The Appearance of Annie van Sinderen

My fingertips reach forward, traveling from the shadow where I’m standing into the cheerful sunbeam. When my hand reaches the light, my eyes stretch open as wide as they can go, so wide the tears that spring to their corners dry before they can fall.

As my hand moves into the light, the nails slowly blacken. The skin of my arm grows splotchy, and the deeper my arm reaches into the sun, the higher up the staining travels. As it moves into the sun my puffed silk sleeve deflates, the lace at my elbow dissolves into grayness and tatters. With a shudder I pull my hand back out of the light and hold both my hands up in front of my face, watching in horror as tendrils of smoke begin to coil up from my fingertips. I’ve pulled back into the shadows, but it’s too late: the mud and soot stains continue to creep up both my arms, spreading across my chest and down my dress, tattering the cloth and reeking of smoke and earth. The wave of corruption spreads over my skirt before my eyes, rotting the hem and reaching all the way to my slippers, which turn dishwater gray. In the periphery of my eyes I see the curls over my ears begin to pour smoke, and I smell burning flesh and singed hair.

“But . . . but . . . ,” I sputter, looking in horror down at myself.

I’m whimpering, nonsense is pouring out of my mouth, and I start to hyperventilate, but I can’t get my breath because my stays are so tight.

“No,” I gasp. “This can’t be! I have too much to do! This can’t . . .”

I glance through the smoke that’s drifting up from beneath my feet, and see that gentle wet-gold sheen travel over the V A N S I N D E R E N with a fairylike unapologetic gleam.

I throw my head back and scream.

I scream, and scream, and scream, and scream, because I’m not feverish, and I’m not mad, and this is really happening this is all really happening and I’m not in heaven I am HERE and what do I do?

What am I supposed to do?

My scream goes guttural, like the bellow of a cow having its throat cut, and I fall to my knees in the grass, tears bursting from my eyes, spittle swinging from my open keening mouth.

“No,” I moan, my arms wrapping around my stomach as I rock back and forth on my heels in front of that horrible, horrible marble slab. “Oh no no no no no! Herschel! I want to see Herschel! We were supposed to be together! It’s not fair!”

I draw a ragged breath and let it back out with a sob of despair.

“Oh, help!” I sob. “Help! Can’t anyone help me? Please, someone! ANYONE! HELP!”

The marble cemetery is completely silent, except for one cooing pigeon that watches me with impassive eyes. I’m all alone, and it’s not the day we leave for Aunt Mehitable’s after all.

It’s not the day I sneak away from the house before we flee and Herschel gives me my cameo. The day when he tells me he loves me and he wants to be with me forever. The day that everything changes.

I was just remembering that day.

I was lost.

Overcome, my heart dissolving into dust, I slump over onto my side, weeping, my knees drawn up to my chest and my hands over my face. I let the sobs come, rolling up and breaking over me like ocean waves. Lifting me up and carrying me out to sea.

I don’t know how long I lie like that. But I suspect it is a very long while indeed.

? ? ?

The question, I ask myself as I lie in the dandelions, is what do I do now?

Slowly I push myself up to a sitting position. My throat is raw from screaming, and my face feels hot and swollen. But my tears have finally stopped. I’ve run out. I wonder, actually, if I will ever cry again.

I look around myself with eyes that are newly clear.