Sand and Shadow
Page 23
May God bless you all. Farewell, and goodnight.
I first thought of writing this book more than ten years ago. When I was a kid, one of my favorite movies was a 50’s ‘B’ sci-fi flick called Forbidden Planet. I must have watched it a hundred times. Last year I watched it after a long hiatus, and it was so hokey! But despite the cheesy dialog and bad special effects, the plot still held up.
Writing contemporary versions of classic stories is not unusual, but Forbidden Planet isn’t like Dickens or Shakespeare or Christie. It’s a futuristic tale set on a distant planet, and it probes the very depths of the human psyche. What I wanted was a new plot with new characters, but with a story that remains true to the spirit of the original. I hope I’ve achieved that here.
I tend to write about sad things. I didn’t set out intending to do that, but most of my stories involve emotional pain. I think that’s because not only have I experienced pain in my own life, but those closest to me have faced great challenges and struggles. Not to make light of those struggles, but tragedy and conflict make great fodder for novel writing. We can all relate to disappointment, heartbreak, and grief. And when the characters we read about overcome their challenges and come out on top, we feel like we can too. Reading about sad things builds empathy. Reading about facing those things head on and overcoming them gives us hope and courage. I hope that my books, including this one, do that for my readers.
I have several people to thank for Sand and Shadow. My dad, first of all, for recording Forbidden Planet from TV onto a video cassette decades ago and letting me watch it often. Judi Lauren for her insightful developmental edit which helped me bring my characters more to life. Barbara Groves for creating an awesome cover. Dorine White and Roy Gladden for their insights. And I also want to thank Google search, because without it I would never have known how fast future spacecraft could fly, how cryogenics work, how far Gliese 581g is from Earth, how long it would take to travel there, or any other of the little details I had to research to make this book plausible. And believe me, I researched everything, from telekinesis to what materials are used to repair the exterior of a shuttle.
Finally, I want to thank each of my kids for believing in me. (I included a quiet nod in the book to my youngest, Jarett, by way of Vivaldi.) They’ve always been my greatest inspiration. I started writing for them. I continue writing for them. They make my life worth living. Thanks, kids.
Laurisa White Reyes
Laurisa White Reyes is the author of the SCBWI Spark Award winning novel The Storytellers and the Spark Honor recipient Petals. She is also the Senior Editor at Skyrocket Press and an English instructor at College of the Canyons in Southern California.
www.LaurisaWhiteReyes.com
www.SkyrocketPress.com
Read an excerpt from…
Written By
LAURISA WHITE REYES
I’m alive?
Yes. Still alive…
Again.
A tube runs from an IV bag into my arm, the plastic needle burrowing under my skin like a tick. Thank God I was unconscious when they put that in. I cringe at the thought of being deluged with so many psyches at once—paramedics, nurses, doctors, all of them touching me.
Where are my clothes? They must have taken them off when I was out. This flimsy gown can’t protect me. I want to tear off the tape securing the IV tube to my skin, rip it off like a Band-Aid. I want out of here, but then I see Mama sleeping beside me, her body sloped in a plastic chair. I shouldn’t have done this to her again. But I had to try.
A plastic clamp pinches my finger, connecting me to a heart monitor. Three inches further up, my wrist is wrapped in gauze. Two months ago, I would never have had the courage to do this—or any reason to. But now, feeling the staples beneath the bandage, I wonder how deep someone has to cut in order to die?
The curtain jerks back, the metal rings dragging across the ceiling rail. Mama snaps to attention. I half expect her to stand and salute.
“Miranda Ortiz?” says a woman in a beige linen suit and crisp white blouse. She is thin, stiff, and colorless. She reeks of gardenias.
“I’m Dr. Walsh from Mental Health,” she continues. The plastic laminated nametag hanging from her neck confirms this.
Dr. Walsh extends her hand, but instead of taking it, I grasp the edge of my sheet and pull it up to my chin. Other than this stupid hospital gown, it’s the only barrier I’ve got right now.
Mama stands up and reaches over the bed to shake the doctor’s hand. “I’m Mira’s mother, Ana,” she says wearily. She starts to sit back down, but Dr. Walsh interrupts.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you in person, Mrs. Ortiz. However, I’d like to speak to your daughter alone, if that’s all right.”
Dr. Walsh is insistent, in a polite sort of way. Mama leans toward me, and for a split second I think she’s going to kiss me goodbye. Though deep down I almost wish she would, instead she offers me her gentle smile and tucks the sheet under my shoulder.
“Please don’t go,” I whisper.
“It’ll only be a few minutes,” she says. “I’ll be just outside, all right?”
Mama brushes a strand of hair from my eyes with her manicured fingernails, careful to avoid contact with my skin. She smiles at me, but her eyes are wistful. As she walks out, my insides tighten up, and I suddenly realize how much I’ve missed her touch. My instinct is to cling to her like when I was small, but instead I press my arms stiffly to my sides like a corpse.
A security guard opens the door and accompanies Mama out into the hall. Dr. Walsh takes Mama’s empty chair, crosses one leg over the other, and lays a clipboard on her knee. “So,” she begins, “you cut yourself last night. Is that right?”
Her voice is casual and smooth, as if she’s just asked me what I ate for dinner. She waits for me to respond. When I don’t, she glances down at her clipboard. “I understand it’s not your first attempt. You were here a couple of weeks ago, I see. Overdose, but no permanent damage done.”
She glances up at me, pausing in case I have something to say.
I don’t.
“Miranda—”
“It’s Mira.”
“Mira, what happened that made you want to die?”
Her perfume hangs heavy around her. I rub the sheet against my nose, trying to block out the overpowering smell and the awkward silence between us. It’s obvious she’s going to sit there for as long as it takes. I want her gone, so I might as well talk.
“My boyfriend wants to dump me,” I tell her, and it’s true. Sort of.
“I see,” she says. Her eyebrows lift a little. “Things aren’t going well between the two of you?”
“Something like that.”
Her eyes narrow as she looks at her clipboard again. She thinks she’s got me all figured out. She’s met a hundred kids like me, maybe more. To her, I’m just like all the rest.
Only I’m not.
“Mira, do you mind if I ask you some questions?” She looks up at me, a trace of a smile on her lips. “Your answers will help me understand what’s happening with you, all right?”
She begins with the same questions Dr. Jansen asked me the last time I was here: Do you have trouble sleeping? How’s your appetite? Do you feel anxious or sad more often than usual?
She’s so pale with her white skin and bleached hair. Craig’s skin is light like hers. I used to relish his touch and let his lips linger on mine as long as he wanted. My skin tingles just thinking about him, but I shove the memories back, burying them down deep inside me where they belong.
Dr. Walsh shifts in her chair, drawing my mind back to the present. “Mira,” she continues, “do you believe you have special powers?”
Beneath the sheet my arm jerks, and the clip on my finger pops off. The monitor lets out a loud, piercing beep. I pat around the mattress, but I can’t find the clip. Then I see it dangling over the side of the bed. I reach for it, but Dr. Walsh gets to it before I do.
“Here,” she says, smi
ling. “Let me help you.”
“No, don’t!” I say, grabbing for the clip.
Too late.
Oh God. Please God, not again.
I squeeze my eyelids shut, bracing for impact as she grasps my wrist in one hand and replaces the clip with the other. It takes only half a second, like those commercials where a crash test dummy rockets forward at high speed and slams into a wall. In that instant every thought in Emma Lynn Walsh’s head collides with mine—every thought, memory, hope, disappointment, and dream. They come at me like a hailstorm, assaulting me at random. I see her as a child falling off her bike and scraping her knee, and her father scolding her for forgetting to brake. I see the wedding ring slide onto her finger—her yanking it off and flushing it down the toilet. I feel despair at her mother’s funeral and relief at her father’s. She masks so much pain with poise and self-assurance, but beneath it all she’s a mess.
“Mira? Mira.”
I open my eyes to see Dr. Walsh peering at me, a puzzled expression on her face.
“Let—go—of—me,” I order though clenched teeth.
Dr. Walsh releases my wrist. I turn on my side, rolling up in the sheet, attempting to disappear into my cocoon. I hear the chair legs scrape against the floor as Dr. Walsh slides it closer to my bed.
I stare at the bottom of my IV bag, watching clear drops form, preparing to fall into the tube. One by one they hang there for a moment suspended in time, and then plop!
I glance over my shoulder and look at Dr. Walsh. Her smile is gone. Both feet are on the floor, and she’s holding the clipboard up now, like a shield. There’s a yellow Sponge Bob sticker on the back, staring at me with a goofy, wide-mouthed grin.
“Okay, Mira. Why don’t we get back to your boyfriend? You said he wants to break up with you. Why?” Dr. Walsh’s tone has changed. It’s softer now, more sympathetic, but what can I tell her that won’t sound crazy?
“I won’t let him touch me anymore.”
“So, he told you he wants to break up with you?”
“No. He hasn’t said anything—yet.”
“Hasn’t said anything.” Her voice holds a note of confusion. “Then, how do you know?”
She dangles the question in front of me like the proverbial carrot, hoping to draw me out. I don’t want to talk anymore, but something inside me needs to. Maybe part of me believes there is a chance, no matter how slight, that this woman might be able to help. That’s how desperate I’ve become.
I open my mouth to say something, but I can’t. Instead, I just lay there wrapped up like a mummy, someone who’s dead inside. Only I’m not dead. I’m alive. Too much alive.
Just then a nurse comes into the room to check my IV. “Are you comfortable, Ms. Ortiz?” she asks. “Your father called a bit ago. I assured him that if you needed anything, anything at all, I’d see to it myself.”
The nurse, a plump middle-aged woman wearing purple scrubs, glances at Dr. Walsh and reacts as if the good doctor had just magically appeared there.
“Oh my, I’m sorry, Dr. Walsh. I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“Not a problem. We’re finished here,” says Dr. Walsh, offering a nod.
I hear the snap of the clipboard’s metal clasp as she tucks her pen into it. Walking around the side of my bed, she gives me a conciliatory smile. “All right, Mira,” she says. “I’m going to have a word with your mother about getting you admitted. I need you to be somewhere safe, where we can keep an eye on you for a few days.”
As Dr. Walsh turns to leave, I find my voice again. “If you hate them so much, why smell like them?”
“Pardon?” She turns, pausing at the door.
“Gardenias. You hate gardenias.”
Her lips turn pale as she presses them together. I don’t want to do this, but I need her to believe me. My voice chokes when I say it. “It’s your mother’s perfume.”
Dr. Walsh’s eyes glisten, and hurt and confusion fill her face. Without a word, she turns and walks through the door, taking the invisible gardenia cloud with her.
BOOKS BY LAURISA WHITE REYES
The Celestine Chronicles series
Book I: The Rock of Ivanore
Book II: The Last Enchanter
Book III: The Seer of the Guilde
The Crystal Keeper series
Book I: Exile
Book II: Betrayal
Book III: Vengeance
Book IV: Hidden
Book V: Defiant
Book VI: Fallen
Other Fiction
The Storytellers (Spark Award winner)
Contact
Mickey Malloy, Wonder Boy!
Petals (Spark Honor Book)
Memorable
Sand and Shadow
Last Summer at Algonac (Future Release)
Non-Fiction
The Kids’ Guide to Writing Fiction
Teaching Kids to Write Well: Six Secrets Every Grown-Up Should Know
8 Secrets to Successful Self-Publishing