by Maya Gold
When I step into the room, a young attendant is changing a blanket, and I realize it was her voice I just heard. The patient beneath the white sheet — Great-aunt Gail, the last of the Solarts — is as still as a corpse. Her face is sallow and misshapen, her steel-gray hair loose on the pillow. From her sunken cheeks I can see that most, if not all, of her teeth must be missing. But the spookiest thing is her vacant eyes, milky with cataracts.
“Are you a relation?” the attendant asks.
I nod. “I’m her great-niece.”
“You’re in luck. She’s been quiet today.”
Why is that lucky? I wonder. That means I can’t ask her anything.
The attendant continues as she pulls a blanket up to Gail’s jutting chin. “With late-stage Alzheimer’s, they don’t have a clue what they’re saying. If she starts to scream and curse, don’t be offended. It’s nothing personal. Just what the mind spits back out.”
I nod, looking at my great-aunt, her thin form inert on the bed. My heart is suddenly racing with nerves. What am I doing here? She’s nearly a hundred years old; it’s no wonder she’s lost all her marbles.
“This one can be a tough customer,” the nurse adds as she heads for the door. “If she starts in, just remind yourself that she doesn’t know what she’s saying. The call button’s right here if you need it.” She walks out into the hall, leaving me alone with Great-aunt Gail.
I hesitate, studying her face on the pillow. She looks so completely checked out that there doesn’t seem to be much point in speaking to her. But I’ve come all this way, and it seems even sadder to leave without even saying hello.
“Great-aunt Gail?” I say tentatively, and step right up next to the bed. “Can you hear me?”
All at once her head swivels to face me, her clawlike hand grabbing my wrist. I’m so startled I nearly scream.
“Dorcas?” she rasps. “Is that you?”
Dorcas?
I shake my head, frightened. “I’m — I’m Abigail Silva. Your great-niece, Abby.”
Her milky eyes fasten on mine. “I knew you’d be coming,” she says. “I could feel the energy gathering, sparks in the wind. Fire always finds a way.” Her voice sounds like a gate creaking on rusty hinges.
I’m about to ask what she means about fire and sparks, but then I remember that she has Alzheimer’s, so nothing she tells me will make any sense. It’s strange, though — her manner is totally lucid. She knows what she means. And it’s certainly better than cursing and screaming.
“You need to get ready, and quickly,” she rattles. “The time is coming. We need you to take up your place in the circle.”
“What circle?” I can’t help asking. Her voice is hypnotic, like an incantation.
“It’s all been foretold. You’re the one we’ve been —”
Her words cut off abruptly, her mouth clapping shut like a clamshell. I hear the creak of wheels over the threshold as the nurse with the bright nails and dreadlocks pushes her medication cart into the room.
“Was she talking to you?” the nurse asks me, turning to Gail with a frown. “You be nice, now, you hear? She don’t need none of your nastiness.”
I shake my head, my mind racing. “She wasn’t cursing. Great-aunt Gail?”
Gail’s face has gone totally slack. It’s as if she can’t hear me at all. I lean closer and try again, taking her bony hand in mine. “Great-aunt Gail, it’s me, Abby. I’m still right here. What were you trying to tell me?”
There’s no response. Her pale blue eyes are opaque, filmy with cataracts. But just for a split second, a jolt of static electricity crackles from her fingers to mine, and I think I hear words in my head, as I did with Rem.
You are the one.
I draw back, quickly removing my hand. Did I imagine the streak of black leaping across her left eye?
I’m freaked out to the roots of my hair by my encounter with Great-aunt Gail. What did she mean by “You are the one”? If she even said it. Was I really reading her thoughts in that moment, or was it my imagination?
I’m itching to look at that little green spell book in my room again. I have a feeling there must be a clue in it somewhere. Who wrote these things down, all those years ago? Could it have been Dorcas Good, or somebody else in my ancestral line?
But I can’t weasel out of Matt’s soccer game. It’s the league semifinals, and they’re playing against their archrivals, the notorious Orange team. I have to be a good sister and root for him.
So soon enough I find myself on the Green team bleachers with a bunch of crazed soccer moms, still mulling over Great-aunt Gail’s odd words.
Midway through the fourth quarter, I realize I’m thirsty. I’ve barely had anything to eat or drink all day, not since I got back from the nursing home.
I’m standing in line for my water bottle and Luna bar when I spot Travis Brown’s car sailing into the parking lot. His younger brother or sister must be on the opposite team.
At least he was smart enough to come late. (I could do that if I had a car!) I watch wistfully as he helps Megan out of the cute red convertible. Draping their arms around each other, they stroll toward the soccer field.
Travis is wearing a faded gray cross-country T-shirt and scuffed jeans that fit him just right. It’s really not fair that he looks this good without making an effort. Megan is resting her head on his shoulder in a way that seems calculated to say, “Hey, everyone, look what I’ve got.” Her outfit — white short-shorts and a pink tank that looks spray-painted on — seems to send the same message. She says something in Travis’s ear, and before I know it, they’ve veered toward the snack shack.
Toward me.
I’m instantly slammed with self-consciousness. Maybe I should just forget about getting food and water. I slink out of the line, jamming my wallet back into my pocket, but Travis and Megan have already seen me. He gives me his usual friendly but preoccupied smile. Megan’s mouth curdles into a smirk.
“Heyyy, Abby,” she drawls. “You’ve got a …” She pats her left collarbone, and I realize that I’m still wearing the nursing home guest pass. Couldn’t my father or brother have told me that when I got home? But that would have meant noticing me.
I can feel myself blushing as I peel it off. “Oh, sorry,” I say, though I can’t for the life of me figure out why I’m apologizing to Megan. Just habit, I guess.
“Were you in line?” Travis asks me.
“Oh. No, I decided I’m not really thirsty. But thanks.” I scoot out of there fast and climb back up to my seat near the top of the bleachers, feeling like a total idiot. How could I not realize I’d been wearing that stupid tag all this time? And besides, I am thirsty. Why did I get out of the drinks line? Travis has always been perfectly nice to me. Why do I feel like I shrink down to nothing as soon as I see him?
Not that I think I’d ever have a real shot with someone like him. But sometimes I let myself imagine — what if? What if I actually managed to work up the nerve to strike up a real conversation with Travis? We were friendly as little kids — maybe he has some fond playground memories of me, too. I wonder if he still ties a bow knot with two loops.
I watch from my perch as he and Megan take seats in the front row of the Orange team’s bleachers. He’s holding two sodas and hands one to her. Even this smallest gesture seems gallant. She thanks him with a kiss on the mouth.
Perfect. Now I get to sit here and watch them make out for the rest of the game.
I look back at the field. The score has been tied at two and two for well over half an hour. Matt’s playing forward, and even without the big number 3 on his jersey, I’d be able to spot him by the way his dark hair bounces around his head, just like Dad’s. They’re both really fast runners. Dad’s in coach mode — charging along the edge of the field, gesturing madly, his whistle clamped tightly between his lips. He looks like a lunatic.
The players zigzag back and forth down the field. I try to guess which of the kids on the Orange team is Travis’s sibling. I bet it’s that
confident blonde girl who’s always on top of the ball — she looks like she’s from the same lucky gene pool. Travis isn’t watching her much, though, since Megan keeps turning his face toward hers to kiss him. It’s starting to make me a little bit nauseous.
You’re dating the hot boy, okay, we all get it.
Suddenly, there’s a tremendous roar all around me. Someone must have scored. I look down at the goal, where a group of green jerseys is mobbing — could it be? — my kid brother. Matt just scored the winning goal, and I missed it because I was looking at Megan Keith. Does that stink, or what?
Stricken with guilt, I stand up and yell with the rest of the soccer moms as the game’s final seconds tick off. They won! The team swings Matt up onto their shoulders, yelling, “Sil-va! Sil-va!”
As I join in the chant, pumping my fist for my brother, I find myself wondering what Matt will be like when he’s my age. He’s athletic and confident already. Might he grow up to be someone like Travis? That’s a strange thought. Imagine if a Silva was actually … popular.
Dad rushes into the crowd, raising his hand to high-five his son. I’ve never seen him look so proud of anyone, and it gives me a pang. Will I ever get that kind of a spotlight from him? Or from anyone else?
Not tonight, that’s for sure. After the game, we are off to my uncle Paulo’s tavern in Gloucester. I cast a glance back at Megan and Travis as we’re leaving the field. They’re standing close together, Megan’s hands tucked into the back pockets of his jeans. They don’t see me.
I’m so consumed with thoughts of them, not to mention lingering, haunted feelings about Great-aunt Gail, that Dad driving us over the bridge to Gloucester doesn’t freak me out nearly as much as it used to. Maybe it’s also because I’ve made the much longer crossing to Salem.
Paulo is Dad’s older brother, a boisterous bear of a man who spent half his life deep-sea fishing. He then passed his charter boat on to his sons — my cousins — and took over the Anchorman Tavern, a block from the wharf. Paulo loves to eat, and he added barbecued ribs, homemade lasagna, and sausage-and-kale soup to the burgers and fries on the bar menu. His wife, Rosie, insisted on draping the scarred wooden tables with red checkered tablecloths, putting a candle on each one “to make it nice.” It’s a favorite hangout for fishing crews, including my cousins Mikey, Roberto, and Bruce, and the testosterone level is through the roof.
Story of my life. You might think that someone who’d grown up around so many men and boys would be more at home with guys. That she wouldn’t, for instance, clam up at the mere sight of Travis. But you would be wrong. I’m an outsider in my own family.
Mikey and Roberto are at the Anchorman tonight — Bruce is crewing a swordfish boat somewhere off the Outer Banks — and they make a big fuss over Matt’s winning goal. “Next stop, World Cup!” says Mikey, raising a toast. All the guys in the family join in with a baritone cheer, and Roberto claps Matt on the back.
It’s at moments like this that I feel like an alien life-form. It doesn’t help that they’re all dark and sturdy, like Matt and Dad, and I’m tall and pale as a wax bean. When we were all little, my boy cousins called me The Brainiac, a hard name to live down at family Thanksgivings. “It’s a compliment,” Mom used to say as I wailed, but even at seven, I didn’t believe her. It was code for don’t-let-heron-your-touch-football-team-ever. Add that to can’t swim, and you have a recipe for lifetime geekhood. It’s no fun to be the weird sister.
My cousin Roberto is telling Dad about the new van he’s buying and what kind of options it comes with. I pick at my fried calamari, which I have to admit is delicious. All of a sudden, Dad’s face lights up, and he rises to greet an auburn-haired woman who’s just come in. There’s something about the way he moves toward her, sliding his hand to the small of her back as he gives her a welcoming hug, that makes all my instincts go into overdrive. Who is this? Why haven’t I met her before?
“I’m so glad you made it,” Dad says to her.
“So am I,” she replies, breathless. “We had a big conference group, and everything ran late…. Are these your kids?”
Dad nods. “Matt put his team into the finals today. He kicked the winning goal.”
“You did?” The woman beams at Matt. “That’s totally awesome!”
I bristle. I’m sorry, she’s too old to use the word “awesome.” Or to wear lipstick that shiny. I can feel an edge of dislike creeping into place, and remind myself there are worse faults than trying too hard. Don’t be so judgmental, I tell myself, judging.
“And you must be Abby,” she says, turning to me with a smile. Her teeth are so white they look painted. “Joe’s told me so much about you.”
He has? Somehow I doubt that.
And he’s told me nothing at all about you, I think as I plaster on an attempt at a smile.
“This is Danielle,” Dad says, his eyes shining. “She works at the Visitors Center.” The look on his face can only mean one thing: new girlfriend. Smooth move, asking her to meet us at a family event so it won’t be too awkward. I wonder if Danielle was the topic he was about to mention to me yesterday morning — but then backed down.
I look at Danielle, with her navy blue blazer, pearl earrings, and hair that looks redder than nature intended. It’s easy to picture her passing out tourist brochures to convention groups. Does she have any clue she’s the latest recruit in a long line of women who can’t hold a candle to Mom?
“How did you meet each other?” I ask in as friendly a tone as I can.
“At the shop,” says Dad.
“Joe fixed my hard drive,” says Danielle, sliding onto the banquette beside him. “I get the feeling that he can fix just about anything.” She pats Dad’s hand possessively, flashing a flirtatious smile. Just like that, my dislike of her clicks into place.
Paulo comes by our table, bringing Danielle a glass of sangria and pumping her hand like he’s met her before. So have my cousins, it seems. Did everyone know about this except me?
My appetite’s gone. I push my calamari plate over to Matt, who’s been eyeing it greedily.
“You’re not gonna finish that? Cool!” he says, helping himself to a fistful and washing it down with ice water; he’s already finished two root beers.
I stare at the candle in its amber jar. The music in here seems too loud. The bass thumping out of the jukebox is competing with boisterous bar conversation, and I’m getting one of my headaches. I lift my forefinger and thumb to the bridge of my nose, pinching the pressure points hard, but it doesn’t help. Neither does closing my eyes.
When I open them, Danielle’s shrugging out of her blazer. Her blouse is some kind of faux silk, with a ruffled neckline and billowy sleeves that remind me of a sailboat yawing in wind. As her arm sweeps across to clink glasses with Dad, I have an unbidden vision of that puffy sleeve bursting into flames.
A split second later, it does.
Danielle shrieks. Matt gapes as Dad upends his water glass, ice cubes and all, dousing the flames and then smothering them with his coach jacket, just to be sure. “Are you okay?” he breathes. “Did you get burned?”
Danielle shakes her head, lifting her charred, dripping sleeve. “You were like lightning,” she marvels, staring at him.
I’m staring, too, but not at the mess on the table or even at Dad’s slightly soggy new girlfriend. Like lightning. Her words echo inside my brain, backed by the same heart-pounding, adrenaline drumbeat I felt when that red traffic cone moved yesterday morning.
Did I make that happen?
FIVE OR SIX OF MY CLASSMATES PRESENT their family trees before Ms. Baptiste calls on me. Makayla Graf turns out to have had an Austrian count in her family tree, and who knew that Kate Reeder’s grandfather, Itzak Rabinowitz, got his surname Americanized by an immigration official at Ellis Island? But I think my family tree gets the prize.
I’m usually a nervous wreck when I have to stand up in front of the whole class, but this time my excitement outweighs my anxiety. My PowerPoint looks
pretty cool, with differently colored Portuguese and Puritan branches coming together with my parents’ marriage. I start with the seafaring Silva clan, and then skim down my mother’s long roots. When I get to the part about Sarah and Dorcas Good, Ms. Baptiste sits forward.
“Now that’s living history,” she says to the class, standing up from her desk and joining me at the front of the room. “And it happened right here. This is exactly what I was talking about.”
“Does that mean Abby’s a witch?” Samson Hobby calls out. I feel my insides freeze as I think about Danielle’s sleeve catching fire last night. About everything that happened over the very strange weekend.
Several kids laugh, but Ms. Baptiste doesn’t.
“Suppose someone said so,” she says, glancing around. “Would that make it true?”
I can feel myself getting uncomfortable, shifting from one foot to the other. This is all hitting a little too close to home.
“Of course not,” says Kate. “It would just be a rumor.”
“Suppose everyone said it, again and again,” Ms. Baptiste presses. “Do you think you might start to believe all those rumors?” Kate shakes her head, but some other kids don’t look so sure. “Can you think of a parallel situation?” our teacher asks.
“Yeah. Ipswich High School,” says Samson, and I know what he means. When a girl like Megan Keith says something snarky about someone else — so-and-so getting a nose job, so-and-so breaking up — it’s all over the school in no time.
Everyone laughs, but Kate raises her hand again. “Internet flaming. When someone posts something that’s not even real, but the rumor goes viral and everybody starts thinking that it must be the truth. Kind of like what happened in Salem.”
“Exactly,” says Ms. Baptiste. “And when everybody starts thinking that something is true, we get what?”
“More rumors,” someone says. “Bullying,” says someone else.
Ms. Baptiste writes those two words on the board. “Anything else?”