Awakening (Book One of The Geis) (15 page)

When I stepped into Aunt Avril’s new apartment, it was like taking a trip to another country. What country, I couldn’t say. Richly hued tapestries draped every inch of the walls. Giant tassels gathered the floral prints to reveal randomly placed photos of Aunt Avril in exotic places. The air smelled spicy, like sandalwood with a touch of cinnamon.

“Come in. I’m so glad you’ve finally come over.” Aunt Avril put an arm around me. A calico cat stretched itself against my legs. I reached down to stroke its soft fur. “It’s not much, but now that I have my own things up, it’s starting to feel like home.” Aunt Avril reached past me to take a grocery sack from Mom.

“I have to say, you are quite the interior decorator, Avril,” Mom moved to the single window, in front of which hung dozens of glass ball lanterns covered in cut red, blue, and green glass, each suspended from the ceiling on brass chains.

“Make yourselves at home. I’ll start the rice.”

The apartment was a small studio, with the kitchen in one corner and the bathroom opposite, next to the living room that doubled as a sleeping area. The couch barely had room for me. I settled into an array of turquoise and orange pillows. I made some space on the worn coffee table for my homework, noticing the deer figurine from the secondhand store among the other tiny treasures displayed there.

Aunt Avril had bugged Mom for more than a week to come and visit her in her new apartment. When Mom found a new recipe for a vanilla rice pudding that she wanted to try, Aunt Avril had told her she would contribute some vanilla beans from Madagascar.

Mom wandered around the room, looking at the eclectic blend of decor from all of the places Aunt Avril had traveled through the years. In some ways, I could hardly believe Mom and Avril were sisters who grew up in the same home together.

“How is dance going?” Aunt Avril measured rice into a pot of boiling water. “Do you like this new teacher?”

“Great. Leah’s teaching us competition dances.”

“Does she know what she’s doing?”

“Yes, she knows what we need to do to compete and she’s good with technique.”

“And the janitor, does he still teach you?”

“He does. But he lets Leah take over, mostly.” I chewed the end of my pencil.

“Will you be able to compete in Irish dance and still do ballet?”

Mom put down an ancient looking vase. “McKayla quit ballet.”

For a few weeks I had done both, but I had finally made the decision to quit ballet and focus on Irish. Mom still wasn’t happy about it. She thought I was going through a phase. I changed the subject. “How’s the investigation?”

Aunt Avril shot me a look that let me know I should keep quiet about my involvement in the case.

“Are you still working on that murder in Thayne?” Mom said, walking from the counter to the table and back again. “I thought you were done with that.”

“There’s more to it than we originally thought.”

“Are you ‘seeing’ more into it than what’s really there?”

Aunt Avril stopped stirring the rice and put a lid over it. “My insight is opening doors that would otherwise go unnoticed.”

Mom looked at me. I pushed my homework away. This conversation was way more interesting.

“Some doors are better left closed, especially when what’s on the other side is too dangerous.”

“Dangerous? Evil exists whether or not we choose to face it.” Aunt Avril said.

Mom opened her mouth, and closed it again when she noticed me watching them. “Some things are better left alone,” she said. “I just want you to be careful.”

Mom settled down with a magazine, and I went back to doing my homework.

When the timer rang, Aunt Avril lifted the lid to the saucepan and smothered the steaming rice with a can of evaporated milk. Mom added more milk and some sugar. From a cabinet over her head, Aunt Avril pulled down some dried seedpods in a glass vial.

“Vanilla beans, from the orchids of Madagascar,” Aunt Avril announced. “I’ve been saving these for a special occasion.”

I joined them in the kitchen to get a better look. The bean pods didn’t look like much, all shriveled up and black in color. “Is this a special occasion?” I asked.

“To me it is. It’s not every day I get to spend the afternoon with family.” She popped the lid off of the vial and held it out for me to smell. I inhaled, expecting to smell something sweet, not the pungent, earthy odor that came from the beans.

Aunt Avril laughed at my expression. “It will taste better than it smells, especially if your mom has anything to do with it.” Mom split one of the pods open, giving her a look.

“Mom can make anything taste good.” I dipped my pinky into the creamy pudding and tasted the sweet, milky sauce.

“Just wait until after we add the eggs—the eggs!” Mom looked in Aunt Avril’s fridge. “I forgot to bring the eggs.”

“No worries. I need to pick up some things for dinner later on, so I’ll run down to the store.” Aunt Avril hurried around, grabbing her wallet and a cloak that she fastened with a clasp. She blew a kiss to a framed photo near the door and was gone.

I walked over to the photo that sat on a table only big enough for the elaborate frame and a tiny bottle of incense. The photo showed Uncle Theron sitting tall in the saddle of a horse. His expression was serious, but he looked at the camera with a hint of amusement. Theron had died years ago, in a car accident.

“Why does Aunt Avril always talk about Uncle Theron like he’s still alive?” I asked.

“People cope with crises in different ways. Aunt Avril keeps his memory alive by talking to him. I don’t think she really believes he is there. But it comforts her.” Mom scraped tiny seeds from the vanilla bean pod and then threw the whole thing in the saucepan. “Theron always said he’d rather ride on a horse than in a car. Maybe he knew what was coming.”

I crossed the room and looked at the recipe Aunt Avril had propped against the counter. “‘Temper the eggs with the hot mixture’,” I read.

“You have to slowly raise the temperature of the eggs by mixing them with a little bit of the sauce. If you don’t temper them, the eggs will scramble. Can you take a turn with the spoon? It takes almost an hour for the pudding to thicken.”

I stared into the pot, watching the rice bubble to the top and disappear into the milky pudding. There were only a few ingredients in this recipe, but it came together to make such a comforting dessert. That’s what I love about a recipe. If you follow the instructions, the food turns out the way it’s supposed to. If you heat milk and sugar according to the directions, it becomes a pudding every time.

Life has too many ingredients, I decided, and the more variables that are thrown in, the more room for messing up the recipe. “Wouldn’t it be nice if there were a recipe for love?”

Mom smiled. “I can see it now, a 3x5 card with the words ‘How to catch a date and keep him’ written across the top.”

“Yeah, I wish it were as easy as following a recipe.”

“Maybe it’s as easy as picking the right ingredients.”

“And by that you mean . . . ?”

“Well, you can’t just use any vanilla in this pudding recipe. It has to be real vanilla, or it won’t turn out as flavorful. So, you have to pick the right person, the one who, combined with your strengths, will result in the most favorable combination.”

I groaned. “If only it were that easy.”

Mom laughed. “Sometimes it takes a lot of baking before you come up with a culinary masterpiece. Don’t worry about getting it right the first time.” She took the spoon from me, leaning her nose down to breathe in the aroma. Her eyes rolled back in her head as she inhaled, like I had seen her do many times as she tested her cooking. She breathed in and out, her face pinched in concentration. Finally, her face relaxed. “Perfect.”

A whiff of vanilla wafted my way. It smelled amazing. I remembered what Aunt Avril had said about my mom’s cooking, and how she told me my mother had a power, like hers. “Mom, do you have a gift?”

She stopped stirring and looked at me before scraping the sides of the pan. “Yes, I do. That’s why I started my candy business, to share my talent with others.”

“No, I mean, can you do things with food that other people don’t have the power to do?”

Mom turned her body so that she was facing me. “Yes.”

Her answer caught me by surprise.

“When I cook, a part of me seeps into the ingredients, coaxing out the natural flavors and nuances that are hidden, waiting for me to set them free.”

“You mean, like magic?”

“Sort of.”

I didn’t know if I could believe it. If she were gifted, like Aunt Avril, then why did she hide it? “So, you are a magical cook?”

“I didn’t say that. Everyone you meet has a gift of some kind. Some more than others, but its there if you take the time to look for it.”

“Seriously Mom, I’m past the whole ‘everyone is special’ stage. I really want to know. What if a person happens to have more of a gift than others—shouldn’t they use it more? I mean, if you have, say, a talent, shouldn’t you use it to help other people?”

“Of course. You know that I teach you to always help others. If everyone used their talents for good, the world would be a better place. But talents can also be used for evil, despite the best of intentions.” Mom’s brown eyes softened, and she stared into the pudding without seeing it. “McKayla, you are a wonderful young lady. But you are capable of making mistakes that will haunt you for the rest of your life.”

Mom’s answer raised more questions than it solved. What did she mean by mistakes? Obviously there was more to this than Mom wanted me to know. Maybe Aunt Avril would be willing to enlighten me on the subject.

Holding out the spoon to me, Mom motioned for me to take a turn stirring. “What brings this up? Is there something going on that you wanted to tell me about?”

I thought about telling her about my weird connection to people’s emotions. Aunt Avril seemed to think it linked me to her in the same way that she could sense past actions. But I wasn’t so sure. I still didn’t know if my ability to connect with people amounted to any more than the fact that I have always been overly empathetic. “No, I’m just curious.” I watched the vanilla beans surface with each swirl of the spoon. Mom looked at me for a long moment before picking up her magazine.

I snuck another taste of the pudding. Vanilla coated my tongue with a rich, piquant flavor. Either Mom was a magical cook, or she really knew her stuff.

“Cross those toes over! Make them kiss,” Leah corrected me, but I needed to finish out the step before I could fully concentrate on what she wanted me to change. I didn’t want to worry about turnout right now. I wanted to dance until all the frustration of the day leaked out of me through the music. School wasn’t as hard as I’d thought it would be, but every time I saw Lucas, the image of him smiling up at Taminy flashed through my mind. He even said hi to me in physics. How ironic that before going out with him, I would have been thrilled just to have him say anything to me.

It felt so good to stretch my muscles to the point of pain. The music kept going when I stopped, looping in an endless reel.

“Your feet are straight forward, like railroad tracks,” Leah said. “I want to see your heels.”

Since we’d moved into a studio, everything had changed. We now held class with a certified teacher, and two more dancers had joined. JiaLin had signed up, along with Karen, a competitive dancer who used to travel to Taminy’s school in Jackson. Christa felt more comfortable dancing for Leah, and between the newcomers and Zoey, who danced around for the first 30 minutes of class and then ended curled up by the lizard on the floor, the class had grown from only Christa and me to a total of five.

The door opened and Josh came in, setting his banjo case next to him on the bench, waiting for us to finish so he could give us a ride home. I focused on my reflection in the mirror—the fatigue that threatened my stamina earlier disappeared. I worked on the drills Leah requested, concentrating on turning out my feet.

Leah called for a water break. I took the chance to talk to Rourke.

“Are you going to teach today?”

No
.

My treble jig feels so awkward. Can you dance it for me?
I signed.

Rourke didn’t respond, but his eyes darted to where Leah demonstrated a step for JiaLin.

If Leah dances, will you?

No
. This time Rourke’s actions were less forceful.

I waited for the dancers to drift back onto the dance floor before approaching Leah.

“Leah, can you perform a dance for us—one of the dances you did in competition?”

Leah put her hands on her hips and smiled down at her ghillies as though she and her shoes shared a secret. When she looked up, her eyes were glistening with tears, but her smile was genuine.

“It’s been a long time,” she said, “but I think I can remember. JiaLin, will you turn on a slow reel for me?”

JiaLin reached over to the sound system and pushed play. We sat against the mirror to watch.

As the music wound itself through the introduction, Leah transformed from teacher to dancer. Her body lengthened and her posture improved. A look of focus and calm draped across Leah’s face as she pointed her toe and prepared to dance.

She stretched her legs to the beat, toes pointed, ankles perfectly crossed. Leah’s leaps propelled her through the studio—she landed as lightly as a bird. Each movement was precise, in time with the music and technically sound. Leah looked as polished as the girls I saw in competition.

Rourke stepped down from his stool, a look of concentration on his face as he watched Leah dance. He limped a few steps toward the door, and then stopped. Was he upset that I asked Leah to dance?

Leah finished strong and tall, a grin on her face. We all clapped for her as the music stopped, and Christa whistled. I walked toward Leah, but then stopped when someone started dancing behind me.

Rourke danced without music, his shoes muffling the sound of his feet against the hardwood flooring. He held his hands stiffly at his sides—his feet danced a strict rhythm based on Leah’s dance. Rourke’s footwork contrasted so starkly to the fluid and heartfelt dancing I knew him to be capable of. I couldn’t tell if he was trying to prove his expertise, or mock Leah’s technical style.

By the look on Leah’s face, it was easy to see what she thought of Rourke’s display. Her face reddened, and she took a step toward him.

“Do you think you can do better?”

Rourke stopped dancing and limped to the stool, shaking his head. His hands moved quickly, and I translated the best I could.

Your dancing is strong, and your teaching has improved their dancing
. Leah watched him, a mixture of emotions displayed across her face. Rourke continued.
But moving legs to music is only one part of dancing. Where I am from, we move from the heart, the spirit. Pull the emotion from the pool of feelings you’ve dammed up inside your heart.

Leah paced across the dance floor. “Who are you to speak to me about emotions? You sit there week after week with as much emotion as a clod of dirt.” She spun to face Rourke. “Why do you come here? You sit on that stool, watching me teach. Never once have you offered to help.” She strode up to Rourke, strands of her hair falling out of the clip she had tucked it into. “We are supposed to be a team.”

Rourke pulled a stack of papers from his bag and offered them to Leah. She took them without a word.

I glanced at Josh. He appeared oblivious to the drama, looking out the window and tapping a beat with his foot.

Leah scanned through dozens of handwritten pages. “This is an entire dance production.” Leah’s eyes softened, searching Rourke’s. “Did you write this?”

Rourke nodded. I didn’t dare breathe—the connection between them was so personal.

Rourke turned to us and clapped his hands. We scrambled back onto the studio floor.

Leah recovered, striding to where Rourke lined us with our backs against the mirror. He motioned for me to translate, and signed to Leah. I smiled at his words.

With your permission, I’d like to hold a winter production.

The tension that hung over the room dissipated. Chatter followed squeals of excitement. Zoey sat in front of Lizard, her eyes shining. She whispered something to him.

Leah took in our reaction. She took one more look at the notes. “All right, let’s do it.”

Is there anyone who can’t commit?

Christa looked conflicted, but she didn’t say anything. I knew Karen would jump at the chance to have a production closer to home, and JiaLin’s excited response confirmed that we would have enough to make it work.

Good. We can make do with only five, but we must have a hero,
Rourke signed. I struggled to keep up with his words. He turned to the door and motioned to Josh, who wasn’t paying attention to Rourke’s hand movements.

“Josh,” I whispered to get his attention. Josh’s head whipped up, and his elbow bumped his banjo case as he straightened. It fell with a crash to the floor. I pointed to Rourke.

“Yes sir?”

Rourke pointed to a spot on the floor next to me.

“I think he wants you to come here,” I said. Zoey giggled.

“Do you need something, sir?”

Rourke stood inches from Josh—his hands on his hips as if he were a drill sergeant. From the look on Josh’s face, I could tell he would have been more comfortable in basic training.

We need a hero for our dance,
Rourke signed.
Do you want the part?
I translated his words to Josh.

Josh looked at his sister. Christa shrugged.

“I’m sure you are mistaking me for someone else. I don’t know how to dance.”

Rourke walked over to the banjo case on the floor. He picked it up, questioning if it belonged to Josh.

“That’s mine, sir.”

Why do you play this instrument?

“Why?” Josh looked confused.

Why do you play?

Josh’s face turned red. He clasped his hands behind his back. Josh wasn’t looking at Rourke anymore. His eyes were focused on mine. His feelings were complicated. I sifted through them—hesitation, confusion, and something else that I couldn’t pinpoint.

“When I play an instrument, I can express what I can’t say out loud. It takes me away from the moment—it’s hard to explain.”

I forgot that I was translating for Rourke. I spoke to Josh, my eyes never leaving his. “That’s how I feel about dance.”

Rourke signed and I tore my eyes away from Josh to translate.
I can teach you to dance if you will join us.

“Ok, I’ll try it.” Josh said it to me. His face was calm, but I could feel the war of emotions raging inside of him.

Rourke looked pleased.
Let’s dance!
Leah smiled at him.

The climate of the room changed with Rourke’s contribution. Zoey let go of my hand to jump up and down, and everyone talked at once. Our first production.

I walked with Josh back to the bench. “Thanks for giving it a try. You might change your mind about it later.”

A smile lit Josh’s face, chasing away any uncertainty. He picked up his banjo. “I’ll be here,” he said.