Don't Touch

by Barbara Taub

  Thanks to one particularly weird touch day, everything that can possibly turn on in the cabin is permanently powered up, including the always-burning woodstove. That’s great for Washington mountain winters but not so comfy in July. And if Mom ever noticed the steady hum from the drawer hiding the vibrator I ordered off the internet, she never mentions it. Or the fact that the massaging shower head is always…massaging.

  With the little satellite dish at the cabin connecting me to entertainment and the internet, I completed the last year of high school. (Mom told them I was too sick to come to school, and they let me finish up online.) Then I went on to get a BA in history through online courses. It only took two years because, well—I didn’t really have anything else to do. I got pretty good at tracking down obscure references to strange abilities, but I never came across anything like my touch. So I decided I would try to figure it out myself.

  My plan was to investigate how the latex surgical gloves prevent the touch from working. I turned my attention first to biology and then chemistry. Apparently latex is produced by thousands of plants as a defense mechanism. I tried so many experiments—from exposing skin cells to latex under microscopes to harvesting my DNA to see if anything looked abnormal. But the best I could do without a dedicated lab was check for abnormalities in my chromosomes (none, thankfully). Now I’m taking online classes in quantum physics. Just, you know, because.

  After I adjusted to being alone, my big surprise is how much I love the cabin, even the solitude, and—to be honest—the daily surprise of wondering what my touch will do next. Sure, I miss my friends, but we would all have been heading off to different colleges, anyway. I admit that by the end of my first week at the cabin, I was lonely. After a year or so there, I had days when I was ready to blow-touch the top off the mountain just to see real humans. The internet is what saved me. I have friends around the world, and someone is always up. Always (virtually) there for me.

  And of course, there’s George. Mom insisted I keep him in my freezer just in case. And sure enough, one day my touch seemed to reverse previous changes. So I thawed out George and touched him back to his nasty, clawing, spitting, hairball-hacking, normal state. Big mistake. Maybe George was in the freezer too long, but he seems to need to stay near me. If he wanders more than thirty or so feet away, he freezes up again. So we’re stuck with each other; dysfunctional partners in our mutual resentment.

  After I got Mom’s text, I pulled out the chain ladder and shook its links to the ground twenty feet below. “It’s Mom,” I told George. He hissed. I reminded him that he likes Mom. He stalked to my bed and posed menacingly. “If you throw up on my bed again, I’ll touch you and put you back in the freezer.” George spit, just to show I didn’t scare him, and swept under the bed.

  Mom pulled herself over the edge of the porch (harder than it sounds, but she’s had lots of practice). While I used the winch mounted to my wall to haul up her box of milk, disposable gloves, and cat food, Mom sat at the little table, sipping a cup of tea. “I don’t remember the table being glass. Is that a new touch?”

  “Salt crystal. George has been licking the legs.”

  Mom nodded as she pulled an envelope out of her backpack. “Lette, a letter came for you from your dad’s great-aunt Roulette. When I called her to say you weren’t living with us, I found out she passed away in her sleep last night.”

  “What does it say?”

  “It’s addressed to you. But it has to be one of the last things she did. I wonder if she knew…”

  I had a bad feeling about the letter. When I made no move to take it, Mom set it down on the table between us. George appeared, and Mom automatically lifted him to her lap, stroking him into a state of boneless feline ecstasy. We talked about their plans for retirement, Dad’s latest train installation, my research (I talked, and Mom tried to look interested), both pretending we didn’t see that envelope. As Mom stood to leave, she deposited a disgruntled George on her vacated chair cushion. (Random question: would a happy George be “gruntled”? We’ll never know.) Mom looked once more at the unopened letter and shook her head. “Is there anything I should…take with me?”

  I keep jars of gravel out on the back porch in case I have a good touch day and can turn them into something valuable. But today I just laughed. Opening the back door, I showed Mom the stacked jars of mini-jelly beans. “Something useful at last!”

  After Mom hugged me—carefully, from behind—and disappeared down the ladder, I rolled up the ladder and stowed it on the porch so it couldn’t blow away. For a few hours I managed to avoid the letter on the table. Of course, that just means it loomed in my peripheral vision until it sucked up all remaining space in my little cabin. George’s eyes tracked me as he sprawled next to the letter, his only other sign of life the occasional tail twitch.

  “Fine.” I stomped over to the table. George blinked. “If you’re going to make such a big deal about it, I’ll open it.”

  George yawned.

  Inside the envelope was a sheet of stationery with an elaborate letter R at the top. The writing was spidery and seemed to involve lots of oddly capitalized words, but the penmanship was beautiful. I realized it was the first handwritten letter I’d received since the Tooth Fairy stopped leaving regular notes in Mom’s handwriting.

  “My dear Roulette.”

  I snorted, reading the spidery writing out loud to George. Nobody ever used my full name. Unimpressed, George circled the chair cushion and pretended to go to asleep.

  “I am writing to you because if my doctors have, for once, made a correct diagnosis, there is not much time left. Over the years, I have asked your father to send you to me, but he has always put me off. I’m guessing that was because the Family Gift has manifested, and you are converting things that you Touch. Many years ago, my great-uncle learned that rubber condoms could prevent change in things he Touched. (I never wanted to know how he learned that.) But when I learned the Goodyear Company was using the same process to produce gloves for surgeons, I ordered a set and was delighted to confirm that they had the same effect. That is why I sent them to you.

  “Your father never showed any signs of the Gift, which usually begins to appear with puberty. He was such a charming little boy, but I hear he still plays with toy trains. Personally, I believe it is because he never quite managed to grow a pair.”

  I blinked at the elegant, old-fashioned script. Yes, it did say that. I read on as the lines of cursive got fainter and slightly wobbly. George stretched extravagantly.

  “There are things you should know, but I don’t have enough time to tell you Everything. The first is that in each generation of our Family, at least one person can convert things that they touch. But there is no telling what they will Touch them into. One sign of who will get the Gift is that from an early age, they grow unusually tall. I myself am two inches over six feet, and I have heard that you have also attained an Impressive Height. For the most part, our gift amounts to a worthless Parlor Trick, although of course it has a profound effect on the person involved. In one case that has been documented, the Touch was a different Gift every day. That ended in Great Tragedy, but such a Dire Eventuality is extremely rare and hopefully will not concern you.”

  I put down the letter and pushed my chair back. Am I a “Dire Eventuality”? I made another cup of tea before returning to the letter.

  “I wonder what your Touch is? Mine is cats. If the items were inanimate, they become cat statues, but living things Touch into kittens. I remember once a Young Man who had come to fix my vacuum cleaning machine threatened to hurt me if I didn’t give him a large sum of cash. I believe I sent that kitten to your Mother.”

  I looked at George, who was engaged in a particularly thorough wash of his private parts. He didn’t meet my gaze.

  “Until about a hundred years ago, those with this Gift were forced to live completely solitary lives. But all that has changed. I’ve heard there is a place called Null City, where people with special Gifts can l
ive as normal humans. After their first day in Null City, their Gifts disappear, and they are free to share their lives—and their touch—with those around them.

  “I have given your telephone number to the grandson of one of my oldest friends and asked him to contact you. My friend knew she didn’t have long to live, and she was worried about her grandson being pressured to go into the Family Business. But his family has fallen on Difficult Times, and he cannot afford the fare to travel on the Null City Metro. However, as my Sole Heir, you will have more than sufficient funds to pay for tickets for both of you. If you wish, he will escort you to Null City via the Metro, its train connection.

  “My very dear Lette. It was my own vanity that made me delay in reaching out to you. I thought I had so much more time and foolishly hoped you would come to me. For that, I hope you will forgive a thoughtless old woman, and allow me to pass on hard-learned lessons. Our Family Gift is usually seen as a curse. Those who inherit it often spend their entire lives shut away—voluntarily or not—in a prison or tower or refuge. But please believe me. No matter how beautiful your tower, no matter how frightening the outside world may be, and no matter how dangerous you deem your gift: only you can make yourself its prisoner.

  With all my love and best wishes,

  Your Great great-aunt Roulette.”

   •●• 

  Text message from S_Krampus’ Phone 5:02PM, Oct 20, 2012

  “dEr R., My nAm iz Stefan & I’ve Bin snt by yor Aunt Roulette 2 rescue U.”

  “I don’t need rescuing. Go away.”

   •●• 

  Use Your Words

  LiveJournal, October 27, 2012 by LetteS

  —Lette’s Birth Date Calculator: 22 years, 9.3 months

  Over the past week, the texts from Stefan, the guy with the rescue complex, have gotten more frequent and less grammatical. Except for the occasional “Go away!”, I’ve been trying to ignore him.

  My touch was more random than ever this past week, turning things into needles, polka dots, chicken pot pie, okra, CDs of German art lieder songs, or velvet paintings of the queens of England. Actually, I have to admit, the pot pies were pretty good. And the polka dots and queen pictures perked up my bedroom. Even the needles didn’t take up that much space. But the okra and art lieder were just wrong.

  The texts from Stefan have tapered off at last, and today it’s time for another Saturday visit from Mom and Dad. Wait, there’s a text.

  “R U there? cn I come ^ 2 c u?”

  What—I’m the only one on the planet who knows how to type whole words? I have to go throw down the ladder for Mom.

   •●• 

  Text from Lette’s Phone 2:13PM, Oct 27, 2012

  “OMG Mom. A man just tried to climb into my cabin. I pushed him back off the porch, and he fell to the ground.”

  “Is he blond?”

  “Yes”

  “That’s not a man.

  “Well, actually, it is, but it’s the one your great-aunt Roulette sent. I texted him your address. You should probably let him in.”

  “Um…he might be dead.”

  “LETTE!”

  “Nope. He’s groaning. I guess I’ll have to go down there and help him. But Mom—what were you thinking? It could kill him if I touch him.”

  “Well, I’m guessing he knows that now. Let me know how he’s doing.”

   •●• 

  Use Your Words, Part 2

  LiveJournal, October 27, 2012 by LetteS

  —Lette’s Birth Date Calculator: 22 years, 9.3 months

  After I explained to Mom that a man was trying to climb onto my porch, and I’d knocked him down (twenty feet) to the ground, I closed my phone, grabbed my first aid kit, and climbed down the ladder. I was pretty nervous about approaching the man on the ground, so I put on a second pair of gloves just in case. He wasn’t moving, and I did my best, through two pairs of gloves, to feel along each of his limbs. I couldn’t find anything broken, probably because his fall had been slowed by all the branches he’d crashed through on his way down. But when I rolled him over, I saw a bloody gash behind one ear. I made a pad of bandages and was tying them onto his head when he opened his eyes. All of a sudden, I remembered cerulean blue from my color-touch day. Then his eyes rolled back in his head and he was out again.

  I thought about calling for an ambulance, but the nearest (volunteer) rescue would take at least an hour to reach us. Even so, it took me almost twenty minutes to bind up his head, drag him over to the winch, and then hoist him up to the cabin. I was panting by the time I finally wrestled him onto the bed and pulled my quilt over him, but he was still unconscious. I have to say, for a guy covered in blood and dirt, he sure smelled great—like citrus and leather. Turning to my (permanently-powered up) laptop, I googled “emergency treatment for head injury”. The results weren’t pretty, and I was back to the ambulance option. Luckily, by the time I turned back to the stranger, his head had stopped bleeding. I put a bag of frozen peas against it and stepped back.

   •●• 

  Text Message from Mom’s Phone 3:19PM, Oct 27, 2012

  “Is he dead?”

  “Not yet. He has a cut and a lump on his head. I put peas on it.”

  “What’s your touch today?”

  “Frogs. I only made a little one though, and I think George ate it.”

  “Be careful. Turning him into a frog would just be too big a cliché.”

  “Bye Mom.”

  Chapter Three

  I Don’t DO Visitors

  LiveJournal, October 27, 2012 by LetteS

  —Lette’s Birth Date Calculator: 22 years, 9.3 months

  I wondered what the stranger—his texts said his name was Stefan—looked like when he wasn’t getting dirt and blood all over my bed. Picking up a bowl of warm water and a towel, I dabbed at his face. What emerged was nothing short of spectacular. Blond hair swept back from a high forehead, and while his eyes were still closed, the rest of the pieces belonged on a fairy tale hero: late twenties, straight nose, lean cheeks, full mouth now relaxed in sleep, and about a mile of chin tapering to what I strongly suspected would be a cleft, maybe even an actual dimple.

  I thought I should check over the rest of him. Just, you know, to make sure he wasn’t hurt somewhere else. I lifted the quilt. Kind of hard to tell with his clothes all covered with mud and blood. I eased him out of his jacket, shirt, and jeans, all of which I put straight into my little washer/dryer.

  I do a lot of internet reading, so I’d been hoping wondering about commando, but to my disappointment relief, he was wearing a pair of boxers. I ran a hand down his abs—so that’s what they mean by six-pack—and along the muscle of his inner thigh. As far as I could tell, it looked like he was fine. My eyes fastened on the boxers. Really fine. As I reached for the boxers, he moaned. “Kinder!… Frech…” I dropped the towel, and grabbed the broom I’d left by the bed in case of emergency. As I tried to pull the quilt over him with one hand while holding the broom with the other, he muttered, “Legen… Sie…in meinem sack.”

  His eyes flickered and then opened. “Wha…?”

  I scooted back sideways, broom held up over my shoulder, knees bent, in my best seventh-grade, girls softball stance.

  He looked like he was trying to sit up, only to fall back with a groan. “What did you hit me with?”

  “The ground. Why were you trying to get into my house?”

  He closed his eyes for a moment and cautiously sat up. “I sent you a text. You dropped the ladder to me.”

  “I thought you were my mother!”

  He braced his elbows on his knees and cradled his head in both hands. “Yeah, I get that a lot.” A minute passed. Then he lifted his head. Blue eyes twinkled, he smiled, and yes, that was a definite cleft in his chin. And—Danger, warning Will Robinson!—an actual dimple in his cheek. I lowered the broom and dropped into a chair.

  He held out a hand. “Can we start over? My name is Stefan Krampus, and I’m
very pleased to meet you.”

  I stared at his hand. “What do you want?”

  “Maybe a drink of water?”

  Maintaining both eye contact and grip on the broom, I backed to the sink, filled the glass, and set it on the table next to the bed before edging away.

  “Thank you.” He drained the glass and looked up. “Lette?”

  I jumped. “What?”

  He laughed, held his head, and moaned. “Social skills not your strong point?”

  “I don’t get out much.”

  He tried to stand, and the tan on his face took on a greenish tint. I pointed to the door in the corner. “Bathroom’s that way.”

  “I don’t know if I can make it.”

  I sighed, put my shoulder under his arm, and helped him stagger to the bathroom. At the doorway, he tried a smile. “Are you going to help me…”

  I slammed the door in his face.

  By the time he finally came out, I was back in my bedroom throwing clothes and a bag of cat food cans into my old camping backpack. I backed to the other side of the bed. “You can stay here until you feel a bit better. The appliances and the heat will stay on, and there’s plenty of food. Mostly chicken pot pies and jelly beans, but you won’t starve. Oh, and your clothes are in the dryer. They should be done pretty soon.”

  Closing the pack, I picked up George. Then I set him right back down and wrapped him in a scarf so he couldn’t scratch me again. “You’re probably not well enough to leave, so I’m going. I’ll be back in a few days.” With George tucked between my shirt and my jacket, I backed toward the door. “You’ll be gone.”