Chapter 16
Now
“Milly?” Carla called out from the hallway. “Can we talk?”
I pressed the pillow hard against my face until I could barely breathe, desperate to smother the uncontrollable feeling. I held it there until my lungs burned. Until there was no sound left in me. Until spots danced behind my eyelids.
Until my bedroom door opened.
“Milly? Oh my God, are you okay?” Carla’s hand landed on my arm, and all my strength left me. The pillow fell to the ground. “What’s going on with you? You…don’t look so great.”
“I—” I sniffed, unsure what to say. “I don’t feel so great.”
“You poor thing. Flu’s everywhere right now. We had three nurses out with it yesterday.” Carla pushed a stray piece of hair from my face. I was painfully aware of how grimy I was. “I’ve been worried about you. Did you call into work?”
Work? Shit. “What time is it?”
“A little after ten,” Carla said.
I was supposed to be at the diner for the after-lunch shift. I didn’t have the flu, but I was in no shape to deal with the Huddle Hut. “I think I’m going to.”
“Good.” Carla grabbed my hands. “Come on.” She looked around my messy room and wrinkled her nose. “Let’s get you out of here and tucked onto the couch. You need to rest and to binge reality TV. Something super trashy.”
I didn’t feel like moving, but I let my roommate lead me to our small, tidy living room and deposit me on the sofa. She grabbed a bottle of Advil and some Pepto from the cabinet, then set both on the coffee table.
“I wish I could stay with you, but Cameron and I have had these plans to get away to New Orleans for a while. You know he never gets a day off.” She frowned. “But if you need anything, you can call me no matter what.”
I nodded. My eyelids were heavy and my life was shit, and I wanted to sleep for a year.
Carla darted around the apartment, pulling her bag to the front door, a pillow behind my shoulders, her shoes near the table, the remote in my hand.
Finally, once I was settled and she was ready to depart, she chirped, “Oh, almost forgot.” She disappeared into the kitchen, reappearing a moment later with my Garfield mug filled with ice water and a sleeve of crackers.
She sat both on the coffee table next to the medicine.
“Now you should be all set. Seriously, Milly, call me if you need me.”
I forced a smile. I’d never drank anything but tea from the Garfield mug, but of course Carla didn’t know that. Why would she choose that mug? What does that mean? Because it must mean something…right?
“Thanks,” I muttered, cocking my head at the hazy thought.
Carla tucked her fuzzy pink blanket around my shoulders and sniffed. “You should think about a shower.” With those words, she grabbed her weekender bag from near the door and was gone.
The silence was deafening.
I stared at Garfield. He stared back.
Maybe…maybe this was a sign?
Yes, I was exhausted, but I couldn’t ignore the rustle in my chest. The whisper of look, look. Garfield—my preferred tea mug—watching me. Daring me.
The pink blanket fell to the ground as I pushed to my feet and walked to the kitchen. I filled the kettle. I poured the ice water down the drain, then scooped loose tea into Garfield’s hollow belly.
Frances once told me Einstein defined insanity as doing the same thing again and again and expecting different results.
If that were true, then maybe my sister was right.
Maybe I was crazy. Or perhaps I was teetering along the slippery slope Aunt Ruth had warned me about whenever she caught me peering into my own teacup.
Either way, action was better than inaction, and if there was even a minuscule chance things could be different this time, that Carla handing me my mug was a sign, then it was a chance I had to take.
Once, when we were girls, I’d explained the Sight to Frances as this place that stayed closed up inside of me until it didn’t.
Until I eased open the door and it unfurled like one of Hattie-May’s blooms in my chest. That was a pretty way to explain the Sight, but it wasn’t always true, because the Sight rarely felt exactly the same way twice.
Sometimes it was a whisper. Sometimes a scream. Sometimes a thing with a cocked head.
Sometimes it was a flower unfurling or dipping my head underwater. Other times it was like swimming through choppy waves when something grabbed my ankle and yanked me below the surface.
Though I’d managed it, had learned to finesse it and channel it and not freak out, I still never knew how the Sight would come upon me once I opened that door.
I felt it stir in me all the time, paying attention, whispering. Didn’t mean it would help. Especially now with this block in me. Fate’s a fickle bitch.
The water boiled. I poured. I downed the tea, then stared into Garfield’s belly.
I waited.
And waited.
And…a whisper. Sister sister sister…
I closed my eyes and reached for the door, pulled at it. I could feel it stirring, growing. Yawning. That place—that thing—alive inside me.
I focused into the conduit, blowing on the ember, hoping it would catch.
Nothing.
“Use me, dammit!” The words were desperate, riding a wave of sorrow as they spilled from my mouth. “Use me! Please. Show me something important! Haven’t I, more than anyone else in my family, paid the price? Give me something.” I sniffed. “Work for me.”
Pathetic. I was utterly pathetic.
I’d abandoned my old life out of necessity, but it felt like the Sight abandoned me out of spite.
It would’ve been better if it had completely removed itself from my life, but I couldn’t tolerate this small, continuous betrayal. Sister sister sister.
I leaned against the counter, utterly defeated. Another scream rose in my chest, but if I screamed now, I may never stop.
Sister sister sister. The whisper. The leaves. Nothing changed. When it came to my fate, it was all her and only her.
The mug dangled from my fingers. Maybe I should throw it, watch it shatter against the wall. My eyes darted down, as if weighing the thought. And then.
My breathing hitched.
A stirring. A stretching. The leaves—sister sister sister—remained, but I closed my eyes, hand on the internal door, yes, easing it open.
Suddenly it burst against its hinges, unhinged its endless maw.
And swallowed me.
The briefest flash of something. But no. I shook my head, opening my eyes. Peered at the leaves. No, that’s a memory. I’ve seen it before…
I gasped.
Garfield tumbled from my fingers and shattered against the tile floor.
No. Not that. Not again.
I’d begged for the Sight to use me, and how quickly I regretted that plea.
Because the last time I saw death in my teacup, the night had ended with blood on my hands.
Later, I couldn’t shake the image as I showered, hot water cleaning the grime from my body.
Nor could I shake it as I dressed in a fresh pair of running shorts and cotton V-neck, combing my hair with my fingers.
A sick part of me wondering if any strands of hair remained my sister’s old brush, still dropped behind the toilet. If I should use it just one more time.
And I couldn’t shake the image still when, as if I knew it was to be, a knock sounded at my front door.
Because even with death taking center stage, there was the constant whisper. Sister sister sister.
I stepped forward slowly. Wrecked, wrung dry.
Not again.
“Milly. It’s me. Let me in.”
Another burst of knocking.
“Sister? Please. You’re right. I need your help.”