Touch: A Trilogy

by A. G. Carpenter

  At the very end was Mrs. Fuller, who didn’t attend any of the churches but still showed up every week to help sort and pass out the food. She had a few boxes of her own, with dozens of little paper bags lined up neat inside. “Morning, Addie. Morning, Del.” She took two bags and handed them to us. “Chocolate chip this week.” She smiled.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Addie said dutifully.

  I was already unfolding my bag and pulling a cookie out. The chocolate chips were soft with the heat of the day and made sticky marks on my hand, but they tasted almost like they’d just come out of the oven. “Thak uu,” I said.

  “Of course, Delaney.” She beamed and leaned close. “Everyone deserves something nice. Right?” She dropped three more paper bags into our box. “One for your mother. And some for later.” She hugged me, then Addie. “Go on now. It’s getting hot, and y’all don’t need to be walking in the sun.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Addie nodded, pulled the wagon around, and we started back the way we’d come.

  Ms. Skinner waved her hand to get our attention as we passed. “Tell your mother the carpet plant is hiring.”

  It’s funny how the same words can mean different things comin’ from different folks. Just a trick of the tongue that turns a phrase so the words come down like a judge’s gavel.

  Ms. Skinner said, The carpet plant is hiring, but she meant something else. Despite the warmth of Mrs. Fuller’s hug still restin’ on my shoulders, all I could see was how short my dress was, the sleeves dug into my armpits and the fabric across the front stretched tight because I’d been growin’ but my clothes hadn’t. Despite tasting compassion, all sugar and butter and chocolate in my mouth, I felt the uneven weight of my hair—crooked ‘cause Addie never could get it quite straight across the back or the front.

  I didn’t need to think about it; my hand found those threads runnin’ off in every direction, automatic. Looked for one that would put Ms. Skinner in her place. Pulled at one that had her tumblin’ face first into the table of canned goods and spendin’ the next few months with a broke jaw wired shut.

  Addie caught me in the ribs with her elbow. “Stop it, Del.”

  “Ow.” I glared at her. “I’m not...”

  She fixed me with that cool blue stare, dizzying as a cloudless sky. “Stop.”

  I licked a smudge of chocolate off my fingers. “You know she deserves it.”

  Behind us Ms. Skinner caught her foot on a crack in the pavement and stumbled into the table with the canned goods, knocking a stack of pork n’ beans off onto the ground—plonk, plonk, plonk. But she straightened back up, unhurt and bossy as ever. “Pick those up. Next time maybe you should set the tables up where it’s flat.”

  I scowled and kicked a piece of gravel up the sidewalk.

  Addie grabbed me by the elbow. “We all deserve somethin’ terrible, Del. But if we all got what we deserved...” She shrugged. “Most of us would never get the chance to do somethin’ good.”

  I pulled at my dress, still wishin’ it were long enough to cover my knees. “We ain’t done anythin’ to deserve somethin’ terrible, Addie.”

  She looked at me for a long moment.

  I tucked my hand behind my back, guilty, even though all those threads still trembled around us.

  Ms. Skinner leaned on the edge of one of the tables, red-faced as she pointed her finger at Mrs. Fuller. “Coddling them. Cookies. They need to get to work.” Her voice rose higher and higher.

  Addie shook her head. “Come on, Del. Mama’ll be waitin’ for us.”

  We trudged up the street, pulling the wagon behind us. At the corner I glanced back.

  Ms. Skinner staggered around, one hand pressed against her chest, as the other women all fluttered around her. Her knees gave out, and she dropped to the pavement.

  Mrs. Fuller bent over her, the abandoned clipboard in her hands, and fanned Ms. Skinner’s face. “Go call an ambulance. Quick.”

  I caught my sneaker on a crack in the sidewalk and nearly pitched headlong myself. “Addie...”

  There was a hint of teeth in her grin. “We all deserve what we get, Del.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder. “Some of us more than others.”

  1

  Living with these borrowed bones is hard.

  Perhaps because they were dead when I tried to make them mine. Perhaps because, try as I might, they are not mine. They never will be.

  It has been weeks, months even, since I first saw this face in the mirror. Every day it is still a stranger who stares back at me. Every day it becomes harder and harder not to peel back this skin to try and see myself. Harder and harder not to cut off these parts that are different so I can feel more like myself.

  But I know that the thing that is me is invisible. I could cut all the way to this borrowed heart and still not glimpse my own face.

  I know the thing that is me is invisible.

  And every day it fades a little more.

  2

  Mama Lettie still forgets sometimes about using she or her, but Alex disappearing seems to have changed her. She forgets sometimes, but she tries.

  This morning she fixes my hair so that it softens the strong jawline and helps me dress. Long sleeves, of course, because—though the long wounds on my arms have slowly healed—the scars remain. Likewise, the skirt falls to mid-calf to hide Alex’s bony knees. To hide my knees.

  I duck my head to hide a flicker of guilt. It should be Alex who smiles at her mother, Alex who can finally sit and talk about girlish things. I know that she is happier elsewhere, in the life beyond this one, but I can’t help but hurt over the fact that this love is not meant for me. Hurt for Alex who must only feel it from a distance, and hurt for myself, selfishly, that I must wear this skin to have a mother love me like a daughter.

  Mama Lettie returns with two cups of tea, sweet with sugar and sharp with lemon. “Are you hungry? I can make a sandwich.”

  “No. Thank you.” I take a sip of tea. “Maybe later.”

  She fiddles with her own cup. “You have gotten so thin.” A smile, thin and cracking as onionskin. “It worries me, is all.”

  “I’ll eat when I get home.”

  Mama Lettie’s eyes flicker. “You’re going out?”

  “For a little while.”

  “Will you be back for lunch?”

  “I don’t think so. But I’ll be here for dinner.”

  She nods. “All right. I’m making that chicken poppy seed casserole.”

  “My favorite.” I smile to reassure her. For a while the Michaels didn’t let me out without one of them with me. Afraid I would be attacked again. Afraid I might disappear again.

  The counselor we see every other Tuesday has persuaded them that I should have time to myself. She says it’s part of the process of “Letting Alex be Alex.” Now I go for walks every couple of days, sometimes down to the library to do research. Sometimes just wandering around parts of the city as I try to unravel the path that lies ahead.

  These bones don’t see the future like my own.

  Mama Lettie sips her tea. “I was thinking maybe we could go to that little art shop downtown. They have classes. Well, not classes exactly. Groups, I think they call them. You go and they show you how to do a painting. It could be fun. I stopped in to see what they offer the other day. There’s a nice one with sea shells that we could do, and they have an afternoon group coming up for it in a week or so.”

  “Sure.” I drink my own tea slowly, appreciative of the warmth. I love Mama Lettie, but she is never comfortable with silence. Her voice fills every room like water pouring into a bucket—steady, persistent, smothering.

  “They have others. I got a card if you want to look at their website. There’s a Van Gogh one. Not really Starry Night, but styled after it. Or a winter scene. I thought maybe the shells would look nice in the bathroom, but whatever you want.”

  I set my empty teacup on the bedside table. “Maybe we can look at it this evening. After dinner.”

  “Yes.
Good. We’ll look at it this evening.” She collects my cup and moves toward the door, apparently satisfied that I will be coming home. “Are you sure I can’t make you a sandwich? To take with you?”

  “I’m all right.”

  “Okay.” She disappears down the hall to the kitchen.

  I collect my bag, a big thing made out of canvas that holds a handful of pens and some tape, a pair of scissors, and composition book. My real journal is hidden elsewhere, but it would look funny if I went out with all those pens and no notebook. I make little entries in this one about day-to-day stuff. The things I don’t care if anyone reads.

  I haven’t caught Mama Lettie or Papa Michaels trying to go through any of my things, but I can’t risk it.

  Mama Lettie comes out of the kitchen as I go down the hall and follows me to the front door. “You be careful, okay?”

  “Of course.” I hug her, awkward. Most things I’ve learned how to do with these longer legs and arms, but affection is not something that has ever come easy. “I’ll be back for dinner.”

  She smiles and nods and stands behind the screen door, watching me walk out to the street. I know she’ll stand there for a while after I’m out of sight. The first few times I went out on my own, I came back to find her still there with the same cup of coffee or dishtowel or half-finished crossword in her hands.

  I have done my best to reassure her each time I leave that I will be back. It is harder every time, knowing that someday I will say those words and they will be a lie. Soon. But not today.

  Two blocks down and one block over is a small house that has been empty ever since I came to stay with the Michaels. There is a fence around the front and sides, but in the back, it’s all weeds and a little plastic garden shed. I pull the door open just far enough to get my arm inside and grab my real journals, slip them into my bag, and head back out to the street.

  I’ve got a ways to go today.

  Growing up there was always talk about folks with the Touch and rumors about who might have the Gift. But it was never out in the open, not officially. Folks knew that Neeny Johnson had a way with the cards, and old Granny Nichols could give you a little sack full of god-knew-what and money would flow your way.

  Folks knew, and sometimes you would hear those whispers behind hands or closed doors, but if you wanted something magic, you couldn’t go to a store and ask for it.

  Savannah is different. Folks like Franklin Jones can be found in the weekly Nickel Saver. There are little shops wedged in next to the Asian grocery or the Vintage Vinyl Emporium that sell charms and totems and most of the bits and pieces you would need to make your own.

  What they don’t have are books about or histories of the Touch. I have checked with the library and found a few, but they are mostly silly. Speculations on whether the Fey were real and if the Vikings brought secret knowledge to the Americas or if the First Nations already possessed it—if in different tongues.

  I know the things I’m looking for exist. I have seen the archive in Atlanta, hidden in the basement of the government building. I suspect there may be a collection here in Savannah, but when I ask the tiny Mrs. Dihn, she just smiles and says, No books here.

  I stop for a moment to get my bearings. I’ve been to this part of the city before, but only once.

  A young man lounging on the steps of an ancient apartment building nods his head. “You lookin’ for something?”

  “Fisher Street.”

  His eyes get narrow, but he sits up and points. “Almost there. Two more blocks.”

  “Thank you.” I walk on, feeling the weight of his gaze on my shoulders—not hateful so much as curious, but it still makes my shoulders tense and my heart gallops along faster than before.

  It is a relief when I reach Fisher Street and a few minutes after that, the little old house with the name Jones on the mailbox.

  There isn’t a button for a doorbell, so I ball up my fist and knock. Try not to fidget while I wait. There’s a creak and shuffle inside and the door opens.

  “Hello, Franklin.” I smile and do my best to ignore the oh-shit look on his face.

  He licks his lips. “Delaney Green.”

  “Oh, you can call me Alex.”

  Franklin leans out of the doorway, looks up and down the street for a moment. “You by yourself?”

  “Of course.”

  He pushes the door open a little more, but leans against the threshold, arms crossed. “What do you want?”

  “I need your help. May I come inside?”

  Franklin hesitates, then nods. “Yeah. All right.” He pushes the door all the way open and steps back. “Come on in.”

  3

  Franklin leads the way back to the kitchen, drops into a chair beside a tiny table wedged in one corner, and motions to the other chair. “Have a seat.”

  There’s a cutting board on the counter behind him, with a couple slices of tomato and paring knife. A piece of bread and cheese and a little pile of shaved ham sit on a plate next to it. “Didn’t mean to interrupt,” I say with nod to the half-prepared sandwich.

  He shrugs. “It can wait.” He doesn’t offer to make me one.

  I sit, tug my bag around into my lap. “Still summoning shades in the basement?”

  He frowns. “What do you want, Delaney?”

  Right to the point then. Fine by me. “I need your help, Franklin.”

  He narrows his eyes. “Help with what?”

  “Magic books. I need to know how to do a thing, and there must be books about it, but no one will show them to me.” I smile as sweetly as I can. “I thought you might have a foot in the door, so to speak.”

  Franklin rubs his forehead. “Books.”

  “Yes. About magic.”

  “And what thing is it you need to know how to do?”

  I press my hands against my bag, the notebooks inside full of the bits and pieces I can still remember of the future, all the research I have done on the past. All of it dependent on trusting Franklin now, in this moment. “This body will not last.”

  He chuckles. “None of them do.”

  “No. I mean, it will die soon. Not in years as yours will, but in months. Weeks even.”

  “Ah.” Franklin leans back in his chair, studying me. “Maybe that is for the best.”

  “You would rather Percy goes unchecked?”

  “Egh.” He pulls at his lower lip, remembering maybe the terrible magic that nearly killed him after we faced the necromancer. “Yes. He is a problem.” He leans forward, brown eyes intent. “I know you said you loved him. But are you certain it would not be better to...end him?”

  “Kill him, you mean.” I resist the urge to smile. In this moment, it would be a threat.

  “Yes.”

  I rub my thumb against the scar on the inside of my wrist. I’ve seen that ending, too—Romeo and Juliet with more blood and fewer tears. “That future is messy.”

  “So you say.”

  “Here.” I pull the notebooks out and slide them across the table toward him. “See for yourself.”

  Franklin shakes his head. “I’m not helping you find another body, Delaney. Once was enough.”

  “I don’t need another body, Mr. Jones. I need mine.”

  He tilts his head, eyes narrowed. “Your body was destroyed.”

  I brush that aside with a flick of my fingers. “Flesh maybe, but my bones...they buried those on the spot.” I touch my face, a little self-conscious. “And this stuff can be remade. Around my bones. Because they are...well, powerful.”

  Franklin presses back in his chair ‘til it digs a hole in the plaster wall. “That’s the thing you want to do.” He’s nearly breathless, sweat slicking down his temples. “Even you must know that’s forbidden.”

  “Because it requires the sacrifice of one body to complete a second. But this one has already been abandoned. No soul will be cut free. No innocent will die.”

  “It’s not just...” He pauses, swallows a couple of times. “The book you are tal
king about is hard to find. And the thing you mean to do requires a pentagram. You will need help from others. You will need someone with Power.”

  “Percy is a Power. And for the others, I’m certain your sister can help us find those who are familiar with this thing.”

  He reaches back and snatches the knife off the cutting board on the counter, leans forward ‘til the tip prickles against my cheek. “You stay away from my sister.”

  I do my best to look calm and kind. “I am not the one who is going to hurt her. But I may be the only one who can save her.”

  “No.” He shakes his head. “You stay away from her.”

  The tip of the knife stutters across my skin, leaving a trail of hot pinpricks, blood welling up, slow. More scars, but I’m not worried about those. This is not my final form. “How many times have they come after her? How many times have you taken those memories from her so she would not live in fear of the next?”

  Franklin’s lips pull back from his teeth. “There is no stopping them. No matter how far she runs—”

  “I can stop them.” I shift in my chair so I can lean forward to take his other hand—pressed flat against the table—without further cutting myself. “For good. But I will need your help.”

  His hand trembles, and I do my best not to, even as the hair on the back of my neck stands up at attention. “Why should I believe you?” His voice is rough.

  “Have I lied to you before?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Ah.” I squeeze his fingers gently. “Help me, and I will help your sister.”

  He is silent, the fear of me and love for his sister flickering in the depths of his eyes. Finally, he lets the knife drop to the table where it turns a lazy circle and stops—the blade pointing at me again. I nudge it to one side with my free hand, push the notebooks toward him again. “You will need to read these before we begin. So you can understand how strange our path will be.”

  Franklin opens the first journal and looks at the drawings, the notes scrawled every which way. “This may take a while.”