The Appearance of Annie van Sinderen

Though the air in Malou’s house was exquisitely cold. Like a perfect fall day, all the time. Amazing.

Malou is going to take me with her tomorrow to the historical society, which she thinks holds the cameo Herschel gave me, which at some point I must give to Ed, and Ed to his wife, and his wife to his son, and so on for longer than I can think about. I haven’t tried to discern what we are to each other, Malou—Maddie—and I. Those tattoos. She looks like a whaler. She’s beautiful, though, for all her ink. I see in her cheeks and in the corners of her eyes contours rather like Ed’s and Beattie’s. She’s like my sister, if we weren’t separated by so much distance and time.

Ed. Ed grows up, and marries. I wonder who.

I wonder where he is, right now.

And Beattie. Where is she? She looked so sad, in the painting. And not at all like I remember her. She dies with me and our parents, Maddie said. But why?

Wes and Tyler’s conversation is intensifying. It’s almost an argument. Malou told us to come back tomorrow morning at nine, and I think they’re trying to decide what to do with me until then. I’ve considered absenting myself, but I don’t know how much memory I have left to explore, if I try to go back.

I don’t want to run out of time.

“Are you crazy?” Tyler’s saying.

“No way,” Wes answers. “Forget it. Give it back.”

They’re arguing about the little camera box that Wes has. He says it’s a way of taking down images and keeping them forever. He’s very particular about it. I guess Wes wants it back, but I’m bored by their posturing. I realize that their encounter with me, in my peculiar circumstances, will qualify as one of the more memorable experiences of their short lives. But I’d venture to say, that in my short (or is it long?) life, the circumstance looms rather larger.

“Wes?” I interrupt, placing a hand on his arm. His skin is warm to the touch, burned from summer sun.

They stop their arguing. It’s well and truly night now, though I don’t know the time. I step into the pool of light thrown by a streetlamp, and glance down at myself. The tatters in my dress go into stark relief, a whiff of smoke escaping from under my feet, and I cast no shadow. I close my eyes quickly, not looking. I’m here, I tell myself, I’m here right now.

“What is it, Annie?” he asks me.

When he looks at me, his eyes go soft and tender, and I feel they see deeper into me than eyes usually should. I feel guilty, if I’m honest with myself, when I see him look at me that way.

“Do you think you could take me to see the Central Park?” I ask quietly.

He gives me a long, pained look that I don’t much like.

“You want to go to the park?” he asks. “Now?”

I nod.

Tyler and Wes exchange a look. Then Tyler turns the camera over to Wes without further argument.

“You think I can meet you guys tomorrow morning?” Tyler asks. “I wanna see what happens.”

“I guess,” Wes says. “Is that okay with you, Annie?”

Okay, he says. They both say it, all the time. I’ve finally started to figure out what it means. It means “yes” and “all right.” It also means less than all right, and a begrudging no. It means everything, and nothing, all at once.

“Sure.” I smile at Tyler.

He’s not a bad sort, this Tyler, though the shortness of his hair still surprises me. He doesn’t wear a braid, like the Celestial men I’ve known, but it seems that no one does anymore. I can see that he and Wes are friends, in the way that boys sometimes compete more closely with their friends than they do with their enemies. I’ve watched Herschel argue with his friends in the same way. They flash their feathers at each other like roosters.

“Okay,” Tyler says. Okay, again. “Nine o’clock. I’ll see you guys then.”

“Right,” Wes says. “See you.”