Swansong

  "Thank you," Annwn says, with a playful curtsy. "But I can't. I have to get back to my Black-Eyed Susans."

  "I love Black-Eyed Susans," Kory says passionately.

  And I'm still upset--because how could I have lost Jocelyn's bracelet?--but a laugh bubbles out of me without my consent. Something tells me Kory thinks we're talking about a rock band. I know for a fact he prefers techno.

  "I'll see you around," Annwn says. "Won't I?"

  "I sure hope so," Kory says, unabashed.

  Annwn leaves the canteen through the back door. Kory and I both watch her, but--I suspect--for different reasons.

  "Now that's a woman," Kory sighs.

  "Thanks," I tell him.

  "What? Why do you care? It would never work out between you and me. There's too much of an intellectual disparity."

  I take my schoolbag off my back. I hit him with it.

  * * * * *

  I spend my free period on the thirteenth floor. I turn on the lights in the empty studio. I unwrap the plastic covering from my paint canvas.

  The canvas is blank, save for a solitary smudge of gray.

  I swallow a sigh. I line up the oil paints on the easel. I take the sable brush, newly washed, into my hand. There ought to be a scar on my hand. There ought to be a bracelet around my wrist.

  My hands shake like water on a chilly day. Like the tremors Kory spoke about when he detailed the earth's ruination.

  The universe's ruination.

  The world already ended when Mom and Dad and Jocelyn died. I can't imagine the world ending a second time. What would that feel like? Who would I lose this time around? Judas? I can't lose Judas. Judas is my only family.

  I can't. I can't--

  My ears ring. Pain blasts its way across my scalp, tunneling into my skull. The glass floor meets my knees with bruising impact, the room tilting and lurching around me.

  The room drains of color, of light. Darkness fills my eyes.

  I try to close my eyes. My eyelids won't move. I try to raise my hands. My hands won't raise. I can't feel the floor beneath my knees. Where did it go? I can't feel the pain--in my knees--in my head. I draw a deep breath. No; I don't. Because I don't have a mouth. I don't have a body.

  I'm not here. I'm gone.

  * * * * *

  Earth is more beautiful than I can put into words, seamless royal blue flecked with raging white whirlpools and splotches of emerald green. I've seen that shade of green before, haven't I? In a dream, maybe. I forget which one.

  Earth is so beautiful. She looks small from here, like I could cup her in my hands. The billions of people living on it would be none the wiser. I lift my hands in front of my face. My left hand is scarred, red with burns, bumpy with skin grafts. A gilded little swan swims weightlessly on the chain around my wrist.

  Thank God. I thought I'd lost her.

  The supervoid is rich all around me, endless space stitched from dark matter, black where it folds in on itself and sea-blue where it rests calm, sea-blue interwoven with bruise shades of lilac and hyperviolet. I never knew. Never knew how colorful outer space was, I mean. They make it look so cold in the drawings. So impersonal. They've never seen it like this. I've never seen it like this.

  A spark of gold flares around Earth's outline, like an ethereal aura, the sun hidden behind the planet. All that light in one place--it hurts. It hurts my eyes. Do I even have eyes? I shield the eyes I might not have with the hand I might not have. I turn my head away. I'm sure I have a head. I must.

  To my left hovers a planet I've never seen, a titan the color of topaz, her surface hazy in raging, blue-gray clouds. Sixty-seven moons dance around her, vying for her attention. Shouldn't she be Mars? But no; here comes Mars now, soaring my way with hurtling speed, a red as bright as the hottest fire, coal patterns smudged all over her face, iridescent double moons twirling around her in earnest--

  I swim through the supervoid, unafraid. I'm weightless, a cosmic cloud. A three-month-old weight lifts off my shoulders, fizzling out in the ethers of space.

  Nobody told me how warm space is. It tickles my cheeks in soft fingertips. It strokes the hair on my scarred scalp.

  Crimson dust and molten rocks rain my way. I swan-dive through them, unharmed, undeterred. Against the distant canopy of space I can see the giant ghosts of dead stars, ephemeral, incorporeal, pearl-gray and shimmering weakly. The stars, Judas told me once. Most of them are dead. But no, that can't be. That can't be true, because that's not fair. If I could just get to those stars--then I'd see for myself--

  An ice-blue planet looms toward me. She spins freely inside a halo of milk-white dust. A tiny colony of moons skitters after her, the smallest moon the closest, the largest moon the farthest. I think of a mother crossing the street with her children. I think of how that mother might take the youngest child's hand in her own. I swim past the quaint family, a sheen of cold air briefly settling over my skin. A bright blue planet chases after them, her poles painted a startling jade green. That color again. I know I've seen that color before.

  I swim to the very edge of the Kuiper Belt. Dwarf planets and dead gray rocks glide solemnly past me, a mobile cemetery, the last vestiges of what once was, maybe, or what could have been. Disconsolate, I watch them over my shoulder. I watch them fade away.

  The stars. I have to see the stars.

  I drift toward the phantoms stamped against the black sky. The closer I drift, the more distinct become their shapes. Dazzling white spheres dance in the sky. They're alive. I'm positive of it. They're beautiful. Why doesn't it hurt to look at them? They leave afterimages in the sky behind them, powdery shadows in mysterious blue, saffron steam diffusing into white-gold.

  "They're alive," I say, eyes blurring with beauty.

  I have no voice.

  The star nearest me flares suddenly, lighting up a dangerous scarlet. My heart seizes. The star trembles and quakes, flames bubbling, shivering. Saturation seeps cruelly out of its surface until the entire vehicle is cold and gray. Petrified, it holds still. I want to cry with it. I want to take it in my tiny arms.

  It shatters.

  The blast knocks me off my feet--except I'm not standing on anything to begin with. I cover my face with my arms. Shards of gold glass fly past me, sizzling, silent as they permeate the vacuum of space. I lower my arms once the erratic lights calm down. Where the star once lived billows a cloud of gold, a pastel gold, beckoning in its softness.

  I dive in.

  Drowsy tranquility claims me at once. I feel like a little girl lying down to sleep in her summer bed, the ocean waves whispering outside her window, her mother's kiss on her forehead. I swim through the nebula, gold raining down on me, gold raining around me, gentle, sparkling and dim all at once. The heart of the nebula glistens blue-white in the distance, promising, calling. I swim toward it, stardust caressing my shorn hair.

  I emerge in the baby blues of childhood and restless days. They're the freshest blues I've ever tasted, the softest, the brightest, a long-lost friend. Bathed in blue, I tilt my head back. I drink in peace through my pores. I want to stay here forever, I decide, forever safe, forever free.

  The sky above my head is an emerald green. It nips and pulls at me, so that without my say in the matter, I find myself rising into it, weightless, effortless. It's riches and jewels, a green threatening blue, a green to rival the stormy Levantine Sea. It's soaked in the light of a star I can't see.

  It's only a thin veneer. I surge up and break through it. I break free, a bowsprit cutting through ocean waves. I hover above the sea's surface.

  This must be what an airplane feels like when it skims across the clouds. The clouds billow underneath me, jade and vermillion and burnt gold. The sky--is that what that is?--is a calming, muted blue-green. The clouds reach for the sky. The sky reaches for the clouds. They touch, birthing a milky, gray-white horizon.

  The horizon is singing.

  At first I'm sure that I've imagined it, because space is a vacuum, and there's no
sound in a vacuum. But the more I pay attention, the more I realize I could never make up a song like this. I don't even know how to put this song into words. Not volume--not color--not rhythm. It's the kind of song that starts first in your belly, deep, reverberating, then climbs into your heart; only after that does it reach your ears, ringing and true. It's the whistle of a baby seal, newborn, innocent, and the clap of thunder on a hot summer night, rumbling, rich. It's the sound falling snow makes when the world holds still long enough to hear it. It's the sound of a redwood's tangled roots drinking water from the soil. It's the chiming of sunlight on sand and surf, and the whisper of the wind, and the ancient laughter of the shifting earth.

  Rosa das rosas, e fror das frores.

  A new nebula emerges from behind the gray horizon. It soars into the sky. It's the purest white, the cleanest white, opalescent, flecked with sheer pinks and blues so pale you'll miss them if you blink. It's as soft as a baby's breath, a mother's waiting hands. It dips its slender neck in a graceful arc. It unfolds its elegant wings, spreading them in flight.

  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 forthright 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.