by Rose Christo
"My shrink wants me to go through more oxygen therapy." I try not to shudder. "It's like being buried alive. Then drowned."
"Fun."
I smile. I zip up my woolen jacket. It's chilly outside.
"Hey..." Azel says.
I look sideways at him. He doesn't look at me. His eyes are on the smoke-infested moon, his hands in his pockets.
"Do you want to go to the library next Friday?" Azel asks the sky.
"I--" I've never been to the public library before. I don't even know where it is. "Okay." Smart. Smart girl.
"We could research what happened to you," Azel explains. "I mean...when you saw the nebula."
"Okay," I say again. Because I want to know, too. Because I'm terrified. But at the same time...
"It's going to be okay," Azel says.
Maybe it really is.
7
Prestezza
Judas walks me down the marble, Z-shaped hallway. The glass doors to the exam rooms stare back at us, gauzy and bulbous, like wandering eyes. I don't like them. I don't like this hospital. I want to go home.
"It'll be over before you know it," Judas says.
It's officially autumn. That means the car accident was a whole season ago. It's funny, but it doesn't feel so far away. It feels as if it happened overnight. At the same time, it feels as if it hasn't happened at all. I don't know how to explain it. The haze is only halfway lifted. Maybe I'm afraid of what happens when the entire haze dissipates.
The hyperbaric oxygen chamber is hidden away inside a room with chrome walls. It looks even colder than the chamber in the last hospital. Dr. Moritz ushers us into the room without looking at either one of us. The lid to the glass casket hangs open, like an angry monster's maw. I don't want to get in.
"Get in," Dr. Moritz says.
I lie on the rubbery mat. The fluorescent lights on the ceiling bore into my eyes. I can hear my heart in my ears, in my head.
"I'll take you for ice cream later," Judas says.
I flash him a smile. He gives me a brief nod.
The casket hisses shut above my head. Fluorescent lights refract through the glass lid.
I close my eyes.
Air gushes into my ears. My head feels tight. My face feels frozen. I breathe--cold, dry air--I feel as if I'm suffocating, but I know I'm not. My hands clamp shut at my sides. I don't dare move. If I move, I'll feel the casket walls. I won't be able to remember whether I'm alive or dead.
Dead. Mom and Dad and Joss are dead.
I can see them when my eyes are closed. Dad with his dark eyes and his dark hair and his big belly. Mom with faint wrinkles that could have been laughlines. Jocelyn who screamed at the sight of books but aced every test they ever gave her. They're so real. If they're real, why aren't they here?
A pair of sharp teeth invades my thoughts. Sharp like a shark's. Violent, violet flashes streaking across the landscape of my mind.
My eyes snap open. My spine, my neck feel stiff. A part of me wants to scream. A part of me thinks something is very wrong.
* * * * *
The ice cream parlor is only two blocks down from the hospital. The interior is frosty and white. My breath turns to mist as soon as we walk inside.
"You feel any better?" Judas asks.
We get in line. "I feel fine," I tell him. No reason to worry him.
He nods absently. "You go find a seat," he says.
I head outside the parlor. The sun is unusually bright today, the air lukewarm. Striped umbrellas in blue and green spill their shade all over the plastic white sidewalk tables. I sit at one of the vacant tables. I look around while I wait.
There's a little gated water fountain just across the street. It would be pretty if its basin weren't lathered in business logos and delinquent scribblings. The sidewalk around it ends in a harbor, a pier stretched over a manmade canal, boats docked at the jetties. Children play on the wooden planks. Where are their parents? The water doesn't look clean.
Clean water. I think of the clean waters of Tillamook Bay. The ocean is transparent when it laps over the shore, a sheet of fluid glass. The sand is crepuscular, snowy, off-white. I close my eyes and see the dark, bossed wood of my childhood home. It's so far away. But that can't be. It was only days ago.
I hear the chair opposite mine scrape back against the asphalt. I open my eyes.
It's not Judas. It's Annwn. She sits across from me with a sunny smile. Her sleepy eyes look brighter today, maybe because we're outdoors.
"Fancy meeting you here," Annwn says.
I laugh hello. "You, too," I return. "There aren't even any Black-Eyed Susans around here."
"There goes my afternoon," she laments. "How are you?"
"I'll live. You?"
"I'm just enjoying the weather."
"It's a weird change of pace," I say. "September's been all windy. Now it's autumn and the sun comes out?"
"I try not to look a gift horse in the mouth."
"That's probably for the best..."
Annwn sips her lemonade through a straw. I wonder why her presence is so calming. If a train came speeding at us right now, and Annwn raised her hand, I bet it would come crashing to a halt. I bet she wouldn't even drop her drink.
"What's your study?" Annwn asks me. She puts her drink down.
Study. Right. "I'm a painter." Everyone's an artist at Cavalieri. Makes for a pretty snobby crowd. "You?"
"Violinist."
"Really?" I haven't met one of those before.
"You know," Annwn says. She folds her hands leisurely, a playful little lilt to her smile. A blue hair ribbon dangles next to her ear. "They say the violin is the closest instrument to the human voice."
"They do?" I ask. Jocelyn was a singer.
"They do. Stradivari's violins have the same musical range as a soprano singer. A really good violinist can produce vowels and consonants with them."
"That's crazy," I say, laughing. But I don't mean it.
"Sometimes the craziest things about this universe are among the easiest to prove." Annwn takes her straw out of her drink. She shakes it around, like she's trying to air it dry. "Did you know the universe is singing?"
I stare at her. I feel as if the planet's skidded to a halt on its axis. I can't hear anything but her straw slipping back into her lemonade can. I can't see anything beyond her delicate face, and her strawberry blonde hair, and her unsuspecting countenance.
She mistakes my silence for disbelief. "Karl Jansky proved it in 1931. Right after the Big Bang, the universe started singing. Those soundwaves were what pushed the galaxies apart and shaped the stars. The Milky Way's still singing. But space is a vacuum, so we can't hear the radio waves. We don't know what the song sounds like."
"I..." What do I say? I've heard it will just sound like I've lost my mind. I have heard it, haven't I? That soul-reaching melody I can't put into proper words. I can't sing it; I can't paint it. It reached into me.
I want to hear it again.
Annwn checks the leathery watch on her wrist. She smiles at me, sleepy, subdued. "I've taken up enough of your time, haven't I?"
"No, of course not..."
"I'm glad you found your bracelet, Wendy," Annwn says.
The swan feels heavy on my right wrist. Swan. Swansong. I-- "Thank you. For...helping me look."
"See you in school."
She rises from the table, her lemonade in hand. She walks away, her curls bouncing around her shoulders, glossy and rosy in the unseasonable sun.
I think I'm going to be sick.
* * * * *
It's about four o'clock when Judas and I head home. I turn the television on inside our apartment. Neon City's playing. For the first time in a long time, I can't bring myself to care about Tabitha's souped up car or Montecarlo's lacking love life.
Judas walks into the kitchen. I follow him.
"You alright?" he asks. He puts the remainder of his milkshake in the refrigerator. The refrigerator's so old, I can hear its fans whirring.
&nb
sp; "Jude," I say. "Do you think I'm crazy?"
He straightens up and looks at me, like I'm a pamphlet written in a foreign language.
"Sure," he finally says. "We all are."
"Jude," I groan. "I'm serious."
"So am I. Normalcy isn't a goal. It's more like a spectrum." He plugs in the coffeemaker. "Some people are very normal. Some people are very not normal. But the normal ones still have weird defining quirks. And the axe murderers still watch football."
"Are you just talking about yourself right now?"
"I prefer baseball."
Well, that's a little morbid.
Judas pours himself a cup of coffee. He throws it back like a tonic.
"Wait," I say.
Judas puts the cup down. He stares at me with the eyes of an indifferent fish.
"I thought you don't drink coffee?"
Surprise flits across Judas' face. He shrugs. "You've gotta be open to new experiences," he says. "How do you think Isaac Newton discovered the apple?"
"I don't think that's quite right..."
"Oh, yeah? Who's the adult around here?"
"Sometimes," I tell him, "I'm not so sure."
* * * * *
Friday after school I hurry down to the lobby, my backpack hanging off my shoulder. I wait by the noisy water fountain, the basin, the reflective floor tiles slick with spray.
"But why can't you come over and watch Wooper Looper?" Kory nags in my ear. "I watch your stupid shows all the time."
No, he doesn't. What is he talking about? "I'm going to the library," I explain.
Kory perks up. "Great! I'll go with you!"
"Uh..."
Azel steps off the elevator. He approaches us, then hesitates. Kory fiddles with his eyeglasses before fixing Azel with a malicious look.
"What?" Azel demands.
"So you're the thief, are you?" Kory shoots back at him.
"Kory, come on," I complain lightly.
"No!" Kory bursts out. "He's the reason you're not watching Wooper Looper with me! Am I supposed to spend my Friday completely alone? I should just fly back into the arms of the Sociopaths, is that it?"
"Oh, no, don't do that," I urge him. "You've come so far."
"Are you sure you're not the one with the brain injury?" Azel asks Kory.
Kory tosses his head. It would probably look more impressive if he were a girl.
"You can come with us," I mumble, defeated.
"I'm not sure I want to, now," Kory says, just to be difficult.
"I'm sorry, Kory," I tell him. "I'll appreciate you from now on."
"A leopard doesn't change its spots."
"We can watch those Saturday morning cartoons tomorrow."
"Sweet! See ya."
Just like that, Kory flounces out the front doors. Azel stares after him in bewildered horror.
"Yeah, so, he's..." I laugh nervously.
"Are all of your friends like that?" Azel asks.
"No," I say. "Well, sort of. He's my only friend."
We walk outside. The sky's gone chilly and gray again. The tiled brick walkway echoes under my shoes.
"I thought you and I were friends," Azel says.
The cool air feels like ice against my inexplicably warm face. "Well, that's," I stammer. "Of course."
"Of course."
Suddenly I feel overdressed, my skirt black and my stockings violet, my shoes comfy and red. I steal a sideways glimpse at Azel. He's wearing dark green slacks and a white turtleneck. I'm not the only one who's overdressed. Oh.
I laugh awkwardly, nervously. "I don't know where the library is," I babble.
Azel lifts his head. He kind of has to; he's been staring at the sidewalk all the while. I noticed he does that, walking with shoulders hunched, eyes fixed carefully on the pavement. And they say a dancer's supposed to have good posture.
He looks at me. "You've never seen that big metal building? The one with the round, reflective top?"
That building. I've always wondered what it was. I smile feebly, embarrassed. Azel's gaze morphs to something more curious before, ultimately, he looks away.
The domed library stands just a few blocks away from my apartment building. From the outside, it looks empty, by which I mean there aren't many people walking in or out of the double doors.
"I'm surprised this library's still open," I remark.
"Why is that?" Azel asks.
"You know. The internet?"
"Oh, that," Azel says, with the same tone one might use to describe rotting roadkill.
I laugh. "Not a big fan of the Net, huh?"
"I don't trust the internet," Azel says. "Anyone can upload content to it. How do you know what you're reading is the truth?" As we approach the library's doors, his face softens. "Books, I trust. You don't put your words on paper unless you're serious about them."
We step inside the library. It's immaculate and white, cold in its austerity. Where are all the visitors? The bookshelves stand about erratically, no apparent method of organization. When I tilt my head back, I can see two, three, even four floors above us, all sloping to conform to the shape of the dome. It's enough to give me vertigo.
"I'll find a librarian," Azel says. "Okay?"
I nod, swallowing a wave of nausea.
The tables are sand-colored, polished. Empty, too. I sit at one of them, collecting my thoughts. I'm insane. I'm not insane. I don't know how to reconcile these completely antithetical tenets. I don't know how, but they both seem true at the same time.
It isn't long before Azel makes his way back to me. He touches my shoulder. I nearly jump.
"He says we should check the second floor," he says. "Wanna go?"
"Yeah." I smile briefly. I stand up and follow him.
The second floor is carpeted, separated from the first by a railing. Railing or not, I still entertain the thought that I might fall over the side. I follow Azel down haphazard aisles, dizzied by the endless, neglected tomes sitting on the bookshelves. I try and train my eyes on Azel's back. His schoolbag is plain, gray, not that I expected anything else. The stitches in his white shirt seem a soothing comparison to the sea of abandoned books. It's sad, like all those books are just sitting here, waiting for someone to pick them up, to care for them, but that someone never comes.
This is why I tend to think I'm insane.
"Astral projection," Azel murmurs. "Right. Guess we'd better start here..."
We scale the tiny, cramped aisle for pertinent books. I scan the shelves as best as I can, but the words twist themselves around in front of my blurry eyes. How to Cleanse Your Chakras, one book boasts. Past Life Regression, promises another. I look at the catalogue at the top of the shelf. New Age, it reads.
"Azel..."
"Yeah?" He rifles through a thick brown book.
"I think these books are kind of--" I can't find a reverent word. "Bullshit," I finish lamely.
And just a moment ago, I felt sorry for them.
Azel stuffs his book back on the shelf. "You're right," he concludes. "Librarians. They're no help..."
I lean back against the shelf behind me. "Shouldn't we be looking for science, or medicine? Or car accidents," I add. "Or brain injuries." Okay, so that's a bigger umbrella than I anticipated.
Azel mirrors my pose, only his arms are folded, his head tilted downward in thought. "Brain chemistry. I guess...neuroscience, right?"
"I guess," I agree. I'm starting to wonder whether Kory should have accompanied us after all. I don't know the first thing about biology. Or is this chemistry? Whatever it is, it's headache material. I rub my temples. I don't want another headache. Not here. Not now.
We trek back out of the aisle. This time I train my eyes on Azel's curls. They're tightly coiled, like helixes. Brown and springy and held together in a rubberband. I wonder whether long hair helps him balance while he's dancing. I wonder what he looks like when he's dancing. Like smoke, I bet. Like water.
"Do you like it?" I blurt out, before I can stop my
self.
"Like what?" Azel asks, sounding distracted.
"Dancing. Is it fun? Or do you do it because you have to?"
To my surprise, he stops walking. He turns around to regard me, his mouth slightly parted.
"Sorry--" I begin.
"It feels like flying."
The simplicity of Azel's confession catches me off guard. I'm glad to hear it. I smile to hear it.
"Or," Azel says. "I'd imagine that's what flying would feel like if we could actually...you know. Do it. Without airplanes." He adds, in a hushed voice, "Airplanes make me sick."
"Like, physically?"
"The first time we flew from Oman to America, I puked for the whole plane trip. I don't understand how something so heavy stays in the air..."
The poor guy looks like he might throw up even now. It's terrible of me--I can't help myself--I laugh.
"Stop that," he says irritably. There goes his face again, brown trading itself in for red.
"Don't you know they make medicine for that, Azel?"
"You want me to put foreign substances in my body? What are you, a drug pusher?"
"That's the drug trade's modus operandi these days. They put a cute face in front of you, you buy some crack."
Very quickly, Azel glances away. I don't understand why; I thought we were having fun. Then it occurs to me: My face isn't cute. An ugly burn took up residence on my left cheek. My throat's still got that white mark on it--I don't know what it is or where it came from. At least I've got some real hair on my head now, but nowhere near as much as I used to; I look like I fell out of the Roaring Twenties.
I clear my throat, smiling weakly. "Neuroscience, right?"
"Right," Azel says hastily. "This way."
The neuroscience aisle, if possible, looks more neglected than the rest of the library put together. The spines of the books are all stiff, as if they've never been opened before. Azel scours one shelf while I scour the other. Neuroscience for Neophytes, one book reads. General Neuroscience. Neurodevelopment. Neurodevelopment--that's when the brain's first forming, right? I don't think that's what I want...
"Delusions of Gender," Azel reads out loud. "The Female Brain."
"Sexist," I dismiss.
"Behavioral Neuroscience? That doesn't cover out-of-body experiences, does it?"