by Rose Christo
I don't know whether I can really believe something like that. But if we all share the same unconscious mind... Then whose mind did this universe emerge from? Azel's? Kory's?
Mine?
We are all one person, Annwn said. I'm sharing atoms with Azel right now. Forty trillion atoms per second.
"Do you think we're all one person?" I ask out loud.
Azel lets out a soft, contemplative sound. His hand is soft around mine.
"I don't know," Azel says. That comforts me, somehow. He adds, "Islam says so."
"Really?" I never knew...
"It's called Rushdiyya. You know how they say Adam was the first man?"
"Yeah..."
"In Rushdiyya, Adam is treated as a metaphor. Our souls all come from his. We were all originally one person--'Adam.' We're one mind, one soul, that keeps dividing itself throughout the ages."
I wonder whether I really believe in a soul. I believe in consciousness, because I know consciousness is real. Judas said the soul is the poor man's consciousness.
"Why divide ourselves?" I ask. "Isn't that lonely?"
It's so lonely. Seven billion people. Seven billion strangers.
" 'O mankind,' " Azel recites. " 'We have made you into nations and tribes that you may come to know one another.' "
"Who said that?"
"The Prophet, sallallahu alayhi wa-salam."
"Who's the We?" I ask. " 'We have made you into nations.' Who's the We?"
"God, I suppose."
"But...plural?"
"Surah 51, The Winnowing Winds. 'Waalssamaa banaynaha biaydin wa-inna lamoosiaaoona.' 'We have constructed the heavens with our own hands. It is we who continue to expand them.' "
"We?"
"Surah 112, the Tawhid. 'Qul huwa Allahu ahad. Lam yalid wa lam yulad.' 'God is the one and only. It neither begets nor is begotten.' "
If it neither begets, nor is begotten...
That means it's the only thing there is.
I don't want that to be true. I hate God.
If God's the only thing there is, then God brought Azel to me.
How can I hate that? How can I be so selfish?
Arabic sounds beautiful when Azel's the one saying the words. Everything sounds beautiful when Azel's the one saying it.
I turn onto my side to face him. He's already facing me. I didn't know. I didn't realize.
I don't let go of his hand.
I laugh. "You know Jung?"
"What is Jung?"
"A psychiatrist. He said men have an Anima--a feminine side. And women have an Animus--a masculine side. Anima and Animus are the unconscious parts of the personality. But you have to recognize them if you're going to recognize your whole personality."
"I see." I'm sure he does. His eyes are vivid, even in the dark. "So you have an Animus? And I have an Anima."
"You like opera. I like wrestling. It must be true."
His lips twitch into a smile. I love that smile. I want to paint it. I think I'm going to.
"Being up here," Azel says, "it's like being in another world."
Another world. All I've wanted since this nightmare began is to escape it. The reality where I killed my parents--the reality where I killed my best friend--I've wanted to escape it.
Here, I can escape it.
With Azel, I can escape it.
I don't have to die.
* * * * *
The next day I mix my paints on my palette. I set a clean canvas on the easel. Unseasonable sunshine pours through the empty factory window. Facing the mural on the wall, it's as though the past six months haven't even transpired. I remember Jocelyn cajoling me while I painted it. I can pretend that if I turn around, she'll be right there, ready to tease me all over again.
"What are you painting?" Azel asks.
I throw a tarp over my canvas before Azel can see. "Secret," I tell him, with a winning smile.
He narrows his eyes. There's no malice behind it.
"I hate winter homework," I say. I sit on the cement floor. "Don't you have any?"
"I'll do it at the last minute." Azel sorts through his book pile.
"Setting a good example for Aisha, huh?"
"I think she takes after Layla more than me. That is not a good thing." He sits on his prayer rug, opening an arcane book. "Layla is a photographer. She considers it art to take pictures of people while they're sleeping."
"Creepy..."
Azel closes his book suddenly. "Are you still looking for a cat? For your brother?"
"Yeah." I turn toward him with curiosity. "Why?"
"I just remembered. Layla's friend breeds cats. Layla could ask her for one."
"Oh. Oh, jeez, do you think--?" I can't spend a hundred dollars on a kitten.
Azel's face takes on a shade of contemplation. "Layla never does anything for free."
"How much--?"
"No, not that. She extorts favors. Let me think of something."
"I could do her homework..." If she doesn't mind failing every class she's taking.
"She already makes Kory do her homework. Don't worry about it, I'll think of something."
"You shouldn't have to..."
"She's my monster to tame."
The way he talks about his sister--it's crazy, but I think he really loves her. I'm sure he does.
"Thank you, Azel."
"You're important to me."
If he were any other boy, I don't think I'd take him very seriously. Teenage boys aren't all that hard to figure out.
It's Azel. He never says anything unless he means it.
I'm not much like Azel. I smile all the time without meaning it. I lie to the people I love. I lie to myself.
I don't even love myself.
His words reach a part of me that's fractured, cordoned off. Kind hands reach into my raw wound. The safety tape is cut. The ribbons fly free.
"You're important to me, too."
Just how important, I can't say. I can't tell him that I dream about suicide the way a thirsty man dreams of an oasis. I can't tell him how many times I've considered opening the kitchen drawer and taking out a knife and slitting Judas' throat, then mine. We could be so happy in the next world. I could take him with me.
I can't tell Azel that when he talks to me--when I talk to him--I remember the things about this world that are still beautiful. Dancers who move like poetry. Songs and symphonies that move your soul. Fresh paint on a canvas and fresh cherries on a kerosene lamp. The summer sun on Cape Meares.
I don't know that there's a Cape Meares in the next world.
We're going to Cape Meares this summer.
I know there's something wrong with me. I know I'm very sick. Whether I care that I'm very sick tends to fluctuate day by day.
When I'm with Azel, I want to be healthy. Not really for my sake, but for his. I want to be someone he can confide in. I want to give him a good friend.
He deserves a good friend. He doesn't have many.
* * * * *
By midday I've finished painting. That's what I like so much about acrylics; they dry faster. They're not as messy, either. I won't pretend I'm not splashed in splotches of yellow and gray--or that I wouldn't have had an easier time of it if I only knew where my badger brush was--but if it were oil paint, the stains would be a lot worse.
"Okay," I announce. "You can look now."
Azel peeks over the top of the Rubaiyat. He shuts it closed and lays it down. He mills over to me to look at the canvas.
The moment he glimpses it, his face twitches with laughter. I can't help but laugh myself.
"Am I a sailor?" Azel asks.
"That's not you, dummy. That's Sinbad."
Sinbad's wearing white silk salwar. A paisley keffiyeh protects his head from the strong sun. He stands fearlessly over the bowsprit of an ancient wooden ship, holding fast to the foremast with a dark brown hand. For good measure, there's a scimitar on his waist. You never know when you'll need to ward off mutant ocean babies.
Azel stopped laughing three seconds ago. His face has gone soft, slack. His face looks more like art to me than the brushstrokes on the canvas. It's remarkable how mirrorlike his eyes are, reflecting with attentive detail every nuance of his thoughts. I wonder why I ever found him hard to read.
"Do you really see me that way?" Azel asks.
"With a scimitar? Sure."
"Wendy." His eyes rove up and down the canvas.
"It's not the best," I apologize.
"You are amazing."
I don't think I really expected him to say that. I wanted to surprise him. I wanted to make him laugh. I painted him with a seafaring smile. We all belong to the sea. I love the sea. I love...
"Thanks." I rub my elbow, embarrassed.
"You have paint on your face," Azel says.
"Oh. I--that happens."
He lifts his hand and brushes his thumb against my cheek. I can feel the paint smearing into my skin. I guess he's never done finger-painting as a child, because he looks baffled that his plan didn't work. His fingers are stained steel-blue when he draws them away.
"Why does it smell like coffee?" he asks.
"That is a really long story," I say.
"Can I hear it?"
It's almost one o'clock. "Do you want to come home with me?" I ask. "For lunch," I clarify, very quickly.
"Let me call Layla first," Azel says. "I want to make sure she hasn't dumped Aisha off in some junkyard."
He fishes his phone out of his cotton jacket. I seal the paint cans on the floor while he steps onto the concrete balcony to talk to his sister.
Jocelyn's pink curtain catches my eye. Hanging crooked from a mountain of chairs, it's a crude attempt at privacy, but an attempt that merits respect. That Jocelyn was tenacious enough to drag folding chairs up nineteen floors of abandoned factory merits respect, too.
Was. I said was. I'm finally getting used to it. I...
I shouldn't get used to it. It's not fair. She didn't ask to die. She didn't ask for me to kill her.
I don't want to. I don't want to...
It's funny. It looks like the curtain is moving. The wind streaming in through the window tousles it like an afterthought. I can pretend that Jocelyn's hiding back there, just out of view, ready to jump out and scold me for bringing an outsider into our secret little club.
The wind tousles my hair. The illusion shatters.
* * * * *
The first thing I notice when we step inside my kitchen: Kory is raiding the pantry.
"How did you get in here?" I blurt out.
He whirls around with a bag of pretzels in his hands. Nice hoop earrings. "I let myself in."
Azel sits down at the table. He watches Kory with bland surprise.
"But you don't have a key," I sputter.
"What on earth would I need a key for?" Kory demands. "The locks in this building are shit! Seriously! Anybody can pick a wafer lock, I can't believe they didn't even spring for disc-tumbler, cheap sons of bitches..."
"You picked the lock." Now I'm sure he's Judas' brother.
"Not that I couldn't pick a disc-tumbler, too, but still..."
"Should I call police?" Azel asks blankly.
"You would, wouldn't you?" Kory sneers. "Friend-stealing, towel-wearing..."
"Put the pretzels away," I instruct him, defeated. "I'm making spinach frittatas."
"You and your spinach," Kory scoffs. "Who are you, Popeye?"
"You broke into my house. You don't get to be choosy."
"This isn't a house, this is an apartment."
A scream dies in my throat. I drag myself over to the rattling refrigerator.
"May I help you?" Azel asks me.
"Stop that," Kory says.
"Excuse me?" Azel returns.
"I mean the polite facade," Kory says. "Nobody's polite by nature. It's disgusting."
"Are you projecting?"
"No. Only I happen to know humans are selfish beasts by nature. Exhibit A," Kory says, tearing open the pretzel bag.
Azel's face darkens. "You are foul."
"Boys," I complain. Why can't they be friends? Don't they have enough of a common factor between them?
"Do you put bacon in your frittatas?" Kory asks me suddenly. "Is it kosher?" he adds suspiciously.
"What does that even mean?" I cry.
"Pork is haram," Azel contemplates solemnly.
"Is that so?" Kory asks him. "That's the first sensible thing I've heard out of your gullet all afternoon. Maybe you're not as pig-headed as I thought. Look at that, I made a funny."
"Stop," Azel says. "You're no good at it."
Frittatas take too long, I rationalize--and between Abbott and Costello over here, arguing about which foods will kill their immortal souls, I don't want to chance it. I break out the tomatoes for gazpacho. By the time I turn around again, Abbott and Costello are arm wrestling.
"Guys..." I wilt.
"Ow! Ow! Ow!" Kory chants.
I chop the tomatoes. I groan.
The gazpacho turns out okay. Judas makes it way better, but Judas isn't here right now. Azel is quiet when he eats; Kory is chatty. In fact, Kory has a comment for every occasion: the peeling paint on the pantry door, the paint on my face, my aqua-colored stockings, Azel's powder-green kameez. The comments tend toward the innocently disparaging. Especially when he has this to say:
"So do you just dance contemporary because you can't dance ballet?"
It's a wonder the spoon doesn't snap in Azel's hand.
"What? It's a legitimate question, I don't understand these things."
"Ballet is about order," Azel says through his teeth. "Contemporary is concerned with the expression of the whole body."
"But can you do that thing where you dance on the tips of your toes? Doesn't that hurt? Isn't that injurious? I read that the woman who invented that technique first performed it without any shoes. Why would she do something like that? Do you think her feet wound up all weird and deformed?"
"Why do you act as if I would know?"
"He has Tourette's," I mumble.
"I doubt that, somehow."
"Just go with it."
Kory finishes his lunch in record time. He puts his bowl in the sink. He fiddles with his eyeglasses and shows me what I'm sure he means to be a friendly smile.
"Did you know," he says, "that no two eyes on the planet are alike? Even the eyes sitting in your very head don't match one another."
Where does he come up with this stuff? "They look the same to me..."
"They're not. Ever notice the markings scattered about the colored parts of your eyes? Every iris has a different, totally unique pattern. Your eyes have a signature all their own. Considering that one hundred and eight billion people have populated this planet since the birth of Homo sapiens, that is a remarkable feat of science. Don't you think so?"
One hundred and eight billion... Unique. We're all unique. Our eyes, our fingerprints. Snowflakes are the same way. No two snowflakes share the same pattern. But it hasn't snowed in thirteen years.
The whole entire universe inside a glass snowflake.
This universe is crumbling around us. This universe is dying.
There's another universe waiting for us. I'm sure of it. Maybe the next world will show us mercy. Maybe the next world will be kinder.
The Me who belongs to the next world--does she have my fingerprints? Does she have my eyes?
Azel checks the clock on the wall. He stands, his bowl in his hands. An irrational part of me considers it a compliment that it's empty.
"I have to go home to take care of Aisha," he says. "Layla wanted to go to the mall."
"Maybe I can intercept her on the way there," Kory says thoughtfully.
Azel pulls a face. "Wendy. Do you want to come with me?"
I--maybe I should. Judas said
he didn't want me alone.
"Would you really mind?" I ask warily.
"You should know I wouldn't."
"Gross," Kory says, just before he flounces out the kitchen door.
I can feel the hints of a smile springing to my lips. I guess the dishes can wait until later.
* * * * *
It's not even evening, but the sky looks like it's ready to retire. Silver creeps into the spinning clouds. A wintry pink flush climbs over the tops of city spires. Where flush meets argent, scarlet streaks the welkin like wealing blood.
"Do you think that's true?" Azel asks, without any lead-in.
We walk past the sandstone clinic. I grimace at the thought of Dr. Grace inside.
"Think what's true?" I ask Azel. The sidewalk is smeared with ancient blue gum.
"That no two eyes are the same. The markings in the irises."
I stop on the street corner, the Don't Walk sign flashing garish red. Azel stops at my side. Even hunched over, he's taller than me.
I turn toward him. "Let me see."
Wavering, he tucks stray curls behind his ears. He rolls his shoulders back in an attempt to fix his terrible posture. I wish he wouldn't. It means I have to stand on my toes.
I stand up tall and reach for his face.
His eyes are striking, startling. Interstellar green borders on kind poison. I never thought of poison as particularly kind before; but Azel's visage makes me question everything I thought I knew. In his right iris are five dark markings, a glittering green almost black, three to the right of his pupil, two to the left. They make me think of spokes on a wagon wheel. One Mind. Collective Unconscious. Rushdiyya.
His left eye is another story. Crazy green scratches flare around the inside of his limbal ring. The only way I can think to describe them is to compare them to a very thick forest: when you tilt your head back and try to look up at the sky, but the sky's too busy hiding behind a rolling, endless canopy of evergreen trees, sleepy and warm with filtered, fuzzy sunlight.
"They are different," Azel says.
I don't know how he could possibly see as much without a mirror to peek into. But then I realize: He doesn't mean his own eyes. He's looking at mine.