The Last Monster

by Ginger Garrett

  Alexis wasn’t motivated by food or looks or even popularity. She lived more in her head, which I thought was cool, even if she said she wanted to live more from her heart. She sighed that afternoon when we first talked about her sister, and then put her head on my shoulder. “I just want to be able to run and eat and live, without feeling like everything I do depresses someone else. I’m tired of feeling like I only remind my sister of everything she’ll never be.”

  Our conversations scared me at those moments, like we were testing a patch of ice, unsure how strong it was. And by the start of seventh grade, when we had said pretty much everything we had ever wanted to say to a best friend, there were little invisible cracks all around us. There was nowhere to hide. I knew she saw them, because she hesitated before we talked about the deep stuff. I hesitated too, not wanting to go forward until I knew for sure what those cracks meant, because cracks can mean different things. Like, before a baby chick is born, a crack appears in the egg, and that’s a good thing. But before glass shatters, a crack runs across it. So which was it? Had we destroyed our friendship by sharing too much, or was something beautiful about to be born?

  When school started, her sister came home and I started to shy away a little. I wanted to give Alexis space to spend time with her family, and we were both so busy with homework and running that having some distance between us felt inevitable. I began to move a little too fast between classes, not sure of the right things to say. I was trying to make it easy on Alexis, to give her plenty of room to heal and be certain, so she would know that being best friends had been her choice. That I was here for her when she was ready to catch up, but I wasn’t a burden.

  Turns out the tumor caught up to me before she did.

  So how could we be friends now? I couldn’t run with her, and I didn’t want to hold her back from the only thing that made her happy. What if she stopped running to hang out with me and she started to hate me for forcing her to make that choice? Maybe she didn’t want to be around another person who was sick. What if I was that last straw people talk about, and she stopped fighting this plague of perfection that had already claimed her sister? If she had to choose between running and me, I wanted her to choose what made her happy.

  The tumor had been in my leg, but it affected everyone. I saw what it was doing to my mom. Cancer didn’t make victims; it took hostages. So I decided. It couldn’t have Alexis.

  She had to be free, because I wasn’t.

  Tuesday, February 25

  I hit the snooze button and snuggled deeper into my warm bed. Downstairs, the dryer beeped softly three times as the furnace hummed its one long, low note. I loved waking up alone, listening to the sounds of our home, without strangers with coffee breath standing over me reading a chart or adjusting a tube.

  I heard Mom in the kitchen. She fixed breakfast only on school days, like a consolation prize. The microwave door slammed closed, and she turned up the volume on the television’s traffic report.

  I swung my leg off the side of the bed and leaned forward to grab the nightstand. Grunting, I hoisted myself up and hopped over to part the curtains, inspecting the neighborhood. Our house was just two doors down from the elementary school bus stop, and the kids got picked up super early. Caitlyn, a kindergartner with long blond pigtails, waved furiously up at me and lost her balance, tipping over backward. Her backpack was larger than her body, making her look like a turtle in its shell. I waved back as she stood and then ran to the bus stop. We’d been friends ever since I had first seen her trying to teach her cat, Newman, to walk on a leash. Caitlyn was an optimist.

  It was time to get my prosthesis on, and that took forever. I groaned just thinking about it.

  The light from the hallway made the cracks around my bedroom door glow and cast an outline of my head on the window. I had a pencil-thin neck and a big round head with short, stiff bristles of new hair. My shadow looked like the outline of a toilet scrubber. My eyes followed the shadow down to the pajama pant leg hanging limp below my left hip, like a balloon with no air, the kind you find behind your dresser six months after the party. Shadows could lie and distort what was real, but this one was all true. My body was strange and frightening, even to me. Especially to me.

  I grabbed a bandana for my head, watching my outline move with me.

  Mom knocked before she swung my door open. “You’re still not dressed?” she gasped.

  I adjusted the knot at the back of the bandana without turning around. She always wanted to check the progress of my hair growth, but I wouldn’t let her. If you’ve ever heard of shocking a pool with chlorine, that’s sort of like what the drugs did to my body. My hair had thinned and fallen out in wispy handfuls, until a nurse helped me shave what was left one night when Mom went downstairs to the hospital cafeteria for a soda. I thought it would be easier for us both that way.

  Mom got really upset when she came back. I didn’t know shaving my head was something we were supposed to do together, like shopping for a dress or getting a manicure. Even now, it’s hard to explain why I did it that way, except that I wanted to face my new reality, and it wasn’t entirely about my hair.

  When a brief surge of courage hit—which may have actually been a fresh dose of morphine, I can’t be sure—I decided to accept the inevitable and go bald. Whether that was an example of optimism or fatalism would be a great subject for a Language Arts essay. Either way, I knew my hair wasn’t my best feature.

  So why not get it over with?

  Now my once-brown hair was growing back as ghost-white bristles. If you think something can’t get any worse, you don’t have all the facts.

  “I don’t feel so good,” I said, not turning around.

  Mom ignored me and reached for the new leg. She carefully set it next to me on the bed, handling it like fine china. I shuddered when I thought about how much it cost.

  The price wasn’t just money; it was Mom’s dream of going to night school to finish her degree. We had serious debt now, and she couldn’t afford the classes. My dad had left before I was born and didn’t pay child support, so we didn’t have any help with the medical bills that insurance wouldn’t cover. Drive-throughs, department stores, and cancer centers: they all take Visa and MasterCard. But we weren’t entirely on our own; her coworkers loved her. They had taken up a collection and bought me some gift cards when I was in the hospital. I got to pick out some new clothes and a soft blue chenille bedspread that I adored.

  Mom lightly ran her fingers over different outfits in my closet. “Well, this one will draw the eye up,” she said, holding a tunic out to me. I held my nose, pretending I was trying not to retch. Mom bit her lip and turned back around.

  Mom spied another outfit to show me, and slid the clothes down the bar to get it. In the far corner, on the floor, sat the pillowcase from the girl at the hospital. It was tucked inside a bigger plastic bag with the hospital’s logo on the side. Mom didn’t even notice it.

  I blinked in confusion. That pillowcase shouldn’t be here; it wasn’t mine. I didn’t want it.

  We hadn’t talked much about the incident at the hospital. It made Mom uneasy. The news made a brief mention of a girl brought into the emergency room with wounds from a suspected animal attack. Police were investigating, but the girl had used a fake name and they didn’t have any leads. They didn’t even know what had attacked her. The nurse had begun to clean the wounds and hook up an IV, but when she stepped out of the room for a moment, the girl slipped off the gurney and ran. It was all very peculiar.

  When I had revived from passing out, my prosthesis, the carrying case, and the paperwork had already been loaded into the car by hospital staff. The pillowcase had been with me in the room, so someone must have assumed it was mine and packed it. Mom never realized it wasn’t part of my personal stuff.

  I sucked the inside of my cheek, thinking. I doubted the news story. If a dangerous animal really was on the loose, someone would know. A homeless man had reported seeing a freakishly large dog
that night, but no one else had seen it. The Atlanta area had quite a few Bigfoot sightings every year, plus a persistent rumor of a pterodactyl-like bird hiding in the woodlands, so police didn’t usually investigate reports of bizarre animals.

  Mom was holding up a long sweater and cargo pants, wiggling her eyebrows at me.

  “Yeah, whatever,” I said, my chest tight. I cleared my throat.

  “You loved it when you saw it online,” Mom said.

  “I was on drugs,” I reminded her. I forced myself to breathe and look right at her, not at the pillowcase. Why had that girl shoved it at me like she wanted to get away from it? I tried to remember what she had said, something about me being brave and kind and…chosen.

  The girl had been completely crazy. Crazy enough to—

  “Put it on,” Mom said, laying the outfit on the bed beside me. “And hurry up. I’ve got your favorite breakfast ready.”

  “I didn’t know McDonald’s delivered,” I murmured.

  Mom paused at the door and gave me a bright smile. “See? We are back to normal.” Her voice cracked a tiny bit on the word “normal.”

  I stared at the pillowcase and then, without moving, examined the entire floor of my closet for any sign that the girl was there too. I braced myself to see tiny blood-splattered feet. A pair of pants had fallen off the hanger when Mom had shuffled my closet around, but she hadn’t noticed. I stared at the lump on the floor, expecting it to move.

  It didn’t.

  Mom must have been waiting for me to reply, because I heard her finally shut the door softly. I hadn’t meant to be rude. I’d make up for it later.

  Besides, before last year, she never shut my door. I had complained about that all the time. But now she shut it, and I knew why. It was hard to see that some things would never be like they were. We had each lost our hopes for the future, and neither of us knew where to find new ones.

  I didn’t have my prosthesis on yet, so no matter what happened next, I wouldn’t be able to run away. I slid my body to the floor, sitting on my butt, preparing myself to scoot closer to the closet to inspect the pile of clothes. I’d be able to nudge the pile with my leg, and if it moved, I’d scream.

  Pushing both palms flat against the carpet, I scooted a few inches, eyes focused on the lumpy pile in the right corner.

  In the left corner, the pillowcase shifted.

  I stopped, my hands frozen in midair.

  It sat in the center of the closet floor now, not the corner. It had to be a trick of the morning light moving across my carpet. Or maybe Mom had moved it and I hadn’t seen her. The book inside was clearly visible.

  Slowly, I reached for my prosthesis, grateful to feel how heavy it was. I could swing it like a club if I had to.

  I pretended to be wiping imaginary lint from the hollowed cup area of the leg, but from the corner of my eye, I continued to spy on the book. I had the strangest feeling it was spying on me too.

  “Get moving up there!” Mom yelled.

  Adrenaline shocked me at the sound of her voice, and I jabbed my prosthesis into the pile of clothes.

  Nothing was there.

  The book didn’t move either.

  I was an idiot.

  Pulling the leg back, I used it to whack the closet door. The door slammed shut, sending a burst of air back at me. It had a strange but familiar smell, like the air after a storm. But this storm had brought something with it. It smelled like an animal. And leather. And old churches where candles burned all night.

  The latch on the closet door popped and the door swung open.

  Slowly.

  The book was out of the pillowcase, against the door. As the door opened farther, the book fell forward, its cover facing me.

  I climbed onto the bed, my heart hammering in my ears. This book was moving itself, which was impossible.

  Books were lifeless.

  The thick, cracked cover bore embossed swirls and something written in a strange language—the title, probably. The book was about a foot wide, and thick like two dictionaries stacked together. Deep cracks ran up and down the spine. There were two badly scratched brass buckles across the sides, and leather belt straps with black grimy edges ran through them.

  A shiver shot down my back and into my belly.

  Mom pounded on my bedroom door and I flung my hand over my mouth to keep from screaming. “Let’s go!” she called. I heard her footsteps as she kept moving down the hall.

  “Coming!” I yelled. I didn’t stir.

  Outside my window, tiny snowflakes began to drift down. I sensed that the earth had suddenly tipped, and its axis, so deep and hidden from all our eyes, was shifting. It rarely snowed in Atlanta, and we had already survived two bad winter storms. Snow in late February, even a light dusting like this, was rare. It made me feel like anything was possible, and I wasn’t sure that was good.

  I moved to one side of the bed and quickly put on my prosthesis and then my clothes, my eyes never leaving the book. It didn’t move again.

  My bedroom felt warmer, like I wasn’t alone. Standing up, I took a deep breath, kicked the book back into the closet, and shut the door, fast.

  Something nagged at me, like a name you can’t remember. Maybe it wasn’t a storm that had crept up on us on the way to the hospital.

  Maybe it was something much, much bigger.

  My stomach still churned like a rock tumbler every time I opened the front doors to the school. I was glad I hadn’t eaten much this morning. Forcing my shoulders back, I made myself take a deep breath. If I took small steps, my gait was perfect. The new prosthesis felt smooth. Barnes was brilliant.

  I maneuvered close to the lockers, my left shoulder grazing the metal. This way it was less likely that anyone would run into me and knock me down. It was too awkward trying to get back up, and then everyone went nuts with the apologies. But being careful meant being slow, and I hated being slow.

  In the wild, a predator would already have me by the throat.

  I didn’t want to think about that right now. I didn’t want to think at all, especially about what I was going to do with a possessed book in my room. I would have thrown it in the trash, except I was afraid to even touch it.

  Mr. Reeves stood in the doorway to his office. Everyone on staff knew about my treatment schedule, including the new leg. He caught my eye and grinned, giving me a thumbs-up. I smiled politely, resisting the urge to roll my eyes.

  The point of a prosthesis is to lead a normal life. Normal people don’t get a thumbs-up for having all four limbs, do they? And having a prosthesis didn’t automatically make me brave or a hero either. Heroes choose their paths. I hadn’t chosen anything, not even where to put that stupid freckle.

  I passed the counselor’s office and noticed that the lights were on. Mr. Reeves had informed my mom and me that our counselor had retired this past Christmas because his wife was ill, so I was surprised that anyone was in there. Maybe they had hired someone over the winter break. A woman with long blond hair swept into a messy chignon sat at the desk. I loved that hairstyle. I had tried a chignon once, back when I had hair, but the only thing I got right was the messy part.

  “Sofia,” she called. Her voice was low and raspy, like a movie star’s.

  I stopped and ducked my head in. “Uh, yes?”

  She smiled and stood, extending her hand to me. I entered, adjusted my backpack, and shook her hand. It was ice cold.

  “Do you have a minute?”

  “Uh…” I glanced down the hall.

  “I’m sure your teachers won’t mind if you’re a little late.” She didn’t ask if I minded.

  I shrugged and sat in the empty chair she gestured to. She hadn’t put anything in her office yet: no posters or framed photos, not even a pencil cup on her desk. The office was lifeless. I shivered; it was freezing cold in here.

  “Your backpack looks heavy,” she said, a smile spreading again across her face.

  “It is,” I replied. “Lost of books.”

&nb
sp; She leaned forward. “And what are you reading, Sofia?” She placed her elbows on the desk and wove her long fingers together, making a steeple. Her nails were clipped short and painted black. She rested her chin on her hands as she stared at me. I shifted in the chair, suddenly uncomfortable. Her eyes were light gray, almost blue, like a thin frost covered the irises. I swallowed nervously.

  “Are you reading anything interesting?”

  The bell rang and I jumped without meaning to. She stared but didn’t say anything else. Something about this conversation didn’t feel right.

  “I really should get to class,” I said, and stood.

  “They say only two things can change the course of your life,” she said. “The books you read and the people you meet. Don’t throw your life away, Sofia. Not for a book. And not for the fool who wrote it.”

  I stepped back into the hallway and noise flooded my ears. Kids brushed past me from all directions and I was swept back into the morning hallway rush, revived by the heat of all the bodies in motion.

  When I glanced back, the office was dark and completely empty.

  I got to homeroom with Ms. Forester. Her son was a marine serving overseas. She had raised a soldier, so she frowned on us acting like weenies. Sitting in my chair, I stuck my hands under my thighs until they stopped shaking. A few minutes later, I walked up to her desk while everyone was doing their work.

  “Do we have a new counselor?” I asked.

  Ms. Forester glanced up from grading papers. “Not yet.” She looked back down at her papers, then paused, like she realized who was asking. “Do you need to talk to someone? I can ask Mr. Reeves about finding someone for you.”