Luminous (2 page)

What else could she say? “Okay.”

Both of them smiled uneasily, projecting
Everything is going to be fine,
while checking to see if the other one believed it.

“Don't worry,” Mom said, squeezing her hand. She went downstairs, probably to call Dad. Consuela closed the door.

She distracted herself by playing with the bathtub faucets, trying to get the water temperature just right. She paced her bedroom while she undressed, grabbing a hair tie and throwing her keys on the vanity, hitting the pile of blank Statement of Purpose sheets from her college applications. The truth was that she had no idea what she wanted to major in or where she should apply, let alone what she wanted to do with the rest of her life described in one thousand words or less. Every time she tried to start, she ended up doing laundry or going online shopping. Anything to avoid the fact that she obviously had no Purpose in life.

Lavender-scented bubbles perfumed the warm air as she unwound her robe and hung it on the back of the door. Dimming the lights, she tied her hair into a knot on top of her head.

Slipping one foot into the hot water, Consuela waited for the initial sting to soften. She climbed in, goose pimples rising all over her legs. She settled into her shell-shaped bath pillow, inching down so that the water lapped the back of her neck. Consuela closed her eyes and tried not to think about anything.

Unfortunately, the moment she tried thinking about nothing, everything else flooded in. She wondered what was wrong with her, whether she'd go to the doctor's tomorrow or end up in the ER tonight. She should've listened in on her parents' phone conversation—she hated not knowing what was going on! Should she dress for a hospital stay? Should she insist on staying home? Going to school? Would anyone notice the lump? She resolved to wear her hair down and her new pair of jeans.

She shifted in the water. Why did Allison have to be out camping this weekend, totally unplugged? Consuela itched to text her. Allison would have made a joke, told her not to worry, and known whether or not that second pair of jeans was worth buying. That made Consuela remember the changing room, the fall, and the creepy old attendant. Consuela squirmed. She couldn't
believe
she'd stuck around to buy a pair of jeans!

The whole experience had been uncomfortable. Buyer's remorse struck. Luckily, she'd kept the receipt.

Consuela wiped tiny beads of sweat and steam from her face and examined her pedicure. Ten little squares of Ruby Matte with gold decals floated beneath the surface of the bath like buried treasure. Pumping foam into her palm, she slid it thickly over her arms and legs. She soaped and rinsed her whole body, drained the tub, and sprayed herself with the handheld showerhead before daring to check the lump.

Sliding her fingers over her scalp, she slowly worked her way down—the skin changed from normal to mush. Consuela grimaced.
Nope, still there.

She felt around the giant soft spot at the base of her skull. Bracing herself, she pushed a little harder. Her finger slipped—
pushing inside?
—and stopped suddenly. She shrieked and yanked her hand in front of her face.

Consuela stared at her fingertip: nothing. Not even blood. She checked the back of her neck and pulled her hand away—nothing. She ran her fingers over the lump again—not a hole, or even a scratch. It was smooth, unbroken skin.

She swallowed.
I imagined it.

But she knew she hadn't.

Steadying herself, Consuela kept her right finger straight and pushed slowly, but firmly, into the lump. She
felt
her nail sink inside, all the way through, until she touched something hard—
my spine?
—and stopped.

Consuela sat in the empty bathtub with her finger stuck through the flesh of her neck and her heart hammering in her chest.
What the hell?!
Consuela kept her eyes closed, drinking in air. Her mind spun.
What now?
She thought desperately,
Call Mom? She'd freak
. I'd
freak,
she admitted to herself.
This is me, freaking!

She took a few deep breaths that shuddered on the exhale. Her eyes stayed shut, spots of light winking behind the red. Using both hands, she traced her fingers along the edges of the gap, feeling along the edge of puffy skin and the bony nubs beneath, trying to determine whether this was or wasn't real. She couldn't quite decide yet. She had to be sure before she screamed.

Chin on her chest, Consuela slipped a second finger alongside the first, parting the skin at the back of her skull easily. It didn't hurt—
It doesn't hurt—
but it felt . . . strange. She tried a third, her pinky stuck into her hair as the rest of her hand cupped inside her neck.

She closed her eyes, trying to picture it . . .

Her fingers broke through, melting a line of cool heat down her back. Her body opened like the seam of a sandwich bag.

She felt the cold kiss of air on her naked spine.

Almost without thinking, Consuela slipped her skin over her head like a sweater. She pulled her arms out of their long gloves and stepped gently out of the warm, wet suit left puddled at the bottom of the bathtub. Keeping her eyes on her feet, Consuela stared at the collection of thin, tiny bones suspended in a sort of liquid shadow holding them together, surreal against the peach bath mat. She looked up into the full-length mirror and saw herself.

Consuela was a skeleton.

Rich and shining, her bones gleamed—the steam giving her an aura, a halo. She was smooth and shiny, like pale mother-of-pearl, almost glowing in the muted half light. A thin translucence clung to her, outlining where her skin ought to have been. She traced the ghost of her curves, powdered with dew. Hard but soft, luminous as shell, she was firm, beautiful, strong, alive.

She moved lightly, as if the weight of her was measured in the tiny gaps of nothing between each of her bones. Flexing her hand, she watched the delicate cage of fingers floating in darkness. She opened and shut her mouth, watching her jawbones slide together, marveling at the motion. She breathed deeply the warm smell of the air, seeing her rib cage expand and lift—free of organs, but hardly empty. She exhaled, and saw her clavicle and shoulders settle straight.

She wanted to smile, but she was already smiling. She realized she'd always been smiling on the inside. Now she could see it—her perfect white teeth in two, perfect lines: her forever-smile. Admiring herself, she knew that this was
her.

This is who I am,
she thought.
The rest is just skin.

She looked down at the empty suit of Consuela Chavez, feeling curiously detached. She picked it up and inspected her surface body, feeling the soggy weight of it in her hands. Consuela knew there should be muscles and organs and blood—
and pain
?—but there wasn't. There was only the skeleton and her skin.

She cradled it in her arms like a precious thing, a gown of tan silk with black satin fringe, and hung it gently on the door hook to dry.

She laughed.

Consuela felt suddenly, impossibly whole.
Shining. Pure. Powerful. Alive!
She knew that Consuela Chavez, high school good girl smiling shyly in the back of the room,
never
felt like this. But, like this—for the first time in her life—she felt like the real Consuela Louisa Aguilar Chavez. Completely.

As if imagined, she heard a whisper like music.

Consuela turned in the hazy glow, tracking the sound. She didn't see anyone, but she had the feeling of being . . . not “watched,” but “observed.”

She stepped toward the mirror and gently wiped away the clouded moisture. Condensation dripped like tears where her bones scraped the glass. She tried peering into the silvery reflection.

A pair of lips surfaced. Smiled. Withdrew.

She stepped back.

The ghost of violin sound quieted and she was alone.

Consuela tapped the mirror.
Nothing but glass.
The steam slowly obscured it once more.

The air slipped like a secret between her pieces. She suddenly needed to feel the world breathing. Consuela climbed onto the edge of the bathtub, unlocked the window, and let the night in.

Her nonexistent eyes slipped closed in their sockets as she arched her back, gripping the edges of the windowpane like a pirate ship's Jolly Roger in full sail. Consuela let the wind buffet her and blow in-through-around her body. Like an autumn gust through apple trees, it smelled crisp and wild and real. She wanted to feel it—wear it like a second skin.

The thought came out of nowhere, but it seemed so logical, effortless.
Why not?
Consuela stepped onto the window ledge, curling to sit on the sill, legs dangling out the second-story window high above the porch. The air swam like tadpoles around her toes. She slipped a foot in.

She watched her toes disappear into the wind, although she still felt them there, buoyant and cool. Consuela reached down, pulling the edge of air up her legs, under her knees. It felt more comfortable than any pair of jeans she'd ever owned.

She stood up before she'd realized what she'd done: slipping the skin of air over her butt, she was now suspended in nothing at all. Threading her arms into sleeves of breezes and cupping a mask of wind to her face, she inhaled the intoxicating scent of seasons and pulled it impossibly over her head. The seam up her back slipped closed and sealed.

The world snapped open.

The world snapped shut.

Consuela opened her eyes to the roar of the weather. She smelled the northerly wind and saw its currents run. Like a moving sidewalk, a river road, paths rushed and parted as they rode warm and cool hillocks of pressurized air.

Consuela stepped out onto one of them. Turning east, she rode it like a comet into the night.

—OCTAVIO PAZ
(ref. to Villaurrutia's
Nostalgia de la Muerte
)

 

 

 

THIS
place called to her. Consuela had never seen it before, not really, although she'd passed the park many times, but this was the first time she was truly aware of it. The little park bench pulled at her. She could feel it in her bones.

She blew past the concrete sign reading SUNRISE PARK framed in potted marigolds and mulch-covered earth, down the gravel path, and toward the person hunched in a worn leather jacket. The young man stared at his hands, ignoring the cold, while absently flipping a butterfly knife.

Consuela watched the thin silver blade spin like a toy pinwheel. The man stared at it with an intense, childlike fascination; the scene carried with it an undertone of blood. She circled around him to look at his face.

Haunted,
was the first word that rang in her mind.
Scared. Determined. Awful. Alone.
He stared at the knife wheel—past it, through it—something pressing upon his thoughts like a stone, slowly pushing him toward resolve. Consuela could feel his anxieties, his fears, like a ripple in her mind.

She realized that he was waiting for something; some sign to prove that this was right. But this wasn't right. It was wrong, she knew, although she was surprised to find that she wasn't afraid about witnessing a possible suicide. It was something out of balance, off course, and worth correcting.

She was calm, distant, slipping silently on feet of breeze. Although he didn't see her, she knew that he felt her there because he was so attuned to finding
something
, he couldn't help but hear her. She wanted him to hear, so she told him:

He jerked up—surprised, embarrassed, and angry. He glared around with staggered glances, like a startled moth, seeing nothing, erratic and unsure. His fear was almost comical. Consuela smiled her forever-smile.

“Don't,”
she said again, and let her fingertips of air lift the hairs from his brow, drying them instantly of sweat and
fear
. His breath came coughing in short gasps.

“Breathe,” she advised. He did. She listened as his lungs filled with the smell of forest pine, his senses tickling him back to wakefulness and away from the ledge in his mind. He sighed, relieved. She ruffled his hair playfully and helped him to stand, the strength of the wind lifting him up like a child.

“Go home,”
she said gently.
“Go.”

The knife found its way into his back pocket, forgotten. He crossed himself reverently and kissed a gold cross hanging from its chain around his neck. Dropping his eyes, he left quickly. Consuela watched him go.

Peace trickled in.

She stood quietly by the park bench, watching the nettles tremble and the dead leaves turn; soft, rustling sounds after the lingering crackle of danger had passed. She'd stopped someone from hurting himself—maybe dying. Consuela smiled to herself as she turned the thought over in her mind. She hadn't felt nervous or afraid or embarrassed in the least; she'd just
done
it. Like she was meant to do it. Like she was meant to be here. To stop him.

She jumped when a phone rang.

Consuela knelt in the windblown garbage that had collected under a tree, following the insistent, electronic buzz. She found the cell phone buried beneath a crumpled newspaper, jammed inside the remains of an open Happy Meal box. She pressed the green button, answering it.

“Hello?” she said while realizing that the call couldn't possibly be for her.