Swansong (9 page)

They say a swan sings just before it dies.  What about when it’s first born?  Does it sing then, too?  Because I can believe that.  Because I think I’ve just seen it.

I touch my paintbrush to the canvas.  For a moment—a moment—I think it’s the badger brush.

The classroom flickers around me.  The glass floor.  The glass walls.  The gray sunlight from the cityscape outside.  My palette covered in wet oil paints.

On the canvas flies a cloudy watercolor swan, her wings spread against outer space.

With a clatter, my sable brush falls to the floor.

“Wendy?”

I lift my hands in front of my eyes.  My left hand’s unscarred.  My charm bracelet’s missing.

My hands aren’t shaking.

“Wendy.”

The rest of me starts shaking.  It’s slow at first, which doesn’t make sense, because you’d think—you’d think something like a full-body shudder is instantaneous, right, because that’s implicit, that’s—

—The hell is wrong with me—

Azel Asad walks into the room.  I think he’s been calling my name.  I should have answered.  I’m so stupid.  What’s wrong with me?  Headaches—things disappearing, scars disappearing—floating through space.  Floating through—that’s ridiculous.  Calm down.  Calm down.

Azel stops.  He’s standing at my side, his taut curls in a ponytail, his dark face expressionless.

“Did the bell ring?” I ask.  Try to ask.  My voice sounds smaller than I’d like it to sound.

Azel doesn’t answer me.  He looks instead to the wet paint canvas.  I wish he wouldn’t.  I wish I thought to cover it up.

A semblance of—something—crosses his face.  Recognition.  Curiosity.

“That’s beautiful.”  A single remark.  That’s what he gives me.

“I should go.”  I think I’ll lock myself in the girls’ restroom.  I think I’ll throw up.

“Why?”  Azel stares straight into my face.  It’s kind of scary, how for
thright he is.  “Are you alright?”

“I just—”  No.  But—  “—headache.
  Better go.”  That seems like the easiest explanation.

Azel nods vaguely.  “Bye, then.”

“Bye.”

“I didn’t know you like astronomy.”

I guess I’m not going anywhere.  “What…?”

“The Swan Nebula?”  He nods at the wet canvas.  “My mom liked that one, too.”

Liked.  He said liked.  He said—

“W-Wait.”  He said…  “That’s a real nebula?” I ask.  “The Swan?”

Azel stares at me.

“Oh,” I mutter.  This is so…  “I think I’d better get going.”  I really
am
going to throw up.

“You’ve got to be the weirdest girl I’ve ever met,” Azel murmurs.  He throws the plastic covering over the canvas for me.  “See you around.”

I scoop up my backpack.  I dash out the door, head spinning on my shoulders.

6

A Plausible Diversion

Dr. Grace closes her laptop.  She scribbles on her notepad.  I squirm in my uncomfortable, high-backed chair.  I still don’t think I need therapy.

“But it’s true,” I mumble.  “I was…”  I know it sounds crazy.  “It felt like I was in space.”

Dr. Grace nods nervously.  “Hallucinations can be a symptom of brain damage.”

I cringe.  Brain damage.  That’s who I am now.  “I mean…”  I try again.  “I saw a nebula.  I had never seen it before.  But it’s a
real
nebula, I didn’t just imagine it—”

“Why do you think your subconscious chose outer space?”  Dr. Grace sweeps her fair hair behind her ears.

“I—”  What?  “I don’t know.”  Wait, my subconscious—?  “Didn’t you hear me?”

“I’m sure it looked very real,” Dr. Grace says, conciliatory.

A stab of resentment finds its way to my gut.  I can’t fight it off.  “It was a big white swan,” I say.  “How could I have known there’s a nebula that looks like a swan?”

“You’re very fond of swans.  Right?”

It’s childish of me to feel so bitter.  Of course she doesn’t believe me.  Leaving your body and floating into space isn’t exactly believable.

“You’ve been through a lot,” Dr. Grace says.  “It’s natural that your subconscious wants to escape it.”

“But I—”

“What were you thinking about prior to the hallucination?”

“Nothing,” I say.  I want to get out of here.  I want Judas to take me home.  “I had a headache.”  A bad one.

“Headaches after a traumatic brain injury are very common.”

“I know that…”

“I’m sure you would benefit from continued oxygen therapy.  I’ll be sure to send a referral to Dr. Moritz.”

“You mean—”  That horrible casket.  I have to lie in it again?

Dr. Grace reaches over.  She touches my hand.  I don’t like it.  I don’t know why.

“We’re just trying to help you heal,” Dr. Grace says.

“But you
can’t
heal from a disability.  That’s what it means to be disabled.”

I mutter a quick apology.  I didn’t mean to sound so rude.

Dr. Grace opens her laptop again.  She types in her password.  Her fingers skitter over the keys like insect wings on a windless afternoon.

“In this clinic,” she says kindly, “we prefer the term ‘differently abled.’ “

* * * * *

“How’d it go?” Judas asks.

We walk outside the sandstone clinic.  Warm winds beat patterns on my face, the plastic white city towering around us.

“She made me feel like I was crazy,” I respond.  I follow Judas down the sidewalk.

“Shrinks do that,” Judas says.  “That’s how they make their money.”

“Then why do I have to see one?”

We stop walking.  Judas regards me.  I don’t know how to interpret it.  I wonder if that’s my fault, the brain damage’s fault.

“You have to go to therapy,” Judas says.  “Your social worker’ll get pissed if I pull you out.”

And then I can’t live with Judas anymore.

I can’t imagine not living with Judas.  It’s funny.  Last June I didn’t even know him.  Now he’s my only family, the man with the scarred face and the incomplete smile, the man who killed another man when he was still a boy.

It’ll be autumn soon.  He’s been my family all summer.

We climb into his car.  I think about Jocelyn’s family, how bereaved they must be.  I think about how scared I’ve been to face them.

“Can I call them?” I ask.

“Buckle your seatbelt,” Jude says absently.  He looks at me.  “Call who?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Jordan.  They’re…”

“Your friend’s parents.”

He knows?  Have I mentioned them before?

Judas puts the car in reverse.  “You can, if you want,” he says.  “Did you think of something else to tell them?”

“Something else to…”  What?

The car stops moving.  Judas turns his head and—again—regards me.  And—again—I can’t read it.

“You don’t remember?”

My skin prickles.

The scar at the corner of Judas’ lips makes his mouth snarl.  I know it’s not real.  I know there’s a melancholy person underneath the haggard deformities.

“I’ve already called them,” I guess, my mouth dry.  “Haven’t I?”

“We visited them,” he corrects.  “In August.  Drove out to Tillamook Bay.”

My head is screaming at me.  Thud. 
Thud
.

* * * * *

It’s Saturday.  It’s seven o’clock at night.  I sit in my bedroom, multicolor post-it notes staring back at me from the scratchy walls. 
Finished precalc
, one note says. 
Start lit homework
, another says. 
Jude working late.  Buy butter.  Dad liked soccer.  Mom liked weaving.

My life is written on the walls.  I can’t trust my memories anymore.

I prop my literature textbook open on my lap.  I’m supposed to be reading Sylvia Plath.  I can’t focus.  The words dance around on the glossy page, teasing me, evading me.

I slap the book shut with frustration.

Take propranalol
, says the sticky note on my bedpost.  I peel the note free and crumple it up.  I swipe the medicine bottle off of my nighttable.  I could scream and scream and never stop.  I shouldn’t.  I’m lucky.  So lucky.  Lucky to have lived.

The medicine leaves a bitter aftertaste on my tongue.  I finish my water bottle.  I carry it into the kitchen and toss it in the trash.  I lay my lit book on the square table, massaging my temples with my fingertips.

A knock sounds against the front door.  I hurry outside and open it.

Azel’s standing on the other side.

“What—” I begin, utterly graceless.

To begin with, I’ve never seen clothes like the ones he’s wearing.  His shirt is russet-gold and long-sleeved, tight around his torso, loose around his arms.  His pants are baggy orange silk.  They look comfortable.  Maybe this is how he dresses when he doesn’t have to blend in with five thousand homogenous teenagers.

He holds up his hand.  Dangling from his fingers is a chain bracelet, a swan swimming on the end.

“You found it!” I blurt out.

I reach for it.  He drops it in my palm.  I wrap it around my right wrist.  I clasp it shut.  It’s silly, isn’t it, how happy I feel, how weightless.  My earlier frustration seeps away.  Joss came back to me.

“I thought it was yours,” Azel said.  “I didn’t have time to stop by before now.  Sorry.”

“Where did you find it?” I ask, elated.

He runs his hand through the back of his hair.  “School courtyard.”

“Jeez.  And Annwn and I combed that entire place…”

“What is an Annwn?”

“A girl.  She’s in my Precalc class.”

He murmurs noncommittally.  I admire the way the swan glints under the ceiling lights.

Swan.  Swan Nebula.  My stomach feels tight.

“Azel?”

“Now what?”

I almost laugh.  So temperamental.  “That nebula…  You said your mom liked it?”

When recollection dawns on his face, it’s like the parting of granite dust clouds, the firmaments of the sky visible at last.  “The Swan Nebula,” he confirms.

My tongue feels like chalk in my mouth.  “So it’s real…”

Azel ducks his head, the better to peer straight at my face.  It’s unnerving.  It makes me want to hide.

“Did you see it in a book or something?” he asks.

“A book…”  Literature.  I have homework.

“Hello?”

I guess I spaced out.  “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“Thank you,” I say.  “For bringing me my bracelet.”

That’s when it occurs to me:  He didn’t have to bring it to my door.  He could have waited until Monday.  He could have caught up with me in school.

I steal a curious peek at his face.  The same thing must have occurred to him, too; because he’s standing very rigidly; and I could be wrong, but his cheeks look a little more red than brown.

When I smile, it’s real.  “Do you want to come in?”

He hesitates.  “I shouldn’t.”

“Oh.”  Oh.  “Why not?”  Does that sound juvenile?

Azel stalls for an answer.  He doesn’t find one.

He follows me inside.  I close the door behind him.  He glances briefly at the paint-streaked wall in the sitting room.  I lead him to the kitchen and search the cabinets for teabags.  If I didn’t buy them, they’re not here.

“I don’t want anything.”  Azel preempts me.

I close the cabinet.  “If I don’t pour you a drink or something, I’ll feel weird.”

“Why?” Azel prompts.

I consider it.  I don’t know why.

Azel spots the lit book on the table.  He draws it across the surface to him.  “You’re doing homework?”

“You sound like someone who’s never done it before,” I joke.

He shows me a cross face.  He opens the front cover.  I’ve dog-eared the Plath poem.  Horrible schoolbook etiquette, I know.

“What do you think of this piece?” Azel asks.

“Can’t read it.”

“Why?”

“Can’t concentrate.  The words.  They jump around.”

His eyes linger knowingly on the scar on my cheek.  Green eyes, bright as emeralds and soft as seas.  Warmth trickles down my spine, pleasant and unpleasant.

“Sit,” Azel says.  You’d think this was his apartment.  “I’m getting tired just looking at you.”

What a charmer.  I roll my eyes and sit down.

“Pay attention,” Azel says, his eyes scanning the poetry page.  “Lady Lazarus,” he begins.

He’s reading to me.  He’s reading for me.  I sit up in my chair.  The warmth down my spine cools over in ice feathers.

” ‘I have done it again,’ ” he reads.

The poem is horrible.  A lady with red hair tries desperately to kill herself.  Every time she dies, she rises again from her own ashes.  Crowds start to gather.  They point at her as though she’s a circus spectacle.  I don’t understand it: why she wants to die; why they won’t let her.

The only saving grace is Azel’s reading voice.  His voice is warm and tumbling.  I think of stars tumbling past me, the supervoid cloaking me in endless violets and blues.  I think of planets painted in enigmatic green.  It looked so real.  It felt so real.  When I close my eyes I can see the cosmos, can feel the planets and their moons brushing past me.  If it looks real, if it feels real, how can it be anything but real?

Azel stops reading.  By the time I’m aware of it, he may have been silent for a handful of minutes.  He studies me quietly.

“Do you want to see it again?” Azel asks.

I’m afraid to ask what he means.

“The Swan Nebula,” Azel says.

My skin feels cold.

Azel closes my lit book silently, almost reverently.  He pushes his chair back, standing from the table.

“Come on,” Azel says.  “I’ll show you.”

* * * * *

The sun is slow to set tonight.  We walk through The Spit’s streets, the sky between the white buildings runny in shades of salmon and saffron.  I can’t see the sun itself, corporate towers obscuring it, windows flashing their wares in dim holograph commercials.  You’d think they’d at least wait until dark.

We walk past the sandstone clinic, past a bottle recycling center and a tetrad of competing gas stations.  We walk past a rusted memorial statue molded in the likeness of Charles Babbage.  Just ahead of us stands a cluster of low-rise garden apartments.  I didn’t think anything so cozy could survive in a city like The Spit.  On the other hand, the gardens are mostly of the dead variety, patches of brown weeds curled up in the hard soil.

My cell phone’s in my pocket.  I touch the pockets of my woolen jacket, just to be sure.  Judas would freak if he came home early and I wasn’t there.  I stop and think about how weird that is, that my-brother-the-murderer is the conscientious adult. 
Manslaughterer
, says a nagging voice in the back of my head. 
There’s a legal difference.

Azel lets us into his apartment.  It’s a cozy little maisonette with a short staircase to one side, a coat closet to the other, the sitting area in the far back.  Azel steps out of his loafers and leaves them by the door with a tiny pair of girls’ shoes.  I untie my sneakers and put them aside, just the same.  In white stockings, I follow him across the lush gray carpet.

The sitting room’s lit by gauzy yellow lamps.  A glass door looks out on an artificial pond, its surface glowing faintly with the light thrown off by dozens of paper luminarias.  A little girl lies on her belly on the sitting room floor, favoring the carpet over the plush, wine-colored sofa.  She giggles naughtily at a cartoon character on the tiny television set.  Her hair is wild and bushy, a shade darker than Azel’s.