Circle Nine (4 page)

I just think they were rude,
I tell him after a minute.
They were not our guests. We did not invite them. They intruded and then they insulted us.

That’s right,
he says.
They were just two very rude girls.

And besides,
I say,
our house is charming.
I take a long, trembling sip of my coffee. Something those girls said crept inside me and is nesting there. It wriggles around, making the rest of me feel uncomfortable. Why would they say these things that aren’t true? Why am I threatened by these lies? I feel my head throbbing, my eyes wanting to water. The skin on my chin spasms, but I think the cup hides it from Sam. I am trying to be less emotional, and this is not helping. I want to show Sam that I am strong and he doesn’t have to protect me all the time. Strong enough to leave here, sometimes.

The thing is,
says Sam,
maybe they will come back.
I don’t like this news at all.

Let’s block the front. We could build a slab of something to cover it. It could be a makeshift gate. This is our place.

That’s a good idea,
he says carefully,
but it’s even better if there’s nothing. Because if we build a gate, they’ll know we’re here.

Sam, how can anyone not know we’re here! Is everyone so crazy?

I just don’t want a gate.
His voice is firm, the kind that means I can’t challenge him and maybe I’ve already said too much. Then he relaxes a little.

I’m sure they won’t be back. It’s no big deal.

And if they do come back? And you’re not here to look after me?

Just walk away and hide. Or if you can’t hide, pretend you’re like them, exploring the woods, too. Like you accidentally came across this place but you don’t know anything about it.

Why can’t people know we live here?

We’re too young, Abby. We don’t own this home. They might want us to go live with people in Circle Nine.
I am horrified at this idea.
And then we’d be separated,
he continues,
and we might be in a really bad place, like a jail for people like us, people without families.

That would of course be the worst thing that could ever happen, so I agree that if someone ever sees me here, I will pretend I am from the outside, finding this place for the first time and that I belong somewhere else. All so no one decides that they know best where we should belong. If I am ever separated from Sam, my life will be no more. I am not OK without him. I don’t know of a life without him. It’s like I was born with him and I plan on dying with him, too. I have trouble understanding my feelings toward Sam sometimes. It’s not just as if he is someone who understands me. It is as if we were made from the same clay, and he
is
me. Our souls speak to each other all day long, and when they are conversationally at rest, they link arms. I have a hard time thinking of anyone else’s soul even coming close to this with me. I think everyone else must be alien. So without Sam, I would be living among aliens, foreigners. I would be the only one of my kind. Without Sam, there is not me and anybody else. There is just me. Facing the world alone like that is the worst kind of pain I can imagine. It is not a possibility.

Even now he knows what I am thinking. He gently pulls my head to his shoulder and kisses the top of it, strokes the back. His hand pulls away all of my bad energy. With each stroke of his fingers on my hair, I feel him tugging out all the fear I’ve ever felt. When he is around, I can relax and let everything go. We spend the rest of the night playing chess, which Sam has taught me and I have taken to with remarkable skill. I have won seventy-two times, and he has won sixteen. By the time we are done, what happened before has blown through my mind, light and calm.

Sam is out again. This makes twice in two days, which is highly unusual. I am sketching, but I sketch all the time and you can only pass so many hours filling up a blank page. But there’s really no other choice, unless I take a nap. I have few ways to amuse myself when I am alone. I don’t like to lose myself in my thoughts, because there’s a limit to how far they will reach. For example, I can think of last night and Sam. Or last week and Sam. And my happy memories give me a good feeling, but it’s no better than when he’s with me in person, and when the memory-feelings fade, I realize he is not at my side and there’s a crushing disappointment. So remembering good things often makes me feel worse in the end.

Or I can try to think of what happened Before. I simply don’t if I can help it, because my mind is a blank void before that night, and when I push it further than it wants to be pushed, it retaliates by sending through me waves of pain and fear. I wonder if I feel the same pain and fear the people out there, who spend all their time in Circle Nine, do. Or maybe theirs is much worse than mine. I don’t know how anyone with worse pain than mine could endure it. I think it’s one of the things that makes me different from Sam. He says my sleep is restless. That I babble. That I wake him up at night.

My only other choice is to think of the future. This is the best way, but it’s also difficult. My experiences that I can remember are so limited. That alley, that house. Sam, this cave-kingdom. Rumpelstiltskin and England in the Golden Age and Russia in the time of
War and Peace.
These last things are from the stories Sam’s read to me and the stories that are lodged somewhere in my brain like flotsam I brought with me into this world. So I can imagine Sam and me living in a Russian palace, and I can imagine our behaviors and who we’d be, but we end up being exactly who we are now and doing what we do now except in a different, possibly more exotic kingdom than the one we live in. So that possibility is limiting.

When I am left alone, I think too much. So I sketch, because the effort it takes to concentrate on the page empties my brain. I have calluses on my index finger and that third finger, the middle one next to it. The one on the middle finger is hideously ugly and raised, a scaly bump. Some other marks on my right hand complement the calluses: angry red scars near my palm, stretching up to my wrist. Scars from incidents I don’t remember. Together they form a red-and-pink mottled landscape. These, however, are my only physical flaws. I have examined all the rest of me carefully enough to know that I am beautiful. In my opinion, Sam is as shockingly handsome as I am beautiful. Together, we must be blinding. That is probably another reason we go out mostly at night.

I am out of paper. Sam often brings me parcels of paper and fresh pencils, but he complains when I need more. I wonder if perhaps he has stowed more in his desk in order to make me think we are out and I must conserve. I wonder if it is a trick. I go to his desk. It is a rich, dark wood, possibly mahogany. It has an intricately carved pattern but only one drawer. I give the drawer a tug. It does not budge. I see a small brass lock blocking my way to my paper. I give another tug; the lock holds fast. I see a sharp object, a golden letter opener on the table and wedge it into the small space between the drawer and desk. It is encrusted with jewels. I use it like a lever and the drawer pops open.

There is only one thing inside, and it is not the loose paper I wanted to find. It’s a small notepad instead, the same size and shape as a journal. I wonder if it is a gift Sam wants to surprise me with. I take it out. Now that I’ve found it anyway, I think it may not make a difference if I peek more. I take a closer look. I see right away that it can’t be a new gift, because it’s a little worn. I open it and the pages are drawn all over. I look at it again. There’s something odd about it, as if I’ve seen it before.

Now my heart freezes into stiff stone, because I know.

The sketches covering the pages are mine.

The tentative lines, the detailed scenes, they’re all mine.

I don’t remember it.

It is something from Before.

Sam has been hiding from me this thing from Before.

My whole body turns cold. My fingers shake.

I take deep, long breaths for several minutes until I can breathe normally again. I close my eyes and wait for my body to stop trembling. I feel the compulsion to do
something,
but when I search my brain, I am at a loss for what action to take. Instead, I sit on the corner of our bed with the small journal clutched in my hand, waiting for him to come home. While I wait, I force myself to leaf through its thin pages, even as my head begins to pound. My panic does not subside, though what I find is innocent enough. Every page is filled; there are beach scenes, a few pages with characters that look like Sam and me. There are pages filled with fire, others brightened by glittering jewels. I see symbols of power — a crown and a scepter — on one page. And on another, a neglected garden, haunting and desolate. I don’t see much joy on these pages, or purity, but there is hope in almost every scene. On one page, there is a river of tears rushing over drowning bodies, but one tiny figure in the corner emerges from the river unscathed.

I close my eyes and bring the little book to my face, breathing in its scent. I want so much for this artifact to bring me answers. It’s unfair that I have nothing to make me whole, no past to form me into someone distinct. Maybe this sketch pad will give me clues. Maybe I will put myself back together little by little, starting now. I study each drawing carefully, scanning its details for some hidden message, something to conjure feelings or a memory. But I am still blank, other than what I imagine from the context: just some pretty work left over from a long, empty afternoon. Just some sketches I did to pass the time, like all the rest I do each day, nothing more. I can’t help it; I begin to cry. I can’t understand why Sam would keep this from me. What could it possibly mean to him? But to me it is a relic, the only remaining clue to who I once was. It was cruel for him to take that from me. It’s been an hour, and he’s still not home. It’s enough time for my anger to boil up violently. I’ve never felt this anger toward Sam. I didn’t know I was capable of feeling it.

I am sitting in the same place when Sam walks in. His look of happiness at seeing me changes into a quick flash of confusion and then something close to shock when he notices the object in my hand. For a moment I feel a heady sense of power. It is nice to catch him off guard, to be the one calling the shots. But then he switches on me.

I see you found it,
he says offhandedly, taking off his coat and flopping down in an armchair.
Wish you wouldn’t have gone through my things without asking me, though.

He’s whipped out a book and has already begun turning its pages, as if this thing that’s tortured me for an hour is a nonissue. I jump off the bed and walk right over to the chair and get in his face.

I was looking for paper,
I seethe. And you had no right to keep this from me.

He raises one eyebrow and his mouth curls into a smile, as if he’s amused.

Abby,
he says,
you’re being very cute. Why don’t you ask me why I had it there?

Why, then?
I ask. I don’t like his condescending tone.

Because you gave it to me to keep safe,
he replies.
When you were lying there in the grass. Maybe you don’t remember because you were still in shock at the time.

What are you talking about?
I say, and Sam sighs impatiently.

That day with the fire. You pulled this from your jeans and told me to keep it safe, that you didn’t want to look at it but didn’t want to lose it, either. So I did. I can’t believe you don’t remember.

I look at him carefully. His face looks open, like he isn’t lying. And why would he lie to me? Sam’s never been anything but good. And I have forgotten so many things. So why does something seem strange? Why are my fingers trembling? Why is my heart quickening in tempo with insistent protests of my brain? What is that buzzing in the back of my mind, as if there’s something I need to realize, something big, something horrible?

Think, Abby. What do I want with it, anyway? It’s just a pretty little thing; you’ve got loads more right here.
He gestures to my recent sketches, the ones that litter our room like remnants, bits and pieces of rubbish that were overlooked. I think, and he’s right. There’s nothing in it he could possibly want. I take a few breaths and feel the anxiety slowly begin to diminish. I sink onto his lap.

I’m sorry,
I say. I mean it. There is a comforting emptiness in the back of my brain.

That’s OK,
mija.
You just need to trust me. By the way, who knew you could be so dark? Some of that’s all fire and brimstone.
He needles me in the ribs, then carefully lifts it from my hands.
It’ll only upset you, babe. Let me throw it out.

No!
I shout.

Abby,
Sam says.
These really mean nothing to you?

No, nothing.

Then let me get rid of it. Look how angry and upset you are.

OK,
I say, deciding he is right. Holding on to the object and staring at it and remembering nothing is more depressing than any of my futile efforts to search my mind for memories. Here is an object, actual evidence of my past, and I still can’t remember a thing. It’s hopeless. It’s better to forget. It’s right for Sam to get rid of it. He is good and kind and only wants to protect me. I am horrible for suspecting otherwise.