Page 89 of Night Songs

In the operating room, as the nurse counted back from one hundred, I didn’t feel myself falling into blackness as I’d expected; I could still see her and the flurry of activity around me, but now I couldn’t move or speak, as if I was trapped in my own body. My old claustrophobic panic rose up quicker and hotter than I’d ever felt it before, flooding my insides, making my very being scream with pain.

The beige walls and the masked people fell away, replaced by the wood panels of a cabin room. It was the same cabin from my mushroom vision.

My mother suddenly approached and crouched in front of me as she had before, eyes bloodshot and lips cracked, grabbing my arms. I could feel how rough her grip was, my wrists pulsing between her fingers.

Again she said, “Rhea. Angel. I need you to listen to me.” She squeezed harder, and I winced in pain. “What I’m about to tell you is the honest to God truth. People will tell you it isn’t, but don’t listen to them, you hear me?”

Again, my head nodded of its own will.

“All right.” She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. “Many years ago, when your great-great-great-grandmother was 33, she made a deal with the devil. She traded her soul for a beautiful singin’ voice. But he played a trick on her. He didn’t tell her that for the rest of time, her female descendants would inherit this deal, this curse, and die from a tragic accident at 33.”

She searched my face, making sure I understood. “My mother died on her 33rd birthday, hit by a truck while crossin’ the street. When my grandmother turned 33 she fell from a bridge and drowned in the river. Do you see what I’m sayin’? It ain’t just a story. It’s real, angel.”

I felt my head nod.

She took a deep breath. “My birthday is real close—”

“But your birthday was in May,” my little voice chirped.

She waved me away. “I’m talkin’ about my real birthday, darlin’. Now, listen. I don’t got much time left. But we are gonna stop this thing, okay? Me and you.”

I could feel myself shaking now, a warm sob rising up in my chest without resistance in a way I’d never felt before. “I’m scared, Belly…”

Her mouth screwed up, and she squeezed her eyes together. “Oh, angel, I know, I’m scared, too.” Her eyes watered, and her grip loosened on my arms. “I’m so sorry. I never wanted this to happen. But I’m gonna make it right—”

A pounding came from the door, and she jerked her head toward it. She let go of me, crept over to one of the curtained windows and peeked through the slit between the fabric and the frame.

She gasped and stepped back quickly, bringing a hand to her chest. The pounding came again, shaking the wood in its hinges.

She ran over to me and pulled me up from the couch into her arms. “There’s been a change of plans, angel. I don’t think I can take you with me. It’s too dangerous. So, just listen to me now. When you get older, and things start goin’ bad, remember this: You are not crazy. You are cursed. And remember what I’m about to tell you, okay?” Her face was stern and focused now. “A few months before—”

The pounding came again, this time even harder and more brutal against the wood. She cried out in frustration.

“Okay, okay, never mind.” Her eyes darted around the room. “We’re gonna play a game,” she said, as she carried me over to a large wooden trunk in the corner. “There’s a monster comin’, and I need you to hide from him.” She opened the old-fashioned padlock with shaking hands and frantically pulled out the afghans, leaving a hollow space. She picked me up and placed me inside. I instinctively crouched down, and she tried to smile, but I could see the fear pulling at her features.

“Stay very, very quiet, and the monster won’t find you. All right?”

I heard my child’s voice say, “But what about you, Belly? Where are you going to hide?”

She almost smiled at this. “I’m gonna fight the monster, angel. Now, remember…” She put a finger up to her lips and closed the trunk lid overme. It was dark and cramped inside, but there was comfort in it. I felt safe and contained.

Outside the trunk, I heard the door open, and then footsteps so heavy they rattled the roots of my teeth. I could hear her voice, like she was pleading for something, but I couldn’t make out the words through the thick wood.

Footsteps, movement, her voice, too much to isolate and discern what was happening. Then, the door shut once again. Silence.

Endless, stretching silence.

I thrusted up on the lid to open it, but it didn’t budge. I heard the padlock jangling against the outside.

My breathing quickened and my body warmed as I tried to force the lid open with my small hands. I thrashed around, going dizzy, not getting enough air. I screamed for my mother, hoping she or someone would hear me, but there was no answer.

Then the lid was opening, flooding the chamber with blinding light and cold, raw air.

I was in a hospital room, and Micah stood over me, his face drawn in concern. He seemed to have aged five years in the last five minutes. He tried to smile when we met eyes, but I could see how forced it was. He started to tell me the operation was successful, but I wasn’t listening.

All I could hear was the monster’s hooves against the floorboards, my own shallow breaths reverberating against the tight space. And my mother’s voice like sweet, smoky music, whispering,

Remember this.