Half World (4 page)

Her mum had such odd taste in art. Nightmare images of Frida Kahlo in a bathtub, her double row of toes reflected away from the crease of the waterline, looking less like feet and more like something fleshy that crawled out of the sea. In the bath-water a building erupted in the crater of a burning volcano, and a dead woman lay with string tied around her neck, insects traversing the taut thread. Her mum also loved Bosch's freakish idea of Hell, the helmet-headed chimeras and vulnerably naked people. A man whose arms were tree trunks, which ended in rowboats, his chest broken open like an eggshell, with people being tormented inside him. A bird-headed man gobbling a naked person, while he pooped out the others he'd already eaten. It was so gross and weird. Her least disturbing artist was Escher, but his strange up-and-down perspectives made Melanie's head spin with confusion if she tried to figure out how he made it work. Something quavery and hollow ballooned inside Melanie's chest.

She needed to fill up the room with noise, and to keep her mind off of troubling things.

Her mum would be home soon, with cold but delicious boxed lunches, Melanie decided. She pushed her dark, wet strands of hair behind her ears and wrapped her blanket around her like a cocoon. She clicked on the TV from beneath the covers. No, not a food program. It would be torture. No, not a documentary of humans being eaten by predators. No, not the news with its barrage of war, mass murders, missing children, and bludgeoned dogs. A rerun of an old science fiction series. Yes.

“—WHAT!”

She jerked bolt upright.

Where? Something was wrong—

An infomercial was demonstrating a chopper/dicer; otherwise, the house was silent. Melanie sagged back onto the couch.

Melanie whipped her head around. The sound was coming from behind the closed curtain.

The clock on the wall read 3:58 A.M.

Was it her mum? At the window? Too weak to open the door?

Or was it someone else. . . .

Heart tripping, Melanie wrapped the blanket tightly around herself and crept softly to the window.

Please, she thought. Let there not be a strange face, pressed against the glass. . . .

She pinched a corner of the stained cloth. She slowly pulled it away from the window.

For a moment she could not see anything except the reflection of her own pale, frightened face.

Movement. A glint of light.

It was a small black eye . . . A crow. A wet crow peered at her through the glass, its head tilted to one side. The crow winked. Opened wide its black beak to reveal its red maw. It made a strange popping sound, barely discernible through the window.

The phone rang.

Melanie shrieked.

She spun around, her heart pounding.

Only to be filled with elation.

Her mum! Her mum was calling to let her know where she was!

Melanie ran to the phone and snatched up the receiver. “Hello!” she cried eagerly. “Hello? Mummy?”

The line crackled loudly. Melanie thought she could hear a faint voice trying to break through the static.

“Hello!” Melanie shouted. “I can't hear you!”

Someone was talking. She was certain of it, but she could not distinguish the words. She could just catch the inflections of language. Melanie strained with all her might to hear what was being said.

A high-pitched whine suddenly turned into an electric scream. “Uh!” Melanie shouted, whipping the receiver away from her ear.

“Hullo. Hullo, there,” a male voice said clearly.

Melanie desperately raised the receiver. “Yes! I can hear you!”

“How charming,” the voice replied.

Melanie blinked doubtfully. The moist voice was unfamiliar. And somehow unpleasant . . .

The person, as if sensing Melanie's discomfort, took on a new tone. “You don't know me, but I know your mummy and daddy from waaaaaaaay, waaaaay back. I'm their old friend Mr. Glueskin.” The voice was sticky with sweet insincerity.

“Where is she?” Melanie cried.

“Please!” the voice was indignant. “No need to shriek! I can hear you quite fine.” The man began hacking, sucking up phlegm and clearing his throat. Melanie could hear a wet retching. A sticky splat.

“Excuse me,” the overwet voice murmured. “Pardon me. I have slight congestion. Never mind. I'm calling about your mummy.”

Melanie's arms prickled with a rush of goose bumps. Something was wrong. She didn't know what, but she could feel it all over. “Yes?” she quavered.

“Your mummy had an
obligation
. We had a deal. She gave her word, but she broke her promise. That wasn't very nice at all, was it?” The sticky voice laughed, like he was joking.

Melanie's hand shook. This was a prank call. He was a perv or something, and she shouldn't listen to him. He was bad. She slowly began to lower the receiver toward the cradle.

“Don't!” the voice roared.

Melanie, heart quaking, obeyed.

“Listen, you little half-wit,” the stranger hissed. “Don't you dare hang up on me! Your parents made a deal. I let your mother have fourteen years with you in the Realm of Flesh, but when I said it was time you both had to return. Well, Mummy came back to Half World like she was told, but she thought she could leave you behind and I wouldn't be able to get to you. But if you don't come to Half World I'm going to hurt your mummy, aren't I? I'm going to make her scream, and I'll call you. Wherever you are. And you'll have to listen.”

“Please,” Melanie said hoarsely. She couldn't think. He was mad, obviously. But could he really have her mother?

“Of course I have her,” the creepy voice replied conversationally. “Let me call her over.” His voice dropped conspiratorially. “She hasn't been herself. Not that she was ever much to begin with. But if she was always half of what she was, maybe now she's a quarter.” The sound of rustling.

“Fumiko!” He whistled encouragingly.

Melanie heard him calling her mother like she was a dog.

“C'mere! Come on! That's a good girl. Someone wants to talk to you. Here. Take the phone. That's it. Now say ‘hello.'”

“Hello,” a soft voice said.

Melanie's hand shook. “Mum?” she whispered. “Mummy, is that you?”

“Hello,” the familiar voice repeated, in the exact same tone. “Hello.”

“Say something else!” Melanie heard the sticky male voice command. “Say, ‘Darling Melanie, come and save me.'”

“Darling Melanie, come and save me,” her mother's monotone parroted.

Hope withered inside Melanie. It was true. A madman had her mother.

“Give it back,” Melanie heard the grotesque man say. Something clacked and banged.

“No.” Her mother's voice was weak. “Melanie. Stay awa—”

A loud thud.

Melanie's heart stopped.

“I guess there's a little life left in her yet,” the repulsive voice chuckled. “Surprising ol' gal, she is. Where was I? Ahhh, yes. If you ever want to see your mummy again, and so on and so forth, leave the house immediately and proceed to the Cassiar Tunnel. Enter the tunnel that is farthest west. I really don't know where you'll end up if you go through the wrong Gate. So PAY ATTENTION!” he roared.

“West side,” Melanie sobbed.

“Good girl,” the vile voice soothed. “You'll find there are numerous doors lining the inside wall. Go through door number four! Get it? Door four! Your prize-winning entry into Half World!”

“P-please,” Melanie quavered, “don't hurt her.”

“P-please, don't hurt her,”
he mimicked in a falsetto. His voice dropped low. “You better get your fat ass over here. You better start RUNNING!”

Melanie slammed the phone into the cradle. She looked frantically about the room. What should she do? Her mum was kidnapped! She needed help. Adult help. It was a trap. She couldn't go to the Cassiar Tunnel by herself. Her parents were caught up in some kind of criminal past. She should phone the police!

She grabbed the receiver once more and raised it to her ear.

There was no dial tone.

Melanie jabbed the switch hook, once, twice, three times.

Silence.

The phone was dead. He had cut the line. That hideous man had—

Melanie's eyes widened. The receiver fell from her nerveless fingers onto the carpet. She slowly backed away from the phone.

It shouldn't have rung. The phone shouldn't have worked.

Their service had been terminated five months ago. . . .

Melanie's heart bulged into the back of her throat. She could scarcely hold back a wave of nausea, and when she closed her eyes white lights flared behind her eyelids. Instinctively she sank to her haunches and took slow, deep breaths. When the dizziness passed she stood up. Snatched her mother's overlarge khaki-colored industrial coat with the fake wool collar. She pulled it on, and for a moment the smell of her mum enfolded her. Melanie shook her head.

What else? What should she take with her?

She didn't know . . . just go! Go!

She slammed the door shut.

The cold night wind pressed against her face with a wet touch. From inside the house the phone began ringing once more. Melanie ran.

Her adrenaline burned off quickly, and soon all she could muster was a shuffling jog. The rain had turned into soft patters; her mother's coat was not soaked through, but she was very cold.

In the early hours of the morning, it all seemed so surreal. Maybe she had dreamt it all; maybe she was dreaming this very moment.

What if it was all a joke? Some kind of elaborate trick . . . but who would do such a thing?

She came to a standstill, her breath escaping her lips in small puffs. Melanie looked up. She had stopped in front of Ms. Wei's corner market.

Ms. Wei . . . Ms. Wei knew troubles. Her lover, Nora Stein, had been killed in a burglary many years ago. It had been the talk of the neighborhood, although Ms. Wei had never brought it up herself on those days Melanie had run into the store, fleeing from the Valkyries. Ms. Wei had been sad for years but she had somehow survived her pain. There was something about the old woman. . . . She wasn't the type of person anyone would go to for a hug, but there was a kind of strength about her. Compassion. On rainy afternoons, Ms. Wei would beckon Melanie to come inside and give her a free hot chocolate. They chatted about books, the cleverness of crows, and why sometimes people turned into bullies. . . . Ms. Wei never pried, but she would give Melanie loaves of day-old bread and sometimes soy milk and eggs. At the very least, Melanie could tell her that she was going to the Cassiar Tunnel, so one person in the world would know if she disappeared from the face of the earth.

The sound of a window opening.

A round glare of light, blinding.

Melanie raised her arm to shield her eyes.

“Who's there?!” a strong voice demanded. “What do you think you're doing!”

“It's me,” Melanie answered in a small voice.

“Is that Melanie?” Ms. Wei asked wonderingly. “At this time of night? Is she in trouble?”

Tears of relief and gratitude filled Melanie's eyes at the sound of concern in Ms. Wei's voice. She could not stop a jagged sob from escaping.

“Stay there!” Ms. Wei commanded. The glare of light clicked off and Melanie, suddenly blinded by its absence, heard a window slam shut. Shortly, the light above the store door was turned on and Ms. Wei was standing there, gesturing,
come, enter!
Melanie could not help smiling with relief. She ran inside.

The familiar smells of dried mushrooms and papayas, lemon-grass and durian filled the warm air, and the horror of the night receded.

Ms. Wei did not hug. She patted Melanie's back as if something were stuck in her throat.

“Melanie is in trouble. Melanie needs help.”

Melanie blinked through her tears, smiling. She loved how Ms. Wei always used the third person. She didn't know why, but it somehow made things seem slightly more manageable. . . .

Ms. Wei did not wait for an answer she already knew. “Come! Come upstairs!”

She turned off the lights and they made their way up a narrow staircase at the back of the store.

Melanie had never been inside Ms. Wei's living space before.

Most of the floor had been opened up so that the living room and the kitchen were combined. The wide-open space was welcoming and airy. The north wall was completely lined with books, the titles on the spines written in Chinese, French, German, and English. Two tall metal filing cabinets, two comfortable-looking chairs, and a large reading lamp were placed near the window of the west wall. An enormous wooden table, covered with books, stacks of paper, and drawings, occupied the center of the floor. An orange tree filled one corner of the room, the leaves almost brushing against the high, sloped ceiling. Tiny fruit hung from the branches. The air smelled spicy with it.