Box

By Amethyst Turner

There's a box in the closet upstairs

And it's filled with things I don't understand

Baby blankets and bows for hair

Tiny toys for tiny hands

Baby wipes for baby care

And flimsy books for flimsy plans

Looking in it makes me sad

It's all the things I could've had

XXX

There was no moving on, really.

Minka felt as though she'd been robbed of everything that made her alive. All she felt like these days was a walking corpse. No joy was to be found in performing anymore, no excitement in the touch of her lover. She felt gray, worn, faded.

Rubin did his best to comfort her, but even he couldn't pull her out of this depression. After falling from the tightrope in California, she stopped performing.

Now, she laid in bed, miles away from Little Rock, Amethyst's stuffed bear sitting on her belly. Scrubbles, that was his name.

Rubin said she should get over it. Besides, she'd only known Amethyst for a month or so, right? To this, she responded, "Is that what you would say to a grieving mother whose baby died in its crib at four weeks old?"

He'd said that was different, but it wasn't, for Minka. A mother who has lost her infant to a crib death would indefinitely blame herself, even if there was nothing she could have done. Minka felt that guilt, ten times over. She'd sent her into the forest, hadn't she?

Minka untied the bow around Scrubbles' neck. She'd done this many times since Amethyst's disappearance. The first time, she had been horrified to find something waiting behind the ribbon: a bloody shard of glass, sharp and coated with dried blood. It perplexed her; what was this doing in the collar of a little girl's teddy bear? But she left it there, tucked it back in each time she retied the bow.

Rubin and the others were performing tonight. She could not watch anymore. It triggered her nightmares.

There were several of them that cycled through her head from night to night.

The first and most common began in the orphanage. She was sitting on her bed with Rubin, the afternoon of their first kiss. He leaned toward her, biting her lip gently at first, and then harder and harder until she bled. He morphed into someone else -- this part varied. Sometimes it was one of the older boys from the orphanage, sometimes a man she'd only seen once before or didn't know of at all. Her blood covered the bed, the walls, the entire room until it become someplace else. Now, she and the man stood on the tightrope, drenched in Minka's blood, and he'd push her down -- this part varied too. Some nights, they only pushed her and pulled her hair or slapped her face. Others it was much worse. Either way, she went spiraling off the tightrope, into the net below. The moment she hit it, she heard a crunch. Rolling over, she would be met by the sight of Amethyst's broken body, dissolving into a tangle of leaves and branches that swallowed up the circus tent.

She hated that dream, because each time it was fresh. She wasn't expecting it, didn't know what was going to happen. Every time without fail, she would wake up sobbing.

There were other dreams she had frequently, now. One came in an endless loop in which she chased Amethyst through a nondescript wood, her feet aching and her eyes burning as the little girl sprinted away with unreal speed. In another, she watched Davey Springs' dog tear her apart with its claws. The worst part was, she didn't die until the very end. Minka woke when she finally breathed her last.

There were other dreams where Aimee died. Most of these had only come once so far. She'd see wolves with muzzles caked with blood, a tiny body floating face down, the rough waters of a river tossing it from side to side.

Last night, she had dreamed that Amethyst walked the tightrope without a circus net. She was almost to the other side when--

No, she told herself, no more thinking about these dreams. Rubin was convinced that if she stopped thinking about it altogether -- "it" being Amethyst and Little Rock and the woods -- she would get better. Minka didn't believe that.

He also had a theory that this experience had somehow awakened some sleeping demons from her past that she'd never confronted. She supposed this made sense, given how her dreams started in the orphanage some nights.

But the real trouble, she thought, was that she made someone else an orphan as well.

XXX

Orion stirred, unsure if the hand on his shoulder belonged to Sophia in a dream, or someone else in real life.

"Orion?" said a small voice. "Are you awake?"

He opened his eyes in the dark, blinking the fog of sleep out of his eyes. It was pitch black in the tent, and silent except for the crickets and the occasional hoot of an owl. Plus the myriad of other forest sounds that none of them heard anymore because they were so used to them.

"I'm awake," he whispered, turning to the right. He could see Amethyst's outline kneeling at the side of his mattress, clutching her doll to her chest. Orion pushed the blanket back, sliding out of bed. Next to him, Leafy slept on. But he slept lightly, Orion knew, so they'd have to go outside to talk.

Slipping his shoes on his feet, he motioned for Amethyst to follow him. The little girl tip toed behind him, her breath wheezing quietly in the quiet night.

"Can we go to the hill?" she asked.

Orion chuckled, lifting the flap to exit the tent. "There are quite a few hills around here."

The girl stuck her bottom lip out, pouting. "The one where you can see stars?"

He nodded. "Yeah, I know which one you mean. Just teasing you."

She followed quietly behind him, kicking the dried leaves in front of her with those worn sneakers of hers. Orion made a mental note to make her some new ones. These were practically falling off her feet.

The hill wasn't steep -- it was the type of hill you accidentally stumble across and suddenly you're at a higher altitude than you were before. Orion trudged up the slope, pausing to yawn.

When they reached the top, the two of them sat down on the dew covered grass to look at the stars.

If for nothing else, he lived to see the stars. The winking of a million shining eyes watching over him. Leafy would call them the eyes of God. Orion knew better. These were the eyes of the dead, looking down at loved ones asleep in bed, shielded from the stars by roofs and tents. Not Orion. If Sophie was looking for him, he would always be right here.

He sighed. Glanced to his right where Amethyst sat, staring up at the night sky with her doll caught between her knees. She would believe him, would she?

"Hey, Aimee?" He said.

Amethyst looked away from the stars. "What?"

"Can I tell you something?" She nodded. "You might not believe me." The girl shrugged and said she probably would, because Orion had never lied to her before. Why would he start now? He decided that was good enough logic. "Okay," he began. "Well, I'm . . . not alive."

Aimee frowned at him, then at the stars. She took her doll in her hands, running her fingers over its cornsilk hair. "You're dead?"

Orion shook his head. "I don't think so. I'm just not alive."

Amethyst nodded. She smiled at him, then at the stars. "You're in between."

XXX

Bacon sizzled on the stove, grease popping this way and that. The bread in the toaster oven glazed over fine gold, the toaster's timer ticking. Pancakes solidified, bubbling at the sides as they set, doughy and white on the top, but a satisfactory butterscotch brown beneath. Egg whites oozed across the pan, crackling with transformation as they scrambled together into a sunshine yellow mass, sprinkled with milky white.

Libby had forgotten how much she loved cooking.

She rushed around her busy kitchen, stirring this, setting a timer for that, flipping pancakes, scrambling eggs.

The baby liked cooking too. She could feel it kicking around inside of her. She'd begun referring to it as Baby Emmy-Joe. Richard joked that Emmy-Joe was a hermaphrodite.

Libby had opted not to get an "ultrasound". These were tests run by some newfangled machine that took pictures of the baby from inside her, somehow. Richard said it was goddamn 1991 and perfectly safe -- everybody got them. Libby retorted that ancient Indians thought having their picture taken would steal their soul.

Either way, she prefered the surprise. Not knowing gave her something to look forward to. Would it be Emma Rose or Timothy Joe? They would find out in February.

She thought about calling her mother to tell her about Emmy-Joe, but decided against it. Instead, she called her sister, Bethany. Bethie was ecstatic to hear from Libby and demanded to know every detail of her life. She gave Beth the edited version. "Yes, everything is fine. Oh, you heard about Amethyst, did you? Yes, Richard and I are heartbroken. How's Richard? He's fine, great in fact. He has a new job. What is it? Well, I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you, ha ha, just kidding."

Libby and Emmy-Joe listened to Van Halen on the radio as they bustled around the kitchen. Baby, why can't this be love? She knew Richard liked this song. It was alright, she supposed.

There were certain songs on the radio that she didn't like to listen to anymore. When they played Wild Horses, she switched the thing off. Same with Candle In The Wind and Wish You Were Here. She didn't admit it to herself, but these songs reminded her of her other daughter. The one she scorned and rejected and snubbed with every foul title. The one who ran away just to get away from her. Richard and I are heartbroken. Maybe they were. Maybe, deep inside, she missed her.

XXX

Annelise was seven and a half months pregnant when her husband picked up and whisked himself on back to Little Rock, Arkansas.

She sat in bed, hands folded over her protruding stomach, wondering what she would do if her water broke at this exact moment. She knew the answer: she'd scream and panic, and call for Davey who wouldn't be there because he'd be off in fucking Arkansas.

But she entertained herself with more practical scenarios. She'd push herself out of bed and waddle to the car, drive herself to the hospital. Maybe she'd drag herself over to the neighbor's. Mrs. Liamson would be happy to escort her. She could always call her mother, who lived about twenty minutes away, to come pick her up.

She couldn't stand the thought of Davey not being there when the baby was born. Some random nurse wouldn't cut the umbilical cord. Her baby's father would.

Unless he wouldn't. Because he was in fucking Arkansas.

What was the deal with Arkansas, anyway? Who names their state Arkansaw and decides to spell it Arkansas? If she was from Kansas, she'd be upset. What a rip off. Come up with your own freaking spelling, would ya?

The phone rang. Anne hoped to god it wasn't Davey because he was about to catch the brunt of her bad mood, if it was.

"Hey," Davey said.

She crossed her arms over her chest, tucking the phone between her head and shoulder. The antenna bounced against the headboard. "Hi."

"Just wanted to let you know that I'm in Arkansas," he told her, his voice caught in static. "Still another half hour to Little Rock, though."

"Congratulations," Anne muttered.

He gave a forced chuckle. "Thanks. Clark's trying to bat the phone out of my hand. I think he wants to talk to you."

"Dogs can't talk," she deadpanned.

"Just a joke, Annie." There was a pause. "You're feeling alright?"

She growled. "I feel like I'm about to pop open, but it's all good."

Davey sighed. "You're not due until--"

"I know."

Annelise hung up two minutes later when she felt a tearing sensation and then a rush of fluid between her legs.

XXX

I can't recall any love at all
Baby this blows 'em all away

It's got what it takes
So tell me why can't this be love?
Straight from my heart
Oh, tell me why can't this be love?

-Why Can't This Be Love, Van Halen