Wander Dust (4 page)

He whispers. Some parts of the conversation are inaudible. “I think you’re right... it’s time for her to come stay with you... something’s happened... yes, yes, I know... she needs discipline... just like her mother... I’ve failed...”

::5::
Chicago

Ray waits weeks to tell me he is sending me to live with Aunt Mona in Chicago, and I know why. This allows less time for me to react. Even though I know the news is coming, I’m hurt when he tells me. I fight with him over the decision, but he’s already made up his mind, and there’s no changing it now.
He doesn’t want me.

“Look, you love Chicago—you love Aunt Mona. Honestly, Sera, it’ll be more of a treat than you deserve after being grounded so many times this year.” His eyes plead with me to agree.

His statement is true. This, I don’t argue. Despite my heartache, I’m not completely put-off by the thought of living with Aunt Mona. As Mom’s older sister, she’s the closest thing I have to knowing my mom.

Ray claims they’re nothing alike, and I wonder about the truth of that statement. Mona doesn’t bear any resemblance to me. How different can she really be? They are—
were
sisters.

I’ve spent a few weekends with Mona. Although I don’t show Ray, the thought of getting to know her better raises my spirits. In my mind, I resolve to soak up every moment with her, just as though she’s my own mother. Sadly, I find myself reaching for anything that will let me hang onto my mom. I tell myself this is normal. Because of all my craziness, I need someone to hang on to, even if the person is gone.

For Ray, I pretend to be overwrought with anxiety—but just for fun. It seems an appropriate farewell gift for him. He believes I have “teen angst.” I’m happy to oblige. The new arguments I create give me more face time with him. And extra time is better than no time.

•

The day after New Year’s, I pack one suitcase. It contains all my warmest clothes. Still, they won’t be warm enough for Chicago’s Siberian winter.

We drive west on the Dolphin Turnpike toward Miami International Airport. I recline my seat, stare out the window, and focus on the perfect, cerulean blue sky. In my mind, I say my farewells, but not to the city. I didn’t live here long enough to grow attached, but I do enjoy the weather. The beaming sun, the palm trees—I relish them for now. I’m committing these images to my memory for later when I’m freezing in Chicago. Soon enough, I know I will need them.

When we arrive at the airport, Ray checks me in at the reservation counter. He gives me an awkward pat on the back and kisses me on the forehead. Even though I crave his affections, they don’t feel right when I get them. They feel forced.

“Try to be on your best behavior, Sera. I really would appreciate it. I don’t want Mona to think I’m a complete failure at keeping you under control.” He gives a weak smile. I think he’s happy to get rid of me. Now, nothing will distract him from Maddi.

“I’ll make sure she knows you’re the best dad in the
whole
world,” I say. He cringes at my facetious comment. “Really, Dad, you are the best. I’ll be on my best behavior.” I look down at the floor, guilty. This is the last thing I can offer him, my last shot at redemption in his eyes. I want him to ask me to stay, but I know he won’t.

“All right, then.” The smile on his face makes it seem as though he appreciates the gesture, but it still isn’t enough. “Go jump in the security line. Call me when you get to Mona’s. Have a good trip!” he says then nods. He pushes back on his heels and turns to walk away.

Three nauseating hours of flying later, I arrive at Midway Airport. I’m not sure if I feel sick because I hate flying or because I’m leaving Ray. Either way, I’m depressed.

When I finally make my way to baggage claim, the conveyer belt never spits out my sticker-covered luggage. I watch in horror as the empty carousel makes several rotations.

Sadly, my only possessions now are the clothes on my back. Cell phone, winter coat, clothes, the boy’s photograph, and Eliza’s bracelet and photo are lost in travel limbo. My nose burns, threatening tears for the last few items. I hold my fingers to the bridge between my eyes and squeeze them away.

With the waterworks pushed back, I become angry with myself.
What a stupid thing for me to do, leaving the bracelet and photographs in my suitcase!
What was I thinking?
I grow annoyed, and my lips pinch together.

I spend an hour with the airline’s baggage recovery. The snarky woman behind the counter informs me that my bag’s whereabouts are unknown. In the end, I walk away seething and head off for my next connection.

After a long, freezing walk to the L train, a single seat remains in the last car. I have to wedge myself into it because the seat is made smaller by the large woman next to me whose heavy arms bulge across the seat’s imaginary line. The train takes off, wheels screeching below us. I lean away from her and push myself against the fingerprint covered, plastic wall on my left.

The train doors, directly across from me, make me wish I had my coat. Freezing cascades of air assault me like daggers at every stop when commuters enter and exit. I shiver, shoving my bare hands farther up into my long sleeve cardigan. My teeth chatter.
Just a few more stops.

I glance over my shoulder out the window. The city grows larger on the horizon. Gray fog wraps the building tops. To forget my gloomy surroundings, I close my eyes and meditate on thoughts of the Miami weather. Maybe I’ll feel warmer if I pretend hard enough.

Just as I’m about to relax on my imaginary beach, a grumbling, singsong noise disturbs my dream. I open my eyes in just enough time to see a filthy bum charge through the preceding car’s door. He stumbles and falls with a thud at my feet. Commuters glance over at the man, but they quickly avert their eyes.

The bum lies on his back and breathes heavily. He laughs as though he’s the only one here, and his throaty singing begins again. A pungent smell of alcohol and garbage reek through his stained clothing, tweaking my nose. I want to pinch my nose to block the stench, but that just seems rude.

The man rolls over and clumsily hauls his overweight body from the metal floor. That’s when his eyes catch mine. He coughs wretchedly in my direction. I recoil, covering my face, but he holds his gaze on me, taking his time to look me over. The doors open behind him. Freezing air rushes in. Commuters exit swiftly. The bum steadies himself.

“Wanderin’ without yer coat, are ya?” he asks in an accent I can’t place. He laughs hoarsely and wipes his running nose on his sleeve.

The bum turns away from me and mumbles something. It sounds like, “Jes like me.” I’m not sure if I hear him correctly through his snot covered words because I can see he
is
wearing a coat.

Thankfully, his interest in me is fleeting. This relieves me, and I relax, leaning my head back against the glass. Through a sideways glance, I watch the bum move on. His large body fumbles by annoyed riders. He grabs the car’s poles for support when the train jolts. With unsure footing, he stumbles off into the next car. In the distance, I swear I hear a familiar voice say, “Hel-loo, Frances.”

The train jolts again. When I look around, I realize I’ve missed my station. “Ahh! Stupid old man!” I mumble as I grind my teeth. After a moment, I let my eyes roll back into my head and my thoughts return to Florida. I can get out at the next station.

Although I’m not ready to surrender my tropical daydream, I want to be the first to jump out onto the Randolph-Wabash station platform to transfer trains.

I jump up early to stand at the doors. As they unfold, not only does the bitter cold hit me, but someone rushes past me from behind and jabs their elbow into my lip. The collision sends me flying through the open doors and onto the train’s platform floor. I look to see the direction I know they’ve gone, but only freshly embossed footprints trail away toward the stairs.

Shocked, I lie in freezing snow for a moment. When I roll over on my back, exiting commuters trudge around me. Not one person meets my gaze or offers to help me up.
I’m invisible to them too.

When the train doors slam shut and the car screeches away, I regain the will to move. Rolling onto my knees, I push myself from the freezing floor with my numb, bare hands.

Three symmetrical drops of blood fall to the snow. I reach for my lip and run my fingertip over a gash. “Perfect!” I growl to myself, and then I wipe my bloody mouth with my cardigan cuff.

This might be my worst day—ever.

My journey continues through the slush covered, city streets toward my next train connection. The relentless wind whips powdery snow through my hair and into my face, making my skin numb and my eyes dry and irritated. I shiver, now in complete understanding of the phrase ‘chilled to the bone.’

Every so often, I dab my cuff to my lip, but the blood has stopped oozing. It’s probably a frozen scab by now.

Tired of my chattering teeth, I decide to take a detour through the Marshall Fields building. Inside, tourists blissfully absorb all nine floors of shopping while I walk through, attempting to regain feeling in my body. I’m tempted to stop and shop, knowing it will improve my mood, but Mona will be worried if I don’t show up soon.

Unwillingly, I exit the store onto State Street. After treading by commuters’ bundled shapes, I duck into the entrance for the underground L, being careful not to slip on the slushy stairs. Below the street’s surface, the temperature is just as cold, but at least the wind isn’t blowing.

Sterile tiles cover the station walls. Buzzing fluorescent lights, with their putrid glow, suck the color out of every passing face. Colors here are bleak and depressing, the complete opposite of Miami. They will take some getting used to.

I stop at a glass encased map to find the correct train platform. When my bare finger slides along the red line route, a reflection in the glass catches my interest, so I turn to confront it.

A million shimmering flakes seep from a nearby darkened hallway. At first, they roll gently into the cold air and then faster as the seconds pass. Each particle finds a spot, but not on the floor as I expect. I watch, bound by their unexplained beauty, as the molecules solidify into a solid framework—a shape. Now that I see what they form, I’m confused and scared.

::6::
The Gang

My jaw falls slack because there’s no way to contain my awe. The flakes have formed into a group of people—a gang. They take one step forward in unison. Steadying themselves and their eyes, their gaze falls like a fury on me.

Confused by their presence, I focus on the short boy in front dressed in dark, dank clothing. He mouths something so slowly his lips articulate the sound of each and every letter, but I read them as though his silent words are as loud as a battle cry. “Kill her!” he yells with a snarl.

The group accelerates in my direction. No, not just toward me, but after me! I hesitate for a split second as my brain computes the scene before me.
They’re coming after me. Run!

Sucking in a forced breath, I pivot to run in the only available direction, toward the packed train platform. I plow into oncoming commuters, now thankful for the lost bag that I should be towing behind me. My hands clench, and I rev my arms like a machine, willing my feet to pound the pavement faster.

I just begin to gain ground when the oncoming crowd of commuters thickens like molasses, slowing my movements to an agonizing pace. When I look over my shoulder, the gang is closer now. My throat constricts at the thought of them catching me.

With new determination, I dart around a corner. Mercifully, the wall of bodies part into a valley, and I dash through the divide, praying it will crumble behind me and block my attackers.

Rushing forward, I vault myself over a set of ticket machines. My feet slam the ground on the other side. The landing sends piercing pain up my calves and into my knees, stalling me for a moment. Before I take off again, someone grabs the back of my cardigan. I pull forward, trying to get away, but their greedy fingers stretch my sweater like taffy.

Instinctively, I turn to look at the person holding me captive. As I do, my palms and knees hit the floor in my momentary shock.
My boy
, the one from the photograph, stares back at me with his sparkling green eyes. His face is flustered. Without speaking, he lifts one finger, pressing it to his lips, urging my silence.

I’m confused and relieved all at once. Somehow his image calms me just as it has before. As I begin to smile at him, the gang yells at us from a distance. “There she is!”

The boy’s chin juts in their direction. When I follow his gaze, I see the gang is closer now. My eyes dart back to my boy in confusion.
Is he one of them?
I don’t have time to figure it out.

I look down at his hand. He’s still clenching my sweater, so I strain away from him, pulling farther, twisting and turning until my arms extract from my sleeves, and I’m free. With my bare limbs now exposed, they swing freely by my sides as I fall into a full sprint again. As I glance back over my shoulder, I see the gang descending on the boy. Before I see what happens, I hurl myself back into the crowd, disappearing from all of them.

A new train rolls to a stop next to me. If I time my escape correctly, I can jump on and ride away before the gang catches back up with me. I race to the front car and take one more quick glance back.

I collide with someone. Their arms fling themselves around me in a cage grip. In response, I tense my muscles and thrash my body, willing myself to break free. The person won’t let go. I’m trapped.

“Seraphina—Seraphina, what’s wrong? It’s me.” When I recognize the voice, I look up at her, but my hands are still clenched, and I’m on the verge on tears.

Mona’s hands release me and move from my waist to rest on my shoulders. She attempts to calm me by placing her face level with my eyes. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

I stand, confused, staring at her lightly crinkled eyes. It takes several seconds to really see Mona, to understand she’s really here.

I need to protect us.

I turn, shifting square in front of her, to defend us from the gang. They must be right behind us by now, so I’m ready to punch or kick anyone that nears. With adrenaline coursing through my veins, I begin to shake. My trembling fingers brush tangled hair away from my face so I can scan the crowd over and over again. After a moment, I realize they’re gone. Vanished.

When I turn to face Mona, my body trembles, uncontrolled. Mona seems to define the tremors as hypothermia because she instantly rubs her mittens up and down the length of my naked arms to warm them. Right now, I wish the friction would start a fire, but the thought makes me think of the Lady in Black, and I know if I had to choose, I’d rather be cold.

“Where’s your coat?” Mona demands.

I stay silent, still confused by our meeting. Jittery, my eyes flicker around. I’m sure the gang will appear again at any moment.

“Where’s your luggage? What’s happened? I was worried, so I came looking... you didn’t answer your phone.” Her questions and concerns come faster, but I’m still nervously scanning for them.

Mona pulls my face toward hers. “Seraphina, are you okay?” she asks. Concern flashes in her eyes, but I can’t answer. I realize I’m still breathing too hard from running.

Mona shimmies out of her coat and wraps it tightly around my body. She pulls me into her arms and guides me through the open train doors. She takes a final glance over her shoulder at the station, probably to ascertain what I was running from.

I know she won’t see them. The gang has disappeared, just like the Lady in Black. I force their images out of my head.
The gang is not real.
I’m crazy.

On the train, Mona and I sit in silence. As the city speeds past us, she studies me. I stare blankly out the window, trying to understand what’s happening to me. The Lady, the candles, my hand, the boy, the gang—if one more unexplained thing happens to me I might crack in half. I burrow farther into her quilted coat, wishing I could hide away.

When my teeth stop chattering, Mona’s questions begin again. “Where’s your luggage?” she asks.

“The airline lost it,” I mumble.

She nods, understanding.

“My cell phone and coat—they’re in there,” I explain. “Sorry, I should’ve found a pay phone and called. I didn’t think it would take me this long to get to your house.” I look down at my feet, guilty.

“What happened to your lip?” she asks, pointing.

I already forgot about that.

“Commuter in a rush to get somewhere, I guess.” I shrug. “They elbowed me.” I place a finger on my lip. It throbs under the touch of my freezing skin.

Her eyes soften. “Well, we’ll get some ice on it when we get home,” she says. I cringe at the thought of purposely putting something frozen on my body after today. Mona leans in to look at the wound. She eases back and crosses her arms. She must be getting cold by now as well.

“Why were you running back at the station?”

This question is more difficult to answer. Should I worry her and tell her the truth:
I’m crazy
.

“I thought I was going to miss the train.” My lips press into a tight line. I hope she won’t see through my lie.

She wraps her arms around me and squeezes. “Well, I’m just glad you’re here,” she says in a very paternal way, a way in which Ray would never speak to me.

“Me, too.” I tuck my head into the corner of her neck. For some reason, I know I’m safe with her.

Thirty minutes later, we exit the L train and walk to Mona’s home in the city. Thankfully, it’s only a few blocks away.

She lives alone in a Victorian brownstone. The facade is pine green and heavy, but the windows are arched and look like a face with surprised eyes. Although covered in snow, her city-size front yard reveals her passion for covering everything with mosaic glass.

I consider Mona a free spirit.

“Hippie,” Ray called her once.

She’s well read and well traveled. One can easily make the assumption upon entering her home. Items collected from all over the world make up her eccentric decor.

A red, well-worn Persian rug lays center in the main room underneath a Venetian glass chandelier. A rust colored, velvet couch and two opposing modern chairs complete the seating area. The extremely high reaching ceiling, and mayonnaise yellow walls act as a quiet backdrop for her fifteenth century medieval tapestries and modern Kadinsky painting.

An old trunk serves as a coffee table. Amazonian shrunken heads, a Neolithic fertility goddess, white marble busts of her favorite poets, and tenth century, Chinese porcelain decorate the living room like everyday tchotchkes. Finally, a ten foot high totem pole, carved from red cedar, sits in the corner, guarding the bright lofty space.

I only know what these things are because Mona has told me the story for each.

Mona leads me to my room, up two flights of stairs, past her library, which houses an expansive collection of antique books. We pass several closed doors, rooms that I had never bothered to investigate in the past.

“Well, here it is,” she says as she pushes her way through the guest room door. “It gets nice light.” She walks over and pulls open the curtains, “And it has a fabulous view of the city.” She gestures out the window then tucks a strawberry lock of hair behind her ear.

“This is great, Mona. Thanks.” I smile back, trying to hide my sadness.

“We’ll pick up some necessities from the store tomorrow, to replace what you’ve lost.” She crosses the room to the closet. “I guess we’re lucky you’ll be wearing uniforms to school. I picked them up yesterday.” She pulls one out for my inspection and holds it up.

“Cool.” I nod, but they aren’t. The uniform is ugly. I’ll have to do some serious accessorizing.

“Also,” she adds, “ignore the box of Christmas lights on the floor. I’ll put them in the attic tomorrow.” She gestures toward the pull down stairs at the ceiling. “I just took them down earlier.”

“Sure, no problem. I’ll help.”

“That would be great.” She hesitates a moment. I can tell she’s trying to gauge my mood. Then she continues cheerily, “So, I’ll run downstairs, grab an ice pack for your lip, and call Ray. He’ll be relieved you finally arrived.”

With that, she slips into the hallway. Her footsteps disappear, descending the stairs.

On so many levels I’m lost. Lost in my new space. Lost in my thoughts. Lost from my father, my mother. Each thought pushes me further into a depression.

Because I have nothing else to do, I walk the room, inspecting the furniture, the photos, and the view. Finally, I sit on the bed. If my travels had gone as planned, I’d be unpacking my suitcase, settling in with some sense of permanence. Instead, I’m confused about my sanity.

Turning, I crawl into the sea of throw pillows scattered on the red metal bed and collapse into mush on my stomach. Although I don’t want to, I need to mentally catalogue all my strange occurrences over the previous months. Just thinking of them makes me want to cry.

First, the very scary encounter with the Lady in Black. I’ve tried to forget about her since my birthday, convincing myself that our meeting never transpired. The thought of her fishing through my mind, burning my brain from the inside makes me shudder. The candles, the nightmares!
Uh—moving on...

Secondly, my unplanned excursion to Chicago. The “trip” happened before Ray ever decided to exile me to Mona’s house. After being knocked unconscious, maybe I dreamed about the trip? Or maybe I experienced some kind of freaky, psychic premonition. Something to consider, no matter how unlikely, I suppose.

Thirdly, the gang of dirty teens. I exhale heavily, remembering the physical effort it took to outrun them. Should I add the boy from the picture to this group? I have a feeling I shouldn’t because I’ve spent all this time allowing his photo to console me. Even after today, it seems as though he came to help me. But still, I’m unsure.

What did the Grungy Gang want from me? I had no purse, nothing to steal. The most perplexing, impossible part seems to be their arrival: sparkling flakes of dust. How could something so beautiful turn in to something so terrifying?
I must be losing it.

My eureka moment fails to arrive before Mona strolls into the room to baby me with an ice pack. It’s a perk I would never receive from Ray, so I accept her attention with ease.

When she sits down next to me, the bed creaks. “I hope you don’t mind using a bag of peas.” She hands over the frozen produce. Only Mona’s rich voice can make such a statement sound sophisticated.

“Works for me. Thanks.” Placing the bag on my lip, I flinch. It’s freezing.

She starts again, “I’m so happy to have you here. It’ll be great fun to have some girl time. Sometimes it gets so lonely by myself.” She squeezes me with one bony arm. “There are so many fabulous things to do in the city—” Her eyes light up with excitement. “Art galleries, Millennium Park symphonies, and the music festivals! Oh, the music festivals are amazing!”

“Sounds pretty cool,” I say.

We chat for some time, warming up to each other. Being around Mona is easy and unforced, the perfect balance between guardian and child. This is exact opposite of my relationship with Ray. Maybe this is how life would’ve been with my mom? I smile, letting this one thought make me happy.

I ask Mona the color of Mom’s eyes.

Mona peers deep into my own. “It looks as though,” she pauses, seemingly pulling the memory from her mind, “they were just a shade darker than yours.” She smiles. She never denies me any info about Mom, and I’m grateful to her for that.

“I figured, but wasn’t totally sure. Ray, I mean, Dad doesn’t talk about her much, ya know?”

“Yes, I know, and I’m quite sorry about that. He truly loved her, and I fear it’s still very painful for him to bring up the old memories. So try not to hold it against him.”