Down the Rabbit Hole

“Curious George.” He looked at her pointedly—then used his finger to point to himself. “Abe Lincoln.” He aimed the finger at her. “Angry Bird, Grumpy and Charlie Brown.” There was a swagger on his face. “Hank Hill and Superman to your Daria. And now you as . . . well, you, and me as this magnificent and way too cool ten-foot blue avatar? Who’s winning this one?”


“Tsk. You are so annoying.” He grinned. She considered him carefully. “So . . . Jake Sully. He’s all about leaving the past behind; about changing and reinventing himself and then deciding how he wants to live the rest of his life. You’re about choosing new adventures over wallowing in self-pity.” She laughed, uncomfortably. “Not too shabby for wise and dignified advice, my friend. The last of it, I’m guessing.”

Before he could speak, the rumbling came again; a thundering like a stampede of Pandoran thanator plowing through the jungle. And then it went silent.





CHAPTER EIGHT




“Okay. Enough now! Tell me what that is. It’s driving me crazy.”

“You’re hungry.”

“What?”

“You’re hungry. It’s your stomach, it’s growling.”

“Seriously?”

“A lot of things can make your stomach growl, of course, but in this case it’s hunger. You skipped lunch to have an early supper with Molly after helping her decide on costumes.”

“You’re right, I did. And that’s been my stomach growling this whole time?”

“Well, you haven’t actually been here a whole time; it’s only been a tiny bit of time.”

“What is a tiny bit of time to you?”

“Same as you: a couple of seconds.”

“What?”

“When you first got here you asked if you were dead or in a coma or hallucinating and I said No, not exactly. You didn’t ask about dreaming, and I avoided the subject of daydreaming.”

“What?”

“Daydreaming. Wandering around inside your own head, thinking, fantasizing—”

“Fantasizing?”

“Trying to decide what you want to be, who you want to be, how you’ll go about—”

“Fantasizing? I made you up? I made it all up? Me? It’s been me all along?”

“Of course.” He looked like he wanted to tickle under her chin and call her a silly button. “Who knows you better than you know yourself?”

“I—”

“That’s right. You. You’re in control.”

She stood perfectly still. “So you, Martin, you’re not magic? You’re just . . . me?”

His smile was lopsided and lovable. “Elise. We make our own magic, you know that.” He gazed deep into her eyes and sighed. “Time for you to go.”

Her reluctance surprised her.

“Will I forget all this?” He turned his head first to one side, then slowly to the other; then did it again when she asked, “Can I come back if I do?”

“You need to go now. Molly will start to worry about you.”

“How?” She turned in a circle. “Where?”

“Just put the mask down.”

“What? No, wait . . .”

“Put the mask down, Elise.”

Martin and the corral of costumes around them started to fade away. But slowly, growing clearer and clearer into focus, was a reflection of a Noh theater mask with golden-green hazel eyes peering through from behind. Her eyes.

“. . . Max is a sweetie. He’s really smart and he’s funny. And I think he’s serious. He likes you. You can see it when he looks at you,” Molly was saying. “Why do you keep pushing these guys away?”

Elise lowered the mask from her face, bit by bit. She pressed a cool hand to her flushed cheek and blinked back tears—a combination of the relief to be back and sadness for the loss of Martin. She turned the mask over, examined it, saw nothing askew.

“Elise?”

“Yes?” She turned with a start. “What?”

“I don’t understand why you keep pushing these guys away.”

Lifting her gaze to Darth Vader’s mask, she waited for him to speak.

“Elise!”

“Yes.” She looked straight at Molly this time, delighted to see her. “It’s safe. I push men away to feel safe. But in truth, all I feel is empty and alone.”