Mortal Sight

by Sandra Fernandez Rhoads

  “Sounds great.” I shove Milton back into hiding. “Need me to fill out an application?”

  A half smile highlights his stubble. “No need.” He glances at the front window. “I’ll check with my partner, but with your interests, that shouldn’t be a problem.” He stares at my bag. “I think you’re exactly what we’re looking for.” I swear there’s a knowing glint in his eyes, but I must be imagining things again. He couldn’t possibly know about Milton and me. “Bring the sketches this time tomorrow. If they’re good, we’ll add a nice finder’s fee.”

  “Tomorrow?” I sling my bag over my shoulder. “Yeah, sure.” As soon I agree, unease gnaws inside me. I’ve got twenty-four hours to either convince my mom about this opportunity or find her sketches behind her back and tell her afterward. I know how protective she is about her art.

  I smile and grab the door handle. Pushing my hip against the glass, I say, “Thanks, Mark. See you tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow.” He nods goodbye.

  Thunder rolls across the sky. My smile fades. I’d forgotten about the storm. I better hurry to the store and back home before the downpour unleashes its fury on me. As soon as I step onto the sidewalk, the crisp air slaps my cheeks. I clutch my jacket closed since the zipper is broken and lean into the wind. Despite the cold, fizzing happiness bubbles inside me.

  I’ve just been given an opportunity of a lifetime—a chance to change everything for us. I swear no matter what, I won’t let my panic attacks mess this up. I’m staying in Wakefield, even if it kills me.

  After picking up a few essentials at the store, I hurry home, jogging the few blocks along the edge of the woods before turning down my street. The road is empty except for random leaves crab-walking across the asphalt. A few parked cars litter the far end of the road, giving me a clear view to my house, fourth duplex on the left. It’s the faded pastel blue with a broken porch rail.

  Yes, I broke the rail. Totally on accident. I didn’t know the wood was rotted and I sat on it. End of story—except that I did try to fix it. Mom told me not to. Said the banging would draw too much attention and it was best to leave it alone. So there it sits.

  Another peal of thunder hammers the sky, a few drops fall, but still no drenching downpour. I head up the porch steps, skipping the splintered one. A large black feather rests on the doormat but blows away when I open the front door. The musty wood scent reminds me of my grandmother’s house, except hers didn’t have the decades-old cigarette smoke embedded in the walls. I don’t see Mom. It’s not until I accidentally step on that one creaky board in the living room that she calls from her room down the hall. “Cera?”

  “Yeah, Mom, it’s me.” I fluff the pillows on the couch and straighten the rickety coffee table. It takes everything I have not to spill the news about the job—yet. I’ve decided not to surprise her until after she’s selected as an artist for the gallery. She’s always making sacrifices for me. It’s time I do something nice for her in return.

  Mom shuffles down the hall. “Where were you?”

  “Ran to the store.” I hold up the bag to support my partial truth—it’s the least volatile of my morning events. I adjust a picture on the wall and open the blinds, brightening the room, despite the stormy sky.

  “You shouldn’t be outside.” Mom stops at the end of the hall and rests against the frame for support. She frowns at the open blinds. Clutching her robe, she makes her way toward the window. “What brought this on?” She closes the blinds.

  “Oh, nothing much.” I pick up a water glass and breakfast plate and head to the kitchen. “Just—”

  “You were with the neighbor, weren’t you?” The room is dark again. “You know better. Don’t—”

  “Draw attention, I know.” I toss my bag on the counter before unloading the soup and bread into the cabinet. “Jess needed help.”

  Mom follows me to the kitchen and leans against the counter, hemming me in the tight space. “I love your heart, but what’s going to happen when we leave? She can’t get attached and you can’t either.”

  “Can’t we ride it out this time?” I tidy up the ceramic jar of cooking utensils. “This is one of the nicer—and safer—places we’ve stayed. It’s quiet, artsy, and . . . I kinda like it here.”

  Mom sours at my comment. “That’s not possible, and you know it.” She coughs. Mom’s health hasn’t been all that great lately. Moving isn’t the best thing for her either.

  I work hard to keep the excitement from leaking through my voice. “What if I . . . got a job? I could work part-time so you could go to the doctor for that cough. It’s getting worse. And . . .” I look down and pick at my middle nail. “Maybe I could see one too.”

  Mom works hard to stifle another cough. She takes my hands. Hers are cold, but velvety soft. “Cera, a job isn’t an option for you. And you know we’ve tried doctors. They don’t help.” She cups my cheek with her palm making me feel like a helpless little girl. “We’re a week away from your birthday. Once the attacks are triggered, they won’t stop until we move.”

  She’s convinced that my panic disorder, in addition to mold exposure, pollen, or you-name-it, is also tied to trauma triggered from Dad walking out on us ten years ago on my seventh birthday. I pull away from her and wad the grocery sack in my fist before stuffing it in the top drawer. “We’ve never stayed anywhere long enough to find out if I’ll actually have more than one episode. For all I know I have an attack once around my birthday every fall and that’s it. I can handle one attack per year. No big deal.”

  Mom crosses her arms. “Maybe one day things will be different but for right now . . .” She must see the disappointment in my face because her eyes soften, “It’s what works, what keeps—”

  “Me safe. Yeah, I know. But I still don’t see why.” My phone buzzes in my bag. Mom eyes my purse on the counter, raising one suspicious brow. I fish around and yank out my phone. Frankly, I’m just as surprised as Mom. It’s a local call. “No one has this number but you.” And Mark from the gallery. I shrug. “Probably a misdial.” Before she can question me, I scoop up my bag. “I’ve got a paper due.” I swerve around her before heading down the hall. Mom locks her suspicious glance on me. It’s not a total lie. Her drawings are on paper and I told Mark I’d bring them in tomorrow. The phone vibrates in my palm again. When I’m out of Mom’s visual range, I glance at my phone. The caller has left a message.

  Closing the door to my room, I fumble to play back the message and then press the phone tight against my ear. “Hey, it’s Mark. My partner wants to meet you and . . . to see the sketches as soon as possible. Can you come back by later today? Call or text and let me know you got this.”

  There’s just one problem. Two, actually. Mom indirectly vetoed my getting a job, and I’ll have to wait until she leaves for work before I can rifle through her room for the sketches.

  I text back because Mom’s supersonic, echolocation ears will hear me if I make a call: Hi Mark. Got your message. Getting sketches tonight. Bring them tomorrow a.m.? My fingers shake as I hit send, hoping that’s not a deal breaker.

  In less than a blink, he’s replied with two thumbs up: See u then.

  I plop on my bed with a big exhale and stare at the ceiling. What am I thinking? This will never work. But maybe it can. I really want it to. The chance to sketch professionally would be great for Mom. It would be great for the both of us. Of course, the timing couldn’t be worse, this close to my birthday when Mom’s senses are on high alert, but . . . maybe I can pull it off. And if her sketches aren’t chosen, and I have an attack like I always do, then . . . I guess we’ll probably move. Again.

  I glance over at my closet door where I’ve taped up one of Jess’s crayon drawings. She’s colored every inch of the paper with a cerulean sky overlooking a black lake surrounded by lush hills. My chest tightens. Abandoning Jess feels wrong. I’m not my father. I won’t walk out on people who depend on me. No matter how things turn out with the sketches, I have to fight to stay.

>   I slip the copy of Paradise Lost out of my bag. The poem helps me feel . . . well, not so crazy and alone. Sure, it’s archaic, written roughly five hundred years ago and isn’t some scientific article or case study, but strangely enough, the words describe exactly what I’m going through.

  Flipping through a few pages, I imagine John Milton standing with quiet authority, patiently waiting for me to pick up on the meaning, the same way my old English teacher would do when I’d stare out the window. I stop on a page where I’ve circled and highlighted the verses:

  Shine inward and the mind through all her powers

  Irradiate; there plant eyes; all mist from thence

  Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell

  Of things invisible to mortal sight.

  No doubt, Milton, you describe what happens in my panic attacks in a way that no one else seems to understand. That first line, Shine inward is the bright light shining in my mind when the episode hits—and yes, all mist from thence purge and disperse is the smoky mist of my mind dissolving so I can see what comes next. Things invisible to mortal sight. But this part stumps me. When the mist in my mind disperses, it shows random broken images, not “things invisible.” Unless you’re talking about hallucinations?

  I see misty shadows out of the corner of my eye every now and then, but I’ve only had a hallucination one time. I imagined a black bird the size of a bear perched in the woods, but that was a long time ago. It was right after my first attack and I was seven, so my memory of it is a bit hazy. Even if I’m wrong and the poem doesn’t hold the answer that unlocks my cure, just imagining that I’m not alone—that someone understands me—has been a great coping device.

  Then, like a slap in the back of the head, Milton hurls a random verse through my brain, as he often does. “Thou hast seen one world begin and end . . .” Yes, my world always begins and ends every year when I move to a new town, I know. I flip through the poem to match his voice with the words on the page. I read on, hoping there’s something to quell the lingering rawness in my gut. “Much thou hast yet to see . . .”

  The wind howls through the cracked glass as heavy raindrops splatter on the roof. I peer out the window through the sheets of rain. Seeing. That’s the answer isn’t it, Milton? My heart races with certainty. But what am I supposed to see?

  I spend the rest of the rainy day waiting for Mom to go to work so I can search for the sketches, which isn’t easy because I hate waiting. Patience is high on my work-in-progress list. When it gets close to the time Mom usually leaves, I slip out of my room and head to the kitchen to heat up the can of soup I bought for her—the good kind with chunks of real chicken.

  As Mom trudges down the hall, I pour the steaming soup in a bowl and slide it across the counter. “Made you dinner.”

  “Thank you.” She eases onto the barstool with a stifled groan. Her face is pale and her eyes dark, but even still, she has this graceful elegance about her I wish I had. As she eats, I execute my rendition of culinary brilliance for my own meal: a toasted cheese sandwich and apple slices with the bruises cut out.

  “I hope the rain lets up soon,” I say. If the downpour continues, Mom will be drenched by the time she gets to the train.

  She lifts the spoon to her lips and blows the steam away. “I think I’ll call out sick today.” The dull knife slips on the apple skin and grazes the side of my thumb.

  “Really?” I work hard to keep my voice even. “You never do that.” I run my hand under cold water as I wash the knife so Mom doesn’t notice the blood. She must suspect something’s up because her hawk eyes don’t let up as she takes another sip. I suppose I’m not doing a great job at being subtle. First cleaning up the house, now making her dinner . . . I grip the dishrag, applying pressure on the cut.

  “A day of rest might do me some good.” As she finishes dinner, the spoon clinks against the bowl, sounding about as hollow as my stomach.

  “Rest is good. You can stay here and relax and draw the way you used to.” I pull back the towel and inspect my thumb. The cut looks okay, only throbs a little. “I could grab the sketchbooks from your room.” Brilliant plan, Cera. Sometimes, I amaze myself.

  Mom shakes her head. “You know I don’t draw anymore.” She stifles a cough.

  I gingerly take the burnt bread from the toaster with a knife. “Would you? If you didn’t have to work? You’re a great artist. You even studied in Paris.” It’s where she met Dad, but I know better than to mention that fact.

  Mom forces a weak smile as she dabs the corner of her lips with a napkin. “That was a long time ago.” She pushes away from the counter. “Thank you for the soup. I’ll be in my room.”

  I slap a piece of hard cheese on the burnt bread. Great. Just great. Now I’ll have to ask her outright. I nibble a bit of the apple slice as my mother lumbers toward the hall. “Mom?” My pulse flares. “Can I have one of your drawings?”

  Her shoulders stiffen as she makes a half turn and searches me with laser-like scrutiny. “Why this sudden interest in my art?”

  I swallow and take another bite of apple, chewing methodically while I fish for an answer she’ll believe. “You never show me.” I shrug, trying to downplay my desperation. “You have me study classical art, but I’d like to see your work. I want something to hang in my room, that’s all.”

  Her eyes harden. Somehow she always picks up on my insincerity. Surprisingly, she doesn’t call me out. “They’re not worth showing anyone. Just scribbles.” Her voice cracks as she continues making her way down the hall. “Don’t stay up late.” She closes the door to her room.

  Asking her outright didn’t work. Rifling through her stuff isn’t going to happen. So much for surprises. Now I’ve got no choice but to come clean and tell her about the opportunity and hope that she’ll agree. But I’m not poking the bear tonight. I may be relentless, but I’m not stupid. I’ll wait until morning when she feels better.

  Claws scrape the shingles, jolting me out of bed. I sit up in a cold sweat as soft light cracks through the blinds. Calm down. It’s probably a squirrel. As I throw on a T-shirt and my nicest pair of jeans, my copy of The Prince falls on the floor. Ah, Machiavelli, my short-lived obsession that ended when I met Milton.

  I open the top drawer, push some clothes aside, and tuck Machiavelli near a volume of English Romantic poets. That particular book currently houses the only item I have that belonged to Dad—a small, cracked vinyl record of a Beatles song with the phrase “ma belle,” the nickname Dad called me. He used to play that song, singing at the top of his lungs as he swung me in his arms, dancing around the room. If Mom knew I still had the record, she’d make me throw it away, even now that he’s dead. All these years I’ve managed to keep it hidden. Right now it’s tucked between the pages of Lord Byron’s poetry—another brief obsession. I shut the drawer and swipe Milton out from under my pillow. Mom’s door is still closed. I sneak by as quietly as possible, determined to let her sleep, and go outside.

  The morning air is crisp, a lot colder than just yesterday. “Hey there, Jess.” I jog down the steps. “You ready?”

  Jess sits on the bottom step, fidgeting with a plastic container. “You’re trying to break out of the bubble house again.” She adjusts the lid of the makeshift terrarium that houses her lima bean family. Over a week ago she came home with a project from school in plastic cups and tried to plant the little guys. I found a two-liter soda bottle, cut the bottom and refit the top to make a protective “bubble” house. Jess named the beans while we planted them. The little vibrant bud is her. The sickly yellow one is Mom, and sure enough mine is the crooked stalk pushing against the crack in the lid.

  “Hey, your stalk is looking stronger.” I set my bag on the splintered step and kneel beside her. “Look how big it’s gotten.”

  “I guess.” She rests her freckled cheeks in her bare hands and stares at the seedlings.

  “Did something happen? Want to talk about it?”

  “Not really.” She scratches a
bug bite on her wrist.

  An icy breeze sneaks under my jacket. “Then let’s head to school so you’re not late.” I stand up and tuck my hands in my coat pocket, feeling my pair of wadded-up gloves. I can handle the cold but Jess’s hands are already flaked and red. The autumn air will be freezing by tomorrow and I doubt she has any gloves. I hand my pair over. “Here, take these for later.”

  “Thanks.” Jess stands up and takes the gloves.

  “They’re probably too big, but you can grow into them,” I say, watching her wiggle her fingers into them. The extra fabric at the end of her tiny fingers flops as she stretches out her hands, inspecting the gift.

  “Perfect.” She flashes me a grin, holding her smile longer than necessary.

  I realize why. “Whoa, did you lose a tooth?”

  “Two,” she says, but not as proud as I expected, given her grin.

  “Two. That’s a big deal!” I bend down to get a better look.

  “It is when they come out on their own, I guess, but not when someone trips you and you knock them out on a bookcase. Aunt K says the tooth fairy doesn’t pay for those.”

  “Well, maybe she’ll make an exception.”

  She shakes her head. “She didn’t.” Jess pulls off a glove and digs into her pocket. “See?” She holds out something that looks more like two small pieces of popcorn than teeth.

  “Hmm,” I say. Her smile disappears as she hides the teeth back inside her pocket. “But . . . there’s something you didn’t know.” I pick up my bag and reach inside for the last of my crumpled money. “The tooth fairy left this at my house. She can’t go against your aunt’s house rules, so she asked me to make sure you got this.”

  Her eyes widen at the few dollars sitting in my palm. I unfold her cold fingers and stuff the money in her sticky hand.

  “Really?”

  I nod because I don’t want to verbally lie to her again.

  Jess stands as straight as possible. “The gift shop is selling pencils that smell like watermelon.”