Meridian Page 8

I thought I saw fear and hurt pass across his face. I prodded, unsure I still wanted the answer. "Before what?"

  He swallowed. "Auntie's dying. She has to pass through you or the world loses another Fenestra. If you can't do it ... well then, you'll go too." His eyes locked with mine.

  "What? No!" I crumpled into myself.

  "I wasn't supposed to tell you yet, but I—"

  "I asked. It's okay. I wanted to know. Needed to know." Didn't I? No wonder. I closed my eyes and tried to inhale immense breaths.

  Tens stepped forward and then stopped, rubbing his hands over his face "I—Sorry—" He backed out of the room and shut the door.

  I gave up on sleep. Auntie was dying. I turned the lamp back up to high and tugged the enormous volume onto my lap, flipping through the pages.

  March 23, 1921

  I do not always get to see the souls that pass through me. I only feel the warmth of the light and see a glimpse of their afterlife from my vantage point on this side. But I know the feeling. I know when it is coming and I know when a soul makes use of me. I am only beginning to get accustomed to it, but I wonder if it will ever feel natural?

  January 2, 1972

  Favorite foods, a song, their first love, I know these things the moment the soul passes through me, but I am unable to share my knowledge with their families, I hate not being able to bring comfort to the living, only the dying, Other people can bridge and pass messages and such. I am not skeptical of their ability to do so, but I cannot. I can never get the words out of my throat, no matter how hard I try, I have come to think it is not my place, I am not a medium. I am a window.

  October 18, 1931

  There is one who is chasing me. I must remember Atlantis, Aztecs, druids, Gede. Easter Island—they all were swallowed by the Aternoctis, Their energy and their people gone because there were too few Sangre and too few Fenestras to cover the world. It is a battle between good and evil that plays out in those brief moments of transition. If they can scoop up the energy, the darkness grows and the world turns with less good. I have heard rumors the Aternocti have gained terrible power in Europe. I must be everywhere I am needed, Perhaps I will travel to Europe on my own. I must save the souls I can. I wish I had a sister Fenestra to share my burdens.

  If Auntie felt this way, how was there any hope for me? "I must save the souls I can." How was I supposed to do this? Before she died? I'd never felt so alone.

  Chapter 13

  The best way to know if she is a Fenestra is to know the date of her birth. She is always first to cry at the stroke of midnight on December the 21st. Our relatives are birthed on the 20th or 22nd, but a Fenestra will always & forever see her first light as a human soul on the day of winter solstice. The darkest morn of the year births the brightest lights.

  —Cassie Ailey, 8th of January 1876

  I woke to a complete face wash, one long tongue stroke after another. "Custos." I opened my eyes, sticky wolf drool lathered like a wet clay mask on my face. I giggled, letting her nudge and push me toward the edge of the bed.

  The chill slapped my bare feet. The space heater's plug had fallen out of the socket. I rubbed my arms, shivering, and tugged a sweater on over my pajamas.

  The house was silent. I didn't hear Auntie or Tens anywhere below. My breath caught and sadness washed over me as I remembered Tens's confession the night before. Auntie was dying, and I had to help her pass through. Pass on. Die. Would I be able to do it?

  I padded along with Custos by my side, down to the kitchen for a glass of juice. Tens's kitchen skills were spoiling me. Sure enough, there was a pitcher of fresh-squeezed OJ waiting by a glass. He'd given up trying to force me to eat, but this morning I actually felt hungry.

  I grabbed a blueberry muffin and decided to explore the house a little more while it was still quiet. I didn't know what time it was, though it was early enough that the light was still soft.

  A shadow passed across my peripheral vision, but when I turned toward it there was nothing there. I opened the first downstairs door that creaked under my fingertips, its old-fashioned key not engaged in the lock.

  At the far end of the room, a picture window looked out over the snowy field. The room was decorated in grand mahogany tones, with shelves along one wall full of books and shelves along the other crowded with paintings and photographs. I picked up a velvet blocked quilt and wrapped it around my shoulders. Cold air seeped past the rippled glass panes and chilled me.

  Huge gilded frames and simple wood ones embraced crowds of people. Shocked. I saw my mother as a little girl with Auntie. A photo of my parents' wedding hung next to one in sepia tones. I flipped on a light to see better.

  "That was my wedding day." I jumped as Auntie entered the room.

  "Seriously? You look so happy." I motioned toward the rest of the photos. "Who are all these people?"

  "Family some friends." She walked over and stood at my shoulder.

  "My wedding-day portrait is the first photograph that developed right." Auntie touched a fingertip to the glass.

  "What's the deal? Is it a Fenestra thing too?"

  She shot me an amused glance. "Why yes, it is. There's something about the film—or digital processing now—that captures the light in us."

  "But it's possible?"

  "Have you heard people say that ghosts or spirits in photographs leave a white blur or flashbulb reflection?"

  "I guess." I was learning how little I knew about the world. In photographs, my face was always in shadow, like a lunar eclipse. It always seemed like the sun was right behind me, throwing my face into darkness. It was as if I didn't have any identity on film.

  "We do that. Until you learn how to close and open your gateway to spirits, then all that people can capture is the light from beyond you."

  I'm eclipsed by my role in the world. "But you can control it?"

  "Yes, you can learn to. Like you learn to control tangling yourself up in other energy. Wasn't my husband handsome?" Her smile bloomed even as her eyes teared up.

  "Yes, very. What was his name?"

  "He was my Charles. My daredevil pilot. He was one of the first people to fly experimental aircraft."

  "Wasn't that dangerous?"

  "Of course, but he didn't fear death. He told me that every time he went up as long as he could see my face when he died he'd never fear death."

  "He knew?"

  "Oh yes. We met at a field hospital in France during the war. I was already well past the age of marriage in those days, but I was a nurse. I went where I was needed, and the boys fighting for us needed a peaceful end if they weren't coming home."

  "So you nursed them?"

  Sadness filled her eyes. "Some. Mostly I went out with patrols and with the Resistance to the front. Made myself available to any who needed me. My skills as a nurse were not in as high demand as my skills as a Fenestra. The Aternocti built an empire in Europe with Hitler's help. Or vice versa.

  "The boys started calling me Angel because the screaming stopped when I was around. Charles paid attention. He'd heard stories from his grandmother about the light people who are angels on earth. He volunteered to escort me.

  "Near the war's end we found a camp in Germany. A place of hell on earth."

  "The Nazis?"

  "Hmmm. I went with the troops that first day. Not afraid, but not prepared. No one could ever be prepared. There were so many. So close. My eyes hurt from the light; I almost couldn't see myself, my skin glowed. I focused on breathing and letting them through, one after another."

  "What happened?"

  "Most of the soldiers knew I wasn't quite like everyone else. But in wartime, it's easier to believe in things that don't make sense, miracles, the supernatural. They alternated helping me get around the camp, to be with the people who needed me, the ones who couldn't recover. But Charles never left my side. After hours of this. I was so exhausted I could barely stand. I fainted and Charles caught me. Carried me back to the base camp and poured whiskey into me until I c
ried the pain all out I told him things I'd never told another human being, but he listened quietly and kept pouring."

  "He wasn't scared?"

  "Oh, child, you see enough and live enough, death isn't the scary part anymore. War puts our puny human fears in perspective. Plus, he saw what it cost me. I couldn't get out of bed for a week. The doctors diagnosed me with some nonsense like female hysteria or vapors."

  I laughed at how insulted she still sounded.

  "Charles kept bringing me fresh bread and cheese from local farms. He learned I had a sweet tooth, so he'd barter for sweets, which were terribly difficult to find in those days. He brought me roses and bouquets of wildflowers. Life. He nursed me until I could get back on my feet. He was ten years younger than me. That was quite the scandal in those days, but war is war and, well, you form a bond after living through it that belies propriety. He told me he loved me and asked me to spend the rest of my life with him, to bear him over when his time came, to let him protect me and help me in whatever ways he could."

  I wondered if I'd ever know that kind of love and devotion. Or if I could walk through the present-day equivalent of a Nazi death camp because it was the right thing to do for the souls trapped there.

  "Have you ever studied a dead human body?" Auntie asked.

  "A person? No." Celia was my closest.

  "Him:' She moved down the line of frames to a portrait of a little girl, a wonderful oil painting.

  "I was five when that was painted. Had the worst time sitting still." The painting captured a young girl with the world's most earnest expression. So serious and focused. Her eyes were like drill bits; I almost felt the heat of her gaze on my face. It was strange the way the painting seemed alive, glowing with purpose. Dark, glossy curls framed an ivory face with eyes the unfathomable blue of twilight in summer.

  Auntie brushed her fingertips across a miniature painting. "Your great-grandmother was seven years older than me. That's her there." She had the faintest glow around her,

  I wished my mother had thought to have my portrait painted. "You're actually my great-great-aunt?"

  "Yes."

  "How old are you, then?"

  "One hundred and six. All Fenestras live that long if we make it past the transition. My dad painted this one, too."

  "Did he know?"

  "He knew there was something different about me, of course. He knew when my mother called me to her side in the middle of birthing my youngest sister. She knew what I was. Her mother had been a Fenestra. But she had kept it from my father, thinking she could shield me from the whispers and the witchcraft fears."

  "What happened?"

  "Children weren't allowed in the birthing rooms back then. But my father never could refuse her anything."

  I felt like I already knew the conclusion of this story. "She died?"

  "Hmm, yes, she was the first person I know of who tried to go through me. I was six, but if the soul knows a window, it's easier for them. She couldn't make it without killing me, though; she sensed it was too much and retreated. I can't imagine how hard that was for her. For me, well, it was difficult to recover from. I had the worst stomach pains for weeks afterward. The doctor was called from three towns away and wanted to operate, but my daddy wouldn't let him touch me."

  "Did your sister die too?"

  "No. Mama pushed her out clear and fast. But something tore inside my mother, and the blood wouldn't stop. She held my hand and wouldn't let go. She asked me to sing the lullaby that she always sang to me. I forgot the second verse. By then it didn't matter I sang as if my life depended on it Over and over again, I sang that lullaby. The midwife cleaned up my sister and went into town to find a nursemaid for her. My father broke that night. Something never healed in him."

  "I'm sorry."

  She continued like she hadn't heard me. "I heard my mother's voice in my head, telling me she loved me and to trust myself no matter what. Then her hand relaxed. Her eyes turned toward me, but I knew she was gone. The way the bedclothes are still warm after you get out of bed in the morning—you're there, but no longer. Mama gave my eldest sister the journal, but I was the only Fenestra in the family, so it came to me."

  "I'm sorry." I didn't know what to say. At least my parents were alive in another city or state, as far as I knew.

  "Don't be. Death is what makes life possible. It's the balance, Meridian. There always has to be balance. You'll learn. You can sense the souls that need you, before they know it, so you can be prepared for their passage rather than taken unawares."

  "It becomes second nature?"

  "Like breathing or swallowing. You'll have an awareness and you can be deliberate about it, but you can also rest and simply be."

  "Why do I need to close the window, then?"

  "It's part of learning how it feels, how it works. There will be times when you'll want to shut the window. You'll need to shield when you're ill or vulnerable."

  If I shield, can I be completely human? Go back to my family? "Is there any way to shield completely so I'm normal?"

  "It's possible to have the appearance of a normal life, yes, but you'll always be a Fenestra. It's who you are." She ran her hand over my hair. "Is your hair naturally this red?"

  "What? No, it's brown." A completely nondescript dirty brown.

  "So you dye it? Give the appearance of being a redhead or a blonde, right?"

  "Yeah."

  "That's what shielding does for us—it's temporary camouflage."

  "Will I ever see my family again?"

  "I hope so, little one, but I can't make any promises. I know what it's like to miss the people you love. I still do. I wish I could spare you that" Her expression filled with longing and loss. She brushed a finger against the photograph of Charles.

  "What happened to him?"

  Her face clouded and her chin trembled. "He died."

  There was more, but I hesitated to push. "Were you—"

  "I wasn't there. I'd gone to the restroom. I left his side for a moment. Just a moment." She gripped my hand.

  "I'm sure—" I broke off, knowing there was nothing I could say. "Is there a chance?"

  I barely heard her whisper, "I don't know."

  Did Charles get to heaven or was he recycling into a new life? Or worse still, was he in hell?

  "Get your coat" she said.

  "Why?"

  "Can you drive?"

  "I'm still learning."

  "Good, you can practice that too."

  "Where are we going?"

  "To visit my friend Winnie." "I thought she died." "She did."

  Chapter 14

  I was certain a snail could have beaten us to Winnie's doorstep, but at least we arrived in one piece.

  "What exactly are we doing here?" My heart thudded while Auntie knocked on the door.

  "It's Winnie's wake."

  "Why isn't she in a funeral home?"

  The door swung open and a heavy middle-aged woman welcomed us. Her teased hair was as big and round as the rest of her. "Come in. come in. This must be Meridian. I'm Sheila, one of Winnie's daughters. I expect you're here to pay your respects?" She helped remove our coats while she chattered. I had imagined there would be lots of crying and black clothes and organ music. As it turned out, there was lively conversation, the smell of turkey and ham permeating the air. "Mama is right through those doors in the living room, by the Christmas tree, just like she asked to be."

  Auntie gripped my elbow and said in a low voice. "Winnie died in her bed, but she didn't want to miss the holiday festivities, so they promised to wash and dress her and have her laying out in there."

  If this was my first dead person, it was also my first corpse by a Christmas tree. The tree sparkled with lights, and candy canes hung from every branch. There was a scent in the air I couldn't place, and I wondered if the dead smelled that quickly.

  "Mama will be buried tomorrow, back under the oak tree, next to Pop. I'll let you have your time."' Sheila closed the doors behind
her and it was Auntie and me and Winnie's shell.

  "What exactly are we doing?"' I tried not to stare at Winnie because it didn't feel polite.

  "Study her, Meridian. Examine her face."

  I uncomfortably trained my gaze upon Winnie's gaunt cheeks. She was yellowing and gray. There was no makeup on her face and she was dressed in what looked like a new, old-fashioned-style flannel nightgown. "Okay?"

  "What do you see?"

  "Urn..."

  "Have a glance at the photographs on the piano over there." Auntie pointed to the grand piano in the corner. "Bring that one on the end over here."

  I picked the photo up and brought it to Auntie. "Is this her?" The woman in the photograph was nothing like the woman lying in front of us.

  "Yes. Doesn't look anything like her, does it?"

  "Not really."

  "Winnie's not there. She's not in the body anymore. The part that made her sparkle and laugh and cry the animated bits of emotion, her talent on the piano, her sense of humor: those things are all gone. What's left is a shell. When you know the person before they die, rarely do they appear the same afterward."

  "Oh. But don't they do makeup and stuff?"

  "There's a big business in making corpses look like the people they were no matter how they died. You wouldn't believe the number of funerals I've been to where people murmured about how great the body looked even when it didn't. I always want to shout and shake the living for doing such a thing."

  Auntie pressed a palm against Winnie's cheek. "Touch her."

  I stepped backward. It felt wrong. "I don't—"

  "Many dying people are going to reach out to you. You need to know what death feels like. Touch her." Auntie placed my hand gently on Winnie's hand, watching my face as she did so. "How does she feel?"

  "Dead?"

  "Exactly. There's nothing left. This is what we do, Meridian. I helped her cross. She was met by her husband and her parents, plus a ton of barnyard animals and pets because she was always taking in strays. There's nothing left of her because she used up her body while she was alive. This is the ending we all hope for and pray for. Most aren't this lucky."

  I'd gotten over the willies. Winnie felt like a person, yet also different.