Luminous (3 page)

“I see you,” a gentle voice said with a hint of humor. “Care to see me?”

Consuela turned in place on the balls of her feet, searching. She wasn't afraid, but she was curious. “Yes.”

“Good,” said the girl's voice. “See a yellow-gray light?” Somehow, Consuela was not surprised that she could. It stretched like some dull reflective tape through space. “Follow it to me. Leave the cell phone on—it's your receiver. Oh, and bring the box.” The connection cut.

Obediently, Consuela tucked the flimsy container under one arm. Something rattled inside it, but she didn't bother to check. She held the cell phone out like a divining rod—an invisible flashlight searching the dark corners of nothing—and followed the sulfurous trail into dawn.

CONSUELA
entered a comfortable room of plush carpet and indirect lighting. A basement office, she figured, given the lack of windows and the large computer screen. A young woman about Consuela's age, maybe a little older, sat in an oversized leather chair, the kind pulled tight and bulleted with brass buttons.

Consuela thought that the girl was meant to be pretty, someone from a wealthy prep school or senior class president—suede skirt, expensive shoes, soft sweater, pearl earrings, and perfect waves of honey-colored hair framing a face that was half gone. It was odd how that didn't bother Consuela more.

Without a word, Consuela offered both the cell phone and the Happy Meal box to the girl's left hand—the right one was noticeably missing at the wrist.

“Thank you,” the young woman said as she took the phone and shut it off, placing it to the right of the mouse pad on her desk. She set the box in her lap and delicately reached inside. “My name is Cecily Gardner. Call me ‘Sissy,'” she said with an amused chirp. “Wait a minute, I want to get a good look at you . . .”

Sissy withdrew her hand from the container and dropped something into a tall glass of water. An eyeball bobbed gently to the surface, its blue iris spinning lazily like a planet. Sissy fished inside, plucking it up, and tapped her wrist against the edge of the glass, shaking the excess moisture free. Sweeping her hair aside, she rolled the eyeball expertly at the top of her cheek; thumbing it into the socket with a soft, wet pop
.
She blinked and wiped away a tear. Both blue eyes turned to look at Consuela.

“There you are.” Sissy smiled with genuine welcome. “I watched you with Rodriguez. You did everything like a pro.”

Consuela wasn't quite sure what to say. She was a mixture of things—shocked, curious, anxious, afraid—but it was blunted, folded in a soft, airy blanket in her chest. She felt oddly peaceful and serene.

“Thanks,” she said.

“You're welcome.” Sissy turned to type something single-handedly into the computer. She hit enter with a flick of finality and swiveled the chair to face Consuela. “Do you want to sit down? Something to drink?” Consuela didn't know. She hadn't thought about fleshy things in a while. Sissy seemed to understand. “How do you feel?” she asked.

“Strange,” Consuela said truthfully, “but in a good way. Powerful, light . . .” She hesitated, laughing a bit. “It's tough to describe. Could be that it's the air I'm wearing.”

Sissy nodded. “Do you want to take it off?”

Can I?
Consuela wondered.

“There are some hangers in the closet,” Sissy added, gesturing with her left hand at a tall, open door. Consuela wafted over, trying on the idea of hanging up her skin like a coat. She slipped her fingers into the lump at the base of her skull, unzipped the seam of her spine, and stepped out of the invisible covering as easily as she had her own skin. Choosing a heavy wooden hanger, she threaded it into the empty shoulders. Her suit of air hung in the closet, where it swayed gently in its breeze.

“Beautiful.” Sissy had been watching and breathed her approval. Her left fingers curled demurely in her lap. “I've been looking forward to meeting you. You're the first person who's . . .” She shook her head, admonishing herself. “Sorry. First things first: do you have any questions?”

“Questions?” Consuela gaped.

“I'm obliged to ask,” Sissy said.

Only about a million . . .
“Where are we?” Consuela asked.

Sissy smirked. “Not an easy one for starters, but I'll try my best. We're in an image of my father's office in the basement of our home in the Valley. On the other hand, we're in a sort of reality running parallel to the real world—we call it the Flow—and you are somewhere between Bristol, Wisconsin, and Aurora, Illinois, and I'm slightly north of Los Angeles. Does that help?” Sissy said with a grin.

Consuela shook her head, laughing despite herself. “No.” She could appreciate the humor of a ridiculous situation.

“I wouldn't think so,” Sissy said. “May I preempt the next question?”

“Sure.”

“‘
Why
are we here?'” Sissy swiveled in her chair. “That's a somewhat easier question. You and I exist in both worlds, although this one only admits people like us. Everyone here can
do
things, things that affect the real world, usually for specific people and usually for specific reasons. Mainly, we keep certain people from dying before their time.”

Consuela's mind spun, thoughts and implications whizzing around her head; she couldn't seem to settle on just one. She wondered aloud, “Like who?”

“Like Tony Rodriguez. Like Sophia Crane. Like little Killian O'Shea, not six weeks old in his bed in Roxbury.” Sissy recited the names with pride.

“I don't understand,” Consuela said. “What's so important about them?”

Sissy shrugged. “I don't know. We don't know,” she said. “Sorry. No one here really knows. There are theories, but nothing solid. New people arrive here all the time, replacing those who've recently left. It's a temporary position for who knows how long, but in the meantime, we just do what we came here to do—what we're meant to do. Save these select people from dying prematurely, however we can with whatever we've got. It's who we are. You understand.”

Consuela recalled the pride at recognizing herself in the bathroom mirror.
Know thyself.

“Yes,” she admitted. “But I'm still confused.”

“Welcome to the club!” Sissy laughed.

Consuela tried a new topic. “So who are you?”

“Me?” Sissy sounded genuinely surprised by the question. “Well, that's simple enough. I am Cecily Amelia Gardner, the one watching over us. The Watcher.” She placed French-manicured fingernails against her necklace, a small blue bead on a silver thread.

Consuela hesitated. She didn't mean to be rude, but the meaning of the necklace—if there was any—was lost on her. “What is it?”

“This? This is me.” Sissy held the bead up for Consuela to see: a tiny sphere of cobalt glass pockmarked with rough circles of milky white. Like Sissy's eyeball in reverse. “It's Greek,” she said. “An ‘All-Seeing Eye' bead. Appropriate for a Watcher, don't you think?”

“I'm not sure,” Consuela confessed. “Should it be?”

“There's always been a Watcher, like there's always been the Flow,” Sissy said matter-of-factly. “People like us have always existed.” She crossed her legs primly at the ankles and shook her hair from her face. Consuela noticed that Sissy was missing one ear. “The Flow's been here as long as people have, maybe longer. The animals might have had their own spirit-selves here.” She flipped her hair over her shoulder. “Maybe they still do—it would explain Joseph Crow.”

Consuela shook her skull. What Sissy said sounded strange, far stranger than walking around without skin. “Who's Joseph Crow?”

Sissy winked playfully. “You'll see when you meet him.”

Consuela waited for Sissy to continue, but there was only silence. “Sorry,” she said, “but I still don't understand.”

“Think of it this way: ‘guardian angels' might be too Hallmark or sacrilegious or something, but it's the closest thing I can think of. Spirit guides, maybe.” Sissy rested her hand against the keyboard. “I've talked with some of the others, but no one has anything more than vague ideas. Frankly, we can debate until we turn to dust. Me, I choose to accept it and do my job.”

“Your job?” Consuela asked.

“Helping people,” Sissy said with a smile. “Best job there is.”

Consuela appreciated Sissy's answer. Its simplicity was refreshing, although thinking about it made her head hurt.
How do we help people by removing our body parts or skin ... ?

Sissy leaned forward in her chair, the leather creaking under her weight. “Can I ask you a question?”

Consuela nodded. “Sure.”

“Who are
you
?”

“Consuela Louisa Aguilar Chavez,” Consuela said, and lifted her hand, her skeleton shining like pearls under glass. She stared, fascinated. “Bones,” she said aloud, then laughed.

“Your last answer was truer,” Sissy said.

Consuela turned her hands over, nodding. “Bones, then.”

Sissy offered her a slightly awkward left-handed shake.

“Welcome to the Flow, Bones.”

 

THERE
was a crashing and breaking of twigs as he came. He swatted stalks of bamboo out of his way and splintered the crunchy, dead things underfoot. When he hit the clearing, it might as well have been with his fist.

Fish scattered from the surface of the pond, orange and white ghosts vanishing into blackness. Nikki looked up, startled and sad. But then, Nikki was always sad.

Nikki knelt by his dark pool, crying flowers for boys who could not cry for themselves. Tiny pink blossoms fell from his eyes and were carried out to the sunless sea, or taken by the koi fish that brought them somewhere deeper. His hands lay in his lap, his enormous sleeves hung like bells. He made no move to cover his bare chest through his open kimono shirt.

As if indifferent to his guest, Nikki glanced to where the fish had gone, their passage marked only by the ripples of shadow on light.

“I will not do this,” he said quietly, licking some of the gloss from his lips. His eyelids dropped, weighed by blue eye shadow and heavy liquid liner. “You are wrong to try and stop it, and I'll aid you no longer.”

The interloper drew out a sword, black and pitted from tang to tip.

Nikki neither flinched nor fled, but stood, bowing a fraction—a flowery sort of bravery—before evoking his power. It thrummed under his voice, making it deeper.

“Please, Jason, let me . . .”

Before he could finish, the blade whipped out in a contemptuous arc, severing Nikki's head from his neck. The thin body crumpled in a pile of sorbet-colored silk. The head rolled into the long grass with an expression of gentle, openmouthed surprise.

The assassin sheathed his sword slick with blood and spinal fluid. He did not want to be called “Jason” nor did he want what Nikki offered. It was an insult. A weakness. He glared at the vacant waters—not one tear shed for
him.

Walking back the way he'd come, the bamboo forests and carp ponds dissolved into nothingness behind him. Nikki's head lay wide-eyed in the curling mist.

A pink petal fell from his cheek and dried.

—OCTAVIO PAZ

 

 

 

CONSUELA
shouldered her skin of air like an overcoat as she and Sissy said their good-byes. Stepping out into a swirl of color and movement, she whisked herself away.

Gliding smoothly through the air, she landed on her own windowsill in no time, feeling impish, like Peter Pan visiting a lost-childhood room. Consuela crawled into the bathroom and wrapped herself in its steamy, familiar warmth. Stepping out of her skin of air was hardly an effort. She strung it on a paper-wrapped hanger and placed it in her bedroom closet, padding back into the bathroom to fetch her own skin before her mother came in to check on her. The Flow was amazing, but she was glad to be home.

Consuela glanced at the tub. She hadn't actually finished enjoying her bath. The air was still thick with lavender and steam. She couldn't've been gone
too
long . . .

The tub quickly filled with the splash and sluice of warm water. Although she doubted she could feel the temperature, there was something soothingly real about the smell of a hot bath. This time, she lowered herself slowly, feeling the water fill every crevice, tiny bubbles of air escaping from the nooks in bone. The slight shadow still held her together, but the water engulfed her as much as the air had blown through her.