by An Na
How many pills are there? I count them again. And then once more. One two three four five six. And somewhere in the counting, her face bubbles up. Then the scent of her hair like earth after a good rain. The memory of her stills the echoing chamber of my mind. I try and hold on to it, hold it so hard the paper cup of water crumples in my hand and the wetness coats my skin, soaks into the cotton of my pants. Her name tingles the tip of my tongue. But one of the stronger nurses watches me and starts to stand as she sees the puddle of water on the floor. I take the pills dry, placing each one at the back of my tongue and gathering saliva in my mouth. As each one slides down my throat, I realize the memory of her will fade with each swallow. . . . So I fold her essence deep down like lost hieroglyphics waiting to be unearthed.
Summer Smolders Down for Autumn
You will bury your nose in the top of her head. The smell of her hair. You will remember it reminds you of the air after the rains, of earth cleansed and reborn. The weight of her delicate fairy bones against yours. The gentle plane of her neck gliding down into the rounding curve of her shoulder. Her life will press against your chest, into your heart, entwining your beats until they are one. This child of grace and beauty. And all that had been lost will rush back. You will feel yourself a hurricane bearing down on the tender souls meant for fair weather.
She will press against you. Her thin arms haloing your neck.
And the faint exhale of her breath will overtake the roar of the train. You will drop the knife to the floor as the sobs rack your body. And as you sink your face into her neck, in that moment, the smell of her childhood will fill you with wonder and dread. How has all this come to pass? You will wonder at the ceaseless cycles like the seasons, the press of life stampeding, thundering, coming for you over and over again. You will wonder when it will ever end. The knife blade glints sharp with clarity. You will kick it away and grab her, emerging from under the table.
She doesn’t move from your side but stares up. Watching and waiting. You know you have to call him. Tell him what has happened. You know what is to come next. You know from what has been lived before. And before that. And before that. Each time winter falls, there is only the hope for spring and by the grace of love, you will return to them again. But for now, for now, you will walk away to save them. To save her.
Her endless counting. Of train cars, weather, muffin papers, the hours, days, and months. Her wise eyes looking for you, into you. The you inside you inside you. She will wait patiently each time.
But before you move to begin what has already been, you will hold her one more time ever so tightly. Kneeling down on both knees so that you may fully embrace her. Worship at the altar of all that is whole and true and real. You will worship this child as your father and mother worshipped you. And you will know faith. And religion. And science. And hope. You will know what it means to believe. A singular belief that pierces more true than the ever-racing train across the landscape of your mind.
You will kiss her again as you slip her arms from your neck. Stand up and move to pick up your purse. Carefully, without turning around, you will open the door. Pause. Count each year of her life. And then you will step forward and walk into the days, months, years, seasons. To a place between breaths.
Autumn Kneels to Winter
She opened her eyes and sat up in bed. A searing pain tore through the lower half of her body, making her whimper and cry. Had it all been a dream then?
Is this how it ends?
No.
Would it be so awful if it did?
No.
The cycle broken.
No.
She gazed down and then slowly encircled her arms around her empty body. A man sat in a chair next to her bed. He leaned forward, his sky blue eyes wide and open with concern.
She gazed at him and tried to speak, but no words would come. The distant sound of a train moving toward her forced her eyes around the room.
He stood up and came to her, reaching out to take her hand. She shrank away. His face was so familiar. But strange. She could not remember, but felt in her heart that he was someone kind. He raised her hand and placed her palm on his cheek and held it there.
He slowly withdrew his hand and smiled gently when she did not remove hers from his face.
The train whistle blew long and hard. Her head turned wildly. Where was it? She needed to see it.
Keep fighting, bugaboo.
Why fight when the battle has been lost?
The train rattled closer, rumbling louder in her mind. She wanted to count the cars. Watch them move past. Feel the wind of their passing speed on her face like she had so long ago.
The man returned, holding a blanketed bundle. He sat down on the edge of her bed and lowered the bundle to her eyes.
“She is so beautiful, Grace.”
Take it away. It should die. Death will save her. Kill it.
This child deserves every chance.
The translucent pink of her head poked out from the blanket.
Look at her. She is life itself.
Kill it.
The small pink face, eyes shut tight, the rash bump of a nose.
She will be just like us. She will suffer the same way.
No, there is a chance it will be different. The discovery of the gene . . .
The smell of milk and flowers. Forget-me-nots. She carefully reached out one finger. As she focused on the face and touched her finger three times to the child’s forehead, the silence in the room exploded into her mind. She gasped, “Hannah.”
The man stared into her face. “Your mother’s name? I’m going to make sure she’s okay, Grace. I promise. She is going to wait for you. We are going to wait for you. Come back, Grace. Come back.”
The distant rumbling returned and the familiar vibrations of the track soothed her pain. She closed her eyes. All that she had seen lost to blackness.
Death would stop the suffering.
Death is not an answer.
All you care about is a cure. Stop your madness. Kill the child. Save her from herself. Death. Death is a choice.
And so is life. The strength to believe and live. That is a choice.
This is not a real life.
She was on the train, moving moving away toward something nothing someone no one leaving returning sitting standing sleeping waking watching waiting.
Waiting.
Waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting waiting in the place between breaths.
Winter Yields. Spring
We see you standing on a bridge, looking back at the life you have lived. The memories like clouds passing over the landscape of your face. The anguish that can only come from knowing how much you have loved and been loved. And to know you are losing that time. Forever.
We watch you hear what is coming forward across that bridge to you. The endless shrieks of a life that you do not want but cannot change. Like the Fates. They were never minor gods to you.
We see you standing on this bridge, fanning the cards of decision, the paths beaming out like endless rays into the future, the possibilities a forget-me-not flower seen from the eyes of a bee.
You know how to end your life.
Hers could be another story.
We cannot help you with this decision.
Yet when all is sifted, what remains?
Faith.
About the Author
An Na was born in South Korea and grew up in San Diego, California. A former middle school English and history teacher, she is the critically acclaimed author of the Michael L. Printz Award–winning novel A Step from Heaven, The Fold, and Wait for Me. She currently lives in Vermont. Visit her at anwriting.com.
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Also by An Na
The Fold
A Step from Heaven
Wait for Me
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2018 by An Na
Jacket illustration copyright © 2018 by Levente Szabo
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CIP data for this book is available from the Library of Congress.
ISBN 978-1-4814-2225-3 (hc)
ISBN 978-1-4814-2227-7 (eBook)