Shattering the haze of anguish, Michael races into the room. His work shirt is wrinkled, the cuffs rolled up haphazardly. His face is flushed, and the dark bags under his eyes show that he’s been with Ches. People always tell Adrian how much he looks like his father, but Sloane doesn’t see it now. The wrinkles on Michael seem to be etched into the stone of his face. He seems shorter than usual, and his hair sticks up sporadically from his hands running it through repeatedly. He doesn’t notice the complete scene at first, not until he sees Adrian’s state and takes another look.
“Adrian, it’s Ches.” His strong jaw trembles.
Adrian stumbles over to his father. “What? What is it?” His voice is hoarse. Michael’s eyes drift to Sloane’s mother and the body. “Just tell me!” Adrian yells, shaking his father by the arms.
“He’s awake,” Michael chokes out, his mouth lifting into a smile. He lets out a rough laugh and draws Adrian into a tight hug. Adrian lets out an agonizing sound, half laugh, half sob, and his body shakes with each breath. A huge weight lifts off Sloane’s chest.
It worked. He’s alive.
A giggle gasps out of her, growing to a full laugh as her eyes well to the brim. She can’t believe it worked. Her stomach clenches as the laughter rolls out of her. She can’t inhale fast enough to keep up with the fit, so her chest begins to burn, but she welcomes it, relishing the pain. Tears stream down her face and into her mouth, only fueling the frenzy. But as the minutes tick by and the uncontrollable mania fades, there are only tears. Adrian has gone to see Ches. Her mother hasn’t moved.
A glance in the corner makes Sloane freeze; Sofia is staring directly at her. Sloane’s mouth falls open in shock, and her cousin sports a weak smile at the reaction. “You can actually see me?” Sloane breathes. Sofia lowers her eyes and nods slightly. Sloane looks over at her mother, who pulls the covers up around her body’s shoulders like she’s tucking her in. “She needs to know,” Sloane says. Without looking up, Sofia shakes her head. “You have to tell her I’m okay.” Sloane’s voice escalates.
Sofia refuses to meet her eyes. “I... I can’t.” She says it so softly that Sloane can barely hear.
“What a shameful time to pretend that you’re normal.” Sloane scoffs. Sofia turns away, and Sloane leaves, the scene dissolving around her.
Sloane feels powerful arms under her legs and shoulder blades. Her head lolls backward uncontrollably, her arm sways back and forth next to her. Her eyes flutter open, and she looks up at the shadowy figure carrying her. She works to say something but can’t form the words; the sounds are all stuck together, so she just lays still. She tries to stay awake but feels herself being lulled back to sleep by his steady steps.
SEPTEM
“So this slag fancies that she can just drop her fake rack and her yawn of a personality into my Tommy’s life, and he’ll just forget about me?”
Erim watches Raquel’s neon red acrylic nails flutter around. She presses her fingers under her eyes and pauses as if waiting for tears to come. They never do for Raquel. She sniffles to compensate and tries valiantly to continue.
“My poor Tommy is still recovering from losing me. He’s fragile. He’s grieving. My body’s barely cold, and this conniving ogre of a trollop thinks she can just totter in and steal him?” Raquel scoffs.
Erim drums his fingers on the arm of his chair, wondering how to best approach this without showing any of the inappropriate things he’s really thinking. It’s always difficult for him to restrain his amusement with Raquel. She’s always been ridiculous, and it would make Erim laugh if she wasn’t so unbearable. Erim doesn’t tempt himself, not even with the slightest smile, knowing it would be a slippery slope. As much as Erim believes Raquel could use a good mocking, even a snicker would be an inexcusable lapse in professionalism.
His ears suddenly relax at the silence of the room, and Erim realizes Raquel is waiting for his condolences. “Raquel, she’s your sister. Have you considered that her new relationship with Tommy has helped them both heal from your loss?” Erim asks.
Raquel’s bottom lip quivers, caked with bright fuchsia lipstick. “Who’s side are you on?” she bleats shrilly.
Erim’s not surprised that she takes great offense at his suggestion. People never express enough sympathy to satisfy her. Unfortunately, her doll-style makeup is so severe that it’s almost impossible for anyone to take her as seriously as she takes herself. Seven years after Raquel’s death, she’s still unable to stomach the fact that the world keeps turning without her glorious presence. She shows up to group every once in a while, taking Erim and everyone else as her captive audience. She drinks in the temporary spotlight, tapping her five-inch heels as she whines about how her family and friends have the audacity to live their lives.
“She’s always been a jealous little tart, my sister.” Raquel flips her long bleached hair back.
Erim’s grown numb enough to her drivel that it can fade to white noise. Often, he resorts to counting the rosettes on her faux cheetah jacket to pass the time. But Erim’s mind is never too idle to wonder what indispensable role souls like Raquel play in the truest plan. They must benefit the universe somehow, but the justifications seem pretty damn elusive as Raquel prattles on.
“My Tommy’ll see that she’s not after him for the proper reasons. She only wants him cause he’s suddenly all interesting now that he’s back out of jail.” Raquel leans back in a huff.
Suddenly, something twists in Erim’s stomach, the rush in his veins hums with instinct. He restrains a gasp at the bitingly abrupt sensation. Every nerve jumps to attention as the hairs on his arms lift. The water running down the nearby overhang begins to spasm and slosh erratically. It startles Erim as much as the rest of the group; he hadn’t meant to compel the water. The room quiets, or rather, Raquel does. Everyone looks to Erim, who grips the arm of his chair, trying to still the energy whirling within him.
Something peculiar is stirring.
Erim finds himself jogging down the corridor. He’s never really jogged for the necessity of speed, only for diversion or exercise. But speed feels necessary now; something’s wrong.
The unusual feeling is gone. It melted away almost as soon as it came, but he still needs to find the source. Erim’s sure that whatever is significant enough to cause such a disturbance will be obvious. He’s right. He doesn’t need to look farther than the clearing, where Dmitri is hastening through the thicket, carrying someone.
Sloane.
Erim can identify her immediately by her auburn waves fluttering in the breeze of Dmitri’s quick pace. Charlotte’s following beside him, multitasking commendably. She’s physically unable to keep up with his longer legs but is clearly determined to do so. She’s shooting an unending stream of questions at him while still being able to fret over Sloane.
“Dmitri! What happened?” Erim aligns himself with the traveling party, not keeping pace as well as Charlotte.
“I pulled her in from the egress.” Dmitri’s breath labors slightly, his military instinct focusing him like a laser.
A missing presence makes Erim skid to a stop. “Wait, where’s Ches?” He turns back towards the tunnel.
Charlotte’s small hand tugs him back with surprising strength. “Don’t bother, Erim.” Erim’s impulse resists her pull for a second; he hazards to imagine what Sloane will do if she wakes up to find Ches missing.
“She evicted him,” Dmitri says, halted ahead.
Erim’s breath slacks, his body stilling to stone. “She—what?” He glances down at Sloane, her head hanging back, shoes grazing together, and everything in between folded up like a paper crane in Dmitri’s arms.
“I saw it with my own eyes.” Dmitri nods.
“There’s no way,” Erim argues.
“I know.” Dmitri’s eyes are soft again, having emerged from the military myopia. The steady, fortifying resonance of his voice reengages Erim to the immediacy of the situation in Dmitri’s arms. “Come, brother, let’s get her settled.”
As he follows Dmitri towards the dormitories, Erim is reminded, not for the first time, of Dmitri’s place on his list. It’s a sort of game Erim’s played with himself for years: a list of souls who would be superior in his position. Dmitri’s at the top, of course. That’s why Erim made him Auxilium Anima. He has the people skills to do it. Dmitri may be a little reserved, but he has a natural leadership no one can deny. He can move anyone with calm words, firm actions to do whatever necessary. In this case, it’s getting Erim to move along so Dmitri can put Sloane down.
In Sloane’s room, Dmitri lays her in the bottom bunk. Erim slides a hand under Sloane’s neck and readjusts her head on the pillow, straightening what hadn’t rested properly. “She’s not used to using that much energy,” he says. “She’ll be alright after some rest.” Charlotte unlaces her shoes. Nim sniffs Sloane’s hand, dangling off the edge of the bed. Erim pulls Sloane’s wrist away, cautious that Nim might try to steal a finger or two. Erim places Sloane’s hand gently at her side as Charlotte pulls up the blanket.
“I should get Somboon,” Erim says, turning towards the door.
“I’ll go.” Dmitri claps Erim on the shoulder. The force puts more distance between Erim and the door, so Dmitri can step between them. “You stay with our Arc.” The nuance of that last word pricks up Erim’s ears, making him even more unwilling to stay.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go, Dmitri, you might get distracted by elderly who need to cross the street, or kittens stuck in trees, burning buildings—”
Dmitri makes a dismissive sound and clicks his tongue. “If you were at the tide, brother, you could have parted the water like Moses to get to her. It would have been much more impressive.” There’s an edge of laughter in his voice.
“There you go again, teaching us a lesson in humility and saving me from my own insecurities all at once.” Erim grins at him. “You deserve a medal. I’ll find you one on the way to Somboon’s.”
Charlotte grabs Erim’s shoulders and pushes him down onto the couch, her face reflecting Dmitri’s insistence. “Not getting out of it that easily, brother,” he says with a chuckle. “When she wakes up, you’re the one who should be here.”
Erim’s last interaction with Sloane wasn’t exactly civil, and he doesn’t even have a concrete explanation for her situation. He dreads the thought of standing there clueless when she wakes up. “I’m not trying to get out of anything.” Erim scoffs, crossing his arms. “You’re the one who went all white knight on her. Don’t you think it should be your face she sees first?”
Charlotte walks right up to Erim and snatches his chin, forcing him to look up at her. She brings her face so close, the edges of her big blonde curls tickle Erim’s cheeks. She surveys his face for a moment.
“And what’s so wrong with this face?” She narrows her stormy blue eyes. Dmitri laughs lightly.
Erim avoids her piercing gaze. “Well, for one, it doesn’t have Dmitri’s Superman jawline.” He sighs, rubbing his knee. Charlotte rolls her eyes and drops his face. Dmitri snorts, and Charlotte takes his outstretched hand, blending their fingers. “How am I supposed to compete with that powerful cleft chin?” Erim whisper-hisses as they shut the door.
Their footsteps recede, leaving Erim simmering on the sofa in the silence. No—not silence. Sloane’s breathing is there, soft but full. The even rhythm allows Erim to ease deeper into the softness of the couch.
Nim hops up daintily to join him, nuzzling her way under his hand. She curls next to his leg, and he strokes the dark spectrum of her back, dark to light.
The landscape of Sloane’s body stirs under the blanket. Erim stands quickly, the sudden fear of producing words tightening his chest. He takes a tentative step towards her, completely at a loss with what to do with his hands. After trying a couple of awkward positions, he decides it’s better just to have no arms and tucks them behind his back. Should he smile? No, that would be creepy. But a straight face might make him look angry. Dmitri’s look would probably be perfect, and he wouldn’t even spare a thought. It would just be natural. That’s why he’s on the list.
Sloane turns over towards Erim, her arm curling to cradle her head. He freezes, trying to come up with a better greeting than “hey.” Sloane twists the sheets between her ankles into a knot a sailor would be proud of. Her body slows again, still heavy with exhaustion, eyes sealed tightly. Erim tries to quiet his relieved sigh. He had no hope of saying anything suitable. Sloane’s lips part a little in her sleep, notably darker than her pale cream skin. Her eyes are settled wide, just above high, rounded cheekbones canvased with faint freckles. Long rusty eyelashes weigh down her lids. Her face looks peculiar with closed eyes.
There was a painting in Erim’s family home, one his mother supposedly loved. He remembers seeing it once when he visited, finally indulging years of curiosity. The painting depicted a young woman, a ballerina, sitting on the floor in her long blush tutu and pointe shoes. Her torso was bent over an extended leg as she stretched for class. The floor beneath her was smooth tan wood. The room was light, with faint sunshine streaming in from a large window behind her. Her brown curly hair was fraying from its bun; a few ringlets circled her cheeks.
The portrait had every intention of being lovely, except the ballerina was faceless. The other dancers around her were the same, stretching and talking—at least Erim suspected they were talking. He couldn’t be sure with their faces being blank flesh slates.
That’s what Sloane reminds Erim of. The absence of her striking, mismatched eyes seems to leave her incomplete like that eerily unfinished painting. It was the force of those eyes that captivated him when he first saw her. The flare in them made Erim believe Sloane unequivocally when she warned him she was stronger than she looked. A spark so bright, he had momentarily mistaken her eyes for the color of flames rather than the sage green and slate gray they are. The illusion certainly didn’t help Erim seem competent when they first met.
The enigma of her sews unease in Erim. First her unexpected arrival, and now this? There’s only one fundamental key that Erim’s training was meant to drill into him relentlessly, and that’s absolute faith in the system. It justifies anything that can’t be easily understood or explained. That philosophy has done Erim well enough until now, until her. She doesn’t fit into the system at all.
Erim notices a slight tension pulling between Sloane’s eyebrows, some sort of torment in her sleeping mind. It’s a vulnerability Erim suspects she wouldn’t let show if she were awake. It isn’t meant for him. He draws his gaze back. Erim joins Nim back on the couch and laces his fingers through her thick fur. He leans his head on his hand, trying to push the image of faceless ballerinas from his thoughts.
Erim wakes with the opening creak of the door. Nim’s soft, warm body slinks from between his arms to greet Charlotte at the door. Erim swings his body up, trying to widen tired, squinted eyes. The room’s become darker; the sun must almost be down. But there’s enough light to see the humorous glint in Charlotte’s eye that he fell asleep on duty. She leans over Sloane to check on her as Dmitri offers Erim his arm.
“Somboon will meet you out at the egress,” Dmitri whispers, pulling Erim to his feet.
Erim glances quickly at Sloane before he leaves. He’s undeniably relieved to pass his supervision to Charlotte and Dmitri; they’ll be better for Sloane’s adjustment when she wakes up. But as his hand finds the cool metal doorknob, he can’t deny that part of him is resistant to go.
When Erim reaches the egress, Somboon is overlooking the water. His posture is relaxed but his stance solid, like the sand beneath his toes, flattened by the receding tide. “I find myself continuously in awe of your view Erim.”
“I take it for granted,” Erim admits, planting his bare feet next to Somboon’s.
“A fault within everyone.” Somboon adjusts the layered orange cloth over his shoulder, pulling in his next breath of sea air. A small furry bundle beneath the robes of his chest stirs; Preeda waking fro
m a nap.
Erim’s sure that if he waits for Somboon to break the ensuing silence, they’ll actually start to grow old. “Somboon, I don’t know what to think of all of this.” The sun reddens as it inches towards the liquid horizon.
“She just brought the boy out here and did it herself?” Somboon’s gaze traces over the waves as they bend and break.
“Apparently,” Erim says, feeling the water drag out little stones, rolling them along the shore. “There’s no way she should know what an eviction is, let alone how to do one successfully. You know how long that takes.”
“Weeks.” Somboon nods.
“She wasn’t even a normal astray soul.” Erim grinds his jaw. “None of the Arcs were called.”
“Mmm.” Somboon pulls little Preeda from inside his shirt. He traces his small index finger up between her eyes, causing her beady eyes to blink slowly, drowsily.
Erim sighs. “Have you ever heard of anything like this happening before?”
“No,” Somboon says. “But nothing ever exists entirely alone; everything is in relation to everything else.”
Erim’s long been convinced that “Cryptic” is Somboon’s middle name. “It doesn’t concern you that none of this is normal?”
Somboon finally turns to Erim, his eyes misty from the beauty of the sunset. “Normal,” he repeats slowly, as if seeing how the word feels in his mouth. “Consider your religion studies, Erim. The Christians, Hindus, Muslims, Atheists, Buddhists, Jews. Theirs and every other spirituality has its own ideas of death: Heaven, Hell, reincarnation, resurrection, the bleak nothing. Once we arrive here, we learn that what they have in common is that they’re all mistaken. There are some elements of truth in each, and yet, not one school of thought has ever gotten it correct. If none of them could conceive of this,” Somboon waves his arm around, displaying the colors lighting the surrounding beach, “that means our home isn’t normal either.”
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