So lost in her grief, she had no idea she had company.
And watching her carrying on like that, well, I couldn’t help but wonder if she ever got tired of it.
If she ever just stopped for a few minutes, and took a little break to at least wipe her eyes or blow her nose before she started up again.
Only to find out that she did.
And that the wailing would soon be replaced with something much worse.
19
She turned.
Turned and looked straight at us.
Or at least it seemed that way at first.
But right before I started to turn away, right before I shrank back in horror, tempted to grab hold of Buttercup and vámanos ourselves right out of there, never to return, I noticed that she wasn’t really seeing us.
It was more like she was facing in our general direction, but her focus was inward, unable to see anything around her but the images she played over and over again in her head.
And when my gaze unwittingly, accidentally met hers—that was all I could see too.
I slumped down to the ground, whimpering, sniveling, feeling as though my plug had been pulled, as though my wick had been snuffed, and my bulb just burnt out. Sapped of all my energy as my arms instinctively circled around me, trying to protect myself against her pain, her fear, her loss, her complete and total agony—but it was no use. All I wanted to do was scream out, to join her in her chorus of grief, to wail, and moan, and pine, and cry in my own horrible, endless, unceasing way. But my throat was too lumpy, too hot, and it wouldn’t allow anything to work its way in, much less find its way out.
And even though Bodhi was trying to shield me, raising his arms to block her from sight—it was too late.
Too late to look away.
Too late to do anything but continue to stare until I was completely immersed in her world.
Only Buttercup was smart enough to place his paws over his eyes and block her from view.
My gaze moved over her, noticing how even for a ghost, she was so unbelievably pale that the dark wisps of hair that’d broken free of her bun sprang against her face like a silhouette of tree branches caught in an unexpected blizzard of blinding white snow. While her dress, plain and high-necked, was made from a fabric that had clearly started out as black, but after centuries of being washed in an endless deluge of large, salty tears had weakened and faded until it was bleached the same color as the room. Though the constant flow of grief had wreaked far more havoc on her face than the fabric—corroding it into a series of deep, craggy crevices where her cheekbones once rose, while forging bottomless valleys and gorges where her nose, lips, and chin should’ve been. Reminding me in a strange, sick way of a trip my family once took to the Grand Canyon, where my father explained to Ever and me how the rise and fall of the water, its incessant sway and lull, had the power to hone and carve and completely obliterate parts of the rock like a finely honed chisel.
The only part of her face th
at was even remotely recognizable was the space where her eyes should’ve been.
Years of unceasing tears had washed them away until there was nothing left but two matching, deep, dark, and bottomless pools filled with murky black waters that sucked me right in, until I was swirling and spinning, pulled deeper and deeper—like water rushing down a drain, rainfall spilling into a gutter, I was falling, flailing, and there was no way to stop it.
No way to claw my way back.
No way to spare myself from her limitless grief.
I was drowning.
Fighting to keep my head above the dark, murky pool of tumultuous, oily, swirling black waters that violently churned all around me. Coughing and blinking and trying my best to tilt my head back and just float, reminding myself to relax, to stay calm, that panicking would just make it worse. Calling upon everything I’d ever learned in every swimming lesson and junior lifeguard class I’d ever taken. Desperate to keep the water from flooding my lungs, even though deep down inside, I knew they didn’t exactly exist anymore.
But it was too late.
Despite my attempts, despite my legs continuing to kick, despite my hands grasping and clawing, I couldn’t overcome her. I was being pulled under. And for someone who just a few moments earlier didn’t even breathe, I somehow knew that my very existence, not to mention my sanity, required me to hold on, to hang in there, to embrace the breath that now bubbled my cheeks, and to not let it go, no matter what became of me.
And just when I was sure I couldn’t hold on any longer, a hand came out of nowhere, plunging straight toward me from somewhere above, as a voice called out to me.
A voice I immediately recognized as Bodhi’s.
My fingers stretched toward his, as my legs furiously kicked, desperate to propel myself upward, vaguely aware of his fingers circling my wrist, and giving it a nice, firm tug that yanked me above the water, up to where there was oxygen, and air, and room still to breathe.