by Naomi Canale
I’m starving, but bits of that song are coming to me like particles of a shooting star that are lightly dusting the piece of earth I’m on. I shut my eyes and try to grab the pieces, but my stomach interrupts. It’s too distracting to think.
There’s a loud crack in the sky when I get out of my truck. Large grey pillows of clouds are stretching out into heavy streams of black as if they’re trying to mimic night.
Elsie greets me when I walk in. “It’s getting crazy out there, huh?”
“Yeah, it’s nice though, we don’t get enough rain out here.”
She directs me over to a table in the corner and gives me a menu. “I know. The drought this year has been tough. How are you feeling, baby? Your Dad came in yesterday and mentioned you weren’t feeling well.”
“I’m okay, just back for more soup.”
“You got it,” she says with light rolls of her Puerto Rican accent and a wink.
It doesn’t take Elsie long to return with my meal. I’m here before lunch so things aren’t busy yet. I’ve gotten to know Elsie really well ever since Mom converted her to “our side” four years ago and now she’s caught the religious disease. She bends her neck a little and gives me a look. “Estas enamorada, Savanna.” She continues with her English translation and takes a seat. “You’ve fallen in love, haven’t you?”
I try to hide a smile in the cusp of my spoon as I take a sip of soup.
The lights in Elsie’s eyes grow brighter as she sighs. “Ah, el primer amor. First love?”
Inside I want to smile like I am on the outside when I say, “Maybe.” But I can’t, knowing Daniel could be gone forever.
Another customer comes in and Elsie squeezes my only partially healed wrist. “Good for you, baby, but he better be a nice one. You deserve only the best.”
My wrist aches from the pressure of her touch.
What the hell was that thing in the hotel that dragged me across the floor and forced fear into the back of Daniel’s eyes? It was the same expression he gave me last night before he disappeared. He talked about monsters. Could they be holding his soul hostage? For what, though? Maybe I should tell the girls what’s been going on. Daniel’s soul is more important than my secrets—my desires. It’s time I told them the truth, I need their help.
New voices a few seats from behind are starting to make El Marquez feel more lively, and one of the voices is familiar to me. I turn to glance at the table. It’s Jared, and he’s not here with Lucky. What a dick. He’s here with Peg Opened Legs. In my gut, I feel like a jerk for continuing to call her that name, (even if I am only saying it to myself) but she knows Jared and Lucky have been together forever. The longer I watch them flirt and kiss each other from across the table, the more I want to do Lucky a favor and deck him.
Lucky’s going to fall apart if I tell her about Peg and Jared. They’re locking lips and touching each other like they’ve found a new toy in the toy shop that smells good and is fun to play with. I don’t want to walk out like a wimp and not say anything, but it wouldn’t be right to knock him down for Lucky either. She likes taking care of herself.
I wait for Elsie to walk out from the kitchen so she’ll see me leaving. Her voice can carry through an entire football stadium without a microphone and I want Jared to notice when she hollers out goodbye so he can squirm when he hears my name.
As Elsie comes out from behind the door, my plan works like clockwork as I start toward the exit. “Feel better Savanna, baby. See you soon?”
Four eyes narrow in on me and smiles evaporate as I walk past their table and give Elsie a nod. I don’t say anything out loud, just give them starved lion eyes and a middle finger. Jared’s usually quick to be clever and would normally shout out something like, “No, I don’t want to fuck you, Savanna.” But he’s quiet and must realize I don’t think he’s so clever anymore.
My brain tries to process what I just saw as I sit in my truck. I attempt to play out what I’ll say to Lucky, the idea makes me feel like the dirty one—not Jared. What the heck am I supposed to do? The only way tonight will end right is if we find Amy’s Dad and I shut up about this, but that would make me the shittiest friend ever. I’ve got to tell her.
A splash of rain falls into a crack on my windshield. The large drop fills in the dip and takes on the shape of a cross. Go figure. Why a cross and not some oddly shaped object I could stare at trying to make different faces out of? I’m positive the universe is mocking me. The cross reminds me of how I promised Dad I would volunteer in the nursery. Maybe signing up will help earn back some trust? Guilt is riding its course through my conscious ever since I promised Mom I’d take care of him by being a good and helpful servant.
Even though my eyes burn like Listerine, I start up the truck and turn toward the church.
As I walk through the hallways of the church, the strong scent of bleach assures me I’m closer than I think to the nursery. I’ve always hated that smell after I visited a morgue with Mom in Africa and it brings back bad memories.
A crusty clipboard hangs on a nail. Knotted around a string is a smiley face pen that used to be yellow, I’m surprised this thing still has ink after all the abuse it’s been through. I spoke too soon—the thing only engraves my name into paper. It really doesn’t have any ink. As I look around for another pen, Dad’s voice carries through the slit of his office door. I can hear Erica’s voice, the temporary nursery leader, and others, too. He must be in a meeting.
Erica’s holding onto a fresh cup of coffee as she comes out and sees me. “Savanna? Can I help you?”
“I’m actually trying to find a pen,” I hold it up and try to smile with weak facial muscles, “this one has died.”
She tilts her head to the side as if she’s confused. “For?”
As if the clipboard in my hands isn’t enough evidence as to why I need a working pen. “Dad said you could use some help in the nursery.”
“We are fine really.” She avoids my eyes and refills her purple coffee cup that reads “God is Good.”
She heads to the cleaning supplies room, leaving me with a bitter taste in my mouth. Does she think I’m stupid? She’s taking over Mom’s position until she gets back and I’ve known forever that things can easily turn to chaos if that roster has empty spaces.
I firmly hang the clipboard back up and pull my hoodie over my head. She couldn’t even say thank you, hello—nothing. Didn’t her parents teach her manners? I know they did because I’ve witnessed her using them, especially on Sunday’s. She must be just another religious freak who can’t practice what she preaches.
As I walk by Dad’s office, I overhear him, “Kids can be really difficult, trust me, I’ve been experiencing that a little too much lately, but you just need to continue to pray for them and trust in God.”
Why did I come here? Seriously? Dad must be talking about my so-called “problems” to the entire church. I pick up the pace. The exit door has always been my favorite thing about this place.
Chapter 9
Séance
Lucky left her back door open for me—supposedly, but it’s stuck. I plant my soles firmly onto crumbled concrete steps as I pry it open. Small pebbles shift beneath me as I pull hard. The black metal incasing the frame is bent—aged. I finally get it open enough to squeeze through and barely get my bag in. If His Dark Ways had been in here, it probably wouldn’t have fit. The girls are going to be pissed when they find out Dad has it.
There’s a note on the counter. Normally I would mind my own business, but there’s a pile of dirty twenties on top of it and it’s not your normal every day stash—I lightly push them aside.
Have fun this weekend, Kitten. We finally won enough to take off to Vegas for the poker tournament your dad’s always talked about. Our winnings are your winnings—enjoy! Miss you. Mom and Dad
It’s sad to know her parents had so much money at one point that all their wildest dreams could have come true and then some. But no matter what they win, it’s never enough—big
ger and better is their motto. The draft coming through the slider reminds me of the only kind of fixing this place ever gets—the temporary kind that is usually cheap and a waste of time because things quickly go back to how they were. Lucky’s parents are always saying the money will be coming in soon enough that they’ll just be able to pay someone to do the job. It’s funny, they are the most optimistic people I know, but they are constantly asking Dad for counseling. I’m pretty sure that the Westside of Vegas stays lit because of all the money they throw at that city.
My bags are sitting at the foot of the door inside Lucky’s room—the girls should be here soon. I’m shocked I got the okay from Dad to stay over after he found me in a fetal position under the piano this morning. I pause for a second and the image sinks in as I flop down on top of her bed, which nearly drowns me in an ocean of stuffed animals.
Somehow I know Daniel won’t be out in the shadows tonight. I don’t know how, but I can sense he’s hurting.
I’ve always envied people who have faith, like my parents. They’ve always had this unshakable kind. In a way it reminds me of little kids who believe in Santa and the way they look at you with wide eyes—sparkling—shining with a glimmer of hope. I’m sure any snippet of faith would comfort me right now, but I don’t have any. I’m depressed and lacking faith that Daniel’s okay—that he will reappear.
An ache starts near my inner wrist as if poison’s being administered into my system—it’s creeping toward the blood pumping through my ventricles. A pulse makes its way to my brain and beats hard enough to cause a headache. I push the skin over my temples and rub firmly. It doesn’t do anything. With my head hung low, I try to focus on one thing and hope the pain will cease.
The gloss on Lucky’s violin catches the last rays of the day’s light and I zoom in the best I can to eliminate the pounding in my head—minutes pass—nothing.
I grab the violin. Maybe playing music will force my mind to amuse itself in other places other than hurt. I stroke my fingers across it the same way Daniel did on the piano. A clock ticks in the background and the silence that remains starts making me mad. I wonder if he’s thinking of me, or if he’s able to. I didn’t even get to say goodbye. How do I know I won’t see him? How are we connected like this? The thought stabs at me.
A melody from Phantom of the Opera, Think Of Me, keeps circling in my mind and I hum the song, trying to play it from memory. I mess up the first cords.
I lay the violin into my lap with a long sigh. Even though I slept off most of my insomnia and took a cool shower, I’m still murky. All of my being wants to remember the song Daniel played and play that one only. What is wrong with me? Mom’s always been the one with Obsession Compulsion Disorder, not me.
I grit my teeth and hold the violin more firmly under my chin. It gives a sharp shriek until I get my notes exact and when I do, it feeds something inside me as I reach each high and low note and Think of Me come to life. I close my eyes. The music somehow calms the hurricane within my head—twisting thoughts are no longer being strewn about.
Lucky’s calling out and I hear the front door shut. “Damn girl, I haven’t heard that violin sing since we played together in the sixth grade. What’d you do, tune it?”
I’m quiet. Silence departs and being a hermit suddenly seems like a better idea than being around people as the girls’ voices carry down the hall. I’ve never felt so selfish in my life, I want to get to the séance already and find Daniel.
Lucky cozy’s up next to me and bounces her butt on the bed. “Why so blue, you?”
Amy’s arms are full with flannel shirts and a couple of books—they look like her dad’s things. She stops in front of me. “You seriously look ill from sadness. Is your mom okay?”
“Yeah, she’s fine,” I answer.
My headache is mostly gone, but my gut is quivering. Should I tell them about Daniel or face the truth about what I saw earlier today? Lucky nudges me and pops a lollipop into her mouth. “You can tell us.”
I’ve never held back anything from them—this instinct to hold back is foreign. I take a deep breath and plunge in. “Remember the other night at Goldfield?”
Lucky takes the sour apple Blow Pop off her tongue and matches eyes with Amy. “Yeah.”
I get up and place her violin back onto its stand. They are both waiting for me to respond. “I met this guy,” I pause, “that night.”
Amy puts her things down on top of the loveseat in the back corner of the room. “A guy? But there was no one there, except for that fucking creepy demon we saw.”
“Something was trying to kill me that night and this guy kind of saved me.”
“Why haven’t we met him yet?”
“Because he’s not exactly human, he is, but he’s not.”
Lucky starts laughing. “Oh, shit, Savanna sees dead people.”
“It’s not funny, Lucky, seriously, I think I’m in love with him.”
“But it’s been like a week. I think it took me more than a year to even say that about Jared.”
I hesitate as I talk. “He’s different. And last night he disappeared—”
Lucky giggles. “Ghosts kind of do that, right?”
“I don’t know, Lucky. All I know is that when I touch him, he becomes real, like, human again, and whatever that thing was you guys saw in the hotel, I think it’s hurting him—keeping him away from me.” Amy and Lucky aren’t laughing any more. “I need your help,” I mumble, “we are connected, like twins. When he hurts, so do I and I don’t know why.”
Lucky moves her ear closer to my lips. “Whoa, what did you just say, Miss I-Refuse-To-Ever-Fall-For-Someone?”
“I love him.”
Amy pulls candles out of her bag. “So who’s this, ‘him’?”
“Daniel.”
I spill my guts out to both of them—relieved to be on the same page with them again. We all saw something. Misery definitely loves company and the longer they’re here with me, the better I’m starting feel. Patience isn’t sitting well with me, and apparently it’s not sitting well with Amy either. She can’t take the candles out of her bag fast enough and nods her head in the direction of my stuff. “Looks like you packed light. You brought our book, right?”
I give her an answer with a hushed tone. “Dad caught me with it. He’s took it.”
Fortunately the pitch of her voice hasn’t changed much. “You’re kidding right?”
“Nope,” I say with a smack of my lips.
“Shit.”
Lucky pipes up. “It’s all good. They didn’t invent Google for nothing. Plus, we’ve all read up on this a ton of times before. You really just need warm bodies and some of your dad’s stuff. We’ve got both.” Her face grows blank like she forgot something. “Well, I’m sure it works sometimes without stuff too.”
It’s a nice gesture, especially because she believes me. I had to see Daniel more than once to even believe. Regret binds itself together like a tight ball of string in the same place I usually get the hiccups and I feel stupid for not holding onto him like I did on the playa. “You two are smart. I know you’ll help me find him.”
***
By the end of two failed séances Amy and I sit in unsatisfied confusion. Lucky comes into the room with shot classes and an abnormally sized bottle of Jack. “I think we could all use this.”
Lucky has no idea just how true that statement is. She gets ridiculously loving after having a few shots. When she starts petting me, I’ll break the news to her about Jared. Hopefully alcohol will help lessen the blow and we’ll all curl up with each other and weep about loss—love.
I’ve only had two shots and I’m already lying on the floor peering up at the ceiling—it feels better to belt out the news I have for Lucky at the fan than telling her face to face. “Lucky.”
A soft, “What’s up,” carries over the room.
“Jared was with Peg today at El Marquez,” I sit up on my left elbow and pick at the carpet, “he’s cheating on you, Lucky.�
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This is crappy. I gulp down any Jack that’s still lingering on my tongue as I watch her eyes gloss over—she quickly downs the shot in her hand. “Shut up.”
Her chest lightly pants up and down. Hurt is obviously swelling up inside of her like an infected wound. “My stupid gut was right.” The rim of the bottle is at the tip of her lip—she tilts it and begins to chug. Streams of liquid fall across both sides of her cheeks and she doesn’t bother to wipe them away when the bottle’s brought down to rest on top of her knee.
Lucky’s never been one for hugs, but I get up to cradle her in my arms anyways.
Amy gets a fresh roll of toilet paper from the bathroom but Lucky wipes her tears away with a pajama sleeve instead and looks at me. An uncomfortable laugh escapes her. “Tell me one of those stories you used to tell us as kids Savanna.”
I was a disturbed child—she knows all my stories are a bit dark. If it will help settle down the monster of pain Jared unleashed into protected territory, then it’s worth it. It’s not easy to see her upset.
As I try to recall one, Lucky’s very round cat, Freddie, walks in and rubs his face against Amy’s notebook and plops down beside it. Her notebook is full of spells, séances, and scribbled pictures colored in with whiteout. An old monkey fable I haven’t told in ages comes to mind when my eyes peer over a half drawn monkey that looks like one of Eric’s masterpieces. I blow out all the candles but one and hold it under my chin like it’s a flashlight, like we used to. The tip of the flame tickles my chin with warmth as I twist my lips and crinkle my nose against the light and make a stupid face. “Are you ready, my pretties?”