Forgetting the odd glow within my chest, I stumbled from the pool house and shouted for help. By the time the EMTs arrived, Ben was convulsing, and the heat behind my sternum had snuffed out. But even before it stopped burning, no one had seemed to notice the strange light at my sternum. A few kids did, however, comment on my glowing contacts. I didn’t dare tell them I wasn’t wearing any.
Instead, I stared at the ground until the warm tingling behind my irises subsided, scared and worried for Ben, yet horrified for myself. Of myself. When the paramedics arrived, no one mentioned anything about my eyes being abnormal. A kind EMT assured me what happened wasn’t my fault, that Ben was having a seizure and I’d just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. I let them believe it, but I knew it was my fault. Because when we were kissing, when he began to thrash for life, I felt stronger and more alive than I ever had. I fed off his lust, and then his terror. And I wanted to keep feeding . . . but somehow, I came back to myself when I saw those blue lips. It was me who broke our connection in that instant.
If I hadn’t, he’d be dead today.
Over the past few weeks I’ve tried to convince myself I imagined everything. But I can’t explain away glowing eyes any more than I can the sprained wrist I suffered from the fall—something I was too drunk to notice at the time. If not for me being rushed to the ER alongside Ben in the ambulance, Mom wouldn’t have found out about the party, or my drinking, or my indiscretions with some guy I barely knew.
And it wasn’t even worth it. In the end, the alcohol didn’t make a dent in my musical compulsions—because it didn’t change who I was. It didn’t fix me. Before Mom arrived to pick me up from the hospital, I’d already serenaded the staff with the aria. After they’d recovered from their awe-struck shock, they applauded then hooked me up to an IV, mistaking my post-performance malaise for dehydration.
How could they have known I wasn’t thirsty anymore? That I felt satiated and full of life. All because I’d almost drained Ben of his.
Even worse, how could I not wonder if I was cursed like Grandma had said all along, and that I’d done the same thing to my father years earlier with my demonic gift of song?
Refusing to wallow in pity—for Ben, Dad, or myself—I go seeking redemption instead. If I can find a tangle of weeds overtaking some flowers and revive their beauty and purity, I can restore my self-worth on some level, and maybe investigate the location of that first gardener sighting almost a week ago.
I slip into a pair of parchment-thin leather gloves from my winter clothes’ supply, and make my way outside, armed with a stainless-steel food tub, a large spoon and fork, and a serrated pie server from the cafeteria—temporary substitutes for a bucket, shovel, rake, and trowel.
This morning at breakfast, Aunt Charlotte convinced me to wait until tomorrow, since that’s when Mister Jippetto promised to bring the gardening tools I’d requested last time we spoke. Although her real goal was to convince me to go with her to Versailles. Fortunately, Bouchard ended up staying, which seemed to make Aunt Charlotte feel better about leaving me behind. But I’ve changed my mind about waiting to explore the garden. I have to do this today.
My tank top, leggings, and a flowing chiffon floral rust-print dress, followed with a navy raglan-sleeved cardigan that I knitted a few months ago for autumns in Texas, are more suited for the day trip my classmates took. Still, with the way the sky looks, I can’t waste any time changing, other than my shoes.
I trudge through the parking lot, careful not to slip on the gravel rolling under my cowboy boots—their soles so worn they’ve lost all traction. When I was small, Dad and I weeded barefoot to keep from crushing the tender plants underneath. As I got older, and had to do things without him, these became my gardening shoes, because the smooth soles protected the leaves and stems.
Several birds flutter overhead, and I’m relieved to hear them trilling and chirping. I take it as a good omen. Once I reach the yellowed, grassy outskirts of the garden, I’m in awe. At home, my plot of perennials and vegetables is manicured and tamed. There, I’m the conductor.
Here, I’m the audience.
Nature provides the performers—spicing every inhalation with floral perfumes, rotted wood, moldy leaves, and soil. Everything from shrubs and brambles to vines and weeds encompasses the sprawling landscape, as high as my knees on either side of the cobblestone path. In the distance, crimson rose bushes that rise to my chest bow to the rhythm of rain-scented gusts, like actors answering an encore. Fall flowers burst up from the graves of dead summer blooms, reluctant to shed their costumes of purples, oranges, golds, and blues, in spite of how garish they are against the withering landscape.