Chapter Twenty-Three The Nova
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Nova
I woke with a sore body, my spirit lighter, my mind appeased. One could compare it to something medically induced—but better. My morning routine gained some slack, like I was drifting as slowly as my thoughts.
The sink faucet creaked and moaned as the water spluttered. I scooped pools of it with my hands, drowning my face. The water shocked my tired skin to life, my eyes clearing as I wiped away the lethargy.
Even my reflection was slightly more tasteful than the phantom that had been appearing as of late.
My skin glowed as the light rose from behind me, the window filtering the harshness to a diffused haze.
No more darkness hanging under my eyes, no more inflammation from tears, not even a single blemish or burn from the sun.
My vitiligo was whiter without redness, my natural color golden like crisp ash leaves in Implodium, the collapse of the seasonal year into colder months, when the hot air turned crisp and the foliage was set afire among deep reds and vibrant yellows.
With the washcloth, I wiped along my body.
The shiver brought back the ghosts of touches.
Over my clavicle, down my arm, over my abdomen.
The flash of a tongue in my mind, a firm hand pressed against me.
I pressed my hips against the sink, as if to stop the memories from resurfacing.
There was already wetness between my thighs.
I swallowed thickly, staring at myself in the mirror. My hair tumbled over my shoulder, the curls going every which way due to not tying it up before I slept. The more I stared, the more the mess insinuated the events of last night.
Hastily, I wiped myself and threw the washcloth over the lip of the bath, yanking the plug of the sink before trudging out.
Absinthe and Tonic peeked out from the stairs, circling around my ankles with every step.
Bashfulness or regret weren’t things I’d experienced between rituals. It was always a transaction, like buying something nice for myself. This time was the opposite. I felt as if I’d had an encounter with a stranger for only an afternoon, never to be seen again.
Except I most likely would see him again, and I thought that was worse than making him disappear.
I wrapped myself in my robe, pulling it extra tight across my chest and tying a knot to finish it off. The clock in the hallway said quarter to noon.
As I reached the edge of the stairs, the phone rang from the first floor. For a moment I considered letting it ring. Once or twice. Then reluctantly my foot met the steps, and I was on my way down. The trill buzzed in my ear, echoing when it paused.
With the receiver to my ear: “Hello?”
“Lucia!” My father’s voice sounded relieved. “Lucia is on the phone,” he said off to the side, the delighted tone muffled.
“How are you, Papà?” It was a relief to hear him so lively. Was this because of my dabblings last night? I leaned against the wall as I continued. “Do you need me today?”
“I . . . ah. Yes, I need to see you,” he said, but no aftercomer to complete the thought.
“Surely I can visit.” I glanced around, looking for a notepad. “I could pick something up for lunch if you tell me ahead of time.” I wandered back to the kitchen, dragging the long cord behind me.
I reached around the corner by the stove, a notepad discarded on the counter. But no pen, so I was off to the parlor.
“Did you . . . ehm. Did you read the journal?”
The question stopped me in my tracks.
“No,” I lied. “Do you need it back?”
“I . . . well, I need you to read it, all right? Read it,” he whispered, “please, Lucy.”
“You want me to?” I wasn’t sure why I’d lied, but I didn’t want to distress him again.
“Yes, uhm . . . yes, I want you to,” he said, his voice cracking. “It’s important.”
My mother’s voice chimed in the back, the rustling of tea-ware present among the static.
“I will see you today”—it wasn’t a question—“she is coming,” he said, but not to me.
“Lucy is coming?” My mother’s voice beside him. “I need biscotti.” Her voice was closer to the phone now to deliver her request.
“Biscotti.” I didn’t need to make a note of the single demand.
“I like biscotti. I used to make them with your mother.” I could hear the smile on his face. “We should tell Lucy we will have them. Where is she?”
“She’s on the phone.” My mother’s patient voice. “Don’t worry, she’s coming,” she assured him. The voices were becoming muffled.
“On the phone?” His voice became clear again. “Lucy!” His sigh of relief was more painful to hear than the last.
I had to gather myself before I opened my mouth.
“Yes, Papà, I’m here.”
“I need to see you,” he insisted.
“Papà,” I said, my voice cracking.
“I will handle it.” My mother’s voice crackled through the phone, his complaints farther away now. “Try for late lunch,” she told me more quietly.
“Will do,” I said softly.
The phone clicked, but I couldn’t bring it away from my ear.
I sat on the parlor sofa, placing the receiver to my chest as I lay down. The cord snaked across the hallway and the parlor, connecting me to the wall like some metaphorical umbilical cord.
Nothing could stop the wave that hit me.
The grief that struck all at once. Always, I wanted to be strong.
I wanted to help. But it was like my body was physically repelled by my childhood home, just knowing what waited inside.
It was a time capsule in more than one way, more so for him than anything.
The tears stung. I didn’t bother pushing them back, instead closing my eyes, as if that would stop them altogether.
He needed my help, and I needed his.
I took a full breath, then a sluggish exhale. Just like I had the night before. Steady breaths to ground, to slow the heart. I imagined the deafening silence of submersion, the stillness that was needed to remind your body you were not drowning, and to take a breath.
Something touched my face.
My eyes shot open, to be met with a pale gaze and a clueless stare.
Altair’s finger was touching my face.
Without much thought, I hit him square in the face with the receiver.
“Ouch!” he hissed, his face contorted. There was no blood, but a shadow mist leaking from his nose. “Rude.”
“Begone,” I demanded, storming past him. “You cannot just show up when you like.”
“Where am I supposed to go?”
“Anywhere but here, a literal world of possibilities.” I raised my arms in the air in frustration before slamming the phone back on the hook in the hallway.
He appeared before me, my body slamming into his so that I nearly doubled back. “Stop doing that!” I shouted through clenched teeth, turning the other way.
I smacked into him again. This time I resorted to hitting.
He raised his arms in front of him as I swung my hands. Blow after blow before I let out a scream, hitting and hitting until my arms were tired, my punches were lower, and yelling turned to crying. “I hate you! I hate this! I hate everything!” I shouted.
He tried his best to catch my hands, my wrists. I struggled before suddenly I was restrained. Not by anything magical. No shadows or otherworldly paralysis.
A hug.
He hugged me.
And I was utterly, pathetically, rendered into a sobbing mess.
His body was rigid, but not necessarily cold. I was sure I’d frightened him, or he was uncomfortable, possibly even angry, from my fit.
He didn’t say anything—which could have been a good thing or a bad one.
He cleared his throat, as if preparing for the next words. “That’s quite a temper.”
My forehead lay flush against his shirt, now wet from my face.
His grip loosened, but a slight movement of mine made him flinch. Then, a hand on the back of my head. A gentle, repetitive back and forth of his thumb.
“If you don’t want to talk,” he began, his weight shifting on his heels, “can you show me more food?”
I looked up at him, and he looked away. “You’re hungry?”
“No,” he mumbled, “I just like your food. People food.”
“If I say no, are you going to follow me anyway?”
There was a slight smirk before he glanced back down at me. He lifted a shoulder.
I ducked out from under his arms.
If he wasn’t going to leave me alone, at least he could be of some company. It could lighten the mood if all went well. My parents already had me stopping for something along the way.
“Where are you going?” he demanded, following me up the stairs.
“To get dressed.” I stopped at the top, and he nearly bumped into me. “Did you expect me to go out in my robe?”
His eyes slowly traced upward, meeting mine through his lashes. A smirk crept to his face. “Well, you don’t necessarily need clothing to complement such a skin.” He reached out, his hand cupping the back of my knee, then sliding up. It bunched the robe where his palm had smoothed.
“I will buy you food if you stop with the flattery.”
“Done.” He dropped his hand and immediately hurried down the stairs.
I was almost offended.
Almost.
He stood by the door at attention, his hands behind his back. He looked up at me from the ground floor. “Be quick.”
“I will be slower just because you asked.”
“No, I said quickly!” he shouted.
“I heard you.” I turned from him, the smile infectious. I couldn’t stop it; I had to cover it with my hand.
It could be possible that today would be all right. The hardest part would be my visit, but that didn’t mean the whole day must be dreary. It couldn’t hurt to embrace the jovial curiosity of the menace. For now, it would be enough of a distraction.
“If they ask, you’re Dorian’s cousin,” I instructed, my knuckle rasping on the door.
“I thought I was your cousin.” Altair stared over my shoulder.
“Just do as I say.”
The door snapped open, the chain lock pulling tight in front of my mother’s eye. Her stare softened, but before she closed the door to unlock it, her gaze hardened on the figure behind me.
“Hello.” The chipper tone made it sound like he was eager to say it. Conversational practice couldn’t hurt the awkward thing.
My mother looked at me, and I shrugged.
Finally, she opened the door to let us in.
“I didn’t know you were bringing more than sweets.” My mother hugged me, staring at Altair.
“Apologies, I insisted,” Altair said.
I shot him a glare over my shoulder, a raised brow in warning.
He cupped her hand in his. “Altair,” he said.
“Fairfax,” I interrupted, touching my mother’s shoulder. “He’s from Dorian’s side.”
“Oh, well, there’s no such thing as too much company,” she said warily, but I believed she was taking mental inventory of how much food she had to host an extra mouth. “Come in, then.” She gathered us through the door before closing it tight.
Instantly, the smell of roasting coffee overwhelmed my nose, my eyes adjusting to the calm ambience. It smelled old, like home.
We followed her to the kitchen. The coffee was already made, another pot brewing in preparation. She had put out the coffee cups, but she fetched one more for her surprise visitor. I opened the paper bag to place the biscotti on the tray.
Altair plucked one from the bag before leaning against the countertop. All I could hear was the munching.
“Altair.” I looked at him.
He stopped mid-chew.
“Bring the tray out to the parlor, will you?”
Before he could let a word come from his mouth, I was hoisting the tray into his arms. “Go on,” I said, pointing.
He seemed confused as to who I was talking to.
I took a biscotto from the tray, sticking it between his teeth before I tipped my head toward the parlor archway.
He scowled as he pushed away from the counter, then rounded the corner and disappeared into the other room. Even as he walked, the small Peculiars hidden about fled from his vicinity.
My mother came beside me to gather napkins.
“How have you—”
“Who is that?” She turned her head up.
“I told you, he’s a cousin—”
“Mr. and Mrs. Fairfax don’t have any nephews.” She leaned her hip against the table, turning her shoulders toward me to interrogate. “You’re going to tell me who you brought inside my home.”
My shoulders grew more tense. Just a single angry glare from my mother was enough to make my body instinctually want to curl up like a prawn.
“Why did you lie to me?” Her dark brow raised, her eyes green and sharp like a cat’s. She wanted to be patient, or look like she was, but her nail tapping on her crossed arms wasn’t giving me that impression.
I lowered my voice. “It’s complicated.”
“Who is he,” she asked again, “to you?”
How do I explain a thing like him?
“A friend,” I finally said. “He’s a friend.”
My mother’s chest visibly heaved as she looked back toward the doorway, her finger still tapping against the metal arm.
“I didn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea—”
She raised her hand to dismiss the excuse. “No more lies.”
“I’m sorry,” I pleaded with her, “he’s been helping me.”
Her brow arched.
“He’s been mentoring me,” I explained, “spiritually. After everything . . .”
Her face immediately softened, her guard dropped. “Oh, Lucy.”
“He is helping,” I insisted, though I didn’t specify much about how. It was best I didn’t.
Her brow twitched as she looked back at me. Though she nodded in understanding. “He looks . . .” She trailed off.
“I know,” I sighed, “uncanny resemblance.”
She laughed. “Is that why you keep him around? Your friend?” There was an accusatory nature, but her eyes were glassy.
“No,” I whispered. “Coincidence.”
Her lip trembled, and I wrapped my arms around her. “I miss him too. I’m sorry.”
Tensions were high, and I felt for the first time that my mother was being honest about the emotional strain. She’d lost a son-in-law, and maybe that was why everything was all the harder. She knew it might soon be time to do this all over again. Not now, but not very far in the future.
“Well, if you need him to reach any tall places . . .” I suggested.
She laughed. “Does he clean too?”
“Maybe under duress,” I joked, “but he may eat all your food.”
“He’s hungry?” she gasped. “I should have made more for lunch.” She was already fleeing from me and checking the pantry.
“No! No, he doesn’t need to eat right now—”
“You should have told me!”
“I just meant he would if you kept him too long!” I laughed, having to pull her from the pantry. “Just come, I want to say hello to Papà. Hopefully he hasn’t started telling him any outlandish stories.”