Eleanor (21 page)

Eleanor fixes her eyes on Geraldine, then steps through the open door.

And disappears.

This time it will work.

She presses herself against the gauzy membrane that separates the red-haired girl’s world from Mea’s own. That world is dark now. Colossal clouds swell over the little town, emptying themselves of rain. The storm casts a long shadow over the buildings and shops that dot the waterfront. The sea is almost black. Crews struggle to moor their boats, and those who were caught by the unexpected winds and rain fight the weather to bring their ships into the harbor. The rain thunders to the earth so loudly that Mea can almost hear it.
 

But in her own darkness there is only silence.
 

It is supposed to work like this:

Mea will bring her world and the red-haired girl’s world together. The membrane will soften and part, and for the slightest of moments, the two worlds will be joined, and the girl with the red hair will be permitted to pass between them.
 

The darkness has instructed Mea. Her instincts were correct: the membrane will only soften when it is firmly fastened to the other world, and the surest way to do that is to use physical doorways as an anchor. A doorway is intended for passage.
 

The problem, the darkness has taught her, is that she did not seal that passage properly.
 

The red-haired girl was slipping into the narrow gap between the two worlds.
 

She was falling into a third world.
 

A
dream
world.

But Mea will not allow that to happen this time. This time the worlds will draw together and create a perfect seal, and the girl with the red hair will slip into the darkness with Mea. It will be the opposite of being born: rather than leaving behind darkness for light, the girl will leave the light, and enter the darkness. The darkness, with its river of memories and its boundless black, is full of
everything
. Of love, of life, of warmth. The darkness is not unlike a mother’s womb. Perhaps the girl with the red hair will be comforted by this.

Mea will welcome the girl into the dark, and they will meet.
 

The darkness prepares her.
 

What is her name?
the darkness asks.

Mea is quiet for a very long time. She remembers the things that the darkness told her before—the truth of her beginning, the purpose of the darkness, the importance of the red-haired girl—and finally she says,
Her name is Eleanor
.
 

Eleanor
, the darkness agrees.
Retrieve her.

Mea navigates with the portal. It is not unlike pushing a taut wall made of gelatin. She feels it against her form. It is warm and soft. She guides it closer to Eleanor’s world. She can see Eleanor now. The girl is soaking wet. She steps off the sidewalk and into the street, water squishing in her white shoes. Mea moves more quickly, for Eleanor has almost reached the doorway to the office building.
 

Mea slides the portal past Eleanor. It is only a window now, and so passing the girl feels almost as if Mea is a passenger in some great flying vehicle, swooping by. But then the door to the office building appears, and Mea pushes toward it.
 

An older woman, much older than Eleanor, stands in the doorway. Mea does not worry about this. As the darkness had confided in her, only one person may pass through the portal. Only Eleanor is
chosen
.
 

Mea nudges the portal into place, pinning the soft membrane to the four corners of the open glass door. She can feel it almost
suck
into place, and then it adheres with a powerful tension that even Mea cannot dislodge. She inspects the seal, and is satisfied. The two worlds are firmly joined by the membrane. All that remains is for Eleanor to pass through the doorway and into the darkness.
 

Mea feels a tremble of anticipation swim through her being.
 

Eleanor steps onto the sidewalk in front of the building.
 

You have done well
, the darkness says to Mea, and this confidence warms Mea from within.
 

She watches as Eleanor steps onto the first stair below the door, then the next, then the next.
 

She is coming
, Mea thinks.

Eleanor approaches the door.

The older woman leans into the doorway to welcome Eleanor inside.

For a brief moment, Eleanor and the woman occupy the doorway at the same moment, and Mea feels the darkness cry out around her. She is confused, but then she understands, and feels a bitter panic flood her core.

The old woman’s presence in the doorway is a problem.

The seal breaks.

And Eleanor falls into the gap between the two worlds once again.
 

Mea is horrified. She wants to reach through the membrane and grab Eleanor, but the girl is nothing but a plummeting beacon of light, falling farther and farther away from her own world, and from Mea’s, with every passing moment.
 

Stop!
Mea cries. She turns away from the membrane and faces the darkness.
Stop her!

All warmth drains from the blackness around her.

She cannot be stopped
, the darkness says.
She has entered the dream world. The girl is beyond my reach.

Send me after her
, Mea pleads.
Please.

But the darkness will not do so.
 

You must wait
.
 

How long?
 

As long as it takes
.
 

Mea turns back to the membrane and peers into Eleanor’s world. The woman standing in the doorway has fainted dead away, and a boy is bent over her, shouting something, and a door opens and Eleanor’s father runs into the room, also shouting something.

Eleanor’s father.

Mea watches the man as he attends to the unconscious woman.

You
, she thinks.
I know you.

The darkness swims in and closes over the membrane, obscuring Eleanor’s world from Mea’s view.
 

This is not yours to see
, the darkness says.
 

Mea lingers there anyway, the image of Eleanor’s father fresh in her own memory as the black river of time and history courses around her.
 

I know that man,
Mea says.

I have a bad feeling about this
.

Eleanor steps into her father’s office, cheered by the warm rush of air that spills out to meet her, by Jack’s grin, by Gerry’s presence, soft and large and matronly. She has almost forgotten her concern—what concern? What bothered her so much about this, anyway?
 

And then the space in the doorway
quivers
. Eleanor notices it at the last possible moment, as her inertia is carrying her across the threshold. The trembling air is accompanied by that strange crackling sensation, and her skin prickles, and then her foot meets the floor, and her other foot follows, and the transition is complete.
 

Gerry stands before her still, and Eleanor looks past her to see that the office has gone dreamy behind her, hazy and dim, a faint orange glow emanating from some shadow or another. Jack isn’t there. Neither is Gerry’s sea barge of a desk. She cannot hear the rain any longer—cannot hear much of anything at all, which makes her surroundings feel even more alien and unfamiliar.
 

“Gerry,” Eleanor says.
 

Gerry doesn’t answer, and Eleanor becomes aware that Gerry hasn’t moved much in the last few seconds. When the older woman turns, Eleanor is startled to see that Geraldine Rydell has become younger. Eleanor’s mind chokes on this, and she stares at the older woman, perplexed. Gerry’s graying hair is dark red now, and the fold of her brow over her blue eyes has receded, and the hatch marks over her lip have smoothed. She is overweight, but less so. There is still enough Gerry there for a girl to lose herself in, and so Eleanor steps closer and opens her arms and says, “Gerry, what’s going on, I’m—”

Eleanor passes right through Gerry.
 

She has never felt anything so unpleasant in her life. Not the car accident, not the strained neck and broken collarbone she suffered in the spring. Eleanor feels a flame sprout in her belly and grow—quickly, as if it is trying to consume her from the inside out. It swells and spreads, and she feels the horrible burning sensation expand into her lungs and her heart and her legs and hands, and then the pit of it goes utterly, bitingly cold, and the cold seems to contract, and Eleanor feels as if every inch of her body is imploding in the direction of her stomach.
 

And then she emerges on the other side of Gerry, and the feeling passes, immediately.

Eleanor gasps loudly, and drops to her knees. It takes a moment for the shock of it to fade, for her to notice that she is not burning or freezing or in pain anymore.
 

“Fuck,”
she groans. A long thread of spittle swings from her lips. Her breath comes in a staccato beat. She can’t catch it, and tries to swallow huge lungfuls of air as quickly as she can.

She stays on her knees for a long time, then plants one palm on the floor and pushes herself onto one foot, and then the other.

Gerry is still standing behind her. If she has moved, Eleanor cannot tell. She steps wide around the woman—if this really is Gerry, really is a woman—and peers suspiciously at her.
 

“Gerry,” Eleanor says.
 

Geraldine doesn’t answer.
 

“GERRY!”
Eleanor shouts.
 

Nothing.
 

But Gerry moves a little, shifting her weight onto one foot, and beneath her the floorboards creak. Eleanor looks down and sees that the office floor is gone, replaced with old wood planks. Gerry is standing on a threadbare rug. There are walls to either side of her, and a door in front of her, and Eleanor realizes that this is a hallway. It’s a house.
 

Gerry’s house.
 

Gerry is leaning forward, hands pressed to the door. She’s risen up on her toes, and is trying to peer through the window at the top. Whatever she sees has her worried, because she says something and almost scares Eleanor to death.

“Go away,” Gerry says in a hoarse voice, almost a whisper. “Go, go away.”

Eleanor studies Gerry carefully. She’s never seen this expression on Gerry’s face before. The woman’s eyes are wide and unblinking. Her mouth is drawn narrow and thin, and her skin seems to drain of color before Eleanor’s eyes.
 

“Gerry,” Eleanor says, waving one hand at the woman.
 

But Gerry doesn’t see Eleanor, or hear her. She just stares outside, her eyes following—something.
 

Eleanor steps back and looks around. To the right of the front door is a living area. There’s a loveseat, a recliner, a coffee table, all tidily arranged. A basket of magazines sits beside the recliner, and a television remote is the only object on the coffee table. The television itself is perched on a dark cabinet beside a fireplace. The room smells of potpourri.

On the mantel of the fireplace are framed photographs. Joshua. Charles. A couple of photos of the boys with their mother. One of the boys standing below a brown sign with white print that reads
Fort Smith, Arkansas
. They’re wearing fatigues in that one, and their heads glow bare in the sun.

Behind the loveseat is a window with the curtains drawn. Eleanor goes to it and tentatively touches the curtains, afraid she might feel that awful burning sensation again. But all she feels is light fabric on her fingertips, and she draws the curtain back. Through the window a small green lawn unfolds. A tall oak looms over the yard, and it must be fall, because the ground is blanketed in brown and orange leaves.
 

Beyond the lawn, parked at the curb, is a sedan painted beige. The driver’s door is open, and a man is stepping out of the car. He wears an olive green dress uniform with a field of pins and medals on the breast, and he carries a dark hat beneath one arm. The passenger door opens, and a second man, dressed much the same but with fewer medals on his jacket, steps onto the sidewalk.