Spiritdell Book 1 (14 page)

I open the door and step out. The sun is much lower on the horizon than I expected. I feel, for a moment, like I'm on the opposite side of the planet, perhaps because I can't read any of the signs. They're in another language, and I don't know where I am. Something catches my eye, and I turn to see a shop window full of upside-down, shiny, featherless ... ducks? I'm in Chinatown.

* * *

I stare at the window next to the butcher for several minutes, contemplating. Finally, and at the risk of being thought a total idiot, I decide I
will
walk into the Chinese herbalist and ask about magic spells and witchcraft. Why not? There's a small sign in the window that I think means palm-reading, and my last meeting with a palm-reading psychic was
so
illuminating.

The collection of bells on the door ring as merrily as Santa's sleigh when I step inside the herbalist's shop. The place smells appealing, like those woody little cough candies Gran buys at the health food store. The air is cool and dry—refreshing. I breathe in deeply, guiltily stealing all the microscopic bits of herbs into my lungs.

“Yes?” says the woman at the counter. She is Chinese, as expected, and wears thick, round glasses. “You have acne, yes?” she says.

At the mention of acne, the two pus-volcano spots that constantly plague one or the other of my cheeks heat up with shame. “You're right, I do have acne.” I have to admire this woman's straight-forward approach.

“And a broken heart.”

I look down at myself, trying to see what gave me away. My shoes are untied, but that's not out of the ordinary.

“Do you have anything to cure a broken heart?” I ask, hoping for a gentler approach than whatever Heidi and Newt have in mind. “Something to make me forget?”

She gives me a bemused look. “Why forget? No, love is special. Love is better than any of this.” She waves her hand in front of a row of jars. One contains what appears to be cinnamon sticks. Maybe this isn't a Chinese herbalist, but a cooking store. I'm a stupid, non-Chinese guy, making assumptions. I shake my head.

“Willy okay?” she asks.

I swear she said the word
willy
. “Haven't had any complaints,” I reply.

The woman pulls down three jars, then measures some sticks and herbs out on a digital scale. “Tea,” she says. “Clear up that acne. Twice a day, two cups. Not tonight, though. Start tomorrow, before your breakfast.”

“Before breakfast.”

She checks a Hello Kitty calendar hanging on the wall behind her. “Tomorrow,” she says. “The moon is right.”

“Acne is related to the moon?”

She waves one hand in a charming circle and smiles. “Everything relates to the moon. Women, and the world.”

I thank her and pull out my wallet.
Here goes nothing
, I think. “Do you have anything more powerful? Like, magic? To protect against ... witches?”

“Beg pardon? Not all women are witches,” she says defensively.

“I don't mean like that. I mean real witches.”

She adds a little pinch of something yellow to the tea mix, then scoops it up with her hands into a silver tin. Behind me, the doors jingle with another customer coming in the door, but the woman doesn't take her eyes off me. “Try this first,” she says. “It will help take away your troubles. Take away your acne, take away your troubles.”

I'm jostled from behind by some tourists gawking at the herbal treasures in here. “Is that a skull?” the gum-chewing woman asks the man—presumably her husband—weighted down with a camera and her purse. The camera's good-quality, but he's gone and ruined it by using a cheap lens. Ordinarily, I'd stop them to chat camera-talk, but instead, I quietly pay for my anti-acne, anti-trouble tea.

The tourist woman says, “That is a skull, a tiny skull. Isn't that the darnedest thing? What kind of an animal is that?”

“Crow,” says the woman behind the counter. She pushes her glasses back up her nose and gives me a knowing look. “You can tell by the large beak,” she tells them, which seems to satisfy the tourists.

I thank the woman and leave, feeling slightly unsettled, and clutching my herbal tea. If only a tea could take my troubles away.

The rain has stopped, and a rainbow shimmers in the distance, appearing to terminate in an alley a few blocks from here. A part of me yearns to chase after the end of the rainbow, though there's probably little in that alley but a big dumpster.

I wonder, can Austin see this rainbow from her room? I try to picture her, sitting in a chair by her window, looking at the same sky.

Stop.
I can't think about Austin, because it hurts too much. Of course, I can't not think about her.

I check the signs to make sure I'm heading in the right direction, and I begin the long walk home. Walking should clear my head, and the day after tomorrow, I'll have Heidi and Newt clear my head. I should be afraid, but I'm not. I try to figure out what I'm feeling, but I can't put a word to it. I think this is what people mean when they say
numb
.

As I leave Chinatown and walk past residential streets, I pass people parking their cars and bringing cases of beer and food into houses. Other folks are standing on porches and in yards, firing up barbecues. The scent of grilling burgers wafts through the air, along with people laughing.

I walk past a modest-sized house with a dozen small children racing about the yard on the rain-dampened grass, soaking each other with water guns. Now somebody, an uncle maybe, races out with water balloons and the children swarm him with glee. Next door, a garage band warms up.

So much life here, in the world. What do I look like to them, as I walk past their parties and their family gatherings? Nobody. I'm nobody. They might notice me for an instant, like a smudge of ink on their perfect postcard lives, but they quickly look away. I'm on the other side of the glass.

* * *

Back at home, I try to watch some TV, but there's nothing good on. I go to the computer and start organizing my digital photos into separate folders, but even looking at my work doesn't interest me. Nothing interests me.

Raye-Anne has sent a text to me, as well as James and Julie, inviting us to her house, but I politely decline, citing a sudden bout of stomach flu. I can't see Julie and face her questions about what happened at Austin's house. They'd all ask me about what I'm going to do next, and why.

It's simple: I'm going to meet with a crazy witch named Heidi and her friend Newt, and they're going to relieve me of my power, along with the memories I no longer wish to have. I don't know what the process will do to me, but Gran will be home soon, so Mibs will get his insulin on time, no matter what happens to me. I can do whatever I want to my brain, with a clear conscience.

I should prepare myself for losing some of my memories.

Since I won't have any recollection of certain key events in my life, it might be best to write the basic details down for my future, happier, unburdened self. That is the plan. I think my future self could read about my memories, to learn them in the abstract sense, and be unaffected emotionally. I've read about awful things in history books, yet they don't take up space in my head. My past doesn't have to be a secret, it just needs to be watered down.

I pull some paper out of the computer printer, get a pen, and sprawl out on the peony-covered living room rug. Handwritten, it'll have to be. I don't trust the computer with something so important.

“Dear Zan,” I write.

Wait, how can I write when I'm suddenly so thirsty?

I get up, go to the kitchen, and boil water for tea. The lady said to start the herbal tea tomorrow, but why would anyone want to delay a cure for his acne? The future, happier version of me will appreciate having clear skin.

The tea mixture is loose, so I have to use a strainer to keep all the sticks and leaves out of the water. It's funny how tea is actually dirty water, made brown by whatever comes off the tea leaves. People sometimes call coffee
mud
, but tea is just as much mud.

Once brewed, the tea smells like cut grass, ashes, and lemon zest. I take a sip and find it's not bad, but I fish around in the cupboard and find Gran's Peppermint Schnapps—up high where she thinks I can't find it—and add a good glug of the Schnapps to my hot tea.

Not bad. Not bad at all! I think my skin is tingling already. I should get back to writing that letter to myself.

Of course, more tea means clearer skin, so I pour another cup, complete with Schnapps. I usually stay away from indulging in more than one drink with alcohol in it, because booze makes me think about my mother, which then makes me think about my father, and the things my family whispered after their deaths.

I return to the rug and my pen and paper. The tea is making me remember, and I don't like to remember, but I'll go back to the pain, this one last time. I grip the pen in my left hand as best I can to not smear the ink, and begin to write.

* * *

Dear Zan,

In case you forget, you should know you promised to marry Julie if you're both still single at twenty-eight. Twenty-eight is too soon to get married, but really, you could do worse. Julie does a lot of ballet and tap dancing, so she'll probably keep you active as you both get old together. Maybe she could dye her hair so she doesn't look quite so much like James.

Remember to pick up more Peppermint Schnapps for Gran. The store on the corner knows the both of you and lets you buy it without ID, so long as it's no more than once every few months. But wait, I'm sure you will still remember those details.

The main reason you've lost some memory is because you had a brain tumor. Ha ha, just kidding. If you knew the whole story, you'd see the humor in that.

No, seriously, it's because you fell in love with a girl who didn't love you back, either because she didn't like you as much as you thought, or because she is dying. Was dying. Is dead now. Probably. Don't worry about it either way. You should date some other nice girls, except not Raye-Anne, or any of the girls at school, unless they are new students. Wait until college, maybe. And whatever you do, don't go out with any girl who has a pierced tongue. Long story.

When you get your memory tidied up, you're going to lose a chunk from when you were five. It's not anything you're going to need in life, but I will say this: do not join any cults.

Your parents were nice people once. They were a bit daffy, hence your name, Zaniel, but they were good, or at least they meant to be good. Your father, Dan, was not as interested in sharing their love as your mother was. Your mother didn't think she was doing anything wrong, so she didn't think to lie or cover her tracks.

So, you were five, and so small that night when your father got you out of bed and made you sit in the kitchen with him, waiting for your mother to return. He sharpened his big knife and made you test how well it worked by running it along your palms. He grabbed you by the wrists and squeezed the blood into a bowl.

You may wonder why I'm telling you this, since the point is to unburden you of this memory, but I feel some knowledge of the events is important. Try not to picture the events happening, but know the facts. I am truly sorry if this is upsetting.

Once your father had your blood in the bowl, he used the blood to draw on the table, and on your face, and on his. He said some words, and you didn't know what they meant, and you were very frightened. You tried to sneak out of your chair and hide in your room, but he pulled you out from under the bed and made you sorry you disobeyed.

So, he sharpened the knife and you both waited for your mom to come home. The time passed very fast and also very slow. You thought you could save her. You worked out a plan. She would open the door and you would tell her everything, and the two of you would run down the road, away from your father.

But when she came in the door, she told you to shut up. She started yelling and screaming and crying and pleading with your father. She was only making him more angry, and you begged her to stop, but she didn't stop. Not until your father stabbed her. He cut into her so lovingly, as though he was looking for her heart, so he could fix it.

Before he shot himself, he told you he was going to give you something, so you would never be betrayed by a woman like he was. You wanted to ask him what he meant, but then he put the pistol in his mouth, upside down, like he was trying to make himself throw up.

I am sorry.

I am so sorry.

Try not to think about it.

- Zan

* * *

Morning? I can see the clock on the mantle from where I am on the floral-patterned rug, and it's eight o'clock. That makes no sense, unless it's actually morning, and I've slept on the floor all night. I look out the window to check, and quickly close my eyes against the glare. The early light feels cruel, the sun too hot.

My cheek rests in a puddle of drool, and I'm not alone. Mibs is bunting me with the top of his head and purring. I don't know whose drool this is. This drool could be anyone's.

“Mibs, was I floating around outside of my body last night?”

He flicks his tail and glances toward his food dish, using his subtle kitty-cat mind control. In a second, he'll start licking his lips, suggesting a can of yummy soft food, but for now he's happy to rub his butt in my face. I scratch him over the tail and pull myself upright.

I study the handwritten pages partially stuck to my arm. I do not remember writing any of this. I had the tea, and some Schnapps—not much, I swear—and then ... what?

The memory of last night's activities comes back like a tidal wave.

I left my body.

I left my body on the ground, here on the rug, as evidenced by the nubby rug dimples all over my skin, and I went for a walk around the neighborhood. Naked. Or was I naked? I walked without my clothes, but also without my
body
.

That's new!

I may be a seventeen-year old boy who consorts with witches and gets psychic visions when girls stick their fingers in my belly button, but I do not typically leave my body. What's that even called? I think I read a book about the phenomenon once: astral projection. What the heck does
astral
mean?