The Night Orchid

by M. G. Hernandez

  “Tell me what you’re thinking,” I whisper.

  Her eyes snap open as she directs a pained look at me. “I can’t work with you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t know you anymore!” Her voice cracks the still night air as she backs away.

  I grab her hand to stop her from moving too far.

  “Who are you?” she continues. “Where are the glasses, the Mickey Mouse ears and the bony limbs? Your glow up intimidates me, and I don’t know how to act around you.”

  “Joy, this is part of growing up. I can’t control that. Neither of us can.” I pause and scan her. “Hate to break it to you but you’ve had a makeover, too.”

  She laughs ruefully. “This isn’t a glow up. This is me being a late bloomer.”

  “We need to adjust to each other. That’s all.” I halt to give her a chance to collect herself. When her heaving chest comes to rest, I continue. “I say we call a truce.”

  “But you hate me.”

  I sigh. “Jo, I don’t… hate you.”

  She raises an eyebrow, disbelieving me.

  “I’m angry with you for dropping me like a nasty habit and for refusing to, at least, explain to me why you shut me out.”

  She averts her eyes. “Just trust me, I had good reasons.”

  I shake my head. She broke me years ago, and now, I’m not sure who to trust.

  Then she meets my gaze. “Jules, even if we call a truce, I’ve made my decision not to work on this case.”

  I raise a brow. “Why?”

  She exhales. “I have plans to leave this place. Working on this paranormal stuff is going to land me in the psych ward. There goes my great escape, and my night terrors are back. My mom is already picking up that I haven’t been sleeping.”

  I take a step closer. “But Jo, someone died. We can’t let this go. We have to find her body, so justice can be served.”

  Her eyes flash, and she reddens. “So what? People die every day, Julian. I should know. They come haunting me every goddamn hour!”

  I huff at her outburst. “What the fuck, Jo? How can you be so callous?”

  She narrows her eyes, her chest rising and falling from her ragged breathing. “Listen, golden boy. Not everyone’s lives are as perfect as yours with your loving parents, popularity, and Ivy League colleges. I’m imprisoned under my parents’ watchful eyes and any wrongdoing, they’ll ship me to a place you wouldn’t care to be in. So fuck you and your judgements.”

  I open my mouth to explain better, but she speaks before I can say something. “It ain’t gonna happen, Julian, so sit this one out and leave me alone.”

  Then she spins around and runs back to the house.

  Chapter 30

  Josephine

  The lining of my parka clings to my skin as Aunty Helen makes a right to Violet Street. I reach for the knob to turn up the air conditioning to cool my body.

  “You’re not catching a fever, are you, sweetie?” she asks as she drives. “It’s fifty degrees out.” She places her palm on my forehead to check my temperature. “You’re a little warm…”

  “I’m not sick. It’s just humid in here.” As I unzip my jacket, I acknowledge the source of my elevated body heat. I’m nervous because for the first time since Alexa appeared to me, I will be in her domain.

  My aunt told me we were posting flyers with the Ocampos during breakfast. She saw Alexa’s mom yesterday, and she informed her they were heading to Rentown to do just that.

  When the mansion comes into view, I swallow the bitter taste of apprehension, and it burns my throat. Back home, Alexa is a specter, and she slips through walls and communicates in non-conventional ways. In busy days, I may completely forget that she exists. But here, it forces me to face her human existence and my role in keeping the truth locked in my den of self-preservation.

  “Well, here we are,” says Aunt Helen. She hops out with her usual cheeriness while I roll out of the car reminiscent of a petulant adolescent. As I trudge up the driveway, the front door shines bright red and dares me to ring the doorbell. My aunt relieves me of the pressure and presses the small button. The shuffling inside the house makes me bite my nails and scoot nearer to the massive withering plant.

  When Mrs. Ocampo arrives at the doorway, her eyes widen upon seeing us. “Josephine! Helen! How nice to see you both.”

  Aunt Helen beams and reaches out to give her infamous bear hugs. She clings to Alexa’s mom a few seconds longer, but Mrs. Ocampo doesn’t pull away. When she releases the worried parent, she keeps her hands on her shoulders. “I remembered you said you were posting flyers today. We were hoping we could help.”

  Mrs. Ocampo’s gaze softens further. “We always appreciate the support.” She ushers us inside and calls out to her husband. “Honey, Helen and Josephine are here!”

  Mr. Ocampo peeks out from the living room and walks towards me and my aunt. “Thank you for coming.” I detect a hint of weariness in his voice, but he masks it with bursts of energy as he exchanges pleasantries. “Jacinta prepared some snacks. Let’s nourish ourselves first before we leave.”

  My aunt expresses her gratitude, and we follow the couple into their living room. My eyes take in the interior as we walk. The Mediterranean entryway boasts hardwood floors, a large crystal chandelier, and a staircase with wrought-iron railings. Yellow paint covers the walls, and replicas of Roman statues line the foyer. It reminds me of an Italian villa which contradicts the Craftsman exterior. It’s grand and ostentatious, and it matched the Ocampos’ showy personality. But today, their grief eradicated that pretense. With their haggard faces and bodies humbled in jeans, shirts and sneakers, they don’t belong here anymore.

  When we enter the parlor, there were trays of delicious savory treats waiting for us. Jacinta, their housekeeper, didn’t hold back in the snacks department. To call it “snacks” is an understatement. It’s a dim sum. She laid out pork steam buns, adobo chicken wings, Lumpia and grilled beef skewers. I wipe the side of my mouth as it waters from this glorious sight.

  I sit in the loveseat and watch Mrs. Ocampo put protein and carbs on my plate. She’s serving me — such hospitality I’ve never seen from her. As I thank her, I ask, “are there others joining us this morning?”

  She hands me my food. “Only one other, dear. We’re an intimate group today. Just you, your aunt and Ian.”

  Say what?

  I hide a grimace by stuffing my face with a steam bun, but Aunty Helen reacts to the news by nudging my ribs. Man, for two people intent on avoiding each other, we’re hanging out a lot.

  “But he’s meeting us there,” Mr. Ocampo adds.

  I breathe a sigh of relief. After last night’s meetup, the lesser the interaction between us, the better.

  We continue to eat, with the Ocampos peppering me with questions. I answer them with politeness, but my mind is somewhere else. Alexa’s apparition appeared a moment ago, and I watched her leave and make a sharp turn to the right. Though her spirit no longer lingers, her scent does. And it’s strong today. The pungent aroma of citrus and gardenia attacks my nostrils, giving me a headache and making my eyes burn.

  I glance around and watch the adults converse with no reaction to this anomaly, sealing Alexa’s message. She wants me to complete a mission, and my gut tells me I need to locate her room. My discomfort leaves me no choice. I want this headache gone.

  But I won’t find it sitting here stuffing my face. As much as I’m enjoying my juicy skewered beef, I have to stop eating. That means no seconds. What a travesty.

  I set my empty plate on the table. “Wow, Jacinta outdid herself. That was delicious.” Mrs. Ocampo beams and Mr. Ocampo chuckles. “But before we leave, may I use the restroom?”

  Jacinta strolls in after being summoned by the matriarch. She instructs me to follow her into the foyer, and I frown when she takes me to the guest bathroom there. I glance up, hoping that she had taken me to the upper story, but the busy housekeeper waves me to the door. I purse my lips
as I step onto the tiled floor, wondering how I’ll make it upstairs under the watchful eye of the Ocampos’ trusted employee. Suddenly, the toilet pops and water started rising out of the rim and into to the ground. I yelp and run out while she rushes in and curses in Tagalog. When she stops the overflow, she turns to me. “I’ll take you to the one upstairs.”

  She leads me to the staircase, and I see a shadow lurking above us. Then it disappears into the corridor. I nod as I draw the obvious conclusion. Good job, Alexa.

  After Jacinta takes me to the second-floor bathroom, I lock myself in until her retreating steps fade. When the hallway remains quiet for another minute, I peek my head out of the doorway. A rustle to my left makes me turn, drawing my attention to the mist hovering outside the last door on the right. That has to be it. I gather myself and tiptoe out onto the carpet, taking great pains to decrease the creaking. As I near my destination, the cloud fades away.

  I twist the doorknob and open it. I expected the essences of citrus and gardenia to escape from the room. Instead, I detect the fresh scents of violets and strawberries, subtle, sweet and refreshing. My forehead scrunches at the surprise that what I’ve been smelling these past few days was not her perfume of choice.

  When I step inside, I pause at the doorway. This is Alexa’s world. She occupied space and breathed life into her passions here. Since her death, she defied laws of physics—moving to destinations where time doesn’t exist. But the baby blue walls, posters of Beyoncé and Bruno Mars remind me that a week ago, she was a teenager with hopes and dreams.

  Three cork boards nailed to the wall attract me, and I beeline for it. Each board documents her active lifestyle—from cheerleading to family outings to parties. A whole display highlights her and Brandon’s sweet private moments. In another section, she dedicates several spaces to Polaroids with Bianca, boasting fashionable clothes and being on top of their game.

  Suddenly, I feel sick. Bile threatens to come up my throat, and I concentrate to prevent it. Her dresser becoming a worthy aid to steady me as the unfairness of fate weakens my body. Alexa will never relive these moments captured in these photographs.

  My memory travels to Athena O’ Connor, who also died at eighteen. I hunch and stoop to the weight of my responsibility, and I wonder how long I can sustain myself living with this gift. I rub my chest to relieve the tightness and after a few steadying breaths, my body calms. Shake it off, Jo.

  I glance around and something inside me stirs. This strange bout of energy motivates me to take my phone and begin snapping photos. Then I scan the bed, furniture, and items scattered over her desk. Everything looks normal, but Alexa wants me to find something important. But what?

  The corkboard, a vault protecting secrets, stands guard, and I stare at it. Then an object drops to the ground, and I wrinkle my forehead as I retrieve it. A postcard fell from behind the board. “Hello from Montana!” it says over a backdrop of mountain ranges. I flip over the card. A handwritten note in blue ink states, “You’re going to love it here, beautiful. Kisses, B.”

  Does Brandon have connections to Montana? I shrug and drop it in my backpack. Then my ears pick up light footsteps in the hallway, and I curse when the doorknob rattles.

  Thank goodness for rich kids and walk-in closets. I run inside, shut myself in, and hide behind Alexa’s clothes. Being a shopaholic helps, too, as I easily bury my body underneath them.

  “Oh, baby… Where are you, anak?” I hear Mrs. Ocampo outside the closet door. “I miss you.”

  She sobs quietly as if controlling her emotions, and I’m embarrassed for listening to her in her private moment. I wish I could leave to give her privacy, but doing so meant getting caught by her. But her meltdown moves me in a way that it shocked me: I can still empathize. My heart tugs at hearing a mother grieve for her lost child. A salty drop landed on my lips, telling me that my walls had crumbled and that she had made me cry.

  A few seconds later, the bedroom door opens and gently closes. I listen to her fading footsteps and lean against the wall. I wipe my tears with my sleeve. Jesus, it has only been a week, and I’m already beat.

  After a deep cleansing breath, I push myself off the carpet. As I stand, my head hits the shelf, causing knickknacks to fall. I return the items on the rack and scramble out of my hiding spot before they catch me. My heart races as I run to the hallway. But the dark lobby disarmed me, and I panic from my momentary blindness.

  “What the—?” I hear someone.

  I shriek as I expected to be alone. Now, I’m caught and in trouble. “I’m so sorry. I was just—”

  “Jo?”

  That unmistakable deep voice. I glance up and see Julian.

  Chapter 31

  Josephine

  The relief of seeing Julian instead of the Ocampos brought me to do an unspeakable act. I lunge forward and fling my arms around his neck.

  He stiffens in surprise at my unexpected move, and I feel his heart beat against his chest. But his arms stay at his side as I stand planted against his body. He emits Cool Water and that delicious musky smell of testosterone, tickling and delighting my senses.

  “Well, uh, this is different,” he says.

  That wakes me up from my foolishness, and I push him off me. “Ew! The hell, Jules.”

  He cocks a brow as he places both hands in his pockets. “Ew? You’re the one who accosted me.”

  “My bad. Don’t know what came over me.”

  He plasters a grin, making me regret my impulsive reaction. “No worries. I get that a lot.”

  I roll my eyes. “Rein it in, buddy. You ain’t all that.”

  He laughs and steps towards me as he searches my face. “Care to share why you’re snooping around Alexa’s room?”

  “I wasn’t snooping.”

  “What were you doing, then?”

  “Looking for the bathroom.”

  He points to the open bathroom. “There it is. Only a few feet from us.”

  “It wasn’t open a while ago.” I place my hands in my pockets. “So, I opened the wrong door. It’s not a big deal.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Don’t believe me, then. I don’t care.”

  As he stands in front of me, I scan him. He covered his head in a brown slouchy beanie with only a tuft of wavy blonde hair peeking at the top. He finishes his outfit with a dark blue bomber jacket over a fitted white baseball shirt, slim fit black chinos and desert boots.

  “Are you done?” His eyes gleam with mischief.

  Damn it. He saw me check him out. “Relax. You surprised me. That’s all.”

  “How so?”

  “You look like a damn hipster. I’m half expecting you to lecture me on the virtues of craft beer and kombucha.”

  He raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms. “I wouldn’t be too judgemental. You’re the one who plays the guitar and loves bacon on your donuts.”

  I chuckle. “Touché.”

  After a pause, he nudges me. “So, did you wear gloves?”

  When we were kids, he insisted we wear gloves when investigating to prevent smearing evidence with our fingerprints. A residual effect of being a cop’s son. I sigh. “No latex gloves. I didn’t come here to play detective.”