Ophelia Immune: A Novel

by Mattson, Beth

  Mom was turning the soil in the vegetable garden with a hoe, weeding. Dad was sitting in a chair on the porch, fiddling with the inside of a pump motor and some fancy, bronzed wrenches. Hector was standing in the middle of the Yard, long and lean, chopping wood. He was so tall and skinny, almost as tall as Mom but with Dad’s rippling muscles that glinted in the sun. A beautiful boy, almost a young man. A year in charge of my Wood Pile had done him good.

  Standing next to him was a girl, almost a young woman, who was almost as tall as he was. Maybe she was a Neighbor, maybe she was a Friend. Maybe she was his future betrothed. She bent her arm like a willow and lobbed ripe fruit at him on her way to carry an apron full of apricots up to the Kitchen. Mom stood up to receive them, now showing her round belly, as full as a moon, ready to give me another sibling.

  I longed to run into Mom’s arms and lay there, having her pet my head and tell me stories of Shopping Malls and Homecoming Dresses. I touched my hair, imagining her fingers, but it wasn’t long anymore. There was no place for her braids or barrettes. There was no room for me in her lap. I thought of Dad running at my stumbling form and killing me like the grey and green zombie that I was, still not knowing who I was. Not recognizing me until it was too late, until I had stained his new wrenches.

  I pictured the apron-ed girl not as a Neighbor, but as a purchased Wife – an early gift to my Brother and the Farm, an ill-conceived plan to give her a home while she grew up to make babies alongside the new livestock. I pictured my unborn sibling jumping on my lap for a story, catching my sneeze in her eyes and becoming Infected just in time for the Cure to reach Nasmyth. I could kill them all the way that I had killed Swan and Juliet. I thought of Kite and how I would never find fingers that could touch me safely or nicely ever again. If I went to my Family, I would have to tell them what I had let happen to Juliet, what had not happened to Juliet. I couldn't forgive myself. Neither would they. I was lost. I was Alone.

  Getting bitten like Immogen hadn't been my answer to escaping life. Sparing Juliet and working for a Cure hadn't eliminated horror. Kite hadn't saved me. I hadn't saved her. The girls had each other to take care of. Jim and the Scientists and Artists saved Humans. I had only myself, a malignant abomination waiting to see who I killed next.

  Perhaps it should be me.

  I lay down in the stream. I let the water swirl around and over and through me, sinking into the silt of the bottom, holding me, firmly, gently. No expectations. No struggles. The water ran into my nose and my throat. The burbling drowned every other noise from my ears. I couldn’t hear the wood chopping or the crabapple sauce simmering. My head was awash. My feet still and restful. Perfectly full. Stars visible on the backs of my eyelids. The sand cradled my shoulder blades softly.

  When something tickled my arm, I hoped that it was a dream, a dream with everything Warm and clear, all my Sisters around me. I cracked one eye open and moaned through the bubbles. It was a fish. A silver, pink-bellied fish, swimming away downstream. I sat up, the water not able to wash me away. I couldn't be with my Family, and I couldn't drown either.

  I had been freed. Released. I had no one left to take care of but myself – my own temperature, my own skin, my own path through the woods. That was the next thing. If I wanted to curl up around my camp fire for hours at a time, in a little ball of woe, I could. If I decided to climb to the top of a tree and recite poetry, I didn't have to tie anyone up first. Nor find food. Nor raise awareness.

  I followed the sparkling Salmon.

  Maybe I could forgive while I wandered. I could head South where it was warmer and make myself a Cabin with a gigantic fireplace. I could build myself a waking dream until I decayed. I could figure out how to avoid the Cure and learn to make paper by spreading paste over a screen. I would mail away orders for pencils and Books. I could turn my walls into libraries and send valentines to the girls, the Fisherwomen, and Jim in the City. I could prepare reading lessons for my new Brother or Sister. I could stay far away but send my Love and apologies.

  When night fell, I plodded out of the stream and dried my puffy cheeks. I snuck into a sleepy farmhouse without even a wakeful cat to notice me. I stole their only notebook, their half-empty ink pen, and the last handful of coins that was in their bureau. I sat in the low moonlight of their barn, penning a short letter, also stealing the Warmth of their sheep who huddled around me. I folded my words into an envelope, addressed my promises to my Family, kissed it goodbye, said that I was sorry, and dropped my peace into a mailbox on the road South.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to the best editor, brew master, life raft sailor, and Dungeon Master ever, Charlie Schams.

  Thank you to my team at California College of the Arts, especially the brilliant and beautiful Aimee Phan and Tom Barbash.

  Thank you to Sonia Belasco, who is always interested in collaborating, no matter how silly, terrifying, or infuriating the project.

  Thank you to Nan Enstad, for always being interested, supportive, and engaged.

  Thank you to Elizabeth Ames Staudt; I too wish this was scratch’n’sniff.

  Thank you to Alexey Kotolevski, for being a very scary visual artist badass.

  Thank you to Mrs. Sue Erickson, for sixth grade writing enthusiasm, even if it was about an illustrated “Underwear Tree.”

  Thank you to my besties, for reading, laughing, holding, sipping, keeping things on track, and for having wild, beautiful, disgusting ideas, always: Imin Yeh, Emily Long, Nidhi Kashyap, Lynnea Neilsen, Heidi Nielsen, April Manning, Lola Dvorak, Phin Matouka, Diane Berry, Nicole Kahn, Jessica Harrison, and more of you than I can possibly hug before my arms fall off.

  Thank you to Mama Bear, Elizabeth Macaulay, for giving me permission to be ferocious.

  Thank you to my entire family of crazy artists, who not only never minded when insane art was happening alongside stable pursuits, but actively encouraged it. There are not enough thanks I can offer in this department, for the curiosity, the food, the roof, the literacy, the love, the life itself. Jan, Bob, and Jon Mattson, I literally would not be here without you. Thank you.

  Thank you to Charlie and Eleanor, for being my hearts.

  Beth Mattson is a mother, poet, and teacher living in the driftless region of Wisconsin.

  You can find Beth at BethMattson.com

  You can find Ophelia at OpheliaImmune.com