Nocturnal
(The Noctalis Chronicles, Book One)
by
Chelsea M. Cameron
One
My parents take me out to dinner the night they tell me my mother is going to die. I should have suspected something was up when they said we were going to Bolero. That should have been a red flag, with glitter and flashing neon lights on it. Bolero isn’t the kind of place we'd go if there isn’t a reason or a special occasion.
“We have something to tell you,” Mom says, using the same words parents use when they tell you you're going to have a sibling, or your grandmother has died or you're not going to get to go to Disney World after all. Any one of those things would be better than this.
I poke at my asparagus with hollandaise while my parents hold hands and try to tell me things are going to be fine, when really the world is falling apart. My fork scrapes against the china of the plate and the sound makes my teeth hurt.
I look up to make sure the restaurant hasn't collapsed around us. Destroyed in some apocalyptic earthquake. Instead, there are tables of people smiling and laughing, clinking wine glasses and trying not to spill anything on the white tablecloths. Two tables away, a teenage boy steals a kiss from a giggling girl. They can't be more than fourteen. I watch her hand knock against a glass and he catches it before it tips over. I wish I was her. I wish I was anyone else.
“We're going to take things one day at a time. Treasure each moment.” My mother is full of quotes that she dispenses like a pharmacist hands out pills. A penny saved is a penny earned, knowledge talks; wisdom listens, better to light a candle than curse in the darkness. She has one for every situation, even this one.
“It is always darkest before the dawn,” she says.
She reaches across the table for my hand, giving it a squeeze. I try to smile, but can't make my face muscles care enough to try. I look down again at my plate of food, wanting to throw it across the room. I want to cry, to scream, to toss the table over and destroy the entire place. Set it on fire and watch it burn. I will never be able to eat here again, that's for sure.
“We don't have an exact timetable, but it looks like it's going to be about six months. So, we have plenty of time for hiking and camping, and I'll get to see my tulips bloom one more time.” She winks at Dad. I want to scream at her.
“But what about —" My father puts his hand on my shoulder to stop me. I resist the urge to glare at him. That's the way he is. Don't get upset. Don't show your weakness. Must be strong for her. We can't show our cracks for fear that she'll be the one who breaks. It's such a load of crap. He and I don't mesh. Mom is the cream in the middle of the Double Stuff Oreo that is our family.
“We've tried all we can, Ava. At this point, anything else would do more harm than good. The best thing to do now is to enjoy our time and not regret what we can't fix,” Dad says.
I clamp my lips down on all the vitriol I want to spit at him. He smiles at her and she beams back at him, as if it's their wedding anniversary. He brushes some of the hair from her wig behind her ear. It's a shade redder than her real hair, which is a deep brown.
“We thought we'd have this one night out as a family and then we can sit down and plan out what we'd like to do,” he said. Like we'd won the lottery and had all this free time.
“I don't care.” I use my fork to attack a piece of ravioli. God, I'm never going to eat ravioli again without thinking of this. My stomach churns as I sweat, droplets running down my back. Shock, I think distantly.
“I'll be right back.” My ballet flats slip quickly over the thick carpet of the floor. None of the other diners look up at me. They're too absorbed in each other and food and candlelight to notice me. As soon as I'm out of sight of their table, I run to the bathroom.
The ravioli burns as it comes back up my throat. Why did they let me eat and then tell me?
Thankfully, the bathroom is empty. I wish I'd brought a toothbrush, or some gum. My face is ugly pale in the dim light. I wore my curly black hair twisted back, which is good, since it doesn't fall in my face when I'm puking. I wash my hands and try to get my body to stop shaking. My green dress has water spots on it, and I use a paper towel to try and dry them.
My mother is going to die. And there's nothing I can do about it.
Wobbling, I make my way back to the table. I see them before they see me and I pause for a second to watch. Mom leans into Dad, her fingers twist around his and their wedding rings glint in the candlelight. He says something in her ear and she covers a laugh with her hand. It makes me want to throw up again, but I force myself back to the table.
“Are you okay, Ava-Claire?” She's the only one who calls me that. The first is a name she picked out of a baby book the week before I was born. The other is her own, and my grandmother's.
“I'm fine.” My voice is barely a whisper; my throat and heart are sore. When I finally look up again, I see the things I always try not to: the wig she wears to cover her naked scalp; the veins on her hands and arms ruined from so many IVs; her yellowish, pale skin; the swelling of her delicate cheeks; and the weight she's lost on her willowy frame.
I see her now: her broken body that has been through far too much, and the chemicals they poured through her veins that were supposed to destroy the cancer, but couldn't. They couldn't accomplish the one thing they were supposed to do. I fiddle with my water glass, sliding it over the tablecloth. It leaves a water ring.
I don't cry. My tears were wrung out of me when she first got sick. I'd stopped drinking so much water, in an attempt to stop producing them.
“Ava? Are you okay?”
No. I'm not.
Two
Cancer. Such a soft word for something so ugly and hard. Mutated cells that grow and kill, weakening my mother before my eyes.
She was diagnosed a year ago this June. She took me out for ice cream that time, like I was five again. Then she urged me to get the triple chocolate brownie sundae and offered to pay. I started to get this feeling of dread in my stomach and I didn't want the sundae anymore, but I ordered it anyway.
It was one of those hot days where the air felt so wet that it was like walking through a sponge. I'd just gotten a few inches trimmed off the ends of my hair and was still getting used to it.
She sat me down at the only available picnic table. The other was occupied by two families with nine children between them, all screaming and pinching each other and whining about sprinkles.
I took a bite of the sundae, but the sweetness of it almost made me gag. She'd gotten a small soft serve twist, but ignored it. I watched as it dripped down her arm.
“Baby, you know how I went to the doctor's last week?”
I nodded. She'd been feeling off for a while, and Dad had finally convinced her to go see someone. She took a breath before she continued. The ice cream kept dripping down her arm. I wished she'd do something about it.
“Well, they did some tests. Baby, I don't want you to be scared.”
By this point the ice cream had melted all over the table, a swirling puddle of chocolate and vanilla. I couldn't stop staring at it.
“I have cancer.” Her words sounded like they came from the other end of a tunnel, or like one of those phones you make out of soup cans and string when you're young and bored in the summer.
“Ava-Claire?” She waited for some type of response. I couldn't breathe. My chest was so heavy and tight, as if cinder blocks were stacked on top of me. My head was a million miles away, as if it abandoned my body. A child shrieked next to me and I jumped.
“How bad is it?”
“They caught it early. Dr. Hunt's going to start me on some treatments, and he's very o
ptimistic.” They didn't sound like her words. They sounded like something she'd read in a pamphlet about how to tell your daughter you have cancer. Leukemia, to be precise. They were just fancy words that meant her body was attacking itself, and the doctors were going to pump her full of drugs to try and stop it.
“Aren't you going to finish your ice cream?” she said, pointing at the melted brownie mess in front of me.
I hated melted ice cream, but I took a bite anyway. She didn't end up finishing her cone. She tossed it and said her stomach was upset. Her hands smeared melted ice cream on the steering wheel as we drove home.
~^*^~
My parents chat all the way home from the restaurant about silly things like the weather and the latest political scandal and whether my mother should bake banana bread or carrot cupcakes for her coworker's retirement party as if nothing has happened.
We Sullivans are good at that, pretending things haven't happened. My dad's got his smile pasted on, but we all know how much effort it takes for him to wear it. It is like an itchy sweater your grandmother gave you that you have to wear to please her because she's senile and old and you only see her a few times a year.
I wish I'd been able to take my own car. I would have rolled all the windows down and blasted some loud music: Taylor Swift or Muse or Neon Trees. Something I could forget myself in. Instead, I have to listen to them talk quietly while Seal croons in the background as I press my face to the cool glass of the window.
My mouth is dry from getting sick; I should have had some water at the restaurant.
“Ava-Claire, what do you think? Banana or carrot?” She cranes her neck over the seat. Oncoming headlights illuminate her from behind, haloing her in light.
“I don't care.” It's the least acerbic answer I can give.
“Oh, come on.” She reaches back and grabs my knee right where it's ticklish. I try to twist away, but she's got me. Dad chuckles as he tries to shift around her.
“Stop it!”
“Banana or carrot?”
“Carrot!” It comes out as a shriek. I'm laughing and I can't help it. I hate myself for it.
She chatters at me the rest of the ride, but I can't shake the feeling that she's trying too hard, but that's her. Mom always tries too hard.
She gives me a hug when we get out of the car. I would be a horrible person if I couldn't hug her back, so I do, breathing in her lilac perfume. I always buy her a year supply for her birthday, just so she will always smell the same, but I never told her that.
“The dark before the dawn,” she says again.
I stay silent, closing my eyes and holding her. She's always been willowy, like a tall flower stalk. Graceful. The cancer made her brittle, like a dried flower. Breakable. Her dress barely stays on her knobby shoulders.
She presses her forehead to mine, closing her eyes. I close mine too and fight the urge to throw up again. When she takes my arm to go into the house, I want to pull away, but I know she needs the support. That's what Dad says we are. Support. Like it should always have a capital letter.
I try to escape to my room as quickly as I can. Dad twirls her around and puts on an old Beatles record. It's as if they don't see me, so I slip upstairs before they notice I'm gone. My phone buzzes with missed texts, but I just ignore them. Not tonight.
I throw my dress in the hamper after I yank it off. It is my go-to fancy dress, the one that Mom says matches the green eyes we share. I want to set it on fire so I never have to see it again. It's early, but I crawl into bed in my underwear. Soft laughter melts up the stairs and I shiver. It's not cold in my room, but I'm cold anyway. I make sure the window is closed and pull the flowered curtains shut.
She knocks on my door and I pretend to be asleep. Before leaving, she kisses my head and murmurs that she loves me. I keep my eyes closed and wait until she closes the door. I am a horrible daughter. Sometimes it's hard to live with the things I do to her, but I keep doing them.
It's like when you're little and your parents tell you not to touch the stove, because you'll get burned. You know you're not supposed to do it. Then there's this thing inside of you that makes you reach out, just to see. Nothing's going to happen. The voices of your parents fade away. You reach out... and scream as the stove singes three of your fingers.
There's no reason to do it. You know it's going to end badly. You do it anyway.
I drift into an uneasy sleep, replaying the horrible moment in my head. After a few hours, I get up and put on some jeans and a t-shirt and creep downstairs. The house is dark and quiet except for my father's snores coming from my parents’ bedroom. I'm safe.
Living in rural Maine means there are a lot of isolated places to go in the middle of the night where you can think and be by yourself. I can step off my porch, walk twenty feet, vanish into the trees, and listen to the breath of the night. The animals burrowing and scurrying and foraging. The leaves shushing in the breeze, but I have my reservations about doing that without a flashlight. There are porcupines and skunks. Potential rabid squirrels. You never really knew.
That leaves the beach, five minutes away. It'll be deserted and the cold air will clear my head and make me feel less sick, but I don't want to dig sand out of my sneakers. No, for this night I need somewhere quiet and safe. Somewhere that I know I can be completely alone, or at least feel that way.
It's cold for April, spring not having set in yet. I grab a sweatshirt and pull it over my head. The keys to my rusty Honda Civic are still in the kangaroo pocket. My car was a gift when I got my license last year, just before she was diagnosed, actually. I hate associating the car with that, but I do. Soon I'll be rid of it; Dad said there was no way it will pass inspection.
I slowly back down the driveway. There isn't enough room for me to turn around without driving on the lawn. It's hard to do in the dark without the headlights, but there is no way I'm turning them on. I’ve done this enough in the last year that it’s gotten easier.
My stomach is achy and empty. I should have grabbed something, but I don't want to eat. I don't want to eat or breathe or do anything.
I will not cry; I will not cry.
Once, my parents tried to get me to go to this family therapy, but I'd refused. After threatening to drag me, Mom relented. Something about not forcing me to do something I wasn't ready for. Instead, a book on the five stages of grieving had been left on my bed when I came home from school the next day. I'd gone in the middle of the night to burn it at the beach, using a lighter stolen from Dad. He'd started smoking again, so it was easy to attain. I'd been able to replace the lighter, and the book had never been mentioned again.
I turn on the radio and roll down the windows, feeling the cold air whip at my cheeks, and wonder how I became the girl who goes driving in the middle of the night, and how much I wish I could go back in time to a place before tonight. Before the dinner. Hell, if I'm traveling back in time I'd go back a year-and-a-half. Back to when things were the way they were supposed to be. Before Dad started smoking, before the treatments, before I had panic attacks and threw up when I didn't have the flu, and when I cared about going to school and getting invited to parties. Back when I cared about anything.
Three
Sussex was settled in the 1700s, which means there's an abundance of historical sights, forts, ruins, and cemeteries. Lots of those. My destination is a ten-minute drive from my house and affords the solitude I crave. No one will be there in the middle of the night on a Friday, unless they're teenage vandals. In that case, I'd leave an anonymous tip with the county sheriff.
There are no cars in the little pull-off when I get there. I rest my hand on the iron gate before I vault over it. Fourteen years of ballet comes in handy sometimes. I quit last year, but I know my mother wants me to go back. Now... I don't know.
Using my cell phone as a flashlight, I decide where I'm going to go. The ground is uneven, which creeps me out, but I try not to think about the effect of erosion on cemeteries. I go up one row, pausing to rea
d some of the names. Many are so worn that you can't make them out, even in the daytime.
I run my hand over a small stone for a child who had only lived seven years. Life is so fragile, taken away so easily. I move from one stone to another, touching each one as if saying hello to a friend. They have been my friends this past year. I find more comfort in the dead than I do in the living. The dead don't ask me if I'm fine, or tell me that they are there for me and then never call. The dead don't make horrible tuna casseroles and drop them off, even though I've told them I'm a vegetarian and my mother is allergic to fish. The dead don't look at you like they're scared and pity you at the same time.
I sit down in front of one large stone that is so old that it nearly topples over when I brush it with my hand. Nothing lasts.
I have to go to school on Monday. I have to text my best friend, smile, take a geometry quiz, and figure out where I want to go to college. Those things are so unimportant in the face of losing my mother.
No, that's not right.
I wasn't losing her, like an earring or a set of keys. She's going away and never coming back. I'm still on the fence about the whole afterlife thing. I haven't thought about it much, because I always assumed she would get better. Everyone said so.
The sobs come up, consuming my entire body and making me shake as strange sounds escape from my mouth. There aren't tears, not yet. I'll have to let it go on for longer, and I'm not going to do that. My crying sounds are loud in the quiet night.
It takes me a while to get control of myself again. I hate it when I lose it, like some animal part of me takes over and I'm not human anymore. I can't see or feel anything. I am my grief. It consumes me, owns me. I let it, if only for a little while. I always come out of it in the end. Exhausted, but back in control. So I can put on a smile and continue pretending I'm fine.
At last, I'm able to inhale normally, and my legs support me when I stand. My jeans are wet and covered in dirt, and my face is swollen and sticky from my tears. I'm going to look so awesome tomorrow morning.