Anastasia Forever (12 page)

My father frowns. His hands clench into fists. “What the hell are you talking about? What the hell is going on down here? And if you've laid a hand on my daughter, I'll—”

“Come out to me, granddaughter,” Lily says, her mouth leaving puckered dots of moisture and seaweed on the sliding door. Her voice is gravel and water and misery. Double-paned safety glass is obviously not sound-proof. “Will you listen to a man rather than to your flesh and blood? Do as your mother asks. Give her what she wants. Perhaps then she will forgive me.”

My father looks like a cartoon character. His mouth forms a perfect O. His eyebrows rise higher than I thought possible, and his face drains of color. A vein on the side of his neck begins to throb.

He looks from the window to me to my mother to Ethan, then repeats the circuit, his mouth opening and shutting like a fish out of water. He tilts his head and stares out the window again, and his eyes fill with horror and tears.

“Dad,” I say. “You need to sit down. We need to explain.”

I'm not sure exactly what “we” are going to say. But we'd better start talking. That much is clear.

“Explain?” my father says sort of blankly. He walks to the window and places his hand on the glass. The ghost of David lifts his own hand in response.

“It's not real, Daddy. It's not David. It's Lily. Don't look, Daddy. Just turn away. We'll get her to stop. I'll make her—”

“Lily?” my father asks. “Who's Lily?”

Outside, Lily lets go of ghost David's hand and lifts her arms skyward again. Our sprinkler system goes crazy. Sprinkler head after sprinkler head bursts through the ground, spewing water.

“David,” my mother moans. “Oh, sweetie. Oh, my baby. My poor baby. I couldn't save you. But your sister—she'll take me to see you. I've asked her for just a few minutes. Just one ordinary day. Oh, honey. I've missed you so much.”

“
What
the
hell?
” my father yelps. He must believe that what he sees isn't real. Otherwise he'd never focus on the sprinkler and not on the reanimation of his dead son and the specter of a crazy Russian mermaid. This is what I tell myself. He is, after all, Steve Michaelson, tax attorney. Jogger. Occasional tennis player. As we've kept him in the dark, he has no frame of reference for what he's seeing.

“What is this?” Dad's voice cracks. “Some kind of cruel joke?” He looks at me like he's seeing me for the first time. “What does your mother mean about you?”

“Last fall,” I say. “Daddy. I—God, where do I start. Daddy, Lily is—”

“Monster.” My father isn't even listening. He puts his hand on the door.

“Daddy, no!”

But he's already outside.

“Come back, Dad!” Anne shouts. “It's not safe out here.”

But he strides toward Lily, and we have no choice but to follow into the erratic spray from the sprinklers.

“Do as she says,” I tell Anne's father. “Anne's right. You're in danger. We're all in danger if you don't come inside.”

The rusalka laughs, a throaty sound distorted by the throb of the pulsing water. She points at me, her jagged teeth shining as she smiles. “You're the one who's dangerous, Ethan. I can feel it pushing off you in waves. If my Anne is not careful, she'll end up like me. And then where will she be? Swimming and swimming. Trapped. As I am.

“And you, Ethan, your problems will have just begun. If you don't let my granddaughter help me, you will never escape him. Do you not understand what is going on inside you? Are you that naïve?”

“I will never end up like you.” Anne's hands are glowing again, lighting the space around her as she takes her father's hand and tries to stop him from reaching Lily.

“Granddaughter?” Mr. Michaelson's voice rises in confusion.

“Later, Dad. Just go inside. Please. I'm begging you. You and Mom both. I know this is all so weird, but Ethan and I can take care of this. It's not David. Believe me. Go in. When it's over, I'll explain.”

“Foolish girl,” says the rusalka. She runs a skeletal hand over the boy's head. The thing that she has made to look like Anne's brother.

“You're the fool,” Anne says. “For thinking that you can manipulate me like this and get away with it. If you want me to help you, then let me help you. Don't appear to my mother in the middle of the night. And if you want me to believe that you're on my side in all this, then don't parade whatever that is around like it's my brother. You leave him out of it.”

“Aw, Anne,” the David thing says. “C'mon. She was just having a little fun. Where's your sense of humor, sis?” He grins, and then one tiny crack shows in the façade—like Lily, his teeth are far too sharp to be human. Mr. Michaelson gasps. Behind me, I can hear Anne's mother sobbing.

We need to end this. Now.

Lily cocks her head. Water pounds against her almost naked body. Her hair whips around her in the pressure from the sprinklers, dark strands of hair curling like snakes.

She smiles at me. Licks her bottom lip. Raises her arms to the sky.

Above us, there's a crack of thunder and then lightning sheers a jagged finger through the night sky. The mild breeze turns into a brisk wind.

Lily's body straightens and grows taller, thicker.

“Whoa.” The David thing's eyes grow wide. His tone admiring.

Lily's hair shortens. Her features shift and morph. Her lilac gown becomes jeans and a blue collared shirt.

Ben Logan stands in the rain where Lily had been. Anne inhales sharply.

“What's happening?” Ben rubs his eyes as the sprinklers pelt against him. “Anne. How did I get here? I was—did I drive here?”

“Is that Ben?” Mrs. Michaelson pushes past me toward her husband. “Anne. You can stop this. Please. Make it stop.”

“She's mine, dude.” Ben's gaze fixes on me. “You know that, right? She may think she loves you, but she'll figure it out. She belongs with me, not some freak like you. I can read your head, you know? Just like she can. Maybe better. So I know she's seen your spicy little past. That Tasha chick was a trip, right? And you are one stupid bastard. That's what Viktor liked about you, you know? That you were dumb like a pile of rocks. If you jumped into my pool, you'd sink to the bottom. And I definitely wouldn't save you.”

“Ben” holds out a hand to Anne. “C'mon, Annie. Give me a kiss. Even your parents like me better. Make 'em a lot happier than knowing that you let freak boy put his hands, well, you know.”

My anger rises too swiftly to rein in. As if in reaction, Lily morphs again. Ben disappears. The rusalka stands in front of me, her wet hair snaking around her in the wind.

She hisses, an inhuman sound. “I thought to make it easier. To give you truth in the body of a boy who loves you. But no matter. I do not have much time here. Viktor watches me, you know. And the witch—she watches too. They want what they want and I am their pawn. But they still fear me. Stories within stories, Anne. Secrets hiding within secrets. How many times will you hear and still not understand? I cannot do any more. You think I lie, granddaughter. But I do not. This man is not what you think. Ignore me at your own peril. I have told you. Baba Yaga has told you. Even your own brother comes to you to tell you what you need to know.”

The magic—my regained power from sources yet unknown—swells with my fury. It fills me—flows into my veins, my arms, my hands. I curse at her in Russian as my mind conjures a spell that I do not consciously remember learning.

“
Atebis
rusalka! Paslushayte! Vy dolzhny ostavit! Vernut'sya k vode rusalka!
”
Listen. You must leave. Go back to the water, mermaid.
It is not a request; it is a command—an imperative backed up by a magical push. And before that, the universally rude suggestion of what I'd like her to do. I leave out her name. Names conjure a presence. Names bring forth their own power. I want her powerless. I want her gone.

The magic takes physical form. Stronger than the lightning that's searing the sky with its jagged edges. The stream of light burns as it pours from my fingertips—white, then blue, then dark as ink. With a shock, I realize I'm smiling. My magic plows into Lily and lifts her into the air. Beneath her gown, her tail morphs into feet and then back into tail. Still dangling above the grass, she doubles over in agony.

Only then do I realize that maybe I can't control this.

Worse: something inside me likes it.

“Ethan!” Anne screams and shakes me. “Stop it.”

“I'm trying.” But the magic streaming from my hands and slamming into Lily tells us both otherwise.

Lily crashes to the ground, tries to push herself upright, then stumbles—over feet, then tail, then feet—and smacks against the elm tree. She is not human, not alive in any true sense of the word, but still a long gash opens on one of her pale, thin, naked arms. Blood pools along the cut, mingling with the sprinkler water.

The magic skips across my hands. Somersaults through the air and hits the elm, stripping the bark straight down to the ground. The smell of burning wood fills the air.

Anne gasps. “Damn it. What is this? You're going to burn down my whole neighborhood.” She grasps my hand and I feel her own power join with mine. Her magic feels familiar, feels like Anne, but riding underneath it, the witch's power deepens the burn. Magic, ancient and primal. The thing inside me slithers around this new power source, twists itself tight to take what it can.

Anne doesn't have to tell me that my eyes darken. Everything inside me feels wrong. Everything inside me feels invincible.

“Ethan. Ethan. Whatever this is, you need to snap out of it. I'm going to try to help you. I think I can help you. Let me help you.”

The link between us tightens like a fist. Like before, images come: Viktor at the edge of the Chicago River, staring at a heavy, woolen coat as it sinks. Anne kneeling next to Ben in Baba Yaga's forest. Baba Yaga at her table, slicing Anne's hand and watching the blood drip. A young Viktor talking to Tsar Nicholas while Anastasia stands at her father's side. Anne bending over to kiss me as I lie dying on the forest floor. My eyes open. I sit up. I smile.

“Focus on that,” Anne says. “Just you and me, Ethan. Ignore the rest of it.” She cups my face in her hands. Forces me to look into her eyes. I'm burning, I think. Whatever's inside me is burning me alive.

Somewhere Lily is shrieking.

Somewhere there's smoke.

This isn't me. This magic swimming in my veins is not mine. I force it back—will it to shut down. Turn off. Stop.

“Push it back,” Anne says. “I'm going to help you push it back.”

And then, a voice that is Anne but not Anne, a voice deeper and more ancient:
So
I
will
it. So let it be.
Her lips have not moved, but the words echo between us.

The magic pulls back. Then back some more.

“Let her go,” Anne says. She sounds like herself again. “Just let her go.”

There's a settling inside me. Like a compartment opening and shutting something away. Slowly, Lily falls to the ground.

The sprinklers shut off.

Lily and the boy disappear.

“What the hell was all that?” Anne's father pushes a wet hank of hair out of his eyes. He looks at Anne. “What have you gotten yourself involved in? And you, Laura.” He turns to his wife. “You knew about all this? What? It's not enough that I'm losing you a little day after day. You think we don't notice that you've stopped eating again? For a while I thought you were better. But you're not.

“Do you think that you're the only one who lost your son? I lost him too. We all did. But I went back to work. I hurt every day, do you know that? Sometimes the pain of it is unbearable. But I didn't get caught up in some craziness—whatever this is. Have you let our daughter put herself in danger too? My God, Laura. I thought I knew you. I don't understand any of this.”

“Don't blame her, Dad.” Anne unlinks her hands from mine. “When we tell you the whole story, you'll understand. It's complicated. I know it all looks crazy—it is crazy—but it's not Mom's fault. It's…it's not anybody's fault. It's just what is. The world isn't always what you think, Dad. There's stuff people don't see. And it's not make-believe. It's real.”

“No.” Mr. Michaelson shakes his head, a sharp motion. “That's not possible. This guy here that you've been seeing, doing God knows what with while your mother just turns a blind eye, maybe he's the cause of it. But no. We've had enough trouble in this family. Whatever this is, whatever hallucination or illusion or goddamn trick, it's going to stop.

“You will not see Ethan again. He is not welcome in my house. You will spend the summer with your mother, helping her with her work. You will finish your college applications. And in the fall, you'll go back to school. All this running around and keeping secrets—it's over, Anne. I will not have this family destroyed.”

“Mr. Michaelson,” I begin.

He steps forward, fists clenched at his side. “Shut the hell up. You are not—I repeat, not—welcome here. Leave. Now. If you have any decency, you'll go. My daughter is off limits to you. Understood?”

“Daddy!” Anne's voice is shrill, her face pale. “You need to let us explain. It's not what you think. Ethan isn't the cause of what's going on.”

A muscle ticks in his jaw. “I don't need an explanation. Your mother is sick. Your brother is dead. Whatever is causing the rest of it—I don't give a damn. We were getting better until Ethan showed up. And now we're not. When he's gone, we'll be better again. Problem solved. No further discussion needed.”

“But Mom—”

“Your mother is going inside to lie down. You are going up to your room. And in the morning, when we've all had a little sleep, we'll figure out what to do. I've been telling myself that this would all resolve itself. And for that I'm sorry. God, Laura, I'm sorry. But after tonight—we're going to do things my way. End of story.”

“You need to listen to your daughter,” I say. Under my skin, I feel the magic skip across my veins. I could make him believe whatever I want, I think, and find myself horrified at the thought. Do I have that kind of power? Why?

He splits my lip when he hits me. Blood trickles down my chin.

“Daddy, no!” Anne shoves her way between us.

And here's what goes through my mind: he's not entirely wrong, her father. I am the cause. Even worse, right now, I don't even know if I trust myself.

“Stop it, all of you!” Mrs. Michaelson, her face streaked with tears, grips her husband's arm.

“I'm sorry we didn't tell you before, Dad. We just thought it would be easier if you…Tell him, Mom. You're part of this too. You can't just let—”

“You need to do what Steve says, Ethan.” Her voice is flat. “It will be for the best.”

Around us, the wind picks up again. Anne's hair blows behind her. Her fingers flex, simmer with light.

“Don't,” I say quietly. “It will be okay.”

I tell her parents that I'm leaving. Walk to the back gate.

“Fine, then,” Anne says. Her voice cracks, then steadies. “You guys want to pretend that what you just saw isn't real? Okay with me.” She joins me at the gate.

“If you leave with him…” her father says. The threat hangs empty. I can see in his eyes that he has no idea what he will do if she goes.

“I need to give them some space,” Anne says softly. She touches a finger to my split lip. I feel the cut draw into itself and close. “I don't know what else to do right now. Plus, in another second my dad is going to realize that he's standing out here in his boxers.”

Ten minutes later, the moon still full in the sky, she meets me at my car, backpack in hand. Her father stands at the window, but he doesn't stop her. I don't know if this makes him strong or weak. I don't know what I'd do if I were him. I like to think I'd make her stay.

“This is probably stupid,” she says. “I mean, are they even safe if I leave? She could come back, Ethan. Lily could come back. God knows what she might convince my mother to do. Something worse than just make her see my dead brother. But I don't want to be here right now. I can't spend another minute watching my father pretend that all my mother needs is to gut it out.”

“Do you want to stay?”

She hesitates. Then says, “No.”

I don't tell her that I'm surprised at her answer. Nor do I judge her choice.