Ghostgirl ~ JB Salsbury

by JB Salsbury

  The priest talks about God’s grace and forgiveness, but that’s about all I’ve picked up on, as I’m preoccupied with Mercy, who’s sitting so close that the entire length of her sweatshirt-covered left arm is pressed to my right.

  I was disappointed when she walked out of her room ready to go, wearing the same long black skirt and sweatshirt she wore the first time we went to church. I’d hoped she’d put on the blue T-shirt dress but chalked it up to her wanting to wear something a little more modest to cover her pale skin and avoid people’s stares.

  I keep my eyes forward but watch out of my peripheral vision as the clear blue of her eyes dances back and forth over the image above us.

  “Are they happy?” Her question is the softest whisper.

  I find myself leaning closer. “Who?”

  Her eyes stay fixed to the ceiling, eyelids and lashes flickering almost manically from one winged guardian to the next. I follow her gaze and study their faces. Their arms are outstretched, bodies draped in pale-blue togalike gowns, and their bodies in all forms of flight, with billowing wings at their backs. Then I focus on their faces, and not a single one is smiling. But Mercy can’t see them, and because of an unreasonable urge to protect her, I lie.

  “Yes.” I tilt my head to see her expression. “They’re happy.”

  My answer seems to satisfy her, and she drops her chin. I wait for the lightning bolt that’s sure to strike me dead for lying in church and not feeling even the slightest bit guilty about it.

  She looks around the sanctuary at the depictions of the Stations of the Cross, and I’m again grateful for her poor eyesight. Maybe being here isn’t good for her, and breaking free of these kinds of ties to her past would be better for her. Does sitting in this room around all these religious symbols bring her back to the time when her life wasn’t her own? What I wouldn’t do to be able to dip into her head and see what she’s thinking.

  The front row rises for Communion, and row by row, people make their way down the middle aisle. I wait to see what Mercy will do, and since she makes no move to get into line, I remain seated beside her.

  “No Communion?”

  “I’m not sure what that is.”

  Raised around religious symbols and no clue what Communion is? I lean close and whisper, “You’ve never been to Confession?”

  She turns and peers out from the shadow of her sweatshirt hood. “What is that?”

  “It’s when you go to a priest, and in privacy, you confess all the things you’ve done wrong.”

  She shakes her head. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  I lift a brow. “Never?”

  Her expression darkens, and she frowns. “Once. But I’ve paid my penance for that.”

  A sick feeling twists in my gut. “How?”

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s what I deserved.”

  A woman shushes us, so we fall silent and wait for Mass to end. When everyone leaves, Mercy asks if we can stay and have a look around. I agree. We don’t have anything better to do.

  We move closer to the front of the church, and I hang in a pew while she wanders around to get a closer look at the images on the walls.

  “Can I help you?” A priest, not the one from today’s service, comes from somewhere behind the altar, wearing the traditional black on black.

  “No. We’re good. Just wanted a little time to look around.” I don’t take my eyes off Mercy, who doesn’t even look up at either me or the priest.

  He spots her studying a painting of Mary as she’s holding the bloodied body of her son, Jesus. The priest crosses to her, and I notice the second he gets a good look at her face.

  His feet freeze on the spot, and his eyes widen before blinking rapidly. “Oh, hi there.”

  “Hello.” Mercy looks at me as if she’s searching for my permission, and a part of me loves when she does that.

  I nod, and she goes back to looking at the painting of the thirteenth station.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” the priest asks. “Oh Mary, mother of divine grace.”

  “Yes” is all she says, and a bit of pride swells in my chest that she gives most people one-word responses but speaks openly to me.

  “Do you seek prayer?” the priest asks her, and I wonder if that’s just a polite way to ask, Is there something you need from me, or can I go grab lunch now?

  She looks at him, and his muscles jump quickly as he tries hard not to overreact to her ghostly appearance, not to mention her eerie resemblance to the Holy Mother when she’s shrouded in the hoodie. “No,” she says. “Do you?”

  He chuckles, though I know Mercy well enough to know she doesn’t make jokes. “There isn’t a soul on earth that couldn’t benefit from a little prayer.”

  Her expression turns contemplative, and I sit up, prepared to intervene, but she reaches out and touches the man’s face. He gasps at the contact, and I stand and move toward them. I don’t know what Mercy is doing, but though whatever it is might have been acceptable where she came from, it’s not okay in polite society. You don’t just reach out and touch people.

  “Mercy,” I say.

  Her eyes come to mine, and she blinks out of some kind of fog before dropping her hand to her side.

  “Sorry about that,” I say to the priest as he shuffles away, chuckling uncomfortably. “She’s not from around here.”

  “It’s all right.” He makes eye contact then turns away. “Take your time looking around. See you next weekend.”

  When I turn to look at Mercy, she’s back to staring at the painting.

  “Everything okay?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  I want to shake her to get more words out of her, but instead I turn and lean against the wall next to the image she’s fixated on. “What happened? Why’d you touch him?”

  “I was trying to see what he needed.”

  “Why not just ask?”

  “Because humanity isn’t often aware of what they need.” Her hooded head turns toward me. “But sometimes I can see it.”

  “How?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know.”

  Okay. “You ready to go?”

  Rather than answering, she simply turns and heads toward the doors in the back, with me following behind her. Once back in the car, I turn down the radio.

  “So tell me, did you see what the priest needed?”

  She pulls her hood down, and I’m drawn to the delicate form of her downy jawline. “He needed to know what I am.”

  “So why not tell him?”

  She fixes those crystal ice-colored eyes on me. “Because just like everyone else, he won’t believe me.”

  I can’t argue that.

  Seven years ago

  SOMETHING IS WRONG with me.

  I feel as if I’m being eaten from the inside by some unseen and violent virus. A fire burns beneath my skin, not bright enough to hurt but only enough to make me want to run away from it. I can’t escape, though. Just like my room, the walls of my corporeal form hold me captive, keeping me from stretching my wings and taking flight.

  “Angel, eat.” Señora bangs her fist on the table, rattling the fork in my bowl. Her thick, dark hair is pulled back to expose her hard eyes.

  “I’m not hungry.” I force the words from my lips, but some of them get stuck behind my teeth because my jaw is locked tight.

  Señora makes a noise as she moves behind me, like a breath but harder. I’m pushing her, disobeying, but I can’t help it. I feel stuck. Caged.

  “You refused breakfast, and now you refuse your lunch.” The sound of snapping bed sheets makes my pulse quicken even though her voice seems softer than before. “What are you hoping to accomplish?”

  “I want to leave.”

  Those four words hang in the air like sin and death and all the power of hell as she goes quiet behind me. My shoulders tense as I prepare for . . . something. Punishment maybe? Señora has never hurt me, but the threat is always there, always hovering like a thick, dark fog, and I
fear I may have gone too far this time.

  The sting of her anger never comes.

  Instead, she whispers sadly, “You cannot leave.”

  The fire behind my ribs flares and licks at my throat, pushing vile words to my lips. I close my eyes. My fists tremble in my lap. I’m suffocating, surrounded by the same four walls with only a hint of light shining in over the tall brick barrier outside my window.

  I used to think the wall reached to the heavens, but now I know it’s just a divider, no different from the wall of Jericho that Señora had me read about in her Bible, and this wall keeps me prisoner. But in Jericho, the wall came down. It’s possible mine could do the same.

  The heat from the fire in my chest has me panting for air.

  My breath hisses through my teeth, and my eyes burn because my eyelids are peeled back. I can no longer contain the fury that rages just below the surface.

  “I want . . . to leave!” I hook my hands under the table and toss it as I stand and whirl around on Señora.

  She starts, but only for a second before her expression is etched with something sadder than fear. “You know you can’t leave—”

  “Why not!” I rip at the fabric of my dress, the only thing I’ve ever been permitted to wear even though Señora dresses differently. My dress is long and soft but now feels like spiked shackles against my skin. Hot tears drip from my eyes, which is strange because I am not sad. I am out of control.

  “Angel, please . . . calm down.” She reaches for me.

  I swat her arm away. She gasps at the contact, and I wonder if it’s because I hurt her or because she’s shocked I would touch her in anger. She pulls out the small black device in her pocket and hits a few buttons before putting it back.

  Papa will be here soon. I don’t care.

  Sweat breaks out across my skin as I pace the walls of my room. I want to drop to all fours and crawl, to claw at the floor and dig, to growl and bark and hiss like the animal that swells from inside me.

  A sliver of light shines through my window and warms my skin. I stop, and my pulse slows as the heat of even this tiny fraction of sun soothes my rage.

  Everything Papa and Señora have told me about the sun has been a lie.

  It won’t hurt me.

  Señora goes about straightening my mess as if I’m not crazed, on the verge of peeling out of my body. My hair is in a tight bun at my nape, and I want to rip it away and free myself from the confinement.

  What’s happening to me?

  I’m supposed to be immune to anger and malice, yet . . . that’s all I feel.

  The lock on the door clicks, and I freeze. Papa pushes in, and Señora races to his side.

  He sets his dark eyes on me, and I expect to see fire, but instead they’re blank—emotionless pools of black ink. My pulse flutters, but from unease or from the excitement of a possible conflict, I don’t know.

  “Señora,” he barks at her but keeps his eyes leveled on mine, “leave us.”

  Her eyes swing to me, and that’s the first time since all this started that I feel the first flicker of fear, for her expression communicates two things clearly: she doesn’t want to leave, and she’s sorry.

  “Señora!”

  She dips her chin and scurries out of the room.

  Papa closes and locks the door behind her. Before he’s even facing me, I back up a few steps, only stopping when my heels hit the wall.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper, wondering if he even hears me. I’m not really sorry for wanting to leave, but I’m sure I’m about to be.

  His tall, dark frame moves closer, and with nowhere else to retreat, I drop my chin to my chest and hope he’ll take mercy on me. He’s never punished me too badly before, but then again, he’s never had reason to.

  “You will stop this ridiculous talk of wanting to leave, Angel. Do you understand?” His firm tone has me locking my knees to keep from bowing at his feet.

  I want to say that I will obey, that I will no longer ask to go outside, but my rebellious heart won’t allow it. The words form, but I’m unable to push them from my mouth.

  “Answer me.”

  I lick my lips and silently roll the single word around on my tongue. Yes. Yes. Just say yes.

  I open my mouth but then shut it.

  The tips of his shiny shoes come into my view, and I peek up enough to see his arms are locked behind his back. “Tell me this is the last of it, and I will leave you be.”

  An unspoken threat lingers in his seemingly benign words.

  If I don’t say I’ll stop, then what?

  “You said . . .” I swallow what feels like an entire slice of dry bread. “The sun will destroy me.”

  “It absolutely will.”

  I shake my head and meet his gaze. Maybe he was confused and didn’t know, but now that he sees, he won’t have to keep me locked away like this.

  “It won’t. Look.” I point at the nearest window, where a small slice of light has managed to work its way inside. I wiggle my fingers in the light and smile. “Don’t you see? I can go outside.”

  He snatches my fingers from the air and pulls me so hard that I feel a pinch in my shoulder. I cry out, but he doesn’t seem to notice or care as he drags me to the far end of the room. After pulling out his keys, he unlocks what I count to be four different locks before shoving open a door.

  I cover my mouth, and tears burn my nose when I realize what he’s doing.

  He’s taking me outside.

  My hands shake, and my knees wobble as he guides me harshly through the threshold and into a small space with bricks up every side. The outside air is warm and smells funny, but I soak it in as if I’ll never get the chance again.

  “You think you know everything. Don’t believe me?” He releases me with such force that I stumble on my gown and slam into the harsh wall. “See for yourself.”

  I press my palms into the bricks, and they’re warm to the touch. Immediately, I’m aware of the temperature, and I wonder if what lies beyond the wall is the fiery depths of hell, like what I’ve seen in books.

  “Face me!”

  I do as I’m told, and Papa’s face shines with sweat, from either the heat or anger—I don’t know. He grips the front of my gown at my throat and tugs so hard that it cuts into the back of my neck. The fabric gives, and he tears it from my body. I scramble to the wall and huddle to try to hide my nakedness.

  “The sun will touch you soon, and then we’ll see who’s right.” He gathers the shredded fabric and steps away, back through the door, then slams it behind him.

  After a moment, I register the fact that I’ve received what I asked for. I’m outside, free from the walls that confined me.

  But the walls of this space are only a little better than the prison I came from. I tilt my head back and squint into the sky, which seems to go on forever. If only I could fly . . . If I could get my wings to work, I could be free of this life of servitude, secluded from everyone other than those who care for me.

  I get on my hands and knees and will my wings to extend. Grunting, I try to push them out and scream in frustration when they fail to respond to my demand.

  My skin is wet, and my mouth is dry. I claw at the walls, but they’re impenetrable. The tips of my fingers bleed, and I stare in awe at the crimson dripping down my pale hand.

  Thoughts wash in and out of my mind. I question my purpose, weighing everything I know to be true against everything I’ve been told to believe. My body grows heavy, and the sun’s light, once a small triangle in one corner, has grown to double the size.

  I lie on my side, lethargic and weak as I watch the sun slowly bleed toward me. Time passes, and I drift in and out of sleep until the heated rays are close enough to touch. With the tips of my fingers, I reach for it, and just like when I was inside, I feel warmth but no burn.

  It inches closer to cover my feet in a blanket of light as it slowly draws up my legs. I watch in awe until my hips are completely covered and the small space fills with
sunlight.

  My skin prickles in awareness of its power. I close my eyes as the heat lulls me as if I’m being wrapped in arms of light and goodness.

  But that sensation is short lived.

  What started as warmth quickly turns to a searing heat.

  I shift closer to the wall, as if it could somehow hide me from the consequence of my selfish, evil thoughts.

  I’m helpless.

  This is my punishment.

  Every spot of my exposed skin ignites in flames. I groan as the burn turns into biting pain, like being eaten alive.

  I scurry on the floor, looking for a protective shadow that isn’t there.

  “No.” I kick at the light, but it continues to brighten. “Help me!” I bang on the door, screaming for rescue. “Señora! Take mercy on me!” A sob rips from my throat. “Mercy, please! Papa, I’m sorry!”

  But no one will save me.

  I’m getting exactly what I asked for.

  Tears stream down my face, and I curl up in a ball against the wall. My arms and legs fold under me so that the sun cannot touch them.

  An inhuman sound rips from my throat, a scream born of holy regret as my back burns, and no matter what I do, I have no way to hide. I wrap my arms around my shins and tuck my face, praying my wings will extend and cover me in their shadow, that they’ll take flight and free me.

  In the end, they do nothing to save me.

  Milo

  IT’S WARM IN LA for this time of year. I had to close my single window and crank the AC to keep it cool, but I left the blinds open. I need the light to keep me from my dark thoughts.

  From Andy’s phone call this morning to Julian’s drawing and the shit Laura shared about Mercy, added to the weird experience with Mercy at church, I’m climbing the walls. The things that would’ve helped me chill out in the past aren’t an option now. I can’t smoke weed if I want any chance of adopting my brothers, and I can’t get in a fight for the same reason, so I’m stuck out here, flat on my bed, throwing a baseball against the wall. The rhythmic thud on the drywall matches the beat of Wu-Tang, which comes pounding from my stereo speakers and does little to scratch the itch.