The Shells Of Chanticleer (4 page)

We must be going in,
I thought. Yes, we definitely were, but I hadn’t figured on a gate locking behind me. If I stepped through it chances were I might not get out when I wanted. I stopped for a minute, deciding what to do, where I could go instead.

“Hurry, Macy!” the girls yelled, and I lost the nerve to turn around. There weren’t any better choices. I ran after them through the massive gate. It shut behind me as soon as I cleared it, closing with an audible clank.
It must have an electronic eye,
I assumed. Zooey and Violet looked at me with great expectations. Then they shouted in unison, “Welcome to Chanticleer!”

I looked around and my heart leapt as if it was short-circuiting. Or maybe it was leaping up in delight? Maybe I shouldn’t have run? I needed to be more careful; after all, my organs were failing.

Rising in front of me was a green manicured lawn, uniformly flat and even, that looked as if it had been steam-ironed for a hundred years. A family of peacocks paused before crossing my path, waiting to see who would go first. I jumped past them, quick to get out of their way. Animals could be very unpredictable.

I felt transported back in time by the landscape. Up ahead I saw a jumble of sharply peaked roofs, lofty spires, gothic towers with lookouts, balconies and parapets, winding paths that zigzagged through riotous beds of flowers sopping with color. Glass and crystal light fixtures lined the pathways and shards of crystal were pounded into the pavement that glistened beneath my bare toes. The sky was a brilliant pink from the setting sun. I had certainly never been there before or heard of anyone who came from there. I wondered,
Why not?
Maybe my spring break wouldn’t be a total wash after all.

I walked up the glistening path with the strange girls, eventually arriving at a three-story building of light blue bricks fronted by enormous white pillars. A full-length white shutter framed every window. Masses of heavy pink peonies grew in beds of black soil beneath the first floor windows. I climbed the steps hesitantly, ducking the flocks of black and yellow butterflies flitting around me. Violet laughed.

“Don’t be afraid, they are harmless.”

“Okay,” I said, still unsure, darting away from the flighty creatures.

Zooey said, “Do you like the butterflies?”

“Yes,” I said, “Very summery.”

Both girls laughed and Zooey said, “You’re right about that,” as she pointed to a sign hung directly over the door.

I read aloud, “Summer Hall For Girls. To All Who Come Here, Welcome.”

I was here, I guess. They hadn’t been making it up.

Zooey grabbed the brass handle of the large white wooden door and it creaked like an old cargo ship when she opened it. I followed her, wide-eyed, into a two-story lobby flooded with light, accidently letting a few of the butterflies in with us. The centerpiece of the lobby was a wide double staircase that led up to what I later discovered were the second floor bedrooms. At that moment it was all a mystery. The banisters were glossy and white and the wide stairs were covered in impractical white carpeting that my parents would never have picked out. It made a wonderfully soft cushion under my bare feet as I followed the girls upstairs to the room they said was to be my new home.

What strikes me the most about that day was that I kept repeating to myself,
This isn’t my real life, this isn’t my real life, this isn’t my real life.
My real life was boring and predictable. Yet this was definitely happening. I followed those strange girls and happily did what I was told without a second thought. They knocked on doors and introduced me to other girls and I said hello and accepted their hugs and even hugged them back. I attended a ‘Welcome Macy’ gathering in the lobby later that night that had more of that caramel drink and six different kinds of fruit pies, including something called greenberry that tasted like sweet and sour apples. I ate two slices.

And while I wondered occasionally why my life had taken this odd turn, I never did try to leave that night like I had planned. It was easier to just go along. Truth be told, I was still a little afraid that the nurses were going to chase me down and hook me back up to the monitors. I felt far away from all of that and safe there. Alone in my room that night I didn’t cry out or feel afraid. I simply turned down the covers and climbed into the bed, grateful to feel like my old self again, falling asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. It all seemed good.

When I woke up, Summer Hall was eerily quiet. Taking in my surroundings in the clear daylight, I noticed that my room was pristine, with spotless windows, crisp white bed sheets, and a shiny yellow hardwood floor that gleamed. My white wooden furniture was neither scuffed nor scratched; the walls were a pale blue; all the trim around the windows and the doors was painted a glossy white; my comforter an indulgent satin-trimmed length of fur just like that great blanket in the hut.
Yes!
I hated leaving that blanket behind.

I had my own
en suite
bathroom, with white fixtures, immaculately clean, the same light blue paint, silver faucets, and a petite glass chandelier hanging from the center. Tiny glass flacons of shampoo and bubble bath lined the cabinet. I opened each and sniffed the fruity flavors. Fluffy white towels hung precisely from the silver towel rods; a bar of light blue soap shaped in the letter C was wrapped in pleated tissue.

On my bedside table there was a large glass lamp with a white shade and a little silver pull chain to turn it on. A lightweight white wooden chair, upholstered in a white fabric with raised blue velour circles, sat in the corner.
The perfect place to sit and re-polish my toenails,
I thought, evaluating them ruefully.

I knew I had to get out of the old clothes that I’d been wearing since Sunday, and with delight I saw that there was a closet full for me. After jumping in that beautiful shower and wrapping myself in the fluffiest of towels, I pulled out a white V-neck sweater that looked fresh and newly minted, and one of the three identical navy blue blazers hanging within. A white capital C was embroidered on the blazer’s breast pocket. The inside was lined with an expensive silk fabric in a white and navy houndstooth pattern. Navy velvet piping trimmed the edges of the lapels and cuffs and all the buttons were heavy and antique-looking, each engraved with a capital C. It slipped on easily and the sleeves were the perfect length. It seemed made for me.

There were three pairs of knee-length green and navy plaid shorts hanging in the closet. I put on a pair and then selected some cute quilted flats – that were surprisingly comfortable – from glossy shoeboxes stacked neatly on the closet floor. Size eight and a half, the label on the box read. Perfect. I felt like a French schoolgirl and looked around to see if I had missed the beret, but no, there wasn’t one. My ensemble was simultaneously chic and sensible, I decided. I looked just like Zooey and Violet. I would fit right in – wherever I was.

The clock on the bedside table read 8:10. There was no phone or television, but thankfully I had a big mirror over the dresser and I stood and brushed my long hair for a minute or two. I wanted to wash my hair, especially after the horrors of the hospital, but I decided against that. My hair was thick and took a long time to blow dry so I put that off until, hopefully, that night.

I went over to the window and drew open the interior shutter. To my astonishment, I saw that the pink sky from the night before, that I thought was caused by the setting sun, was permanent. The way the morning sunlight filtered through the clouds looked holy to me and for a brief moment I wondered if I was dead. My heart skipped a beat at the thought, then I pinched my arm hard and it hurt, so no, I couldn’t be dead. Nevertheless, it was the first time I’d felt scared since arriving in Chanticleer. Wherever it was, on heaven or on earth, it was definitely further away from the hospital than a quick walk through the forest. I saw the pink sky as evidence that I was in a new world that operated under a separate set of natural rules. I wondered what I had gotten myself into.

On top of it all, I was starving. I hadn’t had a full meal since breakfast Saturday morning, and that had all come up anyway. I knew I could not stay in my room forever. I was really wishing someone had told me what to do. I wasn’t sure if I should leave my room. If I did, where would I go? I didn’t even know where to find Violet or Zooey. I really hadn’t thought anything through.

I walked over to my door and stood there, listening. It was quiet so I opened it slowly to take a peek. Sitting on the floor was a tray with breakfast. What a relief. I slowly picked up the heavy silver tray and carefully walked it to my bed and set it down. How exciting—I loved room service! There was a silver cup of warm caramel sugar covered with a little lid, spirals of steam escaping into the air when I lifted it up; two golden pastries drizzled with creamy chocolate icing sat in fluted paper cups; dewy strawberries and plump blackberries sat in a glass bowl. There was a cloth napkin, neatly folded – embroidered with a C; I should have known – and a note that read:

Macy Winters:

Please come to my office at 9 am. We will discuss your coursework for your stay here. Thank you.

Miss Clarice, Manager of Chanticleer Coursework

Oh no. School again? I was already enrolled in one school and was disappointed that they expected me to attend there too. Well whatever the school required, I wasn’t worried. Academics had never been a problem for me. Yet I was bummed that I was expected to do schoolwork.

I picked up the pastry and took a bite. Raspberry jelly and vanilla pudding oozed out. I caught a blob of jelly with my finger before it hit my white sweater. My mother never allowed me to eat sweets for breakfast; the inevitable glycemic crash that occurred two hours later never felt good. I licked my fingers to get every trace of raspberry and vanilla off of them. I ate slowly, and when 9 o’clock neared I left my room. I didn’t see or hear anyone, only a few housekeepers cleaning out and sorting through the rooms as I walked by.

I followed the map on the back of the note that led me down the double staircase and through a long deserted hallway on the first floor until I saw a metal plaque that read ‘Miss Clarice, Manager of Chanticleer Coursework,’ and an arrow pointing me onward. Inside the first floor of Summer Hall, the corridors were wide and the walls were painted in the same robin’s egg blue that was in my room, crisp and sharp and immaculate. I looked up and there were cherry blossoms depicted on the ceiling so realistically that I couldn’t tell if it was a large photograph or the work of someone very artistic. I imagined I was at the Ritz – not that I ever had been. I liked how different Summer Hall was from the brown hallways in my home, and how I could walk safely without the need to avoid the vacant eyes of my dad’s dead animal family.

I wondered,
What is this coursework expected of me?
Did they have my transcripts? If not, how would they know where to place me? I didn’t want to repeat any math. I arrived at Miss Clarice’s office easily. There were two large white double doors. I didn’t know whether to knock or go right in, but just as my raised knuckle was about to knock, they swung open.

Miss Clarice sat facing me with her arms folded, resting on a substantial white painted desk. Behind her, panoramic windows looked out at the peculiar pink sky. The walls of her office were the deep blue of a moonless midnight and looked lush, like velvet to me. Even the ceiling was blue. All it needed were some yellow stars.

“Come in, Macy, we have been waiting for you. Please have a seat.”

She motioned to an oversized white velvet armchair that faced her desk. I was so nervous that I felt as if I was walking in slow motion as I made my way to the chair and sat up straight as I had been taught to do. I waited for her to speak. Miss Clarice was a patrician blonde, with hair straight and shiny, kind brown eyes, and the longest black eyelashes I had ever seen. She smiled at me with jarringly white teeth. I couldn’t help but like her immediately, not just because she was so pretty, but also because her voice was calming and soothed my nerves.

“Well Macy,” she began, “I can imagine you have a lot of questions for me. It’s only natural. First off, let me assure you that you are in a safe place, but that you are not dreaming or imagining your experiences here.”

“Am I dead from the splinter?”

“No, you are not dead. Your body is right where you left it; you are nicely sedated, in a holding place. Suffice it to say that there are many levels of awareness in our worlds. You have been taken out of one level and brought here, merely a parallel level, on purpose. It is a benevolent world, although, as a word of warning, it may not always seem so.”

“You said on purpose. What for?”

“You are here because your stats are bad,” she said, taking a white file folder with a large C in the middle of it from a stack on her desk and pulling out a sheet to study.

“Yes, you have been pinging steadily for a long time. It was time to tip here.”

“What do you mean pinging?”

“It’s the sound your fear makes in the universe,” she replied in all seriousness. “Yes, here are your specifics. A bright girl, prone to, hmm, yes, typical, yes, well we’ve seen that before, hmm….” She continued reading, though silently. I had nothing to do but wait. She looked up.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to ignore you. I was just re-reading your report. Here’s what went through your head in the last few hours:

“Subject exhibits generalized fears on a daily basis. Specifics include persistent paranoia that giraffe will come alive and munch her, including bones; fear of ice cream trucks, strangers who say hello, bridges, predators driving box vans…. Well, it goes on, but that’s a start.”

Weird. She knew my thoughts. “How do you know that?”

“It’s our business to know.”

“Why do you care? Is that bad?”

“Not necessarily, when the ratios are right. Everyone feels fear; it’s a gift from the universe to keep our species from extinction. Fear keeps us from hurting ourselves when the danger is real. But you will not be a child for much longer, and to be pinging this much at your age is a warning signal. We know it is time to act.”