[Dis]Connected

by Michelle Halket

  Just a trick of the eye, Gwenn concluded.

  Ula regarded Gwenn with worry. She’d been staring off into space for an extraordinarily long time.

  She called her name.

  Gwenn did not stir.

  “GWENN!” Ula shouted, splashing water at her.

  Gwenn jumped halfway out of her skin. “What in the bloody hell was that for?!” she shot back.

  “Why do you stare? Why do you not answer me?!”

  Gwenn nodded, mumbling an apology.

  “Tell me what’s wrong,” Ula pleaded. “Please, you are my only friend.”

  Gwenn remained distant, looking off into the corner at a newly-formed spiderweb over an old trunk. “Oh, Ula. I believe I may have killed Kiernan. I think I may have killed my husband.”

  Gwenn regarded the spider building her web. “I wanted to save you, to return you to the sea, so I put valerian in his night’s tea. I knew I would come up here and carry you to safety, somehow. I would do it. I didn’t know how, but I would. When I left him, he was just barely breathing …”

  Ula gasped, then thrashed her powerful tail so that the trunk tipped over onto its side. Its contents whooshed out, water falling between the wooden planks of the floor. She flapped about on the floor for a full minute before her tail slowly transformed into legs.

  Gwenn rushed to her side and helped her up, eyes wide and lips trembling.

  Ula felt like a newborn fawn, but the softness and strength of Gwenn’s arms felt good. She had missed them all these years.

  “You could have done that the whole time, but you stayed in the trunk?” Gwenn asked, her voice strangely even.

  Ula almost preferred it when Gwenn was the sarcastic human she had grown to love so much—whom she had always loved, although Gwenn didn’t need to know that now. She didn’t need to be more overwhelmed than she already was. “I could have left the trunk, yes, but the water was my only comfort. Aside from you.”

  Gwenn went from looking like her heart had just melted to looking like she’d swallowed a bird, to looking like she might vomit up that bird. “I don’t understand any of this. I’m just so sorry. I wish I could have stopped all of this from happening to you in the first place. But this—this was all I knew how to do, and—I was more frightened than I’d ever been, thinking he could kill either of us at any moment. But you—the thought of someone causing you even a fraction’s worth of pain? I had to…”

  Something—no, someone came thundering up the stairs, screaming Ula’s name over and over.

  “Emý! Emý! Emý!” Ula shot into her wife’s arms, and they both let loose the happiest of tears, and kissed each other more tenderly than anyone ever had before.

  Gwenn smiled and then cleared her throat.

  “Oh, right! Gwenn, this is Emý, Emý—”

  “You’re a selkie, too?” Emý blurted out.

  Gwenn squinted. “Er, pardon me?” Her eyes flashed down to Emý’s shoulder, where the yellow sea star was standing up on two points, motioning for Ula to pick them up, and Gwenn looked even more confounded.

  Ula held back a laugh and elbowed her wife as if to say, Don’t be rude.

  “Right. Yes. My apologies. My name is Emý. I am Ula’s wife. And you, my dear, are most definitely a selkie. I remember you.” Emý shook her head in disbelief. “I remember you.”

  All three women sat on the wet floor as Emý told the story.

  Almost seven years earlier, Emý had been called to the cliffside town Gwenn now called home. The town’s men commanded and threatened her with torture unless she found the perfect selkie for a young man who had fancied no local women. Emý tried to refuse at first, like she always did, but they took her and dragged her to the shore. Using her most potent magick, Emý had created a rip current, separating Gwenn from the rest of her selkie herd. As the purple lightning struck and the magick seashell was placed around Gwenn’s neck, Kiernan took the now memory-less Gwenn as his wife.

  “That, there. Have you ever taken it off?” Emý asked Gwenn, nodding toward her necklace.

  Gwenn brought her hand up to it. “Only when my husband adds a new shell. I don’t know why, but I never removed it otherwise. I’ve never even felt the desire to.”

  Emý nodded in understanding. “That’s where my spell is. I may be a powerful sea witch, but my powers are only so strong. That first shell will hold you for a year, and a new shell must be placed with it every year after. But the spirit of the selkie cannot be tied forever, and most feel their memories begin to return after seven years. It’s the Earth’s way of protecting you. A failsafe.”

  Emý went on. “He must have gotten an inkling that you were beginning to remember. Have the dreams begun yet?”

  Gwenn nodded.

  “Then that’s why he chose … a backup. Our Ula.”

  Gwenn took a deep breath and then said with certainty, “Take it off, for I don’t know if I can.”

  With a turn of Emý’s wrist, Gwenn’s wedding and anniversary gifts clattered to the floor. Every shell broke in half, the center shell releasing purple smoke until it faded into nothingness.

  Gwenn’s eyes filled. She turned to Ula. “Oh, my love. I’ve missed you. I’ve missed you so much all these years on land, my longest love. Even when I didn’t know it.”

  “Finally,” Ula whispered, taking Gwenn’s hand into hers, “I think it’s time to go home now—wherever that may be.”

  “And teach me some proper water magick,” Gwenn added, sniffling.

  “Let us go. And you don’t have to worry your beautiful heads—I already took care of the man downstairs,” Emý declared.

  Gwenn and Ula gasped in unison.

  Emý chuckled at their wide eyes. “Oh, gods, no! He’s not dead! Whatever you gave him, Gwenn—it wasn’t enough. I did, however, make sure he would remember none of what has happened in the last seven years. When he looks back, the only thing he’ll retain is a vague gnawing guilt that will eat at him and all his future sons—the least of what he deserves.”

  The women smiled at each other.

  And so all of them lived happily ever after, as much as three survivors possibly could. Gwenn with Ula, in the wide sea, Ula with Emý on the green land. Then, after a passage of time, all three came together as one. Eventually, they built a small yellow cottage on a distant shore, where Ula and Gwenn could easily go back and forth between the two worlds. Emý still practiced her sea magick, but only as she saw fit. It was a charming, peaceful home filled with sea stars and books and seawater and, best of all, each other, never to part again.

  Astral Travel

  AMANDA LOVELACE

  i may

  go to sleep

  alone these days,

  but

  i found a way

  to leave behind

  my

  earthly body

  so i can finally visit

  all

  the places

  we used to go together—

  this time,

  without the

  lemon juice bite&pucker.

  A Way to Leave

  R. H. SWANEY

  IT IS 11:53 P.M. ON A FRIDAY NIGHT. OR maybe it’s Saturday. I’ve lost track. The Tigers Jaw record you bought me for my birthday spins on a turntable in the corner of the room. Side A has been done playing for hours, but the needle never reset. It now spins in an endless loop. I can relate.

  We met outside the record store that seconded as a venue for your friends’ gigs. You asked me for a cigarette. I was leaning against the parking meter outside, which was covered with frost. I handed you my last one. I remember you lighting it with shivering fingers. I remember the way the smoke softly poured over your bottom lip. I remember the way you looked at me when you asked for my name with such poise and confidence, traits I lacked. I had seen you before. Your hair always caught my eye. It changed like the seasons and seemed to match your mood. Just the week before, it was purple, but this evening it was blue. As you smoked, you told me stories of
the east coast. You said you were a feather in the wind, and the breeze just happened to carry you to this little Midwestern town. Before I could say much, you stomped out your cigarette and invited me to a diner where you were meeting your friends.

  You ordered a plate of fries and a side of ranch. I was too nervous to order anything, but you insisted on sharing and kept pushing the plate towards me. I finally grabbed the almost-empty ketchup bottle on our table and put a little on the plate. I nibbled on the fries like a rabbit, too nervous to eat with gusto. I remember getting lost in your stories about your travels as we waited for your friends to show up. Only one did, the bassist of the opening band that night, sporting a lip piercing. You said we were about to pay our check and leave. Lip-piercing just stood there, but eventually got the hint, and left. We stayed until the diner’s morning regulars showed up to carry out their ritual of burnt coffee and undercooked eggs. You could have spent time with anyone that night, but for some reason you chose to spend it with me. That’s what I loved most about you, the way you always did what you wanted. Especially when what you wanted to do was stay up late and tell me stories of your adventures. All I ever wanted was for you to be happy. You seemed so happy that night, your smile revealing slightly crooked front teeth. You told me later you were self-conscious about them. I wonder who sees them now, tells you they’re not as bad as you think they are.

  It is now 12:37 a.m. The buzz from the record player seems louder. I knuckle my dry eyes. The cracks in the ceiling above my bed slither like snakes before my eyelids shut out the low light. I like to believe this is sleep, but it feels more like the absence of gravity. I float until I find myself in the diner. You are sitting at the same table, alone. Your smile reveals those teeth, so I know you’re genuinely happy. I try to call out your name, but can’t. I want to tell you I’m better now. That I haven’t missed any counseling appointments. That we can make it. But I can’t. You become blurry. I step towards you, but right before I’m able to reach out and touch your shoulder, the beer can I’m holding in the real world slips from my fingers and the cracks in the ceiling come into focus, the way your face did all those mornings you’d wake me up before you went off to work.

  We used to sit on a bench in the park down the street from our apartment. You always took me there when you needed inspiration for your poetry. We’d mingle with the homeless folks heading to the shelter to find a hot meal. You’d call them over and offer them whatever you happened to have in your pocket: a few coins, a granola bar. I loved watching you laugh with them, encouraging them. Right after they’d leave, you’d take your favorite pen with an auto-body-shop logo on it and let it dance with the pages in your journal. You never let me read it. That was okay with me. There was an intimacy between you and your writing I didn’t want to disturb, but I was always curious. You said someday you’d polish up your work and show me. You said your writing was bad and blamed your illegible scribbles on being left-handed. I blamed them on your brilliant mind. I told you that your thoughts flowed so quickly your hands just couldn’t keep up. There had to be a compromise in the message. That made you smile, teeth showing.

  One time, my curiosity got the best of me and I stole a look. I felt bad—like I had betrayed you. I just knew the same vibrancy that was in your heart would spill into your writing, and I guess I wanted to experience it. Your words were like candlelight in a dark room. They were like rainwater overflowing from a flowerpot during a soft spring shower. I wish I could remember something you wrote, but all I see is a blank page.

  It is now 1:34 a.m. My tongue feels like sandpaper against the roof of my mouth, so I drag myself to the kitchen for water. Dehydration and memories of you make the room spin. I know I hurt you. You were a kite and I was the string tethering you to Earth. I hope you’re happier now.

  I flop on the couch you found on Craigslist for five dollars. You were so proud of yourself when you found it. The blanket I bought you for Christmas is still draped over the back of it to hide a hole I burned in one of the cushions when I was drunk. You said it was fine, but smiled at me, no teeth. I guess I’ll add the blanket to the list of items I’ll need to remove from our—I mean, my—apartment when I get that procedure done like in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. I laugh out loud, the sound of my voice startling me. I drape the blanket over my legs and crack open another beer.

  I’m floating again. I can’t tell if I’m drunk or if this is a mental breakdown, but I found a way to leave behind my earthly body so I can finally visit all the places we used to go together. Now, I’m walking towards that park bench. There you are again, but this time you have company. It’s a homeless man we’ve met before and you’ve grown fond of, an immigrant who fled his war-torn country and walks with a limp because of something that happened to him as a child. You admired his perseverance. I admired the way you truly seemed to care about him. I should have told you that. But I never did. You were like a one-of-a-kind glass vase on a high shelf. I never should have reached for you. I watch in slow motion as you slip through my fingertips and come crashing to the ground.

  I float back to our—my bedroom. It’s so hard to view my life through a lens of ‘me’ and not ‘us.’ You used to say that I needed to focus on myself more, and that you didn’t want to be the codependent enabler of my poor mental health. I realize now that I was suffocating you. You were so patient with my need for continuous reassurance. I don’t understand why you put up with me for so long. But I’m glad you did. I know you did your best to understand me and my broken parts.

  A week before you left we got into a fight over a text message. You said it was just a friend, the person with the lip piercing. But my mind, with its broken parts, couldn’t stop imagining your lips touching that piercing. The broken parts took over and they wrapped their hands around my neck. You said you needed some space and that I needed to cool down. Your soft tears rolled down your even softer cheeks like raindrops on a window during a gloomy autumn day. You slammed the apartment door behind you. Instead of running after you, I sat there, worried what the neighbors were thinking.

  I think that was the first time I started floating. I saw myself in the kitchen. I saw myself waiting, staring at the clock, which mocked me. Every tick of the second hand a bomb in my head. The worry took over. Were someone else’s arms around your waist? Were you finally leaving me for good?

  I saw myself leave. I went to the corner store. I bought a twelve-pack and went to the park bench down the street from our apartment. I saw myself talking to the immigrant man. I saw myself calling your phone, slurring every tenth, fifth, and then third word as I left message after message. I saw myself push your immigrant friend as he pleaded with me in broken English to stay on the bench.

  Back in my bedroom, the record still spins, just like my head, as I try to make sense of all the parts of my brain telling me different things. I’ve taken the blanket from the couch with me, not because it reminds me of you, but simply for warmth in this cold apartment. At least that is what I’ve told myself. I lie back on the bed, next to the now-empty case of beer. Empty, like the bed without you next to me.

  It is now 3:21 a.m. More floating, but this time the images are sparser and more broken. You are on a walk, a few blocks away from the record store. When you get to the store, you press your hand against the front window with all the gig posters on it. You sigh as you slowly ponder each poster. You whisper something, but I can’t quite make out your words.

  The dream grows fuzzier. I blink and see the cracks in the ceiling. I blink again and see you at the diner. Your friends are there and you approach every single one of them. Everyone has that look on their face as if they are at a funeral. The person with the lip piercing is the last person you approach. You whisper something in their ear and I see them suck in a breath as tears start falling anew.

  More fuzziness. There, on the park bench, is your immigrant friend. You whisper something to him and walk away. He watches you walk away as he shakes his head, disappointed
and sad. I lose sight of you.

  I start running after you. I am worried about you. You are leaving and I can’t reach you. I call out to you. You don’t answer; you are too far away. Sirens pierce my ears like knives. I am now screaming your name. The last thing I see is flashing lights.

  I bolt awake in a sweat.

  I don’t understand these dreams. Maybe it’s the alcohol, or my broken parts, or a little bit of both. Maybe it is a sign from the heavens that I need to face what happened so I can become whole again. Either way, the one thing I now understand more than anything is that I hurt you. I was selfish. I was everything I never wanted to become.

  It is now 4:43 a.m. The effects of the alcohol are wearing off and my stomach rumbles. I cannot recall the last time I ate, so I decide to track down some food. I put on my coat and head out the door. As I’m shutting it behind me, I remember the slam the night of our fight. I make sure to shut it quietly. As I wander, I pass all the places we used to go and get that achy feeling in my chest. I’ve lost you. And even though you said it wasn’t my fault, I still believe it was. I treated our love like sand in my fingers; the tighter I held on, the faster I lost it.

  I put in earbuds to tune out the drone of self-loathing. I scroll through the catalog of songs on my phone until I see “Bullet” by Tigers Jaw, reminding me that I forgot to take the needle off the record that is still spinning at the apartment. I hit play.

  The track’s lyrics dig deep into my chest, exposing every cut and scar on my heart. Music has always had a way of speaking for me in times when I couldn’t find the right words. I really do believe you are happy now away from me, smiling with your teeth showing. How does one reconcile such a realization?

  The songs on my phone continue on shuffle, jumping from metal, to emo, to nostalgic pop. My mind is in a similar shuffle, jumping from my floating dreams, to missing you, to trying to accept that you are better off without me. I said “I’m sorry” so many times, I guess you got sick of hearing it.