Arise. Tara Hudson

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      As I stared out the window, with my mind jumping from one bad option to another, my eyes occasionally caught on an individual snowflake. I mindlessly followed one’s progress until the wind whisked it away and another flake took its place. The longer I watched the flakes, the more they mesmerized me, like a thousand tiny hypnotists intent on distracting me from the problems at hand.

      While the storm held my attention, another part of my mind caught glimpses of the landscape behind it. White hills and valleys—indistinguishable from one another in the heavy snow—rushed past us. I started to suspect that an empty world waited just beyond this vehicle. A world untouched and blank: not for me to write my story upon, but to disappear into. To fade against, finally, like the ghost I was.

      I shook my head lightly, trying to focus, but I couldn’t make anything out in all that infinite white. Soon my eyes glazed over and my vision blurred until I’d had far more of the bright emptiness than I could take. I turned back to the dark interior of the SUV for some relief.

      And then I gasped.

      The upholstered seats, the low ceiling of the SUV—everything was gone. Replaced by the bright, blinding snow.

      I looked down to find that my legs, instead of being curled beneath me in the back row of the SUV, were buried ankle-deep in the snow. Inexplicably, I’d gone from the safety of the vehicle to the center of the blizzard. From what I could see—which wasn’t much—the SUV had disappeared, wiped from existence by the storm.

      Upon realizing this, I could actually feel the blizzard: the cold wind gusting around me, battering my shoulders and whipping my dark hair into tangles in the air; the frozen ground stinging the soles of my bare feet; the snow soaking the hem of my dress until it clung, wet and uncomfortable, against my legs.

      But just as abruptly as I’d entered it, the storm ended.

      I watched, stunned, as the dark clouds broke apart to reveal a soft, summery blue sky. The last shriek of the winter gale died in the air, and a warm breeze took its place. Then, like the grand finale of some fantastic play, the heavy layer of snow melted into lush, green grass—grass that should have died months ago and shouldn’t now sprout a blanket of wildflowers.

      Within seconds I’d gone from the Arctic Circle to some prairie paradise.

      I lifted one foot and marveled at the daisy that had just popped up beneath it. “What the …?” I murmured aloud.

      “More like ‘where the,’ actually,” a pleasant voice chirped from somewhere behind me.

      I spun around, sending an impossibly thick cluster of dandelion seeds into the air. For a moment I didn’t see anything but their wispy cotton strands. Only when they drifted up, toward the clear sky, could I see her.

      She stood only a few feet from me, with her hands clasped in front of her. Her feet were bare like mine, and she rocked back and forth on her heels as if she had news she couldn’t wait to share. Her green eyes seemed to sparkle with that same exciting secret. She ran one hand through her wild auburn hair and then, unbelievably, waved at me.

      “Hi, Am—a.”

      Her voice crackled like radio static in the middle of my name. The weird noise obviously didn’t bother her, though, because she broke into a warm smile.

      Too baffled to do much else, I smiled back.

      “Um … hi,” I said. “And you are? And I’m where?”

      Her smile turned dimpled, and mischievous. “Not—lat—someone wants—talk to you.”

      Again her words crackled, as if she were trying to speak over a broken connection. She shook her head, auburn curls bouncing against her shoulders. Then, without so much as another staticky word, she vanished.

      I stared openmouthed at the empty space she’d left. There was no evidence that she’d been there at all except maybe the wildflowers now seemed a little thicker, a little wilder where she’d stood.

      “No, really.” I spoke to the vacant field, feeling dizzy from all this weirdness. “Where am I?”

      “Don’t you know?” another unfamiliar voice teased, not much louder than the breeze.

      I spun around again, searching for the new speaker. This time, however, I found no one watching me. Nothing surrounded me but the flowers, the ankle-high grass, the cloudless blue sky.

      “Who’s there?” I called out, still spinning, still finding nothing.

      “Me,” the voice whispered again.

      “Me, who?” I demanded, my own voice sharp and impatient. Another second of this eerie place, these cryptic visitors, and I’d have to reevaluate my sanity.

      “You know who, darlin’.”

      My mouth twitched and then pulled itself down into a disbelieving frown.

      Darlin’.

      The way the disembodied voice dropped its g and drawled out the word with affection … only one person in the world had called me darlin’, and had said it in that way.

      My father.

      The voice sounded like it had in all my nightmares about him. But here, in this beautiful place, it also sounded richer. Clearer. Which shouldn’t be the case since my father was trapped in the dark netherworld.

      I felt the muscles in my neck tense. “No, really,” I almost growled, defensive for reasons I didn’t fully understand. “Who are you?”

      “There’s not much time,” the voice cautioned. “I need you to listen. I need you to uncross your eyes, darlin’.”

      I froze. No part of my body moved, except perhaps for the frown, which released its hold on my mouth.

      The image sprung into my mind before I had time to think. A flash of memory. I hadn’t had one in months, not since the struggle this fall on High Bridge. But suddenly, without warning, I could picture my hands clasped around a math textbook. Calculus, judging by all the letters and numbers dancing impossibly around one another on the page.

      “Ugh,” the flash-me groaned. “This stuff is making my eyes cross.”

      I heard my father speak from somewhere to my right: “Then you’ve gotta uncross them, darlin’.”

      He’d said that at least a thousand times before, and who knows how many times after. This was our routine, our own goofy comedy bit. Whenever a problem bothered me, I’d say it made my eyes cross; and every time, my father would suggest I uncross them, as if the problem was that simple to solve.

      Just uncross your eyes, darlin’. Nothing to it.

      Silly. Meaningless, really. But it always made me laugh, even helped me to focus, because the phrase was ours.

      Besides than my mother and me, only one other person knew that phrase, knew СКАЧАТЬ