Ante Mortem (18 page)

Most often, she purchased a new thriller and got back on the train. Reading while she rode the T all the way out to Braintree, she would turn around and shoot back into Boston. Sometimes, she spent the entire day riding the train and reading.

That was before she learned of creatures called the Fetch.

One lazy afternoon, loafing in bed engrossed in a new Dean Koontz novel, a beep from her computer indicated she had received an email:

Hey Narissa. I looked for U after art history let out.

Where are U? Do U have a cold? Can I come by?

I’ll bring the soup this time.

She smiled; the message was sent from her current flame, Noel Berman, a sweet-faced, tawny boy who worked out every morning, perfecting his biceps. He often baited her, playfully quipping, “Do you want tickets to the gun show later?”

Since the first year, they spent most Friday and Saturday nights together. Lately though, she’d found excuses to avoid him.

Narissa had fallen for Noel after they met. He told her he loved her name, because no one else had a name like it. He said, “You’re one of a kind.”

At that time in her life, Narissa had no reason to think otherwise.

She was nineteen years young and careless about almost all things. If funds were low and she ran out of toilet paper, she would snatch a few rolls from the pizza joint restroom behind her apartment. She often forgot to replace detergent in the basement of the sublet and would find nasty, handwritten notes from other students who could not wash their laundry.
Your mother doesn’t live here!
was her favorite retort.

After Narissa resolved to blow off classes, she also began to withdraw from Noel. She knew he wanted to do something special for Valentine’s Day; she hated that holiday most of all, and she did not want her boyfriend wasting his money on overpriced, dried out roses or an expensive meal in the North End. When she did answer his calls or text messages, she lied, told him it was a flu bug, and promised to see him the following week. She rode the trains all day, reading more books or staring silently at the landscapes whizzing past the windows, wondering
where do I go from here? How can anybody feel so alone in a city full of people?

She received an e-mail from Noel:

Glad you’re feeling better. I would love to see you.

Meet me at our bench in the park tomorrow. 6pm.

I’ll bring the guns. XOXO.

Narissa had not contacted him for a week by this point. She missed him, sometimes; the smell of musk that clung to him, his warmth when he held her tight. She assumed that he was being playful, trying to pull her out of her doldrums, in a backhanded, charming way. It was in Noel’s nature that if he ignored an issue, then it really was not a problem for him at all.

It never occurred to her until much later, that Noel might have written in response to someone else’s message.

At the time, she still believed she was one of a kind.

Friday night, Narissa called her Mom. She asked for some money and a care package of dry soups and pasta to be mailed. She sent her love to Dad and their pet terrier, Bugga. Mom begged her to keep warm and come visit soon.

Narissa spent her entire day at the bookstore and came home to read volume one in a fantasy series about a young wizard, apprentice to a dark and powerful warlock. She envied characters in books that could wave their hands and have something magical happen.

Around 6 PM, she remembered Noel’s e-mail inviting her to the park. Tired of reading and with nothing to eat in the apartment besides tasteless crackers, she shrugged her jacket on and bolted from the building so fast, she forgot her cell phone. She’d meant to call or text Noel and alert him that she was running late. He loved her so much, it seemed he would forgive almost anything. Narissa ran a couple of blocks, the cold air slapping at her scarf and made it to the park only fifteen minutes late. She lost steam and halted near the water fountain.

Noel was not alone.

Narissa hid herself in a shadow cast by the stone structure. From this angle, she could easily see Noel seated on a park bench beside a petite figure with black hair, like her own loose, carefree curls.

The stranger was facing Narissa, but her face was cast in darkness. Noel laughed at something the other girl said and the sound of it, the joy of it, cut into Narissa’s heart like a knife. Noel handed the stranger a pink rose, put his arms out and cocooned her against him. Her free hand slithered against his back and squeezed him.

Narissa choked, expelled plumes of icy air. She turned away and put a hand to her stomach. She thought she might be sick, but her belly was empty. It tangled in knots. She felt dizzy and her legs trembled.

A homeless man, reeking of urine, brushed past her and grumbled insane nonsense at her.

She turned, reaching for the fountain, needing to balance herself. Pushing her hair out of her eyes, she looked back towards the bench.

Noel and the other girl had left their seat and were walking away. They still had their arms around each other.

Narissa looked away, eyes blurry with stinging tears, and stumbled back to her sublet.

There was a note taped to her door.

She’d forgotten to buy detergent yet again.
Damn it.

That Saturday, Narissa never left her bed. Rain stroked the window overhead and made murky reflections shimmy across her body as she tangled in the covers.

She tried to ignore the next text message from Noel:

Y did U leave before I got up? Next time, wake me up. I miss U.

Narissa’s temples thundered. Her bloodshot eyes burned. She could not escape the pain pounding in her head.

When Noel showed up an hour later, rapping at her door, she opened it. Before he could ask her what was wrong, Narissa’s hand darted out like an irate asp, and struck his cheek so hard the sound echoed in the tiny hall. “Hey,” he cried and pulled away from her.

“
Don’t ever talk to me again,” she screamed and slammed the door so hard it rattled.

Noel wrestled with the knob, swung the door open and tried to follow her. Narissa picked up a plate from the pile in the sink and hurled it straight at him. It ricocheted off his face and his body bounced back against the doorframe.

Noel swore at her and put his hands to his nose as the plate clattered to the floor. His brow creased in pain, and his eyes glimmered with anguish as he stared at her. He mumbled something that sounded like “Grow up!” and walked away. Narissa heard him pound down the stairs and the front door slam behind him.

She picked up the plate, pressed it against her chest and wept until she felt empty.

The second week in February, she received an e-mail from Professor Kehoe:

Narissa, your essay mirroring the careers of Claude Monet and Edgar Degas is glorious.

If you don’t mind I’d like to read it aloud to the class this week. I think your clever insight should be shared with the other students.

I’d like to recommend you for a semester abroad at Parsons Paris School of Art.

She stared a moment, nibbled a fingernail, and wrote back:

What the heck? Go for it!

She had no clue what her art history teacher was referring to. She had not written an essay and had been ditching his class for three weeks.

That morning, Narissa dressed and took the train straight to Huntington Avenue. She arrived in the Mass Art Building and took the elevator to the seventh floor, where the class was held in an auditorium with stadium seating.

She took a seat at the very back. None of the other students seemed to care. Noel did not come to the lecture.

Professor Kehoe—a bookish man with a squirrel face—stood at the front of the room and read the essay off his laptop. He pointed out Narissa as the author but instead of looking at her seat in the back of the gallery, he singled out a raven-haired girl seated in the front row. He even had the audacity to call her by the same name.

Her duplicate in the front row chuckled with friends on either side who praised the imposter for her sly opinions of Impressionists.

As Narissa in the back of the gallery stared down at her twin, it seemed to her that insects, like angry gnats, darted and flew around the imposter’s head. They mingled in the locks of her hair as if they nested there. No one else seemed aware of it.

Narrisa, the
real
Narissa stayed calm and quiet. When the class finally let out, the imposter was rushed away by the wave of student bodies; Narissa tagged behind the group, catching glimpses of the other girl.

The imposter swept past an elderly man who was cleaning the floor, and stumbled over his mop. She turned to fix him with a wicked glare, but as in the park, her hair made her face appear murky, though her eyes glinted with hellfire.

“
Der Teufel,
” the janitor gasped as the bizarre girl slunk onto an elevator and vanished. He rocked back and turned, his gaze fastening upon Narissa’s distressed eyes. His eyes bulged as she approached him.

She heard him whimper, “Not another one.”

“
What did you say?” she asked, as she approached.

“
Look at you,” he said. “So young. So weary.”

“
I feel fine.”

“
So much potential. That’s why it chose you.”

“
What? It what?”

“
You followed it. It must not have seen you yet. Never look directly in its eyes.”

Narissa took the man by the arm and steered him into a doorway, out of the hall. The janitor had a hearty German accent and she wanted to be sure she understood every word.

“
Who was that girl? The one that looked like me?”

“
She…
it
was… a Fetch,” he stammered.

“
A what?”

“
A copy. Um…have you ever heard of a
doppelgänger
?”

“
A clone?”

“
Yes, like that. The Fetch are primeval, restless. They are legends from my homeland. My Oma told stories about them, when I grew up in the Black Forest near Freiburg. She scolded my siblings that if we did not apply ourselves and make something better of our lives, if we wasted our days at play, then a cunning Fetch would step into our shoes and steal our lives away.

“
Oma told us they are envious creatures who crave a living, breathing body.”

“
That’s crap,” Narissa spat.

“
I’ve no doubt that was a Fetch, who dressed like you and wore her hair like you.”

“
Bullshit!”

“
It walks in your own image.”