, her beautiful mouth, her chestnut hair, her gleaming shoulders and fragile collarbones. She gives a little beneath my fingers. I kiss her painted cheek. I tell her goodbye.

  When I plunge the scissors into the canvas, I smell oil paint.

  I cut out her face first, then her tiara, then her pointe shoes. Holding the scissors open, I slash the white feathered tutu, her graceful arms, her strong muscled legs, the lake that shimmers in the background, the soft, moonlit sky. I tear apart all her swan sisters, arranged in perfect rows behind her.

  When I’m finished, I bend to rest my head on the white velvet headboard, then gather what’s left of my strength to lift the canvas off the wall and lay it on my bed. I cut the rest of it to ribbons, then gouge the frame until my hands are covered with flecks of gold. The painting lies in shreds. The Swan Queen is dead.

  All will be well, all will be well, and all manner of things shall be well.

  When the door to my room flies open, I’m running ribbons of shredded canvas through my fingers. I’ve dusted gold flecks into my hair. They catch the candlelight and sparkle on my hands. My father’s face goes white, and he runs for his phone.

  I smile. There’s nothing to worry about. All will be well. It’s done now. I’m all better. See?

  Sophie stands in the doorway, her eyes wide with shock. She comes in and takes the scissors away.

  “Oh, sweetheart. What have you done, baby girl?”

  I’ve gotten rid of the lie, Sophie. I am not sweet and pure. I never have been. You should have told me long ago, so I wouldn’t have wasted so much time trying. I’m tainted. Spoiled meat. I’ve been that way since I was small. That’s what people smell on me. Poison. That’s what breathes out of my pores. That’s what makes me prey.

  My father’s voice floats out to me, insistent, frightened. I hear him say, “Emergency.”

  Sophie puts her hand to her head and sways a little, then falls into my desk chair and buries her face in her hands. “Divine mother of us all,” she whispers. “Give heed to the voice of my cry, hear my prayer. Oh God. Please, please help us.”

  Oh, Sophie, don’t be silly. Trust me, no one’s listening. No one cares.

  I hold my candle up and look in the mirror. The gold paint in my hair glitters, and I turn my head from side to side, admiring the dark and the light, the white streak that wasn’t there before.

  It’s soft. Like feathers.

  Lucas

  There is some soul of goodness in things evil.

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Henry V

  26

  Exile

  I pitch my luggage into the back seat of my Jeep, along with my backpack and dance bag, though I won’t need it where I’m going. I thought about leaving it behind, but I can’t. I’ve had this one—a black Puma duffel—since I was fourteen, and right now it’s the only thing that makes me feel like I’m still me. Packed with black tights and sweatpants, ballet slippers and protein powder, resistance bands and clean T-shirts, it holds what used to be the best thing in my life, the one thing I was good at.

  Folded carefully on top is the shirt I wore the day we danced the pas de deux and I picked her up after and held her in my arms. It still smells faintly of honeysuckle shampoo and lavender soap, and if I hold it to my face and close my eyes, I can make myself believe she’ll come back to me. When I sling this bag over my shoulder, I’m still a dancer, still back in the time when I could make her laugh, when we’re alone in the big studio, nailing the hell out of fish dives.

  My mom comes outside wearing one of my dad’s Marine Corps sweatshirts over a pair of black yoga pants. It’s gray and cold and starting to spit rain, but she’s barefoot, juggling a box of groceries for Granny Deirdre and leftovers from Thanksgiving. Store-bought pies for the first time ever, sliced turkey and sides from Kroger. Like Granny will get within a mile of that crap. She makes her own mayonnaise, for God’s sake.

  Without a word, I take the groceries and the food from my mom, shove it all in the back, and slam the door. The car is filthy, still grimy with the salt that covered the roads after the surprise snowfall we had last week. I wipe my hand on my jeans, cursing under my breath. My mom opens the passenger door, pushes the seat forward, and starts mucking out the back seat, tossing old tights, Taco Bell wrappers, milkshake cups, and a half-full bottle of Mountain Dew onto the lawn. She doesn’t look at me when she speaks.

  “Make sure Granny gets some rest and stays off that a
nkle.” She slams the seat back into place and shuts the door, which takes two tries, because the handle is hanging by a thread. “Anna and I will come at Christmas, like we talked about.”

  I zip my heavy blue fleece all the way and cram my Sherpa hat down over my ears. My hair’s too long and sticks out from underneath. It’s freezing out here. I ignore my mother, trying not to hear the sound of her voice.

  She runs into the house and comes back wearing my dad’s slippers. Standing in front of me, she looks up into my face and says softly, “I know you don’t want to go, and I know you’re really angry at me, but I think you need some time away. We talked about this.”

  “No,” I say, practically spitting the words. “You talked about it.”

  I get in the driver’s seat, but she does that thing where she scoots in between me and the door so I can’t slam it in her face. She has tears in her eyes, but I’m too angry to care. She doesn’t get to own this scene. I’m the one she’s sending away.

  “Lucas, please, try to find a way forward. And keep up with your schoolwork. Mr. Freeman is doing you a huge favor, letting you work from Granny’s. And remember, if nothing changes, you will be seeing a therapist when you get home.”

  The tears are running down her cheeks now, and she wipes them away with the sleeves of my dad’s sweatshirt.

  I glare out the windshield and start the car.

  “Lucas, wait.”

  She reaches underneath the sweatshirt and pulls a long silver chain over her head. My father’s St. Michael medal. She lets the chain waterfall into the palm of her hand and holds it out to me.