The Grasp of Nighttide

by Sadaf Zulfikar

  Alice kicked off her muddy pink shoes while unlocking the door. She darted straight to the laptop in her room, not bothering to put down the bag of groceries or the umbrella. For some time, the thought of the song had gone into hiding again, and then resurfaced. She had to know that song.

  “Tell me, Google, for heaven’s sake,” Alice mumbled, typing the first two lines. When that didn’t work, she put in all six lines hoping for a match.

  In vain, she sat there staring at the screen. It was as though the song never existed. But Alice heard it; there was no doubt in her mind. Frustrated and totally exhausted, today had been unlike any other day. The only clue she had was the song, and now it appeared to be a dead end.

  She dried her hair and changed into a dry pair of jogging pants and a pale green shirt. She got the fireplace in the living room going. Finding her wool shawl draped over the arm of the couch, she threw it over her shoulders and sat close to the fire, feeling its warmth on her face and hands. The heater was not running to its full potential these days, and with temperatures falling, Alice was sure to be sleeping on the couch in front of the fireplace in about a week. The only thing needed now to complete this cozy atmosphere was a hot cup of coffee, she thought.

  This wasn’t Alice’s home, but it was where she woke up five months ago...

  She had woken up on the bed early that bright morning. Her head was heavy, probably from the effects of a drug. But the surroundings weren't the same as when she had first woken up. Her memory went back to the first time she woke up, at the hospital. She could remember nurses and the doctor examining her there. Alice remained blank through all of it. The first sign of trouble came when she was asked, "Your mom is outside. Do you want to see her?”

  “Mom?" she didn't know what to make of it. "Mom?" Whose mom? Her own? Who was her mom? Then realization struck. "Who am I?"

  The next time she had woken up, also in the hospital ward, she tried to think as she was told but could come up with nothing. Later still, she semiconsciously heard a woman asking the doctor to discharge her. It seemed like he was confused. "I think we must keep her under observation for another day or two. She must have her memory back; retrograde amnesia is very rare, especially in head injuries and given that she wasn't even severely injured. I need to see the scans. There could be something that may come up. And uh, do you think she could be... I don't know, faking this? I mean, to get away from troubles... family troubles, maybe?"

  Next, Alice woke up to pure darkness. She was blindfolded. "Let me go!" Alice ordered.

  "Do you know what your name is?" a female voice asked.

  "No."

  "Don't you even recognize my voice anymore?" The voice came again, edged with sadness this time.

  "No. I don't." Then she was stung by a needle and fell unconscious again.

  In the morning when she woke, she was here at this house−struggling with dizziness. It didn’t take long to figuring out that she was abandoned, especially with packed luggage and a letter from her mom clearly stating so. She tried recalling the doctor's or any of the nurses’ faces at least, but she couldn't. Names she hadn't asked. Neither did she remember reading the hospital's name nor learn what state it was in. She had not seen her mom. Alice tried searching for accidents on the internet, but she didn't know what day her supposed accident had taken place. How many days had gone by? She didn't know that, either. A stroll around the city made her realize that she was new there and no one knew her. At times, she regretted that day−the trauma she faced, the frustration, the tears, the pounding head, the confusion, the terror−yet at the same time was equally grateful for not having been left on the street. Alice waited a month, expecting the owners to show up. Even if she somehow was on a lease, there had to be a person who would come to collect money and give her some details. But no one came, adding to her frustration.

  Later on, she learned from Anna that the owner, Mary, and her daughter Irin had left the country years ago. Alice pretended to have known this, to not arouse suspicion. Out of curiosity, Alice casually mentioned that she really didn’t know the reason they had left. Anna was only too eager to relate what had happened.

  Mary had built the house according to her and her daughters’ wishes. Her second child, Lily, wanted a tower built for her room; a tall tower made for a princess and her wish was fulfilled. Lily was very happy. She would go to Anna with stories of how she felt like she lived in a castle and she was the Princess of the Kingdom. A week before her death, Lily suddenly changed. Once the talkative, bubbly girl, she had recoiled inside a shell after her best friend’s death, saying the most unusual things. Otherwise, she spoke very little. Lily stayed in her room most of the time, crying, and it pained Mary to watch her daughter suffer in this manner. Mary tried her best to comfort the child, to no avail. She told Anna’s mother, Halley, that she was planning on taking Lily to a counselor the next day. However, on that unfortunate night, Lily jumped out the tower window. A month later, Lily’s younger sister Kate had gone up to Lily’s room and fell out the very same window. The next day, when Mary’s ex-husband flew in again for his other daughter’s funeral, he got back together with his family and took them with him to London. The tower room was locked from that day forward. Although Alice had checked it several times, the thought that it remained locked comforted her. The house itself had been locked up for years, but an old man lived in the house for a short period a few months ago. The man, Ode Carl, was said to have left because he found the place too inconvenient and depressing. Though a family might enjoy the benefits – the spaciousness, a place for kids to play, and plenty of privacy, depressing was the exact same word Alice would use to describe this place for a person living alone.

  Alice spent almost eighteen hours a day in the house. The entrance opened to a big hall whose carpeted floor stretched to the dining area and open kitchen at its side. On the other side of the living room, a door opened to a passage that had three doors opposite to it. Two of the doors led to rooms and the other one to the locked tower wing. The passage was void of light from the two-pane window because of the lone tree outside. The two rooms were quite empty except for a single bed, stripped of its bed sheets, in one, and a rocking chair by the dust-clouded window in another. Alice had chosen to occupy the last room from the two-pane window, leaving an empty room between her and the tower room. She chose this room intentionally, separating herself from the tower; the tower, with its dreadful stories, had worried her ever since she had arrived. It was also partly because that room had a bigger bathroom with a nicer sink, and as a plus already had a bed, which meant she didn’t have to move anything around.

  If not for the couch, bed, heater, table, fridge, and stove left behind, the house would have been totally empty. All that Alice could manage to buy was an old second hand phone and a load of curtains from a yard sale, a bedspread and pillow, and a bit of crockery for the house. Not just a bit, actually, she had bought more than what was required; spending a huge portion of the money she started out with. But there was neither another soul living there, nor did she ever invite anyone in. Sometimes Alice felt so lonely that she would set the table with plates and glasses, pretending to have company with imaginary people for a while, laughing and talking as she took turns eating a bit from each plate. When she was done, she would fall to the floor and cry. These days she would do it more frequently. Though she did not want to accept it, she knew inside she was going crazy.

  What loneliness can do to the soul cannot be judged without having experienced it. Every word is absorbed by walls, every tear penetrates through the floor without any value, and your smile is trapped in the mirror, waiting for a companion to retrieve it.

  She shook her head and looked around; there was not much work to be done with the interior. Thanks to grandpa Ode for that. The combination of different shades of purple and white paint throughout the house gave a warm feeling, but the feeling was cut short by the red and yellow striped curtains shading each window. The living room had a g
rand look to it with its modern-looking brick fireplace. The dining area held a beautifully handcrafted burled-wood table for eight. A chandelier with eight hand-blown globes hung gracefully above. Alice could transform this home into a spectacular place; unfortunately she did not have the means to do so.

  As Alice moved to the kitchen, she ran her hand along the wall, wondering if her real home was like this. She passed the dining space and entered the kitchen overlooking it. The stainless steel fridge was the highlight of the room-huge and shiny. It tempted Alice to open it wide. Only a can of milk lay inside.

  Great! Even the can would be cursing me for its loneliness, she thought, pouring it into the pan. She put it back, along with the items from the store.

  You were, you are, you shall always be... My love, for eternity…

  Suddenly, Alice became aware of a sound of some sort; definitely not some kind of music from the song, it sounded like a buzzer, like a doorbell.

  The doorbell? Alice thought.

  Oddly enough, Alice didn’t even know how the doorbell sounded; there had not been any use of it. That must be it, she thought. She crossed her fingers. The words mom, bro, sis, friend, love echoed in her mind as she walked lightly on her feet to the door without even realizing it. She knew whoever it was, she would be speechless in front of them.

  She pushed open the door, expecting a person or even two, but what came into sight was a lot more familiar to her−empty air. She moved forward with the hope that someone would spring up and surprise her, until a box hit Alice’s foot. It appeared to be a small gift box wrapped in red paper with a bow on it. Alice eyed it as if she had seen a bomb at her feet. Her hands trembled as she lifted it; the tag read-

  HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

  My Birthday? Alice pondered.

  “Hello,” Alice moved forward along the driveway, sure to spot the person who left it. With the tree rustling, Alice couldn’t even hear herself well enough. “Hello,” she yelled.

  The wind had blown away her excitement, her hope, leaving her with the only thing she had to live with−herself.

  She threw the gift. It almost sailed along in the wind before it caught itself in the picket fence. In tears, Alice fell, with no one to see how she was feeling. She could’ve dealt with her memory loss if only she knew all about herself and what had happened to her. Or at least if there was some family or friends she could turn to. It was so unfair that she was so lonely. It was overwhelming, and she was having difficulties adjusting. She was constantly scared for no real reason; scared to get to know people, scared of the future. There wasn’t a single person she felt she could trust, with whom she could share her worries, to take some of the burden off her chest, not one person who would truly care about her, despite the time or day, even if that care was the size of a pea.

  She lurched to the fence, hoping the gift was the miracle she had been waiting for−the miracle that would make her feel safe, and if possible, happy.

  The edge of the box was perfectly nested between the lines of wood. The tag was flipped over and Alice wiped the watery eyes with her sleeve to see what was written on it.

  To Derek… from Anna.

  Derek was Anna’s boyfriend. It was odd that the gift was at her doorstep. The kids, Alice decided. The kids in the neighborhood were often up to mischief−especially the Draver kids. Once they had thrown her shoes beyond the fence and even teased her before running away. Another time, Alice had kept a punnet of strawberries near her door. It disappeared, and later she found it empty on the sidewalk near the houses.

  “So much for a miracle.” Alice raised the featherweight box to throw it over the fence. It meant nothing to her, and Anna was in no way of any concern to Alice. In addition, returning it meant that she had to go to Anna’s place. After debating with herself for five whole minutes, her frenzied mind settled and she resolved to return it. Though Alice did not back down from being rude at times, cruelty was not just her thing.

  CHAPTER 3

  Stephanie Frost sat on the edge of the chair, feeling like she was being interrogated. It wasn’t supposed to be a big deal for a twenty-one year old to be boarding a plane, but her Aunt Jane took it seriously. Her small forehead remained wrinkled from the moment Steph declared she was leaving New York last night, and she’d been dragging her feet everywhere since this morning. It looked as if it was some blackmail to change Steph’s mind, but Steph knew better. Aunt Jane’s behavior was that of a concerned parent, and Steph knew if she was given one wish right now, she’d wish for Steph to be seventeen again so that she could make her stay.

  “Why don’t you put this off a while longer?” Aunt Jane finally fired her first question, stopping in front of her. She had on a loose lavender dress which had belonged to Steph’s own mother−Rosalie. Rosalie used to say that wearing the dress made her feel good about herself and Steph was sure she’d wear it still if she were alive.

  I am responsible for mom’s accident, for her death. Anger burned underneath her expression and came up to the point where it was enough to lash out and destroy the room.

  Steph flashed back to Lesson One of her therapy class: Control anger before anger controls you.

  She had always found that lesson lame. If her dad, John, had read it, he’d have laughed his ass off, but Steph modified the motto to make it sound meaningful, the way she liked it and the way her dad would like it: Build up your anger and tunnel it in the right direction at the right time.

  “I need to do this now,” Steph managed to say in an appropriate tone.

  As Steph grew up, she became more familiar with what her dad was like. Her mom told her every bit she knew; she let it out in little snippets between conversations, or stories on days she was depressed. John was a member of a group called ‘Grasp.’ He had killed and ruined the lives of many people. He hadn’t left Rosalie, or anyone for that matter, room for suspicion of any sort. Upholding the image of a reputable business man, smart and modern and with a secret side, he was able to fool everyone. Circumstances had made him confess all the sins he’d committed to Rosalie. The only thing that had saved him from being arrested, or worse, was that cancer had already raced him to death’s door by the time she had found out.

  Steph, on the other hand, knew her dad was different. John would show her magic, they’d walk on the walls, but her favorite time was always when he’d first come home. When Rosalie wasn’t around, John wouldn’t knock. Steph would come running to the door and shout excitedly for him to come in, he’d unlock it by magic, and Steph would run to him for a hug. She thought that he was a super hero, like the ones on TV, but she saw his darker side when she stepped into his “school.” It was an extra weekend class apart from her regular school curriculum, held upstairs in the attic.

  “I’m following what your grandma Diane taught me, and you shall follow me,” he told Steph, referring to a heavy, old-looking book. She was startled the first time, but quickly became interested. So what if dad wasn’t a superhero? He’s still the greatest super villain. She wasn’t scared, but more fascinated with the evil instead of the fun magic. Like many little girls, she wanted to be just like her dad when she grew up.

  When he learned about his terminal cancer, he told Steph, “I have laid everything out for you. I might not be able to monitor your progress now, but it is important that you continue. You’ll have to take over. In a few years, you will understand. The book that will explain everything is under your cupboard where Rosalie won’t find it. Remember, walking on this path is your mission. Being a Summoner will let you establish your rank within the Grasp like I did. Grasp will prevail.” Even at Stephanie’s young age, she understood the intensity of his words and nodded solemnly. She would continue, she would finish. Steph was losing her father, her hero. Despite everything else he had done or how the world might see him, she would not fail him in this.

  There was a complaint for the second time from Steph’s new school when her father was at the hospital. She had honestly not wanted to get into trouble,
but the kids at school were pushing their luck, messing with her. Debbie Smithson had made fun of Steph’s short and uncombed hair before class, and that pissed her off more than the boy she had kicked for stomping on her foot. She wasn’t sorry for dumping the water-glue-newspaper mixture on her pretty dark hair, but the teacher had called Rosalie to say that it would be the last warning about Steph’s violent behavior. She said no action would be taken this time only because Steph was going through an emotional time due to her father’s illness. Steph had listened with half an ear, not really caring about consequences or what anyone else thought of her, sullen and defiant.

  Then, after a long lecture from her mother, John called her to his bedside. “You weren’t supposed to do that.”

  When Rosalie stepped out to talk with the doctor, he said something more surprising, though he was speaking more to himself in disappointment, “Can’t believe that you actually got caught.”

  That sentence struck a chord in Steph and she knew exactly what he meant. He had never been caught, and she was his daughter. He expected more from her, and she had let him down. The disappointment stung more sharply than any of the lectures she had received.

  After a week, Steph had secretly tipped a bottle of juice in a bully’s bag. It was a small thing, but she sensed triumph, and she had to tell her father. When she reached home, though, she wasn’t allowed to go to the hospital, and she never got the chance again. Her father passed away quietly in the hospital that night. Steph never got to share any more triumphs with him.

  From then on, Rosalie tried to keep Steph from her dad’s footsteps. Lessons on humanity, God, forgiveness; all of these were drilled into Steph’s head daily. She talked to Steph on almost every matter, and made her promise that she would never follow her father. Hundreds of promises−big ones, small ones, petty ones. Making promises was a regular affair and she kept her word on most of them.