Godmother (5 page)

“Ah!” she said, pulling out and handing me a pink and white card.
“Veronica,” it
said, in pink, next to an illustration of a chair with an old-fashioned hairdryer hanging over it, and an address, phone number, and website address.

“Thank you,” I said, studying it for a moment. “I'm Lil.”

“Pleased to meet you.” She gathered up her purse and slung it over her shoulder, then dropped one of her shopping bags onto the counter. She should have seemed sloppy,
I thought, but she had a grace to her that somehow seemed to match her wildness.

“Doing some shopping?” I asked, reaching into the box for more books and stacking them beside me.

“Oh,” she said. “I was just in the garment district. I'm making a new dress. Ragged full skirt, all these layers that float on top of each other. Laced-up back.” She reached in and pulled out a swatch of lavender fabric—organza, I thought—setting it on the counter in front of me. “See?”

“It's beautiful,” I said. “What's the occasion?”

“Oh, nothing special, probably some show,” she said. “I wish I had somewhere fabulous to go, though. You know what I mean? Some amazing place, like El Morocco, where men wore suits and women swung over the crowds on trapezes. I bet you hit a few places like that in your time, didn't you?”

If you only knew,
I thought. I picked up the fabric, let it run over my skin. “I live in the garment district, but I don't think I've ever gone into one of those stores.”

“They're great,” she said. “It's a completely unappreciated part of town, don't you think? Someone told me it's the only neighborhood in New York that never changes, where you can walk down the street and feel like it's the nineteenth century. I mean, except for the Gray's Papaya and the White Castle and the triple-X peep shows that cost twenty-five cents. But still. I like that.”

“I never thought of it like that,” I said. “But maybe so.”

My eyes hit on something then. It was a book, with an old-fashioned sepia-toned image on the cover, a girl with flowers in her hair staring out. But it was the shapes in front of her that I recognized immediately.

“What is this?” I asked, pulling the book from the box. “Where did you get it?” I never thought I would see such a thing in this world.

“That?”

“Yes.”

Fairies.
A group of fairies dancing in a circle, with huge butterfly wings stretching from their backs.

Had she been sent to give this to me? I searched her face but she just stared back, confused at the shift in me. I had an image then, of
her,
in front of the mirror. The blue silk like water on her pale skin.
Be calm,
I thought.

But I could barely breathe. It was an actual photograph. A girl resting her chin in her palm and staring out at the camera, with that haunted, spooky look that people in old photographs always seem to have, like they're staring out from the beyond. And in front of her: my sister May-beth, my fairy friends. As if I had left them only minutes before.

“Are you okay?”

“What is it?” I asked again.

She shrugged, still watching me. “It's just a book,” she said. “About that fairy scam, you know, those two girls who faked photos of themselves with fairies. They had everyone fooled—all these philosophers, even that writer, the Sherlock Holmes guy. You've never heard of that? The Cottingley fairies?”

“They took photos of fairies?”

“They took, like, five or something, had everyone convinced. But years later, when they were old ladies, they admitted to faking everything. Cutting out drawings and propping them up with hat pins.” She laughed. “Those photos
are crazy, right? I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm open to everything, fairies, werewolves, you name it, but they didn't exactly do a stellar job.”

I looked at her. I couldn't believe she didn't see. But I knew how humans were conditioned to deny all evidence of us, even when it was as plain as day. Right in front of them. Even a girl like her, who could almost have had one foot in the other world already. Still, it was shocking to see firsthand.

The man and woman were now rummaging through the records up front, his hand across her back, holding on to her. A tiny blond woman struggled through the door, pushing a stroller.

“Sorry. It's just … I've never seen these photos before.”

“Oh, I know. Aren't they amazing? Sort of creepy, right? But so beautiful and strange, too.”

I smiled. “I can definitely buy all these books from you,” I said. “You've got about forty here. How about a dollar a book? Forty dollars?” I reached in the register and pulled out the money.

“Sounds good,” she said. “And, please, come visit me. I'd love to get my hands on those tresses. Seriously. Come to my salon, and I will make you
gawgeous.
You got my card, missus.” She made a snipping motion with her first and middle fingers, then brought them to her mouth and blew, as if they were on fire.

THAT NIGHT
I hurried up Eighth Avenue, clutching the book to my chest. There was a reason the girl had come, I thought, bringing evidence of fairies. Giving me proof that
Maybeth and the rest of them were still in the world, or had been within the past century. In the photographs they'd looked just as they had when I last saw them. Perfect. Eternally young and dazzling.

And then it hit me, who the girl reminded me of.

Maybeth. Of course. My fairy sister. I remembered suddenly how Maybeth would dance. On the grass of the fairy court, the elders sitting on their thrones, all of us dressed up in shells and pearls and water lilies. How could I have forgotten? The way she would dance and dance, her hair bright in the water. The way no one could take their eyes off of her. I shook my head. Memories seemed to come up on me without warning, but usually it was my human memories that took me by surprise. It was the fairy world that was always clear.

I stopped right at the corner of Twenty-third Street, causing a young woman to crash into me, almost spilling her coffee.

“Fuck!” she said, turning to me like she was about to commit murder. Something in her face changed when she saw me.

“Are you okay, ma'am?” she asked softly.

“Yes,” I said. I hadn't realized I was crying. “Yes.”

I rushed up Eighth Avenue, wiping my face, my heart bursting. It had to mean something, this. It had to be a message.

I forgot all about Gristedes, my plans to pick up chicken and carrots and celery, make a nice soup that would last for days. Suddenly I was ravenously hungry. This human body, I thought, could never get it right. Always this longing that extended through every cell.

I passed my street and headed to the diner, went in and
sat at my usual spot. I opened the book again. The photos took up whole pages. In one a fairy's head was tilted back and her arms were raised above her. I could not make out her face but the shape was unmistakable. In the next picture a fairy fluttered in the air in front of another little girl and held out a batch of flowers to her.

My heart caught in my throat. I could not shake that sick, sad feeling. I had been terrified, for years, that they had all disappeared. But these girls had photographed fairies not more than a hundred years before. I had recognized them. There was proof right there that they still existed. Now, after all this time, all these centuries I had spent in the human world, alone.

Were they coming back to me?

When I'd first fallen to earth, I'd spent years looking for them. My memories were hazy, unclear: just me alone in the forest, wandering by the lake, trying to find them. But they never showed themselves to me, no matter what I did. And then I'd gone to sleep.

The door opened. I looked up without thinking, saw a man pushing through the heavy glass. He was wearing an elegant black suit, and his white shirt stood out, as did his teeth and eyes, against his skin. His silvering dark hair was just slightly too long.

I bent back down to the book. I could almost make out the features on the fairies’ faces: the tiny bow-shaped mouths and slanted eyes, the round cheeks and pointed chins.

I must be going mad,
I thought.

The man sat a few seats down from me at the counter.

I swallowed hard. I smoothed back my hair. My wings pressed into my shoulder blades.

“I'll have a cup of coffee, black,” the man said. “And what kind of pie do you have today?”

His voice rumbled through me, and I looked up again. I knew that voice.

“Cherry, pumpkin, apple, pecan,” Mike said. I focused in on the smaller fairy, the way her skirt puffed out below her knees.

“Apple,” the man said. “With ice cream.” He cleared his throat and looked over at me. I could feel his movements, see his dark outline. It sounded like he had learned English later in life but learned it perfectly. “Quite some weather today, huh?” he asked.

“What?” I glanced up, tried to look pleasant. His eyes moved over me like hands. I looked up again, and his eyes burrowed into mine. No one had ever looked at me that way, not since …

Don't be ridiculous,
I thought.
You are an old woman.
I was conscious, suddenly, of my wrinkled, hanging skin.

“It just started raining,” he said. “You see that?” He tipped his head toward the window, and I saw that he was right. Rain streamed down the glass. People rushed by under large flaring umbrellas.

A woman pushed through the door, and a breeze fun-neled in, thick with the raw scent of rain and street.

“I love that smell,” he said. “Where I come from, the best smells are cut grass and new rain.” His voice was so familiar. I knew him. Of course I knew him.

I took a sip of water and realized that my hands were shaking. Immediately I put the glass down. “I like it, too,” I said.

Mike appeared and set down my bacon cheeseburger
deluxe. The fries shone with oil. Suddenly sick to my stomach, I pushed the plate away.

“Excuse me,” I said, and I rushed to the bathroom, where I locked the door, bent down, and heaved over the toilet. My stomach was so empty that the sickness just seemed to move up in waves from my belly to my throat.

I stood up and looked into the bathroom mirror. My eyes were creased and bloodshot. Tears streamed down my face. The thought moved over me like a blade: Hideous. I was completely hideous. And it was my fault that I had become this. I peered in, stared right into my own eyes. The green was faded. My skin wrinkled, hanging from my bones. My hair—once the color of pumpkins and autumn—was white and thin.

Look closer,
I thought.
Under there.
I placed my palms on my cheeks, felt the shape of my face, how beautiful it had been once. I stared into the mirror and imagined my hair growing thick and lush around my face, that same rich color, like spices, like light beating down at dusk. I imagined my gnarled fingers growing long and straight, my neck smoothing down and curving. My shirt turning to green-silver, unraveling, falling down my body in thick folds.

I must have been in the bathroom for fifteen minutes. Maybe longer. That was when Mike started banging on the door, asking if I was okay. “I'm fine!” I called out, wiping the tears from my face and splashing cold water into my eyes. I rubbed my wet hands on my cheeks and brushed back my hair.

I am fine,
I thought. All I needed was to calm down, go home, and get my head together. I would be fine.

I stretched out my shoulders, lifted up my head, and walked out.

“Jesus, Lil, I thought you passed out in there.”

“I'm okay, Mike,” I said. “Just a little queasy.”

I looked past him and saw that the man was gone. There was no trace of him. No coffee cup, no leftover dish. A sense of loss came over me so heavily that I felt woozy with it. Mike quickly reached down and grabbed my arm as I stumbled, propping me up.

“Do you need a doctor, Lil?” he asked. “You're acting so strange.”

“No, no,” I said, pulling my arm away and steadying myself. “Was there a man here just now? At the counter? Eating pie?”

“Yes,” he said. “He left a few minutes ago. Are you sure you're okay?”

I was starving suddenly. Ravenous. As if I'd never had food, never had water.

“I just need some fresh air, I think. Just one second. I'll be right back. Do you think you could wrap this up?”

I pushed past him then and practically ran for the door. I stood underneath the awning, watching the rain pound down, looking up the street for a sign of him. I couldn't see anything apart from the stretch of black umbrellas and downturned heads. He was gone. He had been right here, so close I could have touched him, and now he was gone. I stood for a moment, numb and heartbroken at the same time, breathing in the raw scent, listening to the rain slapping against the concrete.

ONCE I
had my food, I raced home. I dropped onto my bed and peeled off my wet skirt and blouse, ripped off the bandage
, let my wings spread out behind me. I grabbed a pillow and burrowed my face into it, as sobs moved through my body. I had almost forgotten. All that I had lost. All that I had done. I pushed the pillow down, opened the Styrofoam container I had set on the nightstand. I picked up the burger and a couple of fries and crammed them into my mouth. They tasted amazing. The crisp, greasy taste of the fries mixed with the wet, raw taste of meat and onion and mayonnaise and bun. I couldn't get enough into my mouth at once. After, I clutched my stomach and lay on my side, careful to keep my wings free and outstretched. Suddenly I was so tired I could barely keep my eyes open.

Forget all this,
I thought. The room, the bookstore, the garment shops, the hunger, the smell of meat and grease, the garbage-strewn streets, the trucks with the endless bundles and hanging racks and long rolls of fabric.

I shifted on the bed, let the memory rise up and envelop me, one so clear it felt more real than the wet streets outside.

And then it was just his pale eyes and white teeth, his voice in my ear. Fading back and back until it was just him and me, the silk dress in my hands, slipping to the floor. Like water. I moved my hand from my belly, straight down, between my legs. Twisted on the bed, onto my stomach. Remembering. Pain, loss, guilt, desire mixed with the feel of the sheets on my skin, my moving hand, the rain streaking the windows outside.