15. Whispers from the Root
Whispers from the Root
Lilliam Rivera
It was a dull, inconsequential Tuesday morning when Norma awoke to find her luminous brown eyes missing.
A stunning woman of fifty-one years, slender in build and always put together, it was Norma’s eyes that attracted many toward her.
Amber irises reflected the copper strands of her hair.
Her sad, expressive eyes left many to wonder what tragic history was stored behind them, so much so that a former lover composed a long and severe poem about them.
But on Tuesday morning, Norma’s eyes simply vanished and in their place were harrowing pools of liquid obsidian.
Black eyes reflected a dark abyss, leaving Norma with a monstrous expression.
Her lengthy eyelashes that she curled every morning were now exaggerated white lids framing the ominous orbs.
Her early morning routine had always been consistent, and today held no exception.
The alarm went off, Norma took a sip from the glass of water on her bedside table, silently whispered a prayer, and walked to the bathroom.
When she stood up to wash her hands, she caught her reflection on the medicine cabinet’s mirror and gasped.
Her knees buckled, but Norma held on to the edge of the cool porcelain sink.
She forced herself to stand, all the while tremors coursed through her body.
Norma took in deep breaths and muttered to herself, “Cálmate. Cálmate.”
There was no turning back now. Norma’s fate was sealed long ago on that mournful day when Dona Mercedes approached her.
Although Norma’s eyes were black, the sudden alteration only increased her vision.
Norma could see everything so intensely, it became painful at first. As she returned to her bedroom, her dark eyes took in the vibrant colors.
The reds were deeper, the greens richer.
She rushed to the kitchen and pulled up a bruised orange from a wooden bowl.
Norma could see inside the pulp, could travel through each juice vesicle, could peer into the oil sacs of the skin of the orange as if entering a vast world.
She dropped the fruit and pressed her body against the wall to keep from collapsing.
The framed photos seemed to talk to her, relaying past conversations she once held with loved ones long gone.
She could hear the waves of the ocean crashing against the rocks in Mar Chiquita.
Smells of barbecue and sweat. Familiar voices laughing.
Memories were made unbearable by this new accursed sight.
She laughed hysterically, clutching the rosary beloved by her father.
She was horrified but determined to move forward as planned.
Before leaving to catch her flight, she located the oversized designer sunglasses she had ordered years ago.
When Norma arrived at LaGuardia Airport she came with no luggage, only the rosary, the old manila folder neatly tucked inside her purse, and the clothes she wore.
She decided on a white blouse with matching linen pants, breathable material to withstand the heat.
The TSA agent, a young Black man, asked Norma to take off her sunglasses and stare at the screen for a photo.
The agent’s thoughts were on his upcoming break and of how his wife smiled after he whispered raw things to her the night before.
He glanced at Norma’s photo and compared it to her ID but didn’t notice her owl eyes.
All he saw was a beautiful older woman who matched identically to the ID she presented.
“Have a safe flight,” he said.
Norma thanked him, put her shades back on to cover her unnatural appearance, and walked through the TSA checkpoint toward her gate.
In the Philly neighborhood of Southwark, a woman younger than Norma by five years swung her legs off the bed to find her feet missing.
Claudia needed three alarms to wake her up.
The first two she always ignored, pressing the Snooze button.
The final alarm on the phone was her last chance.
When the noise startled her awake, Claudia reacted the way she always did.
She jumped off her bed in a state of panic, only this time her non-existent feet weren’t there to brace her.
Claudia fell to the floor and screamed. She clutched at her knees, wailing at how her feet were now hooves.
“No, no, no!” Claudia cried. “Why? Why now?”
The hooves matched the color of the worn leather bag she’d had for many years: a saddlebag from the seventies owned by her mother.
The photo by Claudia’s nightstand depicted her mother holding the half-moon-shape design—one hand gripping the shoulder strap tight against her, the other hand holding up a protest sign.
To conserve the heirloom, Claudia would take the bag to the local leather store to have it polished and repaired.
Her mother’s treasured accessory served Claudia for many years, though now it lay on a shelf in the crowded studio, displayed like a prized possession.
Time passed with Claudia still on the floor, lamenting her transformation and cursing the old woman’s name.
It was Dona Mercedes who told her what her future would look like, who’d whispered to her at the funeral, “When the day comes, your body will transform and you will fly back home.” Claudia had been too full of grief to take her words seriously and thought the woman was just some strange, crazy person.
But throughout the years, Dona Mercedes appeared to her in dreams, repeating the same instructions.
The phone rang, and Claudia immediately knew it would be her work colleague checking in on her, wondering why she was late. She dragged herself to the bedside table, unwilling to use her new appendages, and searched for the ringing phone.
“Sorry I didn’t call earlier,” Claudia said, trying to sound composed. “I don’t feel well. I tested with COVID… Yes, I’ll be out at least for a week. I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”
Claudia had never lied at work before. The job at the university was too important to her, but she had no other choice. She squeezed her eyes tight and prepared to lift herself up onto her strange new feet.
Her new legs elevated her height. No longer five feet, she towered in the room.
Tears streamed down her face, but at least the animal body part gave her a stature she’d never had before.
Claudia had always been a bit vain. Hours of Pilates ensured her voluptuous body was intact, with strong legs from daily evening runs.
She stood in front of the full-length mirror.
The longer she stared, the more the new silhouette forged itself in her mind.
She gathered her long black hair into a high ponytail, then bent over to feel the hardness of the hoof wall, running her fingers down to the hard sole. All the while, her despair grew.
The clopping noise Claudia made on the floor reminded her of a time when she was on the back of a galloping horse.
She remembered how she rode seated in front of her mother and how their laughter joined the warm breeze.
Back then, Claudia didn’t understand how fleeting the day in Rio Grande with her mother would be.
A strong wind belted across the city. An imminent snowstorm determined to barrel through at any second.
But all Claudia could do was moan. She’d believed that perhaps the omen would bypass her.
She had never been told the date of when this accursed moment would happen.
Claudia had thought maybe she could outlive it.
Angrily wiping away the tears, she went in search of the matronly maxi dress in white, shoved far deep into the back of her closet. A floor-gazing design meant to cover the hooves, the outfit was purchased years ago just for this dreadful occasion.
Dressed and ready, Claudia ordered a car service to take her to the airport.
In sunny Ybor City, Florida, Willie hadn’t bothered taking off his dingy white work clothes before crashing hard onto his twin-size bed, so hard the fitted sheet pulled off, leaving him snoring atop the old mattress.
The fifty-four-year-old had worked a late shift at the factory and his muscles were sore from lifting heavy packages.
A job with barely any benefits, he made enough to pay for the room he rented, where he shared a bathroom with four other men.
The halfway house was temporary. It’s not to say this was the first halfway house Willie had lived in.
There had been too many to count, but at least he was trying.
Still, the house manager constantly reminded Willie that he was running out of chances.
Willie’s three pairs of shoes (construction boots, two worn sneakers) were meticulously lined up by the door.
A plastic lawn chair he borrowed from the backyard neatly held the clothes he would change into when he woke up.
Canvases of various sizes showcasing his latest paintings dotted the grungy wall.
Willie would never call himself an artist. He wouldn’t dare be so bold, but his counselor pushed him to own it, own how he, too, was an artist like his father once was.
As he dreamed of an old woman standing by his unfinished paintings, Willie’s nose started to itch.
He reached up to touch his face and whelped from the painful scratch.
He looked down to discover his fingers were gone.
The palms of his hand, his hand as a whole, missing.
In its place were five thick, giant spurs curled up from his wrist like a rooster.
He sprang out of bed, ignoring the blood dripping from the cut.
Willie took in shallow breaths as he stared at his newfound claws.
“Fuck,” he said. “Holy shit. Fuck.”