Lizbeth

“This can’t be,” Lizbeth said, her jaw dropping as she looked through the doorway. She was still holding Ginny in her arms, but for a few moments she felt bodiless, untethered from reality—all realities—as she tried to process what she was seeing inside the interior of the Red Chapel.

It was an exact replica of her first home—the downtown Los Angeles loft that she’d come home to as a newborn . . . before her parents ended their marriage and she’d gone to live with her mother and Weir had stayed with their father. It had been so long ago, and her memories so fractured by the trauma she’d experienced after her mother’s death, that she was surprised she remembered it at all.

“Oh my God,” she murmured. “I can’t . . . it’s not . . .”

There were no words, no way to take in everything she was seeing and feeling. It was just too overwhelming.

While Lizbeth stood in the doorway and tried to control her breathing, Tem laid his charge down on the white leather sectional couch that took up one side of the front room before coming over to Lizbeth and relieving her of her own burden. He placed Ginny on the other side of the couch so she was head to toe with her sister, and then he took Lizbeth by the crook of the arm and led her toward the kitchen. Once there, he sat her down at the white granite kitchen island—Lizbeth had forgotten how white the loft had been. Starkness met the eye at every turn. It was the kind of colorless apartment that eschewed comfort for glamour. It was a glacier-white showplace for her father to flaunt his money. Not one bit of it had ever been home to Lizbeth.

She waited while Tem brought out two tall water glasses from a kitchen cabinet and set them on the island in front of her. Then he turned to the massive built-in refrigerator and began digging around inside it.

“Why?” she asked, shaking her head in disbelief. “This place is awful.”

But looking around, she realized this wasn’t an entirely true statement. It was cold—that was a fact—yet revisiting the loft now, through the lens of adulthood, Lizbeth saw the touches her mother had wrought from her father’s sparseness: the heavy plate-glass windows that let in copious amounts of light and afforded views of the downtown Los Angeles skyline—but hanging from the ceiling in front of them were stained-glass art pieces that belonged to her mother, their colored panes catching the cold winter light and turning it into glorious diamonds of color that danced across the walls; the floor that had been fashioned from whitewashed planks of oak, distressed by age and use—but there was the pink-and-blue handwoven Navajo rug her mother had bought for a song at an estate sale in Los Feliz and somehow its cheerful color brightened the whole room; the skylights built into the plaster ceilings that funneled even more light into the large, open-plan space—and illuminated by this light were the faint pencil marks on the back kitchen wall that Lizbeth’s mother had used to document Weir’s height, and then Lizbeth’s own, as they each grew older.

Any feeling of life that Lizbeth saw in the loft came from her mother.

“Your brain crafted it,” Tem said, his back to her as he continued to rummage in the fridge. Finally, he found what he was looking for, and triumphant, he pulled out a carton of pulp-heavy orange juice.

“I was thinking about my mom,” she said, honestly. “I guess that’s why. But this place? It’s so much more my dad’s taste, but then . . .”

“. . . your mom is here, too,” he finished for her.

She nodded.

“Yeah, I feel her in the space, and that’s not something I would’ve expected.”

Tem handed her a glass of juice, then extended his own toward her.

“Cheers,” he said as they clinked glasses.

It felt odd to do that here, in this place. To be anything other than the small helpless kid who’d felt so alone after her mother had died. A child who’d needed love, but who, instead, had been ignored. Her father’s hope . . . ? That she’d just disappear.

“I miss her,” Lizbeth said, barely tasting the sugary juice. “I needed her. I really needed her and she was gone. I was alone.”

The weight of Tem’s hand settled over her own and she felt the cool of the granite beneath her palm.

“You were never alone. The Dream Walker Hessika was always with you,” he said. “And your brother never stopped missing you.”

God, she’d forgotten all about Weir! Guilt, and the orange juice, soured her stomach. She’d left him back in the Italian catacombs with no explanation as to why she was behaving so oddly. She wished he were here now, wished she could tell him her brain hadn’t been her own, that she’d been at the mercy of something greater than herself.

“Before . . . you asked me where you go when you dream in the dreamlands,” Tem said, drawing her attention back to him.

She looked up, surprised, her curiosity piqued.

“Yeah, it was a strange thing . . . the idea that . . .”

“. . . you’re already where you dream?” he finished for her. He was always doing that to Lizbeth—finishing her thoughts, knowing what she was going to say before she said it. He gestured to the sectional couch where Dev’s girls lay sleeping.

“Yeah,” she said.

She watched the girls, their faces smooth and dewy—with none of the tension she’d seen on them earlier.

“Here, when you sleep, you walk the line between life and death,” he said. “Death can’t have you yet because it’s not your time, but it likes the taste of life, so it tries to keep you there as long as it can.”

Lizbeth frowned.

“I think we should wake the girls up now,” she said, climbing to her feet.

He laughed, and held up his hands for her to relax.

“Don’t freak out, half-caste. They’re also sleeping a healing sleep. And those girls need it. They’ve been through a lot.”

She settled back into her seat but decided to keep an eye on the young dreamers just to calm her mind.

“Dream Walkers—like me and Hessika and Eleanora—stay here,” he continued. “I know it seems like we’re trapped, but we’re not. We chose this and we have enough magic left inside us to make it so.”

“But you can go to death?” she asked. “If you want to?”

“If I sleep here, then, yes, I can will death to take me. If I want.”

She yawned, the exhaustion she’d been keeping at bay for so long finally settling over her.

“You should sleep, too, love,” Tem said. “You look so tired and sad.”

She shook her head.

“No, I don’t want to—”

“Afraid you’ll never wake up?” he asked, raising an eyebrow as he voiced her fears for her. “Don’t you trust me?”

“Yes, but . . .” She stopped, not actually sure if she was being truthful or not. “Wait. I just . . . I don’t know.”

“Do as the man says, ma chère.”

Lizbeth turned in her seat to find the Tall Lady standing behind her. Hessika—she had to remember the woman had a real name.

“I’m not tired—” she started to say, but was foiled by another yawn she couldn’t control.

Hessika wore an amused expression on her face. Lizbeth was almost certain that the woman hadn’t been there before. Where had she come from? Hit by another jaw-cracking yawn, Lizbeth fought to keep her eyes open. She was so tired that her bones ached.

“Of course, you are,” Tem said. “You’re wiped out, dead on your feet. A walking zombie of sleep deprivation.”

She had to admit it was true. The thought of closing her eyes for a few minutes sounded so appealing . . .

Hessika’s voice sounded in her head: “The little ones cannot stay long, ma chère. Tell your sisters that we are watching, but they must come to the Red Chapel and soon.”

Lizbeth opened her eyes to find herself alone in a now-darkened kitchen, her arms folded on the granite countertop like a pillow, her head tucked inside them. She sat up and stretched, her whole body stiff. She looked around, but Tem and Hessika were long gone. She yawned and noticed something wet on her chin, but her fingertips came away clear and she realized she must’ve drooled a little while she’d slept.

Wait, I didn’t sleep, she thought. I was just awake. I was talking to Tem and Hessika and then . . . this makes no sense.

She turned, searching for Dev’s girls, but they weren’t on the couch where she’d left them. No one was here. She was on her own. Just Lizbeth, alone, in a loft she’d hated since she was a child.

“I hate you,” she said out loud. “I hate what you represent. What you are.”

The loft didn’t seem offended by Lizbeth’s outburst. Instead, it began turning on lights, muting the darkness outside and bathing Lizbeth in pale yellow lamplight.

“I’m sorry,” she said to the loft. “I’m just overwhelmed. There’s so much emotion here.”

I feel stupid talking to an inanimate building, she thought. I need to get my act together.

She pushed the bar stool back, expecting a loud screech as the metal legs scraped against the floor, but there was nothing. She squatted down but saw no wheels or padding to protect the wood. She stood up and rapped her hand against the countertop. Nothing, no hollow knock or resounding echo, only an absence of sound.

It was unsettling.

She began to wonder if she was asleep . . . in the dreamlands . . . in death.

The front door opened silently—and she would never have known had she not been staring at it when it happened. A moment later, her mother and Weir—a much younger version of him, at least—came into the loft.

Bit-na was carrying a grocery bag in one arm and a large purple purse under the other. She was above average height with a slender frame that made her look like a model. Her black hair was cut pixie short and she wore bright red lipstick but no other makeup. Dressed well—black linen pants, strappy leather sandals, and an asymmetrical, sleeveless cotton blouse—she was talking animatedly to Weir, who stared up at his stepmom adoringly.

Lizbeth could not hear what they were saying. The strange silence extended even to them.

I wish I could tell you both that I love you, she thought, staring at the baby version of Weir, her eyes filling with tears.

In this weird past/limbo/memory/dream state, her Caucasian half brother was probably no more than twelve, but he already came to Bit-na’s shoulder. He had a shock of bleached blond bangs that fell into his eyes, the rest of his head shaved. He also had a brown paper grocery bag just like the one Bit-na carried.

If Weir is twelve here in this dream, I’m not even born yet, Lizbeth thought. This is pre-me.

This was before her parents had divorced and Bit-na had taken Lizbeth away. Before her mother had died, leaving Lizbeth at the mercy of a father who thought she was “retarded” (she had a visceral memory of her father spitting the slur out at her mother, a crying baby Lizbeth in Bit-na’s arms). What she was watching now? These were the good days . . . before Lizbeth had ripped the family apart by being “different.”

Lizbeth stared at the tableau, unable to move. She wanted to run to her mother and brother and touch them, hold them close one more time, but a part of her brain knew that this was impossible. What a shock that would’ve been, to have a gangling giant of a girl appear out of nowhere and pull you into a bear hug.

“That’s not true, you know.”

“What?” Lizbeth asked. She was so used to hearing her brother’s voice that she answered him automatically.

“That you ruined our family.”

She turned and saw the adult version of her brother standing beside her, leaning against the kitchen island. He was dressed in a pair of khaki cutoffs and a black T-shirt, his hair wet, as if he’d just come from a shower. He grinned at her.

“Weir?” she said, her voice cracking.

“I missed you, pipsqueak.”

“I missed you, too,” she said, letting him pull her into a hug.

He smelled like burnt leaves and metal. She was so happy to see him that she almost cried.

“I didn’t mean to leave you guys in the catacombs. I didn’t have any control over myself. I didn’t know what I was doing. I’m so sorry—”

“Shhh . . .” he said, squeezing her tight. “None of it matters.”

She nodded, letting his touch melt away her guilt.

“I get to be here with you now. That’s the important thing.”

“It’s true,” she agreed.

After a few more moments of holding her close, he let her go—and she looked up into his face. The eyes she found staring back at her bore such intense sadness that she felt like crying all over again . . . but then the sadness disappeared and he was just good old Weir.

“I meant what I said, LB,” he continued. “It wasn’t you. And it wasn’t me, either. Though, at the time, I thought it was. We were only kids back then and we had zero to do with our family falling apart. The truth is always sadder and more complicated than we can imagine.”

He pointed back to where Bit-na and the younger incarnation of himself had been standing, but now they were gone. In their place, Lizbeth and Weir’s father stood, an angry expression on his face. He began pacing back and forth by the front door, brown hair sticking up in unkempt tufts, eyes red-rimmed and wild. Lizbeth turned to Weir, opening her mouth to ask him what was happening, but he just shook his head.

“Watch,” he said. “We can only see the past. We can’t hear it.”

She returned her attention back to their father in time to see the front door open and Bit-na come into the room. She was wearing a raincoat, her dark hair drenched.

“She’s pregnant with you,” Weir continued, “but the bastard doesn’t care. This happened while I was in Iceland with the Nordic Ice Queen.”

Weir’s mother was a blond former model who pretended she didn’t have a child. He’d lived with her for one summer when he was a teenager and she’d spent the entire time ignoring him. Because she’d been so cold and uninterested in her own son, Weir and Lizbeth had labeled her the “Nordic Ice Queen.”

Lizbeth watched as Bit-na reached out a hand, her long fingers searching for her husband’s cheek. He turned away, his face bright with anger. She looked confused, not sure why he was upset with her. Though Lizbeth couldn’t hear what they were saying, she watched Bit-na implore her husband to tell her what was wrong. Instead of answering her, he just started screaming.

“Don’t look away.”

Lizbeth couldn’t have torn her eyes away from the scene had she tried. Bit-na, her belly as swollen as a watermelon, tried one final time to reach out to her husband—but it was a mistake.

Lizbeth watched in horror as her father punched her mother in the stomach.

Bit-na’s face went pale, her mouth open in a silent O of pain. She fell backward, her hands clutching her distended belly protectively as she hit the floor. It was a hard fall and the side of her head connected with the wooden leg of the sectional couch. Blood blossomed from her scalp, staining the white leather of the couch a dark brown.

“No.” Lizbeth clutched Weir’s arm. Then, unable to keep looking, she buried her face in his chest, biting back the urge to scream.

“She was protecting you,” he said, no emotion in his voice. “You almost died . . . and the idiot doctors told Bit-na that your cognitive problems stemmed from what happened to you in utero. This is what drove our parents apart and why our father was always so awful to you. He couldn’t deal with his guilt.”

When she’d collected herself enough to look again, the scene was gone, but her mother’s blood still stained the white fabric of the couch. I hope that stain never went away, Lizbeth thought.

“He’s just a man. Fallible and stupid. He fucked up and he lost everything. I know I should feel sorry for him,” Weir added, “but it’s hard, LB. Even here where it doesn’t matter anymore.”

Something about the words Weir chose bothered Lizbeth. When she really stopped to think about it, something about this whole experience was sitting wrong inside her.

“What do you mean?” Lizbeth said, her brain beginning to spin. “When you say that it doesn’t matter anymore? What do you mean?”

She heard the plaintive whine in her voice.

“LB,” Weir said, his voice laced with sadness.

Lizbeth tried to tamp down the nausea that was burning her throat, her thoughts all tangled together like a skein of yarn . . . and then she found the thread.

“No,” she murmured. “No, I don’t want to pull the thread.”

She turned to face her older brother, understanding dawning in her eyes.

“Please, no,” she continued, grabbing him by the arm and shaking him. “No, no, no . . .”

He didn’t have to answer. His silence said it all. Her fingers caught the loose thread—the thread that would lead to the answer she already knew, but did not want—and she began to pull.

“You’re here. In this place . . . the place between the dreamer and death. So that means . . .”

She couldn’t bring herself to say the word.

“I’m dead,” he said for her.

“Why . . . ?” she moaned. “Why are you dead . . . ?”

She felt disbelief and the realization that she didn’t have the power to change any of it.

“I can’t . . .” she said, her voice catching in her throat. “You can’t. I need you.”

He put a hand under her chin and lifted her face up so that he could look into her eyes.

“LB, I am always with you.” He placed a finger against her forehead. “Inside here . . . I live on in your heart and your memories.”

It was all too much to process. She began to cry, the tears leaking from the corners of her eyes.

“I have to go now,” he said, pulling her to his chest and squeezing her tight. “But I wanted you to know the truth about our family. Let it set you free, my sweet sister.”

He released her and took a step back—and she saw that he was crying, too.

“I love you, Weir,” she said, the hot tears running down the sides of her face.

“I love you, too, LB.”

And then her brother faded away to nothing.

•   •   •

She stayed in the loft for a long time, but no one else came to visit her. No images of the past, no ghosts of the present . . . and the future didn’t belong here. She felt numb, the cold hardwood biting into the back of her thighs where she sat cross-legged on the floor. The white shift dress she wore left her arms and legs unprotected from the chill.

She loosed her hair, letting the long strands envelop her face, hiding her away. She wanted to close her eyes and go to sleep, but every time she lay down and closed her eyes, an image of Weir’s face flashed through her mind. She had to immediately open her eyes again or else give in to the panic that wanted to eat her up.

In order to keep her mind off her grief, she hummed snatches of Korean lullabies that Bit-na had sung to her when she was small and songs she’d heard on the radio . . . anything to make sure her mind stayed blank.

She wove her hair into a long braid, singing as she worked. After a while, she heard the soft rustle of fabric, and she lifted her gaze, not surprised to find that she was no longer alone.