Mystic City

by Theo Lawrence

  I want to stand up and smack the smug expression right off Benedict’s face. But I know that won’t win me any points—with anybody.

  “Now,” Benedict says.

  I wait outside the double doors to my father’s office, which occupies the entire top floor of the building. They’re made of shiny brass and adorned with metal roses whose edges look sharp enough to draw blood. Two hulking bodyguards with Rose tattoos up their cheeks stand in front of them, arms crossed firmly over their chests. Catherine, my father’s secretary, is seated at her desk.

  “Aria, he will see you now,” Catherine tells me. The bodyguards step aside, pulling the doors open. I give a small curtsey and then stroll past them. The doors close behind me with a soft click.

  The air-conditioning sends gooseflesh up and down my arms the moment I cross the threshold—it’s even colder in here than in the rest of the building. The far wall is made up entirely of windows looking out on the Hudson. It’s the only touch of modernity in the place. Otherwise, it’s all mahogany walls and floors, brown leather couches, and overstuffed bookshelves—throwbacks to the nineteenth-century robber baron style.

  “Aria,” my father says, motioning to a chair across from his desk. “Sit.”

  He’s in a dark suit today, and a navy-blue tie with orange polka dots. He’s clean-shaven and his dark eyes have a sparkle in them, nearly as bright as the jewel in the center of the Rose family crest on the ring he wears on his right index finger.

  Behind him is a large oil painting in a gilt frame. Impressionist, from the look of it: a golden-orange sunset over the Hudson River. I don’t remember seeing it before. I realize it is mystic enhanced, like the paintings in the Fosters’ apartment, when the colors turn and begin to glow pink and red, and the thin blue waves of the river rock back and forth.

  “Thanks,” I say, glancing at the screen of his TouchMe. Dad sees me looking and presses a button; the entire thing goes blank. “You wanted to see me?”

  “Why don’t you start by telling me why I’m getting complaints about you from Patrick. He says that you’re a slow worker, that you’re not taking this job seriously.”

  “I am taking it seriously—”

  “You asked for this opportunity, Aria. You should be doing everything that is requested of you and more. Instead, you’re dallying, doing the bare minimum—if that.”

  “It’s not like that, Dad. Benedict has it in for me!”

  “No one has it in for you,” he replies sternly. “If I get another complaint, I’ll send you right back home and we’ll forget all about this job experiment. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” I say, because … what else is there to say?

  Dad stands and motions for me to follow him to the far wall of windows.

  “Look out,” he tells me. “What do you see?”

  I peer out at the other skyscrapers. From here Manhattan looks cold and intimidating, a metropolis of broken-up islands and naked steel, of stone and glass behemoths.

  “I see a city,” I tell him.

  He clucks his tongue. “That is exactly your problem. This is not just a city, Aria. It is your city.

  “There’s a reason why we aren’t as close as we once were,” he says. “We’re so alike, you and I. Your mother and brother are different … softer. I remember once, years ago, you were playing with Kiki and fell down and scraped your knees. You didn’t cry or call for help. You just wiped the blood off with your hands and continued playing.” He smiles at me, a rare genuine smile. “I knew then that you were meant for great things. That underneath your beauty, you were tough. That you would carry on the traditions of our family.”

  “But we’re ending the traditions,” I say. “By marrying Thomas, I’ll be helping to end them, our feud—all of it.”

  “Yes.”

  Suddenly, from somewhere deep inside me, a question bursts forth. “What if I don’t want to marry Thomas?” I ask, thinking of the boy in my dreams—whoever he is.

  I wait for my father to yell. Or to slap me. He does neither.

  Instead, he presses his hands to the glass, spreading his fingers open. “I was young once, Aria, and I had dreams … dreams that didn’t necessarily coincide with what my father wanted for me.” Dad’s face softens for a moment. “I put my family before myself, and that is how I built my life. There is not a choice when your family is involved.” He pauses. “If you do not choose your family, Aria, then we do not choose you. You will be stricken from the record, as if you’ve never existed.”

  My lips begin to tremble, and I worry that I might start to cry—and the last thing I want is to show how weak I am.

  “Now go,” he says, and I don’t hesitate. I immediately start walking across the hardwood floor, toward the door.

  “Oh, and Aria?” he calls out. I glance at him over my shoulder; he’s standing by his desk, resting one hand on his TouchMe.

  “Yes?”

  “I love you,” he says.

  • X •

  That evening, when I get home from work, I go straight to my room.

  The stink of roses overwhelms me. My bedroom is full of them—Thomas has sent a bouquet to me for every day that I’ve worked at the office. The cards that accompany them are full of bland professions of love—I’ll be thinking of you with each passing minute, one says, and another reads I love you more and more each day. They’re probably written by his assistant.

  I’ve seen him most every night, as well. He comes to the apartment for dinner with us; he talks about politics and the upcoming election with my father while my mother shows me dress swatches and menus for the wedding.

  He’s taken me to the movies. We’ve had ice cream together. He’s been sweet.

  Does it matter if I can’t remember how much I love him? Sometimes I look at him and think, It’s a handsome face. It could be the missing face from my dreams—right?

  But my feelings for Thomas are like melting ice. When I try to recall our past, I get nothing more than distorted visions—half-memories that only leave me more confused. Remember, I tell myself, like the note instructed. Like the boy in my dreams has told me. Remember. Remember. Remember.

  I finish dressing for dinner. My hair has grown longer than I usually keep it, but I don’t mind—when it’s tied back, in a ribbon, I like how it leaves my face exposed, how the waves fall below my shoulders.

  I pull open one of my dresser drawers to root for an Alice band. I move aside a few loose bracelets and some of my tortoiseshell combs, and I see a tear in the drawer lining.

  I run a finger over the blue-and-white striped paper. The tear follows one of the blue lines, a cut so minor you can hardly see it. I try to smooth it out with my nail, but when I run my hand over it, I can feel something underneath.

  Gently, I grab onto the tear and pull; the paper lifts easily, revealing loose papers. I gather them up and see that they are letters. The one on the top is dated more than six months back.

  What are they doing here? I organize them by date and begin reading the oldest one.

  It has been three days since we met in the Depths. Three days and all I’ve been thinking of is you.

  I don’t even know if this note will reach you, and I don’t want to say anything more personal in case it ends up in the wrong hands.

  Meet me in the Circle tomorrow night. Please. I just want to look into those starry eyes of yours one more time, and maybe, just maybe, you will want to look into mine, too. (Too corny?)

  My breath comes quickly, and I feel a tightening in my chest. I’ve found a stash of love letters—from Thomas to me!—that I must have hidden away for safety. I pick up the next.

  I waited and waited, but you didn’t come. This entire week has been miserable. I can’t sleep, I can’t eat, I drive myself crazy thinking about you. Please, do a guy a favor and just meet me, simply to put me out of my misery?

  Tomorrow night, same place? I’ll wait until the Circle closes.

  I flip to the next one.

 
You came! I knew you would! I have nothing to say tonight but thank you.

  And the next.

  It’s ridiculous how one encounter can truly change your life. It’s been what—a week?—since we met, and you’re all I think about. In the morning, when I wake up, I think about your beautiful face, your dark eyes, your skin, your lips … and during the day all I hear is the sound of your voice, all I feel is the touch of your hand on my shoulder … and at night, I toss and turn, willing myself to fall asleep as quickly as possible so I can dream of you … and of us … together.

  Meet me again? I’ll send you directions. And keep checking your balcony for these notes. I don’t dare sign my name or give my location outright … but we’ll come up with a code that works for us, won’t we?

  Until then.

  I clutch the letters to my chest. A relationship is unfolding before my very eyes. Even if I can’t remember this happening, all is not lost.

  A buzzer sounds.

  “Aria!” Magdalena calls over the intercom. “Your mother is waiting for you and your brother to begin dinner!”

  “Be right there!” I say into the monitor.

  One more, I tell myself.

  J—

  It’s an awesome idea to address each other as Romeo and Juliet, star-crossed lovers that we are. I’m so happy I didn’t frighten you. I thought telling you the truth—my last name, and who I am—would make you run … but you’re much stronger than I imagined, and this secret between us will only make us stronger, surer, as sturdy as the Damascus steel that supports our city. There is so much to know, so much to learn. Where do we even begin? I must see you again. Tomorrow? The night after?

  R

  Romeo and Juliet! This is crazy! It can’t be Thomas who was so sensitive, so artful, so—

  The buzzer sounds again. “Aria!” Magdalena repeats.

  “Coming!” I say, stuffing the letters back inside my drawer. They’ll be safe for now. I leave my bedroom, the carpet beneath my feet plush and soft as clouds. I feel happy for the first time in … well, a long time, anyway.

  Dinner goes by quickly. Kyle never comes down, and my mother natters on about the wedding plans while Bartholomew serves us—caprese salad to start, and a main course of stewed rabbit over fennel, with new potatoes and other things, but I can’t seem to focus on any of it, and I eat without seeing what I’m eating. Thomas and my father are off with Garland, doing something election-related that we’re not privy to. I can hear Magdalena puttering about in the kitchen. I don’t know where Davida is.

  Not that any of it matters. All I can think about is the letters. They’re my only real clue to the romantic life I had before my overdose.

  After an appropriate amount of time, I feign a headache. “May I be excused?”

  “Fine,” my mother says, distracted by pictures of centerpiece options for the wedding reception. “Make sure your brother knows that he’s going to bed without any dinner. This isn’t a free-for-all, it’s a household.”

  I leave the table calmly. As soon as I’m out of sight, however, I run upstairs and into my bedroom. I retrieve the letters from my drawer and lie down on my bed, picking up where I left off.

  J—

  You didn’t come last night. I waited and waited. Is there somebody else? If there is … my life will be over. Everything was dark before I met you and now there is so much light—I couldn’t tolerate being shut back into the darkness. Or maybe you couldn’t escape last night—something to do with your father, your brother? Let me know so I won’t worry.

  Forever yours,

  R

  I wish I had my responses! I must ask Thomas if he’s saved them. Surely he must have.

  J—

  Thank you for calming me down. I know I can get a little crazy when it comes to seeing you. You’re like the antidote to a poison—calming, soothing. You make me feel safe in a world full of chaos.

  It’s not fair to us, this unnecessary hatred our families have toward each other. And for what? But never mind that for now. Seeing you in the Depths last night, holding your hand, kissing your neck … my God, you were on fire. There is nothing mystic light has that you don’t have. You burn brighter than anything or anyone else in the entire world.

  I’m yours for as long as you will have me.

  R

  J—

  I don’t know how much longer I can keep going like this. Are you ready to be honest? I know it frightens you, what might happen if we admit our love, but what’s the worst that can happen—our families disown us, and we live a life of poverty, but a life full of love? Or we leave New York entirely and go somewhere else? Sure, we’ll have no money, but nothing is as terrible as not being able to love you for the rest of my life. Why wait? Are you unsure of me—of us? Say the word and I’ll scream my love for you from the highest points in the Aeries, all the way down to the lowest canals.

  I love you.

  R

  J—

  Did my last letter frighten you? Your windows are shut tight … have you changed your mind? We can slow down … wait to tell our parents … I’ll do anything for you. Just let me know what’s wrong so I can fix it.

  R

  J—

  Your silence is unbearable. I don’t know what to think, other than you don’t want me anymore … or something terrible has happened to you … and if either is true, I can’t live for one more day.… I will come to you tomorrow night … please be there.

  R

  Now that I’ve read Thomas’s words, I can’t believe I ever doubted our love. Any superficial connection I might have shared with Hunter pales in comparison. I slip the letters I have back underneath the paper lining for safekeeping.

  I want to feel what I must have felt for Thomas when he wrote these letters. No wonder he’s been so odd since my overdose. How must it be to feel such burning passion for someone, to have shared such a love, only to have the other person forget you completely?

  Suddenly, I remember Lyrica, the woman who Tabitha, the drained mystic from the coffee shop, told me about. Maybe if I sneak into the Depths and find her, she can help restore my memories to me. I have to at least try. I owe it to myself, and to Thomas. Romeo.

  I change my clothes, throw on a pair of dark running shoes and a cap to cover my face, and, on a whim, stuff Davida’s gloves into my back pocket. Maybe, if I can find her, Lyrica can explain what’s so special about them.

  A few pillows under my sheets and anyone who casually looks in will think it’s me asleep in the dark.

  I tiptoe to my door, pressing it open. Before I take another step, an image pops into my head: myself, in the Depths—

  “You came,” he says.

  “Of course I did.”

  From his neck down I can see everything—the stiff collar of his shirt, the tanned skin of his forearms—but everything above that is shrouded in mystery, blurry and indistinct, as if he’s a partly erased figure in a drawing.

  I place my hand on his shoulder. “Look at me.” He doesn’t answer. “Please.”

  “Do you remember?” he asks softly.

  I shake my head. “But maybe if I can just see you—”

  He lifts his head to the light and I cry out: he has no face, only a sheet of white. His mouth is a thin red line. There are deep holes where his eyes should be.

  “Remember,” the ghost face says. “Remember me, Aria.”

  I snap out of the memory.

  I’m trying, I think, clenching my fists. I’m trying.

  • XI •

  The motorized gondola moves quickly through the rippling water, down the Broadway Canal. This, I notice, is one of the wider canals I’ve seen in the Depths—plenty of gondolas can travel back and forth without fear of collision, as well as a handful of the larger water taxis.

  We turn down a waterway that is significantly narrower and darker. If there are street numbers etched onto the walls of these older buildings, I can’t make them out on the broken brick and peeling paint. Th
ere are no light posts here, only mystic-lit sconces and those are far and few between. Most entryways at the water level are covered with locked gates that are crumbling and brown with age. Greenish-yellow algae clings to the bottom of these buildings, tangled like knotty hair after a shower, floating on the water in large clumps.

  Eventually, my gondolier pulls up to a rickety wooden dock and lassos one of the posts. He gives the rope a yank and pulls us in. I pay him and in a moment am on the dock. Before I can even thank him, he has removed the rope and set off.

  A few apartments give off hints of light above me, and I can see lines of laundry crossing the narrow canal, undershirts flapping in the hot breeze. In the spaces between the tall buildings, the brightness of the spires around the Magnificent Block pulses like a heartbeat in a language I don’t understand.

  I think of Tabitha—follow the lights—and wonder how I’m supposed to do that when I can’t even find the address she gave me for Lyrica: 481 Columbus Avenue.

  There are campaign posters on the brick walls. They are mixed with hateful graffiti: the words FOSTER and ROSE crossed out or covered with profanity. I lower my cap, determined not to be identified this time around.

  Homeless people seem as much a part of the streets as the buildings—young children, grandparents, and every age in between—all with the same weathered faces, tired eyes, dirt-caked skin. They’re not mystics, so why aren’t we taking care of them?

  “You lost, miss?” one woman asks me.

  I nod. “Do you know where Columbus Avenue is? Four eighty-one?”

  The woman points. I thank her and I head off.

  I know I must be getting closer to the Block when I notice the election posters have changed. These posters haven’t been vandalized. A woman with blond hair stares out at me, smiling. She looks about my mother’s age, dressed in a navy-blue blazer and a crisp white blouse. Her face radiates intelligence and warmth. VOTE FOR CHANGE, the poster reads. VOTE FOR VIOLET.