I hate you! she dropped the knife. I really, really hate you! She took a deep breath. I’m going to Beth’s.
Oh, he said, the letter drooping in his hand. Are you going to be home for dinner? I can make lasagna?
She slammed the door.
* * *
There had always been a bit of the illogical in Solanum. He understood her need to push against his authority, and to have one’s blood tempered by whimsy, even the dark kind. In an art that required sacrifice, things often needed to be done on feeling.
The Alchemist thought perhaps he had damned his daughter when he named her. He had thought it amusing, once, to name her after nightshade. A small joke, but then the girl had bloomed deadly, and his lovely wife Sarah had dried up like a sun-soaked prune when baby Solanum splashed out.
Sarah would have been the good parent. It was she who dreamed each night their daughter would resemble a swan. He thought it was because he always compared Sarah’s neck to the delicate bird. And he had wanted Solanum to look like that, too, because looking at two visions of his wife would have been better than one. That’s simple numbers. But now there was only one, and her neck was nothing like a swan. It resembled a hippopotamus. It wasn’t a bad thing. They were powerful animals, but when he’d told Solanum that she’d started crying and refused to speak to him for days.
He pulled out a journal with her name along the edge in black capitals.
Hypothesis, he wrote. Solanum is insane.
Proof:
Dilated eyes, heavier than normal breathing. Obsession with screeching Britney woman getting worse. Refuses to eat dinner. Crackers and bread are missing in the morning. Displays perpetual signs of anger.
He underlined anger.
Possible reasons:
Insufficient vitamins and minerals? Imbalance of the four colors?
In alchemy, the four colors needed to be in harmony for the magic to work. All four were in all living things, but most had more of one than the others. The foundation of the body was the putrefactio, the black, that which is stagnant. All alchemy began with death. His current work, bringing Sarah back to him, started with her ashes.
What followed was the albedo, white, something to burn out all impurity. Those were the moth eyes, or specifically, the tiny crystals in their eyes that did not reflect, but instead bent light to a sharp focal point. He still needed to find the citrinitas, the golden light, and the rubedo, the red, which unified the limited and the unlimited.
He supposed he could use Sarah’s ashes in a concoction to heal Solanum’s attitude as well, but he was wary of using too much on anything other than resurrection. And anyway, with Sarah back in their lives, Solanum would be OK.
* * *
The Alchemist ground the moth eyes down into a fine dust with the mortar and pestle. It was a long process; breaking down the body into the micro always was. Sweat dripped from his forehead into the bowl, but that was acceptable. The best alchemists always put something of themselves into their work, always of their bodies.
He heard Solanum descend into the lab, but he didn’t look up, lest he frighten her away. She took little notice of the loose moths flitting about, or the smell of their decaying innards propped up and pinned down. He turned on a heat lamp over a pile of recently dissected eyes to dry them out. Carefully, he poured the already pulverized eyes into flasks.
He fumbled with a beaker when she spoke. Solanum, he said, you know you shouldn’t disturb me when I’m working.
She frowned. I have to talk to you.
I’d like to talk with you, he said, pointing to a diagram. It had been so long since he could discuss work with her, ever since she was seven and said it wasn’t cool to pluck the feathers from dead baby birds anymore. She got that nonsense from her mother, who had also been exceptionally squeamish. He said, Did you know that the cube is the most unnatural shape?
Dad, she whined.
You’ll never find it in nature. Anywhere. Perfection is unnatural, but so powerful if achieved. He glanced at her. Do you have any idea why?
She sighed. No.
Something to strive for, perhaps?
Solanum waved her hands above her head. Dad! Dad! I got my period.
He beamed. Really? How exciting! Did you save it? You know, the first menses can be used for a very powerful rejuvenation potion. Let me grab a clean test tube and we—
I didn’t save it! She looked mortified. That’s gross.
You should have told me earlier, he said.
She stared at him like he was a curious-looking beetle, something to examine under a magnifying glass and then crush under her foot when it got too close.
It’s most effective, he continued, for you. The bleedee. It could save your life in a crisis.
He watched the muscles in her jaw clench. Fascinating. He’d have to remember to write that down in his notes when she wasn’t around.
* * *
The Alchemist disapproved of Solanum’s desire for white plastic and cloth to staunch the flow. He told her they interfered with the body as a well-oiled machine. The excess should flow out. Letting it set inside was akin to fermentation and rot. Solanum told him he was stupid and didn’t understand anything.
Sarah had only rolled her eyes at him when he told her the same thing, but she quietly snuck out of the house once a month, and later he would find the reddened tampons, wrapped in tissue, shoved to the bottom of the wastebasket.
They drove in silence. His knuckles whited over the steering wheel. She kicked her legs back and forth in nervous, arrhythmic jerks and fiddled with the radio. He wanted to listen to the local station’s special on Burmese soloists, but Solanum didn’t like culture. She twiddled the knob until she found her beloved Britney woman, screeching the same phrases over and over, nonsensically, crooning like a confused songbird. He wondered what Solanum found so appealing, but whenever she tried to explain the music, something about men and women and them all loving one another, he never really saw the appeal. He knew Sarah would have told him to keep trying, so he asked, Who is this, again?
She glared at him. It’s Britney, Dad. She’s like, really good. She’s got a whole bunch of singles.
Singles of what?
Music singles.
Oh.
She’s really beautiful, too. Solanum added.
Her voice doesn’t sound real, the Alchemist said. Do you think it’s metallic? Maybe she has too much iron in her system, or she swallowed mercury.
Solanum waved her arms. You’re missing the point, Dad. She’s so cool. She dances and wears halter tops. And her husband is super hot. She got him because she’s so thin. I’m so fat.
You’re not fat, he said, though he supposed she was a bit chubby.
Yes I am. She grabbed the fleshy pouch on her stomach and pulled.
Everyone has skin like that, he said. He rubbed at his own stomach.
Sarah had worried about getting fat when she was pregnant, and he had not understood then why it was such a concern. Your body is supposed to change, to mold into something new, he had told her.
Then you change, she had snapped.
Sarah had read fairy tales and fables throughout Solanum’s gestation. It’s funny, she said, how many children get eaten up in these. Swallowed whole. Betrayed. Lost. Even the animals can’t keep their young happy. They get rid of the ugly ones. They turn them loose until they aren’t ugly anymore. When they’re pretty they get to come back home. And everyone loves them.
My dear, he told her, those are old stories. It’s not like that. It probably wasn’t like that when they were telling them.
I know, she said, and held her hand over her swelling stomach. I know.
The Alchemist told Solanum, Remember that story about the ducking who thought he was ugly, but—
Dad, she interrupted, I’m not a bird. If you tell m
e I’m a bird, I am going to throw myself out of this car.
He wondered when she was granted the gift of exaggeration and desperately wished he could make a tincture of veritas for her, but he was out of anteater ears.
Instead, he asked, Who says you’re fat?
Everyone. People at school.
The Alchemist shrugged. Everyone says I’m crazy, but that doesn’t make it true.
When he glanced at her she was staring at him with wide, sad eyes.
* * *
They stood in front of the feminine needs aisle, a first-time event for the Alchemist. He stared up at the fluorescent lights above him, pulled out a notebook, and jotted down a few thoughts. Look at how they glow, he said. Solanum shoved a box into his hands and asked what he thought.
It was a generic, cheap brand. He grimaced at the silhouette of a woman mid-dance, her body curving so harshly it seemed she might fall over. There were large green letters on the side, promising a safe and easy fit. Comfort, guaranteed. You won’t even notice anything is there at all.
The Alchemist put it back on the shelf. Something else, he said. Although he wished Sarah was around for considerably more selfish reasons, he wished she was here to respect this ritual properly for Solanum. He had no idea what part of himself he should give up to appease her body, and its changes.
He shrugged when she asked his opinion again, and let her wander through the Tampax, Playtex, Kotex, Lil-Lets, O.B., and others. She eventually chose Playtex and Kotex, which made him suspicious that she chose them because they rhymed. Before they left he picked up several long fluorescent light tubes.
On the ride home Solanum examined the boxes like they were new toys. She even let him tap his fingers on the wheel to Gregorian chant on the way home. Success, he thought. Perhaps he could buy her tampons every day. Then again, maybe she was enchanted by rhyme. So he repeated in his head, Playtex. Kotex. Kotex. Playtex. And then, Tex Mex. He pulled into the drive through of a Taco Bell and purchased them both burritos and several tacos for Solanum, because she requested them. She ate them before they made it back to their driveway, her mood souring with each bite. By the time he shut off the engine, she was screaming at him for making her fat, and how dare he want her to be unpopular. He watched helplessly as she ran into her room and slammed the door. When Britney blasted from her room he took out his notebook and underlined insane four times.
* * *
Before Solanum there was glittering hope between them, like an umbilical cord. Sarah whistled to little Solanum because she did not know how to sing, and in bed, at night, she held the Alchemist’s hands to her belly and told him he was inside of her, both of their parts layered, like a matryoshka doll.
He rubbed oils over her belly and back to ease the pain of her expanding body. He did not tell her there was his own semen in the mixture, and she thanked him when he lifted his hands from her. That helps, she said. It smells horrible. It feels good.
Sarah’s body would not change fast enough for Solanum. She did not gain enough at first, and then she gained too much. When a certain number of months had passed, the water inside of her leaked out like a broken faucet, and her body would not dilate. Though the Alchemist wanted Sarah to give birth at home—so many things he could have done for her, so many tinctures and potions he could have made to ease the birth—she was old fashioned and wanted it to be done with men who had stethoscopes and women with soft voices and soft hands, and needles that went into her spine.
The umbilical cord came out first, and the Alchemist wanted to ask if that was him, falling out of her, but the doctors and nurses rushed him out of the room. Later, he learned they cut Solanum out.
I couldn’t feel anything, Sarah said, holding onto him, before she had seen Solanum for the first time. I was awake and I could hear her screaming, but I didn’t feel a thing.
She’s a swan-child, just like you wanted, he lied.
She wouldn’t look at him.
I could have helped you, he said. I could have made it easier. He rocked her back and forth.
You’re pulling at the stitches, she said.
* * *
There were four messages on the phone before the Alchemist played them. He often could not hear the phone in the basement, and told Sarah, who begged him to have a line installed there, that the noise made him jump.
I handle a lot of delicate creatures, he told her. They easily rip apart.
He had been working on an order of organic backache soothing balm for the young wife obsessed with breast augmentation down the block. She said his medicine was the best, and her husband was willing to pay a ludicrous amount for what essentially were a few plants and beetles he found in the garden, ground up and liquefied.
He pressed the button on the machine and looked in the fridge for some leftover lasagna to heat up for lunch.
This is Marion Thomson calling from Emerson Elementary. Solanum had an accident at school, and we think it is best that you come and pick her up for the rest of the afternoon. She’s all right, nothing serious, but we think it is best if you came and took her home for the day. She’s very upset. You can call us back at—
The rest of the messages were similar.
We’re sorry to continue calling you, but there aren’t any other contact numbers listed in Solanum’s files, and Beth Pingree’s parents are at work.
Please, she’s very upset.
He arrived at the school twenty minutes later. Solanum was in the nurse’s office, a coat he did not recognize draped over her lap. She looked up at him. Her eyes were red.
The nurse gently patted his shoulder. It’s all right. Just a little embarrassing. Happens to a lot of girls. You can give the coat back to me on Friday, Solanum.
Solanum tied the coat around her waist and slipped her hand into the Alchemist’s.
The nurse stopped him before he went out the door. I’ll be over in a week to pay for the pills, she said. It’s amazing how fast they work. My doctor said he’s never seen a liver so healthy.
In the car, Solanum said, I didn’t use the tampons. Like you said.
Oh, Solanum, he said. Your mother used them. I’m so sorry. Don’t listen to me. I’m an old fool.
Solanum put her head into her hands.
That night, he gave her a large bowl of orange sherbet and sat with her. They watched cartoons.
The coyote is a lot like you, Dad. See? He’s always making things. Solanum smiled up at him. She had big teeth, too big for her face, just like his own.
* * *
He didn’t see Solanum for days after the school incident. She came home crying on Friday and said the others called her things. Red Rover. Red Tide. Cottonless Pony. She blamed him, and he had not known what to say, so he averted his eyes as she yelled at him and cringed when she slammed doors. He made sure she had dinner on the table, even if she didn’t eat it. She was to and from school on time even if she opted to get a ride with her friend, Beth, and refused to let him pick her up. As the parent he knew he should be the one reaching out to her, except he didn’t know what to say. The only time he saw her was when she was in front of the television in the family room. She was always in shorts and a bra, a sweatband across her head and one on each wrist, jumping up and down along with some fit women on the screen. Whenever he asked what she was doing, she glared at him and said, It’s none of your business, followed by, If you must know, I’m going to look like her. She showed him a picture of a blond woman with a yellow anaconda draped across her arms, wearing brightly colored rags, her flat stomach sweaty.
He stayed in the basement.
He spread a thin coating of Sarah’s ashes on his worktable, like dust. Using tweezers he dropped some of the moth eyes onto it. They sparked and fired up into glowing balls, like St. Elmo’s fire. He watched, amazed, as they burned red and yellow. They fizzled into little black balls that broke apart wh
en he touched them.
But what to do to maintain the burn? He had never tried to do anything this complex before; it hardly compared to making truth serums and headache relief concoctions. Resurrection was a myth, practically biblical, but that did not mean it was not possible. He made notes in the notebook with Sarah’s name along the spine. He knew he was close; he could feel it trembling in his veins.
Sometimes he wished he could let Sarah be, yet every moment around Solanum was slow torture. She looked so much like Sarah. They had the same gold hair, the same eyes and fingernails. It was getting to where he almost could not remember what differentiated Sarah from Solanum. Was the smile he loved each morning the memory of the mother, or the slack-jawed joy of the daughter as she listened to that Britney woman? He did not recall how Sarah brushed her hair, but he remembered brushing baby Solanum’s pale strands into gleaming gold.
He wondered if it was wrong to sometimes desire a dead wife over a daughter, and what from himself he would have to give to have them both at the same time.
* * *
Sarah was fanatical in the home after Solanum was born. He almost did not recognize her. She barely let Solanum out of her sight, and her whistling became shrieking jerks that would wake him in the night. He’d follow her to Solanum’s room and see Sarah hovering over the crib, her lips shaped like a steel O.
I can make something for you, he told her, to help you sleep.
I just want to watch her, she said.
While Sarah bared her breast to Solanum and hiccupped at every drop spilled from her, the Alchemist descended into the basement and plucked the wings from gnats and the eyes from newts. He boiled them and spit into the mixture and used egg whites to make it taste better and sugar cane to sweeten it. He gave it to Sarah and she drank all of it in one gulp.
Sarah slept, and he held Solanum for the first time. The baby was not a bird at all, but a scrunched up prune.
When Sarah awoke she screamed. Where is my little swan? Where is she?
The Alchemist stood between Sarah and the crib. She’s sleeping. She’ll be OK.
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