Magic Cries

by Miriam Greystone

  “Oh, my God,” Jake said again. He was shaking; he felt like he might fall down. He stumbled out to the garden, where the sun was already setting. Everything was gray. He sat down heavily on a bench and held his head with his hands. His mind was racing.

  He hadn’t wanted to be alone. He had wanted Molly—her touch, her love, everything. He had fooled himself into thinking that he could take that love for free, just for a little while. That he could grab that little bit of comfort, and then go on along his needle-paved path of self-destruction. But he had been wrong . . . so very, very wrong. There would be a terrible price. But he wouldn’t be the one to pay it.

  Molly would.

  Without him even realizing it, he and Molly had become a unit. Their own little family, of just two broken people who loved each other despite all the craziness in their world. And now that they were bound up like that, everything he did affected her. Every mistake he made came at a cost to them both.

  Jake sat and sat, even after the sun had faded completely from the sky. After a long time, he realized that his ears and nose were burning from the cold. He looked up at the sky.

  The full moon loomed above him.

  Molly would have left by now. She would already be on her way to the cave.

  Jake got up, stumbling, his feet numb from the cold, and threw himself down on his bed. He slept, but even as he drifted off, he was thinking. When he dreamed, his mind was awash in a new clarity, as though a light he had never known he possessed had flared to burning deep inside him.

  He woke up in the morning, his thoughts from the night before still an unbroken chain.

  “God,” he said to himself, wonderingly. “I've got to go.”

  He pulled the duffel bag out from under his bed and slung it over his shoulder. He hurried out of the tiny room without a backward glance.

  It wasn't hard to find Rebecca, cradling her first cup of coffee in her hands as she unlocked her office. “What's going on, Jake?” she asked, her eyes taking in the bag slung over his shoulder, disappointment already written on her face.

  “I didn't want you to get the wrong impression,” Jake said, standing in the doorway as she pushed open her door. “I wanted to let you know that I'll be back in a couple of days.”

  Rebecca shook her head as she bent over to switch on her desk lamp. “You can't just walk out of rehab, Jake. Here, come on in. I don't have any appointments until nine. Why don't you sit down and talk with me for a minute?”

  Jake hesitated. He knew that he had to move quickly. But he had come to really respect Rebecca, and to trust her. He checked his watch as he walked in and sat down on the couch.

  “Okay,” he said. “But I can only stay for a minute.”

  Rebecca settled herself into an over-sized chair, tucking her feet up under her. “What's going on, Jake? You've been making so much progress, and I've felt like our sessions have been really productive. What would make you consider leaving?”

  “I'm not giving up,” Jake said firmly. “I believe in doing this. For the first time, I really feel like I can.”

  “That's wonderful, Jake!” Rebecca beamed at him, her smile quirking up. “But then why am I sitting here, trying to talk you into hanging around?”

  “There's a situation,” Jake said awkwardly. He had told Rebecca so much about his life, his childhood. It was hard to remember that some secrets weren't his to tell. “Something that I have to do. Once it's under control, I'll come right back.”

  Rebecca's eyebrows scrunched together, as they always did when she was trying to work through something he had said.

  “Did you get a call, or a letter, from someone last night?”

  “No,” Jake admitted.

  “So this situation, the one you don't want to tell me about . . . you've known about it for a while?”

  “Yeah. I guess.”

  “So what's different, that yesterday you were going to sessions, and this morning you're walking out the door?”

  Jake shifted uncomfortably in his seat. How did she always understand the things he didn't say out loud, as much as the things he did say?

  “I went to a session last night. Family therapy.”

  Rebecca's eyebrows inched up slightly, but she made no comment.

  “Something happened there. There was a woman, a girl, really. She's married to this user. She freaked out . . . started screaming at him . . .”

  “I heard about it,” Rebecca commented dryly.

  “It was intense.” Jake shook his head. “Afterwards, I went outside, and I sat for a long time. Just thinking. And I thought . . .” His voice faltered. Rebecca looked down at the floor, giving him space.

  “There's no rush, Jake,” she said, studying the carpet. “Take your time.”

  “My mom never gave a shit.” Jake cleared his throat savagely. “There was never even a question. My sister . . . she cared when we were little, but once I was in deep, she cut and ran—didn't even need to stop and think about it. Didn't even hand me a twelve-step brochure, or offer to drive me to AA. Just showed me the door. I mean, I tried, a couple of times. Detox, I mean. I never made it to the other side.”

  “It's hard to do on your own.”

  “That's just it!” Jake leaned forward. “I've always been on my own. Always. In my mind, it was always about me versus the detox, me versus the rehab, me versus all this shit that seemed so painful and hard.” He shrugged. “It was never worth it. I could never win out against that kind of math.”

  Rebecca's whole face was scrunched up now, her eyes narrowed with concentration. “Help me understand what you mean, Jake. What kind of math are we talking about?”

  Jake exhaled with frustration, running his hand over the sharp bristles on his scalp. It was clear inside . . . why was it so hard to say it out loud, in a way that didn't sound insane? “The math I did in my head. I knew I was on my own. I knew I was killing myself, even, but I didn't give a fuck about that. Nobody did. But it’s different now.”

  “Tell me how it’s different.”

  Jake felt himself smiling, though he could just as easily cried. “It isn't just me anymore. That changes the math, changes everything. That's what the woman was trying to say last night. When someone else's life is tied up in yours, when your using hurts them even more than it hurts you . . . the equation is totally different.”

  Rebecca had lit a cigarette, and she tapped it thoughtfully against the ashtray. “You're saying that you can do for Molly something that you couldn't do for yourself. That you can get sober for her sake.”

  “Not exactly,” Jake said. “It’s also that it changes me. I mean, when someone throws in with you like that, when they say that they're with you, that if your ship goes down, they're going down with it . . . it changes everything. I couldn't do it before . . . I really couldn't. I was so empty inside; I needed something, anything, that would fill me up. But now . . .”

  Jake stood, slinging his bag back over his shoulder.

  “I'm not so empty. I can fight. For the first time I feel like I could do this, could stay clean. And I can do more than that. I can stand up for myself against the drugs. And I can fight for the person who's supposed to be with me in those family sessions.”

  “I respect what you're saying, Jake, I really do.” Rebecca set down her coffee cup and spread her hands out on her knees. “But I want you to stop and think about what walking out of rehab means. I know you think you can just go out for a bit, and then come back and pick up right where you left off. But the reality is that once a patient walks out, they hardly ever make it back. If you walk out now, before you've really gotten to the other side, it's a terrible risk. I don't think Molly would want you to take that chance. Whatever challenges she might be facing, I know that she would want you to stay.”

  “That's part of it, too.” Jake smiled. “I love Molly, but that girl last night showed me something else, too. The biggest battles we fight are inside ourselves. We can’t fight those battles for the people that we love. B
ut sometimes, you can help to keep them on course. And when you love someone . . . really love them . . . sometimes you have to slap 'em in the face. Molly’s making a terrible mistake. And I have to stop her.”

  “The door is always open, Jake!” Rebecca's voice called after him as he hurried down the hall. “I'll be waiting for you to waltz back in here and prove me wrong!”

  Molly had left some money in the bottom of the duffel bag she gave him. It would have to be enough. Jake caught a cab and sat slumped in the back seat, going over his plan again and again in his mind. After the initial thrill of deciding, of rushing out into the world full of purpose, now doubt was pulsing through him. His plan was full of holes. He knew it, and it wasn't hard to think of dozens of things that could go horribly wrong. But still, he smiled to himself as he passed the cash into the front seat and slid out of the cab, melting immediately into the crowd milling through the station.

  He was going to do it anyway.

  He rounded the corner and casually walked on, past all the other people, to the shadowy corner at the end of the platform. His stomach clenched when he saw the elevator.

  This is crazy! a voice in his head warned him. Any one of these people could tear you to pieces, and you wouldn't even be able to say a word!

  He had a key. He had palmed one, long ago, inspired by an addict's instinct to collect useful objects. He ground his teeth together and, sweating thickly, stepped on. The elevator fell swift and deeper into darkness.

  When it slammed to a stop, Jake looked around quickly. No one else was around . . . at least for the moment. He adjusted the strap of his bag against his shoulder and hustled down the hall. After a few wrong turns, he found it: the metal-framed doors that marked Andrew's chambers.

  He took a deep breath, and then pounded as hard as he could. The sound of his knock echoed in the silence, but there was no answer. He waited, and then pounded again. And again. Finally, he glanced around the hall, and when he was sure it was empty, he started to yell.

  “Denise!” he shouted, his voice breaking a little. “I know you're in there! Open up. Please! I need your help!”

  The door slid open half an inch, and a darkly-shadowed eye peered out.

  “They're gone, Jake!” she whispered, glancing down the hall anxiously.

  “I know. You've got to tell me where.”

  Walking back to the elevator, he concentrated on being invisible. Luckily, he didn't see too many people in the halls, and he knew exactly where he was going. His stomach muscles relaxed as the doors slid open and he was back in the real world.

  He stepped onto the metro and stood holding onto the rail as the train sped away, toward a more familiar corner of the world. He kept checking himself as it went.

  Was he sure he could do this?

  Sort of.

  Was there any other way?

  None that was fast enough.

  I can do this, he said to himself, over and over. I know what I have to do, and I can do it.

  But he still wasn't sure.

  Jake stayed on the train and watched the surroundings outside the window grow shabbier. The graffiti got thicker and more vulgar on the buildings they sped past. The sidewalks were broken. When he stepped off onto the platform, Jake felt a shiver deep inside him. He couldn't help it. This place still felt like home.

  He walked the streets confidently, not even needing to think about where he was going. He checked his watch. It was the right time of day.

  Jerry was right where he knew he would find him, lounging under the same old lamp post. He smiled broadly when he saw Jake walk up.

  “My old friend!” he hooted. “Where you been all this time? I've been looking ‘round for you. I've got something you're really going to like!”

  And there it was. Jake knew there would be drugs, knew that he'd have to come close to them, very close. But somehow it still took him by surprise, or at least his response to them did. It was like his body was a horse he was riding, but couldn't really control. It lurched toward the drugs, strained to be nearer to them, pulled instantly at every muscle, every sinew of his body.

  He had never, ever, in his life, wanted anything so bad.

  “Not today,” Jake said. He had been planning to smile, to joke around. To make it look like it didn't cost him any effort. But there was no point. His body was sweating and groaning to escape from his control. His hands shook.

  “I need something . . . different . . . today,” he grunted.

  Jerry looked at him strangely and slid the drugs back into his pocket. As soon as they were out of sight, Jake huffed out a breath between his teeth. He could see clearer.

  “Okay,” Jerry said slowly, his eyes narrowing a little. “What d'you need?”

  “A gun,” Jake said. “I need a gun.”

  Molly

  Molly went back to the Refuge, fully aware that she was making a deal with the devil. She and Andrew might be on the same side, but now she knew that he could be ruthless, and cruel. And she was going to help him get his hands on something incredibly powerful.

  She’d do a lot worse than that to make Jake well.

  Whatever happened, whatever trouble Andrew made, she’d deal with it. Later. After Jake was safe.

  Molly had worried about how she would explain Jake’s absence, but Andrew didn’t even seem to notice that Jake was gone—he was too wrapped up in planning and practicing, and getting everything ready for their try for the goblet.

  Matt and Thia asked, but Molly evaded their questions. After trying a few times, they stopped asking, and instead became overly sympathetic, giving her big hugs and bringing burgers, fries, and once an entire apple pie to her room. They must have assumed that Jake was back on drugs, and gone for good. It was better that way, and safer for him. Still, Molly felt a little guilty as she ate the last crumb of the pie. She hadn’t intended to deceive them.

  She tried to just not think about Jake, which mostly didn’t work. Still, time passed quickly. Andrew insisted on talking through every detail of his plan over and over, trying to make sure that she knew as much as possible about what would happen, and what she would need to do.

  When the night of the full moon came, Molly was antsy and anxious to get on with it. No matter how things went, at least now she could be done talking about it.

  “All ready?” Andrew asked when she met him in the hall. “It’s time to get going. Let me introduce you to my friend, who will be coming with us. He’s been a part of this search from the very beginning. We’ve been friends ever since we were kids. He was the one who was with me, back when we first found the tunnels that would one day become the Refuge.” Andrew motioned to a man with scrubby red hair who smiled broadly and embraced Andrew like a brother. “Molly, meet Troy.”

  Shock rolled through Molly, hard and cold. She knew that name. She looked at Troy: the sneer on his face, the appraising disdain in his eyes. This was the man who had molested Evie.

  This was Andrew’s friend.

  “Molly?” Andrew asked, staring at her. Molly realized that she had done nothing to hide the shock and horror on her face. “What’s wrong?”

  “H . . . he’s a Legacy!” she stammered, saying the first thing she could think of that might sound plausible. “How can we trust him?”

  Andrew laughed. “Oh, don’t worry about that, Molly.” He leaned over and whispered in her ear, “Troy’s been after the goblet even longer than I have. His father passed him over for leadership of the family house. He wants a way to become more powerful just as badly as we do. Believe me.”

  “You sure she can do what you say she can?” Troy asked Andrew, his lips pressed together in a mocking expression. “She doesn’t look like much.”

  “I know that Molly can do this, and with the two of us there to help her . . .” He shrugged. “This can really happen.”

  Troy snorted skeptically but didn’t argue. They followed Andrew up the elevator and out of the metro station, to where a car was waiting. Andrew slid behind the
wheel, and Troy took the seat across from him. Molly climbed into the back seat. The two of them launched into a conversation as though Molly wasn't even there, for which she was extremely grateful.

  Bile kept rising in her throat, at the thought of sitting so close to someone she hated so much. They drove for hours. Molly stared out the window, watching as the full moon, trailed, watchful, just behind them.

  The sun came up over the mountains and, even with her heart mired in darkness, Molly’s breath caught at the beauty of it. Molly stared up at them as the car wound closer and closer to their destination. They stretched, gray and implacable, into the burgeoning sunshine. They seemed so ancient, so proud of the secret that they hid deep within.

  When they climbed out of the van, she hurriedly pulled Andrew aside, going far enough away that she was sure Troy wouldn't overhear them.

  “I know who Troy is, Andrew,” she told him, “I know what he did to Evie. How can you be friends with that man?”

  Andrew’s face darkened. “I didn’t realize,” he said, his voice serious. “You have to understand, I don't approve of lots of things that Troy does, Molly. Any of them, really. Why do you think I helped Evie get away from her parents, and then hid her in the Refuge for so long?”

  Molly blinked with surprise, and Andrew hurried to say more.

  “Listen, he’s a rotten person, and I know it. But I’ve known Troy since we were kids. I can control him.”

  “Listen,” Molly ground her teeth, “I don't care if you guys rode bikes together in grade school. This guy is a monster. And you're talking about helping him become even more powerful!”

  “I can control him!” Andrew whispered hurriedly. “He listens to me! I don't expect you to see the good in Troy. But the truth is, Molly, he is extremely powerful. His household is one of the oldest in the country. His Voice is born out of a thirteen-generation line. He's the one who got us all the documents about where the goblet is hidden.” Andrew shrugged. “I know it isn't fun, or pretty, but once we get the cup . . . everything will be different.” His eyes warmed as he thought of it, and he put a hand on Molly's shoulder. “Trust me, Molly. We can do this!” He rubbed her shoulder, as though she were an over-anxious child. “It'll work out. Come on.”