by Rose Christo
"Rosa das rosas, e fror das frores," my mother sings. Medieval Spanish tumbles with familiarity from her lips like iambic pentameter on an English stage. "Doña das doñas, señor das señores."
She lifts her head when I trek across the sands to her, wet footprints in my stead. She smiles, youthful smile on an aging face. Her hair escapes from behind her ear. The swan-shaped earring glistens in her ear.
She disappears in front of my eyes. The beach, the sunset, the ocean fall away.
A cloudy swan reaches for the bluest depths of the cosmos, her wings outstretched, her gleaming white regalia compromised by patches of blue and pink and amaranth. The sea of kind green and burnt gold drifts underneath me, waves ebbing gently, lazily, like old friends.
Rosa de beldad' e parecer, e Fror d'alegria e de prazer.
The swan collapses. The sea collapses. Darkness envelops me like the promise of a casket. I ought to be in the ground. Mom and Dad are in the ground. Jocelyn's in the ground. It doesn't make sense that I'm not in the ground.
Where am I? Am I anywhere?
A spectral light permeates the nothingness of the horizon. The not-horizon. I can't make it out very well. But the more I focus on it, the more distinct it grows, as if it's answering to my call, as if it wants to reach me just as much as I want to know what it is.
It's a snowglobe. It's not a snowglobe. As far as I can tell there isn't any glass. Snowy particles drift gently inside the not-glass. Watching them, I'm warmed. A smile springs to my lips. I don't know why.
The snowy particles look like stars. They glimmer as I concentrate on them. They spark with individual lights. Strong lights. Weak lights. Some lights very cloudy; some lights red-hot.
--The lights swim at me--
--Spiral discs glowing white and hyacinth--
--Effervescent question marks in ancient bronze--
--Ghostly gold chains wrapped around baby blues--
--Hyperviolet twin chasms fused at their fingertips--
The galaxies present themselves, hundreds into thousands, thousands into millions. I grip my head with blinding pain. I squeeze my eyes shut, a cry drowning in my throat.
By the time I am confident enough to open my eyes, the galaxies have returned to their peaceful epicenter. They're snowflakes within a snowflake, dancing around one another in childlike enthusiasm. They don't know any better. They're just as young as we are.
In the center of the snowflake something hovers; something glows. I can't make it out, misty as it is. It dims when it flickers, sharing its light with the snowflakes that need it more.
The snowflake swells slowly, galaxies drifting farther and farther apart.
No. No, Kory told me what this means. Bigger means weaker. Weaker means dying. No, it can't--
Pain blasts its way through my skull. I grip the sides of my head. I scream without sound, the vacuum of nothingness swallowing my voice.
The heart of the cosmos flares in intensity, a brightness to rival the blazing sun. I see nothing now, nothing but light, nothing but pain. The pain in my head spikes without mercy, spreading down my neck, my shoulders, drilling into my spine.
Please. Please--
Cool relief floods through me. My eyes sting with afterimages. I'm seeing double, the universe and its twin blurry on the backs of my retinas.
The final notes of a sad song ring like phantoms in my ears.
Doña das doñas, señor das señores.
My mother's voice--the quivering violin--crash together and fade away.
Annwn lowers her violin and bow. Cars rush noisily down the street behind me. Dirty city lights smother and starve the brilliant lights of the night sky.
I whirl around. I fall to my knees and throw up.
* * * * *
When I was little I saw a shark on Tillamook Bay. Oregon's probably not the first place that comes to mind when you mention "shark attack," but there was no mistaking the giant, silvery fin cutting through the ocean waves. I watched it from my porch with one of Dad's fishing buddies, who whistled at the sight of it.
"Too big to be a salmon shark," he said. "I think that right there's a Great White."
He went on to tell me about how the shark must have washed up all the way from Baja, looking for elephant seals to eat. I found this very puzzling, and told him so; because anybody who's familiar with the waters knows there aren't any elephant seals on Tillamook Bay. They live instead on Shell Island, right off the Cape.
"You think he cares about formalities?" Then Dad's friend told me that a Great White doesn't know the difference between humans and seals. Great Whites can't see very well, but they can smell a colony of seals from two miles away. To a shark, seals and humans smell the same.
Of course I was terrified. It didn't make sense to me that a predator couldn't differentiate between animal meat and human meat. It didn't seem fair to me.
It didn't occur to me that humans are animals, too; and the only ones who think we're any better or any worse than all the other animals are humans ourselves.
What I won't forget is the way that fin glistened under the warm, post-rain sun. It sparkled like the surface of a smooth gray mirror. It was beautiful; and it belonged to something capable of devouring me in the blink of an eye.
That I couldn't see the shark in its entirety bothered me the most. I didn't like that it hid its scariest aspects underwater, only showing me the part I'd find the least intimidating. I thought it was underhanded. I thought it was cowardly.
In reality, it was very clever.
* * * * *
"You're gonna be okay while I'm gone?" Judas asks.
It's Monday. I feel sick. I'm not going to school. I'm huddled up on my bed, the blanket around me. Jude's in the doorway, a look of oblique concern on his face.
"It's fine," I tell him. "Just go. Have a good day. Don't break any computers."
The apartment's dead quiet once Judas leaves. The silence is almost consoling. I take my morning meds. I lie down and close my eyes. I'm not particularly tired, but sleep sounds more appealing right now than being awake.
I sleep for two hours. I wake up, discontent. I decide I'll mop the kitchen floor.
This is the second time I'm skipping school. I don't know how well that bodes for my report card. Miss Rappaport said she understood--that I'm disabled--but Cavalieri's fierce: They churn out artists and maestros and they cut the cord on you if you can't match their standards.
It's a game I don't feel like playing anymore. I just want to turn back time. I just want my mom and dad.
Mopping turns into dishwashing. Dishwashing turns into baking. I pull out the flour and the sugar. I measure the cinnamon and mash the sweet potatoes. I pour the batter into the muffin pan. Later on I'll clean the oven. I'll do anything if it means I don't have to think.
I take more meds around noon. I bake two dozen muffins. We're all out of sweet potatoes. It doesn't matter. They've been in the pantry for three weeks. They would've gone bad soon.
The apartment is spotless and aromatic. I sit on the kitchen floor, scrawling on my post-it notes. I write the names of Dad's favorite F1 racers. I write the names of Mom's favorite telenovelas. I stick the notes all over the kitchen table until they cover it like a multicolor tablecloth. I don't want to forget them. I wish they were here. I'd give anything to have them here.
A knock sounds on the front door. I get up and open it. Kory's on the other side, his schoolbag on his shoulder.
"Where were you?" he starts at once. And then: "Why are you in your pajamas?" And finally: "Are you okay? You look ill..."
I let him inside. He closes the door behind us. He drops his bookbag on the floor.
"Is it contagious?" Kory asks me cautiously.
"No." I can't muster up the stamina to laugh. "It's a brain thing."
"Oh." Kory pauses. "Are you baking?"
I lead him to the kitchen, and the mound of muffins on the counter. He takes one. I pour milk for him.
"I brought you your ho
mework assignments," Kory says slowly.
What if Judas was right? What if I dove back into school too soon? I smile feebly. "Thanks."
"Well? Sit down," Kory says. "I hate eating alone."
I don't know whether he means he needs company when he eats, or he doesn't like being the only one eating. If it's the latter, it's a lie. Every time he visits, he stuffs his face.
I lay a muffin on a napkin and sit with him at the table. I pick at the muffin, not really interested. Kory tries to hide it when he reads my post-it notes.
"That Towelhead came looking for you at lunchtime," Kory tells me.
"Kory," I admonish, stunned.
"Mom says I have Tourette's." I'm sure she does. "But anyway, Asad was worried. Are you coming back to school tomorrow?"
"I--" I swallow nothing. "I don't know." Suddenly I feel tired. Kory's tawny hair and diamond ear studs are making me tired.
Kory puts his hands on the table. He puts his chin on his hands. Behind his round eyeglasses his eyes are like an owl's, perusive, inquisitive. "Is this another of those things you can't tell me about?"
"It's not that I can't--" He knows how to make me feel guilty. "My head. It's broken. I just..."
"Are you on any antidepressants?"
"Kory!"
"What? Friend to friend. Tell me."
I hesitate. "Yes." Sertraline. "Why does it matter?"
"Because you should be on antidepressants. Your brain chemistry's all out of whack. That's not a dig against you, it's just the truth of the matter." Is he trying to comfort me? I think he is. "If you're feeling all doom-and-gloom, Wendy, it's not your fault. These things seldom have anything to do with our personalities."
"Why are you so smart?" I ask him.
"My IQ is 141."
"Now you're just bragging."
"I suppose I am."
I don't know whether it was his intention; but I laugh. He's a really good friend, isn't he? In his own way. I've known him just about three months now. That's one whole season. One fourth of one year. My mouth goes dry just thinking about it. Time moves too fast. I wish it would slow down.
"Oh," Kory says suddenly. "Have you started on your semester project?"
"Huh? No," I realize. "I should probably do that."
It'll be a watercolor, I decide. I love watercolor paintings. When you put watercolors on canvas, you can never be sure whether they'll retain their original shape as they dry. Water is unpredictable. I think that makes it closer to reality than any other artform.
"What about you?" I ask. "Are you going to submit your universal model?"
"Probably," Kory says, but frowns. "It's certainly the best thing I've ever made. As for whether or not Ms. Bertrand would agree..."
"How can she disagree? It's beautiful."
"It's a tad esoteric. My calculations aside, what if it's inaccurate?"
"But you seemed so sure..."
"For years, science said there was nothing smaller than the atom. Then physicists discovered neutrinos and the Higgs boson. Today I could be right. Tomorrow I could be wrong."
I want to console him, but I don't know how. I think about the macrocosmic snowflake, the snowglobe filled with galaxies. I bite down on the inside of my lip.
"Kory?"
"Hm?"
"What's at the center of the universe?"
Light. Glowing and dimming. Giving and dying.
Kory lifts his head. He adjusts his glasses. "I'm not sure I follow..."
"I mean--we know what's at the core of the planet. We know it's an alloy, and it's as hot as the sun. Do we know what's at the core of the universe, too?"
Kory wipes his glasses on his shirt. He looks so strange without his glasses, his eyes small and unrecognizable.
"Thinking about the universe the way we think about Earth is fallacious," Kory says. He replaces his specs. "To begin with, the planet is a solid ball. You can conceptualize it as a baseball, or an orange. Much of the universe, on the other hand, consists of empty voids. Current information indicates that the universe is finite, but unbounded."
"What does that mean?"
"It means if you start off at Point A, and you travel long enough, far enough across the universe--assuming you somehow don't die first--you'll eventually arrive back at Point A. Asking 'Where is the center of the universe?' is like asking which country belongs at the center of a world map. It all depends on your perspective."
I try to take this in.
"In other words," Kory says, "you are at the center of the universe. Wherever you are, at any given moment."
My fingers go numb. Dizzy spots dance across my eyes.
"Say, Wendy..."
"Y-Yeah?"
"Why are you asking all these questions? I didn't think you had a mind for physics."
I try to think up a lie.
I'm not fast enough.
"Wendy."
"Why is Jupiter closer than Mars?" I blurt out.
Kory looks at me, slowly.
"In elementary school, they teach you the order of the planets. Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter. The next one over from Earth is Mars. Then why does Jupiter look closer than Mars? Jupiter's the one with the clouds, right? The big one? With all the moons?"
Please help me. Somebody, please help me.
Kory's eyelashes are very long. I never noticed before. Tawny, they beat like butterfly wings when he blinks once; twice; when he reaches for his milk glass, but doesn't pick it up.
"Mars moves twelve times faster than Jupiter does," Kory says.
I stare at my knuckles. They've gone white.
"Mars moves twelve times faster than Jupiter. If Jupiter looks closer--it's because--that's--Mars is busy circling the sun at high speed. Jupiter's so slow, it's almost standing still."
A dull headache starts behind my ears.
"How could you have known that? Wendy?"
"Something's wrong with me, Kory."
"I don't understand."
I never thought I'd hear him say that. I don't understand.
* * * * *
"You've been seeing things?" Kory asks. "Since your coma?"
I can barely bring myself to nod.
"That's--well." Kory drinks the last of his milk. "That happens. Quite a bit, I should add."
"Azel and I went to the library." Did I ever bring back the dictionary I borrowed? "One of the neuroscience books--it--" I can't find the words. "It said it was normal."
"Hallucinations after brain damage? Yes..."
"But it can't be normal, Kory. It's so real, and it's horrifying--it was beautiful--but then--"
"You retain knowledge a normal hallucination shouldn't have imparted on you."
"That's--" Yes.
"Still, such a phenomenon is not unheard of. Have you ever heard of xenoglossy?"
I shake my head.
"It's when a coma patient wakes up speaking a language he previously couldn't speak. Or I should say she, because the only documented cases I'm familiar with were both young girls. The more recent one was in 2010. A Croatian girl woke up from a coma fluent in German."
Geisteswissenschaft. Rudolf Steiner.
"The other one?" I ask.
"1931. A British girl woke up speaking Ancient Egyptian."
"God," I murmur, stunned.
"We don't know everything there is to know with regards to the brain. Maybe we never will. Maybe that's not a bad thing."
"Why would you say that?"
"Takes the mystery out of things, doesn't it? When you don't have any questions left."
I think I'm tired of mysteries.
Kory grasps my hand, shocking me. "It's going to be okay, you know."
I smile. "You don't know that."
"Excuse me? Of course I know. What do you think I'm here for? I'm supposed to be your bodyguard, aren't I?"
My vision blurs. My eyes feel hot. The hotness trickles wetly down my cheeks.
I'm crying. When did that happen?
"Did I say some
thing wrong?" Kory asks. "I have Tourette's," he reminds me dubiously.
"No, you don't."
"Mom says I do."
I wipe my face hastily. I smile. "I think you're the best friend I have right now."
Kory opens his mouth. He closes it. Maybe I'm the one who said something wrong. I don't want to push him away.
"I've never had one of those before," Kory says starkly.
I want so badly to hug him. Why don't I stand up and hug him?
In the end, I'm a coward. That's the one truth I can always rely on.
* * * * *
Tuesday. I still haven't gone back to school. I set up a canvas against my closet door and shake up a can of acrylic sealer. I wet my sable brush with water and dip it in the paint can next to me, my legs folded, the floor my seat. My bedroom doesn't have any windows; painting in here might not be the smartest idea. But I like the smell of the fumes. They're cleansing, somehow. They make me feel alive.
My hand is still and unscarred. I mix the watercolors on my palette. I touch my paintbrush to the canvas. The fabric stains and dribbles emerald green.
I hear somebody knocking on the front door. I lay my paintbrush on my palette. I lay my palette on the floor. I get up--in pajamas still, in socks--and trail outside.
Mr. Tenner, my social worker, stands on the other side of the apartment door. He's as twitchy and fidgety as I remember, his hands flying continuously to the glasses on his face. I let him inside. He follows me into the kitchen. I ask him if he wants a muffin. He says he's on a diet. I don't understand why he's on a diet when he looks like he weighs less than I do.
"So no school today?" Mr. Tenner asks. He puts his suitcase on the table.
"I'm not feeling well," I tell him.
"Oh."
"But I'm still doing my homework." Please don't take me away from Judas.
"That's very good. Very responsible of you, very good."
I haven't eaten today. I take a muffin for myself.
"So--school hard on you?"
"No," I lie. "It's fine. It's nice."
"Oh."
I'm not hungry. I wish I were.