by Jodi Lamm
I should have been there. I should have saved or killed her, but I should never have run away.
The moon is bright tonight, and it sends its light through the stained glass to the altar below, pointing the way to the enormous, antique Bible the priest keeps on his podium. He has his own highlighted, tab-filled Bible that he carries around with him, so he never uses this beauty. I’ve often envied that kind of faith. I wish I could believe that an invisible father loves me and guides me through my mess of a life. I don’t even need him to be all-powerful or all-knowing or anything like that. I just want him to be there.
I cling to the podium, eyeing that Bible with more desperation than I’ve ever felt in my life. There must be something to it. There must be. Science has failed to save me from myself. Maybe its old arch-nemesis will succeed. I bow over the podium and close my eyes. I shut the book and slowly open it again, letting gravity decide which page will land on top. Then I drag my finger over that heavy, cotton paper until I feel the need to stop.
Here. Here will be my answer, my invisible father’s message to me. I whisper a prayer and open my eyes.
My finger has landed on Job: chapter four, verse fifteen. It reads, Then a spirit glided past my face; the hair of my flesh bristled up.
I tremble, first with fear, and then with a suppressed, sardonic giggle. God’s message to me is pure nonsense. How appropriate. I teeter back and stumble away from the book. If Valentine could see me now, he would swear I was as drunk as my brother. I wish I were. For all the judgment I’ve heaped upon Gene, he outranks me in goodness. He may be irresponsible, reckless, and downright destructive at times, but he’s an altogether decent human being when compared to someone like me.
I feel so hung over. All I want to do is find my room and crash in it. My sleeping quarters are the size of a large closet, but that’s all I need. I prefer closed-in spaces; they feel safer. Tonight, I would give anything to lock myself in and never open the door again.
I drag my hand along the walls, feeling my way down the dark hallway. It isn’t that I couldn’t find my room otherwise. I just need to touch something solid. I keep imagining myself pitching forward into a rippling lake of blue fire. My mind is reeling. The heat is more than I can bear. Even when I stop walking, I feel it drawing nearer to me. And when I finally look ahead, I see why.
The ghost of a white-hot flame moves toward me. It flickers in the darkness, and sometimes I have to squint to see it. But I do see it. No doubt about that. For all the strange ideas I have in my head, I know this is no hallucination. It’s shaped like a person, but Valentine is practicing the organ still, and no one else should be here.
For every step the flame takes toward me, I take one backward. I hold my breath as it draws so close I can hear the sound of its footsteps resonating down the hallway. I flatten myself against the wall in the hopes that if I let it pass, it will not burn me. I feel like Ebenezer Scrooge, hiding from ghosts, and for good reason. When the flame comes close enough, I see the contours of her face.
It’s Esmeralda.
Esmeralda, dressed all in white. And trotting right behind her is little Djali, equally pale. They are ghosts. My heart is going to explode; it beats so heavily I fear the sound of it will alert them to my presence. If Esmeralda is a ghost and she has chosen my church to haunt, what other reason can she have than her much-deserved revenge? She’s here for me. I’m petrified, but I refuse to close my eyes as she passes by.
I watch her. She’s so close I can feel the breath of her movement, the warmth of the air that wafts from her, but her gaze never falls on me. She doesn’t see me.
I stay pressed against the wall long after she’s gone. The sweat from my forehead drips into my eyes. I feel singed, horrified and humbled.
When I finally reach my room, I close myself in, bury my head under my pillow, and weep. My muffled, pathetic cries sound like they belong to a child, but I’m unable to stop. I cry so long, my eyes burn and my head throbs. My mattress is soaked with tears and sweat. I curl into a ball and drift in and out of nightmares, floating on a sea of dead ambitions and lost identity.
I recall, with a trembling fever and need, the warmth of my mother’s arms. And I hear her voice whisper, Then a spirit glided past my face; the hair of my flesh bristled up.
IV
When I wake, I feel disgusting. My skin is clammy with old perspiration. My mouth tastes like a mixture of iron and bile. I grab a towel and my old bathrobe and head for the shower. The church shower room has a sink, counter, and one stall with an old, yellowing curtain. When I enter, I find the shower in use. Valentine is up earlier than usual.
I sit on a three-legged stool in the corner and lean back to wait. Steam fills the room and sends me into a doze. I haven’t slept enough, and now I feel like I’m dreaming. I recall my hallucinations from the night before and wonder whether that’s what my brother feels like when he does his drugs. The idea that anyone would actually want an experience like that is so absurd to me I almost laugh. Then I hear a sound that stops my breath. It’s the organ. Valentine is practicing, which means…
All the memories of last night’s delirium flood my mind. What if I wasn’t hallucinating? What if Esmeralda is alive? On cue, the shower stops. My heart thuds in anticipation. She may be on the other side of that curtain right now. I rise from the stool and brace myself. If it is Esmeralda, I don’t want to appear as surprised as I am that she survived the night. I hear the quiet padding of bare feet on the floor and that terrible metal on metal sound as the shower curtain is pushed aside. And yes, it is Esmeralda.
As I feared.
As I hoped.
She steps out, wrapped in a towel, the steam rolling off her naked shoulders like smoke. Her face lifts and she sees my shape in the mist she’s created. She starts at the sight of a stranger, but it isn’t until her eyes finally focus on my face that she panics.
She’s a rabbit, the way she bolts for the door, but I am quicker. I don’t even know what I plan to do when I have her, but my instincts scream at me to trap her. I leap in front of the door and spread my arms out before she can get by me. She recoils, backing into the far wall. Her towel is slipping, and she fumbles to hold it in place. I expect her to scream, which won’t trouble me. Valentine won’t hear her. But she doesn’t make a sound. She just stands there, holding her towel in place with one hand, ready to fight with the other.
“Don’t be afraid,” I say, though really, I think she should be. I could not argue for my own sanity, at this point. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
She holds her position.
I lean against the door and try to look less threatening. “I just need to talk to you.”
She waits.
This kind of improvisation is not my thing. I’ve never been good at it. I try to channel Peter’s more dramatic nature. Faking it is all I have left. “I know you won’t believe me, but I’m glad they let you go.”
“They didn’t.” She scowls. “Valentine got me out.”
I stare at my shoes. Of course. I should have known. He even managed to find her goat. “He’s a better person than me,” I say.
I expect to hear some kind of sarcastic response from her like, You can say that again, or, I’d call that the understatement of the year. But she doesn’t say anything. When I look up at her, the smirk on her lips is far more stinging than any words she might have spoken. It’s condescending, like a teacher who’s been waiting for a correct response and finally gets it after too much prodding and too many hints.
“You’re so cruel,” I say, and then I bite my tongue. I hadn’t meant to say it aloud, but having had this ghost waltz through my dreams all night seems to have affected my motor skills.
“I’m cruel.” She clutches the folds of her towel with whitened knuckles. “You stalked and threatened me. You murdered my friend…”
“Friend?”
She glares. “Yes, friend.”
“Do you even know what I stopped him from doing to you?�
� I lift myself from my slouch. I no longer care whether I look threatening. She wouldn’t know a threat if it stripped her down and then tried to have its way with her after she passed out.
She appears to consider the possibilities with mounting dread.
I decide to seize the opportunity, ride the wave of horrified silence. “It’s called rape, Esmeralda.”
“Don’t you say my name!” she shouts and takes a step toward me. She’s angry; I can see that. But I can also see shock and disbelief in her. The person she loves is not who she thinks he is. That can’t be easy to accept, and she is reeling from the mere idea of it. “I consented,” she says, at last.
“You were barely conscious.”
“I led him on. I gave him the wrong idea.” She’s desperate. She’s scrambling to keep her peace of mind.
I’ve heard of this phenomenon. People blame the victim, even when the victim is themselves, because if the victim is at fault, a mistake has been made that can be avoided in the future. They can’t stand the idea that bad things happen and no matter how many precautions you take, sometimes, tragedy can’t be prevented. It’s the same reason conspiracy theories are so popular now that superstition has fallen out of fashion. But no matter how you try to reason it away, chaos reigns supreme in the end.
I understand Esmeralda’s need for this defense, but I can’t let her use it. “I was there, you know. I saw the whole thing. He thought he had you in the bag. When you passed out, he refused to give up his prize. It’s as simple as that. He’s a creep, can’t you see? He doesn’t deserve you.”
Just when I’m sure I’ve finally gotten through to her, just when everything seems to be repairing itself, she says, “He’s a creep?” and laughs that cruel laugh that rings like a thousand clashing cymbals in my ears. “Do you have any idea the kind of nightmares I have because of you? The way you stare at me, follow me. The way you convince your friends to assault me.”
“I was only trying to protect you.”
“I didn’t ask you to protect me.”
“I wasn’t doing it for you.” These unexpected words shock us both into silence. I have no idea where they’ve come from, but as soon as they leave my mouth, I know they’re more than true. My whole life, I’ve given all my resources to the people I loved and kept nothing for myself. But now there’s something I want, something I need, and I can’t stand the fact that it isn’t mine to take. So how am I any different than Phoebus? “Jesus.” I cup my forehead in one hand and groan. “I don’t even know who I am any more. I never used to be like this.”
Esmeralda seems to soften at that. “Okay,” she says. “I’ll hear you out. But as long as you’re keeping me here, will you at least let me get dressed?”
I nod, and she cautiously moves to pick up a neat bundle of clothes I hadn’t noticed before. They’re white, I see. She retreats into the shower stall and closes the curtain.
“You’ll stay where you are?” she says.
“I promise.”
I hear her scoff at my promise, but she must believe me because she hangs her towel over the curtain rod. I decide to talk to her. That way she can hear where I am, and maybe I can keep my mind from following her into that stall.
“I assume you’re here because you have nowhere else to go,” I say. “For whatever reason, you can’t go to the police.” Secretly, I have begun to believe Peter’s insinuation that she might be an illegal alien. “You need a place to hide, and Valentine invited you to stay here. But this church is my home, so it looks like you and I will be sharing a roof for a while.”
“Unfortunately,” she says.
Although most people would be insulted by her retort, I’m relieved. It proves that her fear is dwindling. Maybe we can have a normal relationship, after all. Start over. Move on. But then I remember how twisted our history is, how twisted our destiny. And I am ashamed.
“Does he know?” I ask, almost fearing her answer. “Does Valentine know what’s happened between us?” The sound of material sliding over her skin makes my knees go weak, and I lean back against the door. “Did you tell him what I did?”
“I haven’t said a word to him about you.”
Mercy.
She steps out of the shower stall, wearing what I now recognize as a white choir robe. So this is why I thought she was a ghost last night. “Is that all you have to wear?”
“I haven’t had time to go shopping,” she says. Sarcasm does not become her. White, on the other hand, does. She’s like an angel. Valentine must have given her this to wear when he found she had nothing else. He is a better person than me.
I want to tell Esmeralda she looks beautiful, but I know it would only creep her out. And who could blame her, really? I decide to come to the point instead. “Just so you know, you’ve stolen everything from me.” I fold my arms over my chest to keep my heart from escaping. “Whether you meant to or not. You crushed my identity, destroyed my concentration. You took Peter, my only friend. And now my brother’s an addict, thanks to your friends in the Court of Miracles.”
“That’s not fair,” she says.
She’s right, but I can’t stop now. “Valentine is all I have left. He’s my family, my sanctuary. If you take him away from me, you might as well kill me.”
“So?”
“So I’m offering a truce.”
She folds her arms, mirroring me, waiting on me.
I take a deep breath. “I’ll leave you your sanctuary if you leave me mine.”
She cocks her head, and I can see where her wet hair has soaked that choir robe, which is most likely ruined now. I try not to think about how I’ll probably keep it. “You mean you’ll let me hide in the church for a while if I don’t tell Valentine you’re a murderer.”
“I’m not a murderer, but yes.”
She pauses to consider it, though I can already tell what her answer will be. “It’s a deal,” she says.
And in a moment of sheer brain meltdown, I offer her my hand. She doesn’t take it. I don’t know why I expected her to. She just stares down and says, “Your hand is dirty.”
She’s right. My hands are still covered in mud, and it reminds me how I must look to her. I spent the night wallowing in filth, riding the bus, sweating and crying. I don’t even need to see myself in the small mirror hanging over the sink to know I probably look about as bad as I feel right now. Still I won’t take back my hand. I wont admit this mistake. I won’t be ashamed that I mourned her. Why should I be?
She reaches out two fingers and pinches the tips of mine in a pathetic compromise of a handshake. This is how she shows me what she thinks of me. I am dirty, wrong for her, a creep and a loser.
I grit my teeth and pull away. Then I grab her hand and hold it fast, before she can pull away from me. This is how I will show her what I think of her. She is mine. She has to be mine. It’s the only reality I will accept.
“Let go of me,” she murmurs, so low I almost think she’s afraid someone will hear.
I release her hand, but I know that’s not what she really meant. She wants me to let go of her for real. I won’t.
“Is that all?” she says, rubbing the filth from her hand.
“Yes… But no.” This may be a huge mistake. I just can’t bear the idea that she’ll go on thinking I’m a murderer. I’ve got to make one attempt to correct it. Even if it’s desperate. Even if it’s impossible. Even if it’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. “Phoebus is alive.”
She barely tries to mask her joy. She glows with it.
I barely try to mask my disgust. “I thought you might like to know.”
“You wouldn’t lie about that, would you?”
I shake my head, already regretting my decision to tell her. “He’s barely even injured.” Were I anyone else, I swear this news would earn me a joyous hug and kiss. I’d be that friend who does anything for physical contact, the dependable one who allows himself to get strung along because of some seriously misguided hope. But I’m not that friend. I�
�m not any kind of a friend. And just to remind myself, I add, “I should have stabbed him deeper.”
The radiant smile disappears from her face, and the scowl that replaces it makes my skin crawl. “Can I go,” she says, “or are you planning to make me wait here while you shower?”
“I’ve said all I need to say to you,” I lie. There are a million more things I need to say to her. A million confessions and supplications. I love you. I love you. I love you. “You can go.”
She pushes past me, and then she’s gone. But alone in that room, I still feel like I’m drowning in her, and I never want it to stop.
V
I have been given a fresh start. I’m convinced of this. Some demon visited me, dragged me to hell with him, and then brought me back. Yesterday, Phoebus was dead by my hand, Esmeralda was killed for my crime, and I had lost my mind. Today, Phoebus is going about his usual unsavory business, and Esmeralda is living under my roof. I know she hates me, but that’s nothing new. If I make the right choices, she may get to know me while she’s living here. She may come to like me, maybe even love me. There’s still a chance if I can get this right.
Halfway to the kitchen I realize how hungry I am. I can’t remember the last time I ate. I don’t even know what day it is. I’ve probably been truant, but I don’t care. I’m going to re-evaluate my priorities, starting today.
Then the sound of the organ floods my world, deep and powerful and far from hollow. This is not Valentine’s usual practice. I drop the bread and butter knife and head for the sanctuary. My stomach can wait. I’ve got to see what’s creating this music in him, this overwhelmingly beautiful sound. Even though I already know. Even though it couldn’t possibly be anything else.