IGMS Issue 5 (6 page)

"I'll make it up to you," Father said. "Once I get this new job, I'll buy you a dozen gold rings to replace it."

"I'm not mad." It was lie, but a necessary one. "I'm sure you'll wow them tomorrow."

Luella packed his overnight bag. I smiled and made the appropriate excited responses throughout dinner. But after Father had gone to bed, I locked myself in the bathroom, turned on the tap, and bawled into a towel. I was a spoiled brat for resenting what Father had done, spoiled and selfish and silly.

After I cried myself out, I had a long, hot soak, and felt better.

The next morning, all of us trooped to the subway station -- the express line to the airport. Luella and I took turns hugging Father and wishing him luck and a safe journey.

The apartment was emptier without him, but also charged with anticipation, awaiting his homecoming and hopeful good news. We scrubbed the place from corner to corner. I defeated the dingy gray walls, forcing them to gleam, and Luella declared war on the dust bunnies and dust elephants.

On the day of his return, we made a sumptuous feast: Luella's signature casserole and homemade biscuits, with strawberry ice cream for dessert. But the hour when Father should have stepped off the subway platform and made his way home arrived without him. I phoned the airport and the subway. His flight had landed on time, and there were no delays on the track.

All that night, we waited. In the morning, I tried to track down the man Father had gone to see. Unfortunately, we didn't have his name or number -- a foolish oversight, in hindsight. Father's supervisor at the factory was at a loss, and the few people who would still talk to us in New York hadn't heard from him either.

We tried to comfort each other and carried on our lives, going through all the obligatory motions of eating, working, and waiting. One day, I woke up and discovered the refrigerator was empty. We were out of everything -- milk, eggs, bread, cheese -- so I left Luella a note and headed out to restock.

As I passed the donut shop, a mournful strain of music stirred the air. It echoed my mood so perfectly; I stood stock-still, caught in the spell of it. Without meaning to, I drifted to the alley's mouth. Where I had thought to find Eloy with his recorder, there was only alley.

The trail of notes led me to the graffiti window of painted brick. Something glittered at my foot. It was my ring, the antique one with the rubies and diamonds, the ring Father had pawned so he could finance his ill-fated trip.

I did what I had longed to before; I put it on. The music soared. In front of me, the graffiti window took on shape and dimension. No longer flat paint, it was a portal through which I could see a living, moving forest. Leaves stirred and flickered in the breeze, and a fluffy seed pod floated by. I could smell the bouquet of green growing things -- moist life and musty decay. I strained to hear the shush of wind as it streamed through branches.

I didn't hear the wind. I heard my name, faintly, as though shouted from a distance. It was Father.

He was in there, past the breezy grove with its swaying trees, somewhere. I lifted my hand, the ringed one, and felt the forest wind. Playful at first, it turned insistent, tugging and finally dragging me forward. My foot came down on a carpet of grass. The light spilling through the canopy dazzled my eyes, and I blinked them shut.

When I opened them, I was in a bright, hospital foyer surrounded by hallways and escalators. On my right, a wall of elevators sat ready, and on my left, an untended reception desk stood spotlighted by the sun.

"Hello?" I called.

The single word boomed, shattering the stillness. Places like this were supposed to be full of noise -- the clamor of busy, waiting, and harried people. But it was silent. No voices, no footsteps, only me.

A file lay on the desk with Father's name scrawled in bold letters on it, and beneath it, a number: 417. I'd swiveled to the elevators and pressed the up arrow before it occurred to me that the folder had been turned so that someone on my side of the desk could read it.

The elevator chimed, and I boarded it and pressed the 4 button. A familiar dizziness fluttered in my gut as it rose. The doors slid apart, depositing me in a featureless, white hospital ward. The air was harsh with disinfectant, an acrid, sterile smell.

Room 417 was the only door with a number. It was a small room with a privacy curtain erected. The curtain jangled and clattered when I yanked it aside. Beyond the plastic barrier was an occupied bed, the blankets rumpled and twisted.

Father was tucked beneath the covers, asleep, his chest rising and falling. I exhaled; I hadn't realized I'd been holding my breath.

"Daddy." I touched his shoulder. "Daddy, wake up."

He opened his eyes. "Annabel?"

I fell into his arms. He hugged me, and I was a little girl again, secure that Daddy would take care of everything.

"I was so worried," I sobbed. "We both were. Luella thought you'd been kidnapped."

Father rocked me like he used to when I'd run to him with my childhood bumps and fears. "I'm fine, Pumpkin. I'm fine."

I wiped my damp eyes on my sleeve. "What happened? How did you get here?"

Father frowned. "It's a bit of a blur. I've been trying to get someone to discharge me, but I haven't seen anyone."

"Did you make your flight okay?"

"Oh, yes, I flew to New York. Never realized how badly they treat people in economy. Shameful."

"And you met with the man you were supposed to?"

"Of course. I gave him my pitch. It was a good one too. Reminded me of when I was important, and I could buy my girls everything they wanted."

"You're important to us, Daddy, and we have everything we need."

He continued as though he hadn't heard me. "We were about to call in the lawyers to finalize the deal when the police barged in. Somehow they'd gotten the notionthat I was a trespasser. I told my friend to set them straight, but the fool didn't say a word, only watched as they carted me off. Next thing I know, I'm here." He yawned. "At least it's quiet. You don't mind if Daddy takes a nap, do you, Pumpkin?"

"But we have to get you discharged."

"Fine, fine. You do that." Father's eyes drooped shut.

"Daddy?" I shook his arm. "Daddy!"

A knock sounded. Before I could answer, the door swung open. It was the hulking musician in the alley, Eloy. I could not have been more astonished if someone had told me I'd been elected president. He'd exchanged the ragged layers of a street person for a doctor's uniform -- white lab coat and stethoscope slung around his neck. He crowded the room, his uncanny features stark in the hospital fluorescence.

"Hello, Annabel," he rumbled. "You look lovely. Did you like my gifts?" His words, unlike the occasion of our first discussion, were articulate and clear, though still accented.

"I -- it was you that sent the roses and the dress and perfume?"

"And the ring."

The jewel glittered on my finger.

"Are you a doctor?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"Can you discharge my father?"

He shuffled his feet like a nervous boy, a fanciful impression for someone his size. "He's not well," he murmured. "The man he flew to see refused him outright on the phone. But he showed up anyway, raving about his starving daughters selling themselves on the street."

"Oh, no." I gripped the bed railing until its edges dug into my palm. "He's been under so much stress. I'll take him to a psychiatrist back home, make sure he gets help."

Eloy regarded me. "No."

"What do you mean 'no'?"

"He must stay here."

"Why?" I had to crane my neck to glare at him.

"Because I insist." He turned to go.

"Wait!" It was a crazy idea, but I ran with it anyway. "I -- if I stayed here with you, would you let Daddy go home?"

Eloy bent his neck, and I saw the glimmer of one black eye over his shoulder. "When I asked you to marry me, you fled."

"You scared me."

"I am repellent to you, even though no longer a beggar performing for handouts."

I could think of nothing to say.

"Still, you would remain of your own will, for his sake?"

"Yes."

"Very well."

The walls blurred and ran, spinning away in a rush of motion. I covered my eyes, sickened and dizzy. When I recovered enough to peek through my fingers, the walls were still, but both Father and Eloy were gone.

I sat on the edge of the newly emptied bed and buried my head in my hands. Long moments passed in this posture, and I began to feel silly. The fright and disbelief I had anticipated had stood me up. Maybe I was in shock. If so, shock was grossly misrepresented in the popular media.

As I didn't feel like throwing a tantrum or gibbering in fear, I went exploring. I got on the elevator and picked a floor at random. The doors opened to an identical hospital ward, except this one was patterned a discreet plaid in pastel blue and grey. I wandered the plaid hall, past plaid doors and over plaid tile.

I'd been avoiding the doors out a sense of propriety. Nice people didn't barge into hospital rooms. But curiosity overcame good manners, and I pushed open the next one I came to. It revealed a tiny room with a wooden folding chair facing a plaid wall. Disappointed, I tried the next door and found an identical arrangement -- chair, wall, empty room. The chair was different, with a taller back and padding on the arms, but it was still a chair. The next room was the same, and the next. Each chair was different, but that was all.

I did the only thing left to do. I sat in a chair. The one I chose was an executive model with cushy lumbar support and coasters. As I swiveled back and forth, the wall switched on, splashing up images and sounds. It wasn't like the portal in the alley; there was a reassuring flatness to the picture, like a television set or movie screen.

The screen-wall showed a party of some sort. The people were tall and graceful, their skin dusky and their hair in shades ranging from burnished mahogany to spicy cinnamon. Their faces were pointed -- like Eloy's fierce muzzle, but softer, more fox than wolf -- and they shared his eyes: dark, liquid orbs with no whites. Their clothes billowed in muted colors with strange folds that flared at hip and leg. Glittering ornaments of metal and stone circled finger and wrists, and dripped from ears and necks.

I couldn't understand their speech, but I didn't need to.

A crowd swirled around a woman with autumn skin and amber hair. She wept golden tears that glistened like pearls as she danced. No one noticed.

That woman could have been me, a year ago at one of the galas Father used to throw. I never told him or anyone how much I hated them, dancing and laughing as though I couldn't be happier, while inside I wanted to cry. I wish I could have told myself then what I had learned since, that the parties were meaningless, and being lonely in a crowd only meant I should have gone elsewhere.

The crying woman lifted her head, her face still wet, but her eyes clear. She pushed through the flailing limbs and gyrating torsos, and without a backward glance, she exited the frame.

The wall went blank.

"You did well."

The low words startled me; I hadn't heard Eloy come in. My heart beat so fast I thought it would bruise my rib cage.

"My apologies, I've frightened you. Would you rather I left?"

"I'm hardly in a position to dictate your comings and goings," I snapped.

"Why do you say that?"

"Hostages don't typically get to order around their captors."

"Is that what you are? My hostage?"

My pulse resumed a closer-to-normal rhythm.

"What else?"

He ducked his head. How could someone so imposing be so bashful?

"Is this a theater, some kind of multiplex?" I asked.

"More an arcade than a cinema."

"That was a video game?"

Eloy regarded the blank wall. "The first time I sat in this room, the woman would not stop crying. She wept until I grew frustrated and departed."

"She stopped fast enough when I was watching."

"Yes. And the fifth time I came here, she stopped for me as well."

I snorted. "What a dumb game."

A roar filled the room. I clapped my hands over my ears and cowered in the chair. The roar subsided and became the throaty rumble from the alley. Eloy was laughing.

"Forgive me," he said, "but that was the most marvelous thing I've ever heard."

"That's okay," I said, although my ears rang, and I think I was shouting. "Unless you're laughing at me, I suppose. I'm not so much upset as deafened."

"I forget how delicate your ears are, sweet Annabel. I will take pains not to distress them again."

Should I be bothered by the casual endearment? "You wouldn't want to let me in on the joke?"

Eloy grinned, displaying a mouthful of very sharp, very dangerous-looking teeth. "Alas, I've been told I don't have a sense of humor."

I couldn't decide whether he was teasing me or not. Probably because of the scene (game?) I'd just watched (played?), Eloy's appearance was no longer quite as unnerving.

"At least can you tell me what the rules are?"