by S. L. LUCK
Edward and Lillian Leveque, married for fifty-nine years, strode as fast as their failing hips would take them toward Nikonha, wanting to speak to her first so that they might also be the first to sit. June’s short fingers, clasped around a jar of freshly made crab apple jam, stretched to Nikonha, who graciously accepted the gift. Edward produced an eagle feather of his own from a leather pouch near his hip, the tremor in his blue-veined hands jittering the feather until Nikonha gently received it in her open palms.
“The eagle doesn’t fear.” Edward’s deep voice carried throughout the pavilion. “We must be like the eagle.” The others around him nodded their agreement. Now he addressed Dak and Wendy. “I felt the evil you are talking about. They waited until my head was bowed and my eyes were closed and then they went for me.” Edward pulled up his coat sleeve, where an angry red welt was braceleted around his wrist. “They tried to pull me down, but I was stronger. I shook them off with my determination. There is a war approaching, and we cannot run from the battleground, Dakota. June and I will stay here as long as you need us.”
Cherie Farmer, Russell Honyoust, and Georgina Poodry, whose eyesight began deteriorating three decades earlier, requested closer inspection of Edward’s wrist. He instantly obliged by thrusting his arm under their noses. Their intake of breath was felt among all of them, like berries from the same vine. Collectively they soured, doubling their attention to the invisible things around them, agreeing to stay nearby should they be needed while Dak returned to his duties at the breakfast tent.
Across the field, Dak walked with his sons. He couldn’t help but reach for them, appreciating how fine they’d turned out to be, knowing he’d give his life to protect them. Usually they blushed at his attention, but now they accepted his arms on their shoulders, and it was wild-timing Johnny who said, “I love you, Dad.”
“You planning on going somewhere?” Dak asked, frightened by the deeper significance of Johnny’s declaration.
“Not for a long time.”
“Good.” Dak squeezed him.
Just before they got to the tent, they embraced. They hadn’t had a group hug since the boys were toddlers, and the memory of his sons clamoring over each other in their pyjamas to get at him constricted his throat and drew tears from his eyes. He held them tight, knowing the lone silhouette standing just outside of the pavilion was Wendy, watching them from afar. He waved. When she waved back, he let their boys go. “I’ll only be in here for a little while,” he told Jesse and Johnny, wiping his face. “I’ll meet you at the staging area once I’m done but, I beg you, if you see that woman, stay the hell away from her, you hear me?”
“I’m not going anywhere near her,” Johnny said, holding up the hand with two missing fingers.
“We’ll keep an eye out,” Jesse told his father, and they parted.
35
In the back area of the breakfast tent reserved for volunteers, Anabelle groaned as yet another gaping woman begged her parents to let her take a picture of “Garrett’s miracle girl.” Her father explained that Anabelle would rather be left alone, to which the woman acquiesced by indecently snapping a picture over his shoulder anyway. Anabelle figured that by the time she finished breakfast, her picture would be tucked inside every cellphone in the city, but she went on nibbling at her food, furious that her continued release had been predicated on a PR stunt. As far as Anabelle was concerned, she was voting against the attention-hoarding asshole in the next election, and she brooded on this as she choked down her pancakes.
The call from the Prime Minister’s office two days earlier had surprised her parents, but little surprised Anabelle anymore, not even Robbie’s sudden devotion. They’d been seeing each other exclusively for only a few short months, and Anabelle had yet to declare her love for him because she didn’t love him, and maybe never would. Only, since she’d been released Robbie insisted on declaring his love for her. Over and over and over again. His puppy dog sadness when she didn’t respond likewise annoyed Anabelle to the point that she unintentionally zapped Robbie when he tried to rub her back. Though he squealed in pain, she felt not even a little guilty when she told him the electric blanket they were lying under must have been defective. Adoringly, Robbie believed her.
Now, as he sat beside her with his hand on her leg, she didn’t mind his attention. The bitches with whom she’d graduated high school congregated at the closest table, eying Robbie ravenously, if only for his proximity to the most famous person in the city. Lauren Hunt, Meg Wilmingdon, and Addison Farrah—all in a constant state of preening in case members of the media arrived—winked at Robbie, then waved ingratiatingly with their pinky fingers at Anabelle whenever they could catch her attention. Anabelle made a point of waving to everyone behind the sycophantic trio, going as far as shaping a heart with her hands and raising it to Clara Piggle, the sweet but desperately nerdy trumpet player in Garrett High’s choir assembly.
Through it all, Anabelle could not ignore the evil beings around them. The ones that had surrounded her in the hospital now collected here, hissing and scratching on the table, on diners’ laps, around ankles, on top of their food. The black pits of their eyes were trained on Anabelle, only on Anabelle, following her every movement, her every breath. They knew her secret and, like every boy in her eleventh-grade class, wanted to excise a singular piece of her power for the authority it bestowed.
As she had in the hospital, Anabelle zapped these creatures, presently doing so with a cough, a sneeze, a scratch, so that the working of her fingers was unremarkable to all who should see. Since her release, she’d practiced her new skill whenever she was alone and came know the depth of her reach. She knew, for instance, that she could fry Addison Farrah’s long blond hair or melt Meg’s ridiculous sunglasses like an egg cracked on the top of her head if she wanted to. Small advantages, but no less appealing.
On a small stage in the adjacent tent, Garrett’s own Ten Fingers from Heaven began their first set of the day. Lead singer Sidney Hayes bid the volunteers and parade participants a glorious morning, then her smooth, rhythmic voice suffused her listeners with a serenity not experienced in weeks. Cups were cradled to chests, ears were lifted to melody, and a great many shoulders swayed between first and second helpings. It wasn’t until her mother tapped her hand that Anabelle realized she was speaking.
“Huh?” she asked.
“I said ‘Dr. Huxley is asking how you’re feeling’.” Her mother gestured to the doctor sitting at the end of the table.
He was so quiet Anabelle had almost forgotten about him, and she gave him credit for his discretion. It was obvious the doctor was as uncomfortable with babysitting Anabelle as she was because he made a considerable effort to minimize his presence. Until this morning, his visits had been scheduled at her home twice daily to ensure there was no recurrence of what he called “her curiosities.” His examinations were thorough but brief, and not once had he suspected she still had more energy in her body than an atomic bomb. She didn’t know how she knew this, only that in the middle of the night when she couldn’t sleep, she had wandered onto her back deck for some fresh air and—with the city sleeping and no one to spy on her—Anabelle had targeted a maple tree five blocks away at the bottom slope of their community. With a twitch of her finger, she’d obliterated the fifty-foot tree into a splintering of toothpicks.
“Anabelle?” Dr. Huxley asked now. “Are you okay?” He rested his fork on his plate but made no move toward her. Anyone looking on might think of the doctor as a concerned uncle or older relative, and for that she was grateful.
“I’m fine. It’s just a lot to take in,” she admitted. “I was just thinking about how my grandparents loved this pancake breakfast. My Grandpa Earl always brought his own syrup with him. One cup syrup, one cup whisky, together in a flask. He said it was the only way real men ate pancakes.” She laughed and her parents joined in.
“That’s right.” Her father pounded the table with his fist, recalling his father-in-law trying to get
him drunk on syrup at the festival breakfast each and every year.
Huxley looked down at his plate; his own pancakes were suddenly less appetizing. “I’ll never look at pancakes the same way again,” he said.
William clapped Huxley on the back. “Next time you’re over, we’ll make you some with the real syrup.”
“It’ll have to be a warm day so I can walk home,” Huxley reasoned. Then he said to Anabelle, “After being stuck with me for so long, it must feel good to get out, huh?”
“It feels weird,” she agreed.
Huxley nodded. “That’s normal. I haven’t had a patient yet who spent as much time as you had in the hospital and felt normal returning to regular life. The feeling passes before you know it. And once you don’t have to see my ugly mug every day, you’ll feel even better.”
His paternal smile warmed her. “You know, you’re not so bad for a doctor.”
“I’ll tell the others you said that,” Huxley joked. “All kidding aside, you’re a hell of a trooper, with all we put you through.”
Robbie’s hand rose from her leg and slipped around her neck. “She’s amazing, isn’t she?”
Inside, Anabelle cringed, suppressing the urge to zap Robbie’s stifling hand into the next province. She realized their breakup was inevitable, but it was too much work for her to consider at the moment. She had other demons to wrestle, the real kind, and she didn’t need Robbie complicating things any more than they already were. “I’m just glad it’s over,” she said to Huxley, leaning forward to eat over her plate so that Robbie would be obliged to release his grip on her.
Susan said, “We’re all glad it’s over, hun.” She touched the small hairs at the base of Anabelle’s ponytail. “Dad and I were thinking that after the festival is over … what do you say if we all go on a vacation somewhere? Get away from it all for a few weeks. Hawaii might be nice, or somewhere more exotic like Spain or … oooo! You’ve always wanted to visit Greece. We can book the trip this week. What do you think?”
Anabelle’s desire to travel conflicted with the demands of her education; she was already three weeks behind. The university had been gracious enough to allow her an exemption on her midterm exams as long she completed the assignments she’d missed, even offering a tutor to help get her back on track. They, too, knew the world would be anticipating her return to school and were doing everything they could to accommodate Canada’s golden child.
Although Anabelle was ready to return to her studies, she knew the endeavor would be impossible with the spirits lurking everywhere she went. They debated the idea until Dr. Huxley said he would talk to the school and try to work out an arrangement for Anabelle to complete the remainder of the semester remotely. As far as her parents were concerned, this was a brilliant idea, and they began discussing their travel plans. They didn’t know that as they deliberated between Bora Bora and Athens and Waikiki and Barcelona, Anabelle couldn’t help but wonder if she would live the rest of her life like a human insect zapper.
She was sipping the latte Robbie had brought for her when a cramp caused her to wince. She dropped her fork and turned to the entrance—where the nurse-killer appeared. Lauren, Meg, and Addison’s attentions went instinctively to the handsome lawyer, who was shaking the hand of a departing Perry Searles. The group of swooning middle-aged women huddling nearby stepped aside to let Perry out and Troy in when Anabelle realized that on his murderous arm was the hand of her old crossing guard. A rush of whispers muffled the sound of the music while an interior wind was produced by the sudden fluttering of eyelashes, the constriction of stomachs, and the expansion of breasts. Inattentive husbands and boyfriends, sensing the gale force of foreign masculinity, scrambled to fill their partners’ plates and cups to keep them from wandering too far.
Hoping to avoid Troy, Anabelle stood and made the feeble excuse that she wanted to relax before the parade, but it was too late. Her father’s thick arm was already up and waving Troy and his mother toward their table.
“Sit for five minutes and then I’ll come with you,” her mother instructed with a gentle hand on her wrist. Reluctantly, Anabelle returned to her place beside Robbie, who wrapped a protective arm around her waist. This time she didn’t try to force him away.
In a few short moments, arrangements were made at the table. Plates and bodies were hastily shuffled, and Anabelle was squished against Robbie’s lap by the time they were finished. Her new self sensed Troy’s movement toward the table like the pull of a magnet. Then he and his mother were lowering themselves onto the plastic chairs directly across from her. A voltaic panic rose from her toes to her intestines to the spongy flesh of her lungs until every part of her was on edge, fully charged. Clutching her empty coffee cup, Anabelle pretended to sip, if only to have something to do while she tried extricating the unwanted vision of Troy’s hands around the nurse’s neck. Around him, the demons receded to the periphery, still there but impelled away like pepper water from soap.
Anabelle noticed that at the sight of the lawyer, Dr. Huxley grew noticeably uneasy. Politely nodding a stiff greeting, the doctor tried to hide his animosity by keeping his mouth full so Troy wouldn’t be compelled to speak to him, and Anabelle made a mental note to insist her parents discontinue the lawsuit against the hospital. She didn’t want or need any money. She only wanted to be as far away from Troy as possible.
“I see you’ve brought company,” Susan said warmly of Sylvia, whose overly made-up face shone bright with peach lipstick and heavy matching blush.
Troy smiled at his mother. “She’s never missed a year.”
Clutching her wicker bag, the old woman said, “I hope I’m not intruding. I haven’t gone out much since my stroke, and Troy was kind enough to offer to take me today.” The duality of her voice—warming like freshly-baked oatmeal cookies yet chilling like a tarantula on the back of a neck—turned Anabelle’s stomach. From left to right, Anabelle watched to see the others’ reactions, but her parents and Robbie seemed enamored with the grandmotherly apparition. Dr. Huxley, though, stopped chewing and tilted his head as if he hadn’t heard quite right.
“Not at all. Not at all” Her father waved the woman’s concern away. “Glad you could join us. You know, your son has been so helpful to us since the accident, meeting us at all hours. I worry we’ve got him too tied up, but I suppose over a good breakfast like this isn’t the worst time to chat.”
“A man’s got to eat,” Troy said, and Anabelle felt that pull again. “Speaking of which, I better get us some plates before it’s gone. What would you like, Mother?” The old woman did not turn to Troy but kept her eyes on Anabelle, the parting of her mouth to give her order like the tremor before an earthquake.
“Hey,” Dr. Huxley said now, absently glancing at his watch. “It’s time to check our patient. She’s got to be in top shape for her big debut in an hour. We’ll scoot over to the medical tent, if that’s okay with you, Anabelle?” He stood, waiting.
In a flash, Sylvia’s hand shot across the table and clamped down on Anabelle’s arm. Her mother, father, and Robbie were all looking at the doctor and so missed the woman’s panther-like reflex. “Do stay a while, child. Don’t let an old woman spoil your morning. We will be gone before you know what’s happened.” The weight on Anabelle’s arm was absurdly heavy, and she would have zapped it off if it weren’t for the risk of exposing her power.
Sylvia exuded such elderly vulnerability to her mother that Susan said, “Just a few minutes more, Doctor?”
“I’ve been directed—” the doctor started.
“Nonsense,” Sylvia said with a congenial croak.
He looked from Anabelle to Sylvia, back and forth, weighing how much he was prepared to argue with the woman who, for reasons he was unable to articulate, gave him the creeps. Just then, Troy returned to the table, and with him, many sets of eyes. Huxley relented, preferring not to engage with an elderly woman in front of a crowd.
“I can spare five minutes,” he said, and sat back down
.
“Wonderful,” Sylvia said, the dragging of her hand from Anabelle’s skin rough like sandpaper. She began nibbling at her food while Troy maneuvered his fork and knife with his bandaged hands.
“How are the hands, Troy?” William asked.
Troy turned his palms upward. Everyone at the table inspected the clean white gauze. “I’m not a ball player, so I can’t complain. My fingers are fine. Palms are a bit itchy, though.”
“A sign of healing,” Huxley offered, noting that though they were attempting to appear otherwise, the mother-son duo was attuned to Anabelle’s every movement. Their parted lips seemed to suck at her far-away exhalations. Huxley watched Anabelle's oblivious parents make polite, if guarded, conversation with the lawyer. Everyone at the table knew Anabelle would be riding in the Prime Minister’s motorcade during the parade, and it was quietly discussed that Anabelle should get his autograph for her remaining grandparents, who would be thrilled. Again, Huxley looked at his watch.
There was a slight movement near Sylvia’s waist, and Huxley suspected she’d elbowed her son, because Troy suddenly said, “If you don’t mind, doctor, I’d like just a minute with my clients. I can walk Anabelle over to the medical tent right after, if you’d like. We won’t be long.”
Immediately Anabelle paled. Perhaps because it was his job to evaluate the human body, or perhaps because he was alert to a change in his patient since Troy and his mother had arrived, Huxley caught a faint push of perspiration on Anabelle’s cheeks and a slight quiver on her lips. In the days since she’d been released, Anabelle appeared the epitome of health and vitality, but now she appeared to suffer—and from what, Huxley wasn’t sure. His experience had taught him to take changes in a patient’s health seriously, an understanding doubly important given Anabelle’s experience and his orders from the government. Frowning, he said, “I’m sorry, but it can’t wait any longer.” When he saw Troy’s ready objection on his face, Huxley added, “I have my orders. I hope you understand, Mr. Baker.”