Through Indigo's Eyes

by Tara Taylor

  I left my light on.

  Scared of the night. Scared of the ghosts.

  And scared of the man in the locket.

  The same man who kept visiting me from the dead. The man with the cigar.

  I didn’t go to school the next day. I couldn’t get out of bed I was so exhausted and listless. It felt as though every ounce of energy had been siphoned out of my body. I told my mother I had the flu.

  She carried a tray of food up to my room before she left for work: a bowl of chicken soup for comfort, saltine crackers to help digestion, and a big glass of ice water for rehydration. Once a nurse, always a nurse.

  All day I watched mindless television. I couldn’t concentrate on even the shallowest of shows, and my mind constantly wandered to the man in the locket. I wondered about John and his family. He’d never mentioned anyone other than his mother and her brother. John had said that he was the only relative who talked to his mom. But the brother was still alive, so it couldn’t be him. Was that guy in the locket a relative? An old boyfriend who had died? An uncle? Perhaps he was John’s grandfather?

  Or … was I imagining everything? I should have looked a third time. But the repulsion had been too strong, its effects making me violently ill. I was still sick today.

  I flicked through television stations. “Push it from your mind.” I talked out loud. “Push it. Bury it. Forget about it.”

  Flick, flick, flick. There was nothing to watch.

  Around midday, the phone rang. I thought it was my mom, so I picked it up. When I heard the low, velvety voice, I swear I thought I’d stopped breathing.

  “John,” I whispered.

  “Sorry about yesterday,” he said quietly.

  “It’s okay.”

  “Can I come over?”

  “Sure.”

  By the time he arrived, I was sitting at the kitchen table, slicing an apple, dressed in sweats and a long-sleeved T-shirt to hide the bruises on my upper arm. I knew he hadn’t meant to give them to me.

  He pointed at the apple. “My mom does that.”

  “Cuts her fruit with a knife?”

  “She often has the knife by her bedside.”

  Silence hung over us like a big puff of air that needed to be pricked.

  Finally, John said, “My mom, she has some problems.”

  I put down the knife, and the clanging sound echoed through the kitchen. The pain in his eyes almost made me cry. I put my hand on his forearm. “It’s okay, John.”

  He slowly shook his head. “She’s struggled for years.”

  “She has a disease.”

  “I think she drinks to hide her loneliness.”

  “Does she have anyone besides you? You’ve only ever mentioned her one brother. Is there anyone besides him to help her through this?”

  I searched his face to see if I had gone too far. All afternoon I had thought about the man in the locket, and about his mother, and who she was avoiding with alcohol.

  John moved away from me and blew out a big breath of air. “My uncle might move here. That would be so good for my mom. I talked to him the other night. I wish my father hadn’t just taken off like he did.”

  “Does she ever talk about your dad?”

  He shook his head. “Never. If I bring him up, she shuts me down and says he’s never coming back and that he probably has a new family somewhere.”

  “What about any relatives on your dad’s side? Do they ever keep in touch with her?” I cut a piece of apple and pushed it over to John.

  “She never stayed in touch with any of them.” John spun the apple slice in circles.

  “You might have an entire family out there. Are you curious to find out who they are?”

  Again, silence. After a couple seconds he said, “I’ve looked for traces.” He didn’t look at me and instead just kept spinning the apple slice around and around. It started to turn brown.

  “Find anything?” I asked softly.

  He shook his head, still spinning the apple, almost as if he were hypnotized.

  “Maybe I can help you.” I put my hand on his to stop his repetitive movement. “We could search together.”

  “My mom hates it when I look for him. Sinks her down. Last time she got really mad and told me to stop and to never look again.”

  “Has your mom ever had any boyfriends?”

  “Never,” said John. “I wish she would find someone, though. It’s as if she can’t get close to anyone. I just feel so sorry for her. She’s always alone. She only has her bottle. She’s tried to stop, but when she’s sober, she’s almost lonelier. Alcoholism is horrible.”

  This time, I put my hand on his face, letting it rest on his cheek. He tilted his head and gazed at me. The sadness in his eyes sank to the core of my heart. I looked into his eyes, wanting him to know I was there for him.

  Then he leaned forward, and our lips touched, ever so gently at first, but building, building, until we were locked together, intertwined, my hands wrapped around his body, his swathing mine. He lifted me and gently sat me on the kitchen counter, circling his arms around my lower back. I draped my arms around his neck, and our noses touched. Then we kissed again.

  When we separated, he whispered, “I heard there’s a Halloween party on the weekend.” His warm breath lingered around my lips. “Let’s have some fun. You want to go with me?”

  I kissed his forehead. “I’d love to.”

  I loved Halloween and all the fun of dressing up, but every year I got totally agitated the night before Halloween and couldn’t settle down or concentrate on anything. Sarah wanted me to go over to her house on Halloween Eve, as she called it, and watch scary movies, but I made up an excuse. I just wanted to be in my room. All those horror movies were too real for me because spirits and ghosts existed for me and the scary movies were generally all about ghosts. Plus, I knew Sarah would scream and I wouldn’t be able to because I would be shaking under a blanket. Then she would think I was a party pooper. I could hear her voice in my head. “Indie, what’s wrong with you? Aren’t you scared? You have to scream to make this any fun!”

  So I had to hide. And my room was the best place for that. I didn’t even want to be with John, in case he detected my strange mood. I had been successful in keeping my weirdness away from him, so there was no reason to show him anything on Halloween Eve. I wasn’t totally sure what happened to me on that particular night, but it was as if all the pores in my body opened, allowing every type of energy to enter me and swish through my blood. I read once that the thin veil that I was supposedly able to get through got thinner on Halloween Eve, which allowed all kinds of spirits to visit me. It was just so weird. And scary. I hated it.

  I sat on my bed staring at the walls.

  “It’s just one night. Just one night,” I told myself. “I can do this. Tomorrow will be different, and I will have fun. I just need to get through tonight.” I breathed in and out. “Let’s do homework.”

  I opened my books, stared at the pages, and … nothing. I couldn’t concentrate. I threw my pencil on my night table.

  “Okay, let’s read, then.”

  I picked up the easiest novel sitting on my table. And I must have read the same page ten times.

  “I know. I’ll play the guitar.”

  I pulled it out from under my bed, but it just sat on my lap. I tried strumming a few chords, but it sounded horrible. So I put the guitar away.

  Then I saw my Halloween costume in my closet. I got off my bed and put on my costume, pretending to be a witch in front of the mirror. I tried cackling and shrieking, and for a while, I did amuse myself and forgot about my edginess.

  As soon as I took the costume off, though, the fidgeting started again and my agitation returned. Maybe if I breathed. I sat cross-legged on my bed and tried to relax; tried to get air into my lungs, but it seemed to catch in my throat. Finally, I fell on my bed and did my usual staring at the ceiling, counting the stucco dots.

  One, two, three, four … “Tomorrow will
be better.” I stared at my walls.

  Five, six, seven, eight … I remembered when I was little, Mom always worried about me on this night, and she would sit with me in my room as I quivered and shook. Sometimes when she finally left me alone, shutting off my lights, thinking I was asleep, they would come. The translucent people I had called them. One time there were hundreds of them, walking in a straight line, heading for my bed like an army of ants, but at the foot of my bed, they split and just disappeared.

  Would they come again tonight?

  I would hide under my covers. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve … I breathed in again and out.

  By morning I will be okay. By morning I will be okay. By morning I will be okay.

  No. I couldn’t just lie on my bed counting like I was in kindergarten. I got up and paced. As I wore down my carpet, I picked up the witch hat, running my fingers along the outside of the silk brim, then up the ridge and to the top of the point. Then back down again. Over and over.

  “Stop pacing, Indie. Just stop already.”

  Finally, I forced my feet to halt, and once again, I stood in front of my full-length mirror. I put the hat back on my head and stared at myself. My contorted face softened as I wondered what John was going to wear as a costume.

  Maybe if I just thought about John, I would be okay.

  When John picked me up on Friday night, I was much more relaxed, having made it through Halloween Eve.

  I laughed when I opened the door. Typical John: his costume was a Zorro-type mask. John was John, and he always had to be different.

  “Nice costume,” I said. “I bet that didn’t break your bank account.” Then I cackled and swished my witch cape.

  “I thought you’d be wearing your Spice Girls outfit.” He pulled me into his arms and kissed me. After we separated he whispered, “I like you better as a witch. Makes you sexy.”

  By the time we got to the party at ten, it was in full swing. Loud noise blasted my ears, and I froze for a second as the visual overload started. The party was a mesh of colors from the many costumes: Superman, Batman, Catwoman, Sailor Moon, the Hunchback of Notre Dame, Pokémon, X-Files characters, and animals of all sorts, including a lot of sexy cats. Shades of blue, green, yellow, pink, purple, and tons of other colors became like one big kaleidoscope.

  My head buzzed, my palms seeped sweat, and my stomach flip-flopped, but I was determined not to let the massive amount of energy bother me. I wanted to have a good time.

  I’m having fun tonight.

  John immediately swerved into the kitchen, leaving me trailing three bodies behind and smack in the middle of the crowd. Without him, I felt vulnerable and a bit dizzy from the bodies around me.

  “Hey, Indie!” Sarah grabbed my arm. “You look amazing,” she said.

  I performed my best cackle, which made her laugh and made me relax. Dressed in a super-short red skirt, red fishnet stockings, and a red silky tank top, and sporting a long red tail and a red mask with pointed ears, Sarah looked like the prettiest devil I’d ever seen. Her red hair clashed with the bright color of her costume. “Love your costume!” I said.

  “Oh. My. Gawd,” whispered Sarah, touching my arm. “Look what Amber is wearing.” Sarah put her hand to her mouth and laughed hysterically. “Unbelievable.”

  I turned, and when I saw Amber, I frowned. She wore a green garbage bag—and I don’t think there was much underneath but a black bathing suit—and she had a hose wrapped around her body. “I don’t get it,” I said.

  “She’s a hosebag! You know, a slut.”

  “Why would she wear something like that?” I asked, shocked.

  Laughing, Sarah shook her head. “Who knows? She’s Amber.”

  Just then, John came out of the kitchen and went up to Amber and whispered something in her ear. I wondered what they were talking about. Amber put her hand on his arm. I eyed them until I remembered that Sarah was still talking to me.

  “I wonder if she’s still after Burke,” I said.

  Sarah shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. She moves on pretty quickly. Come on, let’s get you a drink.”

  I watched Sarah weave over to a corner of the room, where she probably had her stash. As I was standing there by myself, I felt the bump from behind and then something trickled down my back.

  I turned to see Burke, dressed in a Batman costume, holding up a bottle of beer. “Sorry, Indie.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “How are you?”

  “Great. Fun party.”

  “Yeah.” He sipped his beer. Then he said, “For the record, I wish you and Lacey were still friends. She misses you. She mentioned how you guys always went out for Halloween together when you were kids.”

  “I miss her, too,” I said. Then I reached out and touched his arm. “Tell her that for me, okay?” The simple touch made me think that perhaps Amber touching John was the same thing.

  He genuinely smiled at me. “Yeah, I will.”

  Just then someone bashed him from behind and he fell forward, spilling the rest of his beer all over the front of my costume. My heart raced, and I felt a jab in the middle of my forehead. I sucked in a deep breath, and it went away. I relaxed my shoulders.

  In typical hockey-boy style, Burke grabbed the guy who had pushed him and put him in a headlock. They tussled for a few seconds before I decided that I really needed to wipe the beer off my costume.

  In the kitchen I found a roll of paper towels so I ripped off a few. As I tried to get rid of some of the beer, I scanned the kitchen for John, wondering where he was. When I spotted him, he was alone, leaning against the counter. His mask was stuffed in his pocket and he looked totally out of place.

  Did he want me with him? Or did he want to be alone? He had ditched me as soon as we entered the party. At least he wasn’t with Amber. If I joined him, would that make me a clingy girlfriend?

  “Indie, you look like you could use a sip.” Dressed as a pirate, complete with the black eye patch and red bandana, Randy, a good friend of mine from elementary school, was standing beside me. He had pulled out a flask of rum from the large leather belt he wore around his waist. Once he offered the flask, I felt obligated to have a sip.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  Not one to stay in the same spot long, Randy left me to move on to someone else. Once again, I glanced over at John, and through the maze of people, I saw him scowling at me. What was wrong?

  The party had doubled in size, so I had to dodge bodies on my way over to John. Halfway there, I heard Lacey’s voice, sprinkled with laughter. I lowered my head and let my hair fall forward, then I looked to see where she was and who she was talking to.

  Dressed as Catwoman in tight black leather shorts, black fishnet stockings, an amazing black fitted corset, and a gorgeous jeweled mask, she looked stunning. Suddenly, the room started to spin on me. The pulsing started in the middle of my forehead. And it was strong, like someone was pounding nails into that spot. My stomach somersaulted. My forehead started to sweat. And my throat felt as if it were closing.

  I stood in the middle of a room with nothing to hold on to. Vomit surged inside me but couldn’t get through my throat.

  No, no, no. Don’t do this to me.

  I tried to move my feet, but I couldn’t. I had to get to the washroom. Now.

  Go, Indie. Go. Move. Walk. Run. John can’t see you like this. No one can see you like this.

  But I couldn’t budge. My feet felt as if they were nailed to the floor. The pulsing bashed against my forehead. Instinctively, I knew, there was no stopping this one. Not this time. It was not a simple flash but a full-blown vision. My telescopic lens narrowed, and my body felt as if I were swooshing down a waterslide to the fishbowl. I was out of control and couldn’t do anything about it.

  Bodies hit me, and I just stood still.

  I couldn’t see John. I couldn’t see anything but a bright light. It flashed in front of me. Then blank. I saw no one. Felt no one. Only saw the white.

  Then the picture
changed, and I was looking through my lens. I heard ice scraping, scratching. A crack. Slam. Cheering, and a hushed silence. Bright lights, stadium lights, and Burke in his hockey jersey. My stomach turned and flipped, and I crashed against something. It felt as if I had been hit with a huge cement block and I was being heaved into the air with no support. My head ached, and I wanted to throw up, especially because I could smell blood.

  Then I felt myself careening, sliding, flying across something hard, and I tried to grab on to someone, but I fell face-first to the floor. The lightbulb zapped, my stomach heaved, and my world went black.

  I heard voices.

  “Gross,” said someone.

  “First puke of the night.”

  Laughter swirled around me. I felt arms under me, strong arms. My legs were weak, and my muscles didn’t seem to work. John held me under my armpits and almost dragged me out of the house.

  Snow fell from the sky, but not the nice, big, fluffy drops that were pretty and romantic. Instead it was hard, crystallized drops, because the temperature had dropped so quickly. They hit my skin like little knife jabs, and the cold jolted me. Shame seeped through every one of my pores. But then the shame dissolved to tears, flowing fast and furious down my face.

  In silence we walked to the car, John holding on to me because the cement sidewalk was glazed with a sheath of ice: hard, treacherous ice. His hand gripped my shoulder hard, and I tried not to wince. My footing was unsteady, and I walked carefully so as not to slip and fall while my mind chattered inside my head. What had just happened? What had I seen? Why was that vision so intense? I had honestly felt as if I were in the vision.

  Immersed in thought, I stepped on a piece of smashed pumpkin and slipped. John pulled me by my elbow and kept me upright, but he didn’t speak.

  Once inside the car, seat buckles done up, I said, “John, I want to explain.”

  He lifted his hand in a sharp movement, as if to hit me, which made me slide down into my seat. “I don’t want an excuse,” he uttered. He lowered his hand and shook his head, sending little ice crystals flying everywhere. “I’ve heard so many over the years and, from you, I don’t want one.” He started the car; his tires squealed as he drove away from the curb.