CHIVEY

Who invented these faux leather chairs? When it's hot you literally stick to the plastic, your skin slides on its own sweat and you slip right down off the seat. And when it's cold... when it's cold, you're just cold. Like right now. The stupid air conditioner hangs right across from me, blowing freezing air straight at me. Why would anyone turn it up that high…?

"Ow!" Emmy yanked her hand back as a small dark spot spread around the puncture, then brought her wrist up to her face, studying the mark.

Great… another bruise.

A drop fell from the tip of the needle onto the white cotton of her stretched-out wife-beater, the dark red bead sitting on the fabric for a moment, catching the deathly pale light of the lamp. She wiped the drop away with her fingertip, but it only smeared across the fabric, leaving a thick stain behind.

"Look what you did. You ruined my shirt."

A pair of dark eyes above a surgical mask stared at her, heavy black liner making them look almost black. "You kidding? That shirt’s already ruined." Carmen pushed her smooth hair back with the back of her wrist. "Give me your hand. One IV, that's all." She took Emmy's hand and drew it toward her. "Chivey! Sit still."

"Leave me alone. I said no." Emmy looked down. "And what am I supposed to do about the stain on my shirt? I can’t get it out."

Carmen ripped off her gloves, turned them inside out, and dropped them in the trash; the mask followed. She pulled a marker from her pocket. Bending over Emmy's knee, she turned the red drop into a strawberry with a few quick, practiced strokes, leaned back and smiled. "There. Problem solved." She met an angry stare and sighed. "So, what are we going to do? You need this IV. Should we try again?"

"No. I said no. Call Chad. He knows what he's doing. Unlike you."

Carmen stood up and straightened her scrubs. "Fine. You win. I'll go find him." She tucked the marker back into her pocket. "You're always such a handful." She walked out, pulling the curtain shut behind her.

And she had the nerve to get mad... ruined my shirt, drew that stupid little berry on it. What am I, six years old? And now she probably thinks I'm impossible. That's not fair. My favorite shirt, my cozy white stretched-out shirt…

I wonder why they call it a wife-beater anyway? Did the shirt beat its wife or something? That's stupid…

Emmy leaned back in the chair, raised her arms above her head and stretched. The cold light of the fluorescent lamp seeped through her interlaced fingers, throwing jagged glints across her face. She shifted her palms, brought her fingers together, then spread them apart; the pattern of light shifted, arranging itself into strange ornaments.

A faint tremor ran through her body, rising into her arms, as the lamp shuddered and swayed, flickering in no particular rhythm. Emmy folded her arms behind her head, crossed at the wrist, then wrapped her palms around her shoulders. She watched the swaying lamp, the dancing shadows tucked into the folds of the curtain. She closed her eyes. Light filtered through her eyelids, tracing strange pictures out of capillaries. Emmy yawned wide, her feet already moving, the toes of her boots tapping out a melody.

There's nothing complicated about it… a simple melody, just a couple of lines of words. But you want to clap your hands and jump… and dance… and the body becomes so light… it floats… floats… So strange…

She hummed quietly to herself, listening to the tap of her boots. A soft whistle picked up the melody as a hand in a white glove reached inside the curtain, sliding it back. Chad struck a theatrical pose, a red foam nose fixed on his face. Pressing his palms against an invisible wall, he worked his body into motion as his feet slid into a moonwalk.

"Hey-ho! And who do we have here?"

Emmy sighed and rolled her eyes. "Come on. I'm not six."

"Are you sure about that? A little angry bird told me someone in here is acting up. Like a small child." Chad stopped, took off the gloves and nose, and stuffed them into his pocket, then pulled a fresh pair of gloves from a packet and put them on, unwrapping a new needle as he spoke.

"So let it shine — give me your hand, we'll sort this out real quick." He held out his hand, and after a moment Emmy placed hers in it. The needle went in carefully, and drop by drop the cold solution moved up through her vein, a strip of medical tape fixed it in place.

Emmy’s eyes drifted across his hands, muscular and sinewy, with well-defined veins.

Thick ropes under blue-black skin...

Chad met her eyes and pressed a finger to his full lips. "Shhhh... Now sit quiet as a mouse. I'll be back soon."

Emmy reached out with her free hand and caught his hand.

"You are black, but comely."

Chad's eyes went wide and he dissolved into a cough. "Hold on, hold on... Well, well..." He wiped the tears from his eyes and burst out laughing. "Girl, you should do stand-up!"

Emmy frowned and bit her lower lip.

"Sit still! Would you look at that — black, but comely." Chad slid the curtain aside. "Black, but comely!" His laughter echoed down the corridor for a long time after.

A suffocating cough broke out in the adjacent stall.

The curtain between the cubicles snapped aside. "Ah-hah, giiiirl! Black, but comely?!" A dark-skinned face peered around it. "You did not just say that."

The woman looked Emmy over from head to toe. "No. No, no, no... I cannot believe what I just heard. Nobody would believe me even if I swore on a Bible. Lord... a little white child quoting the Song of Solomon... How old are you — nine? Ten?"

She adjusted the bright silk scarf on her head and leaned toward Emmy. "I am black, but comely, O ye daughters of Jerusalem, as the tents of Kedar, as the curtains of Solomon. Isn't that a little advanced for you?"

"I'm not ten at all. I’m almost fourteen. I read what I find," Emmy muttered, tugging the hem of her wife-beater down over her knees.

"Fourteen? You don't look fourteen. Like a little fledgling." The woman yanked the curtain even harder aside and leaned in toward Emmy, her whole body pressing forward. "Oh, at your age I read everything too. Everything — newspapers, magazines, the Bible of course, goes without saying. I even read my older sister's medical textbooks. I was a very well-read child. Very well-read!"

She didn't stop, talked and talked, no pauses, no waiting for an answer. Her hand moved to underscore the importance of her words.

If she stops, she'll die.

Emmy allowed herself a small smile while the woman kept talking, her voice washing past her in a steady stream.

“Everybody’s long gone, all of them... My daughter Annette moved to the city with the grandkids... And you know what? I don’t miss them, I definitely don’t miss them. Understand? I’ve got plenty to keep me busy, I definitely have plenty to keep me busy. Now what do you like? Hm? Me, I like potato salad. I use only yellow potatoes, only yellow. And eggs — real eggs, farm eggs. I drive out to my cousin Janet; she has the most wonderful hens. Oh, what hens! What large eggs!”

Raisins... Don’t forget the raisins.

Emmy yawned wide, covering her mouth with her palm. Her eyes drifted to the woman's scarf, where bright flowers wove together into a vivid tapestry — large ones, small ones, layered into a wreath. She began picking out the small red ones and counting them.

If I take four long sticks and tape them to my head with duct tape, and then take a scarf like this one, and another scarf, and another one, and another... and wind them around the sticks, wind and wind... I'd be two Emmys tall. I'd be taller than everyone... and I'd probably reach the ceiling with my scarves. Maybe I'd even look like a supermodel. Fashionable...

She lost interest and yawned, letting her eyes close.

"And I wore my best dress — crisp taffeta, with a big ruffle along the hem. And a little hat. You know how we Black women are — such a sense of style. Such style! And do you go to Sunday service?" No answer came. The woman adjusted her scarf and stared at Emmy. Realizing she was being ignored, she fell silent, offended.

The chair shifted. The light flickered, went out, then came back on — the white tile floor moved, dark gaps opening between uneven rows. Something lifted Emmy and carried her away: she flew over green valleys, high hills, crystal-clear lakes. She came down slowly, her toes grazed the buds of wildflowers. The even rows of tile came into view under the lamp when Emmy opened her eyes. A faint scent of flowers brushed her nose.

"Here I am." Chad rang out. "Time to set you free, little sparrow." He drew the needle out and pressed a cotton pad to her skin. "Make a fist. Like that." He guided Emmy by the elbow, and she rested her palm on his forearm.

My arm is like a pale fish on black sand.

She turned away and brushed a tear from her cheek with her finger. Chad got her to her feet and draped her cardigan over her shoulders. "Can you walk on your own?" Emmy nodded.

The woman next door stirred, leaning out from behind the curtain to catch Chad’s arm, her eyes squinting with pain. "Sweetheart, could you bring me a warm blanket? It's so cold in here, so cold..." She adjusted the scarf on her head. "I'm not complaining — Jesus gives me strength. But my bones are aching."

"Of course, Mrs. Jackson. I'll just walk this young lady to the corridor and I'll be right back with a blanket."

Mrs. Jackson settled back in her chair. "God bless your sweet heart, child." She raised her hand, palm open.

Chad walked Emmy down the corridor, his hand on her shoulder. "I'll sit you over there, by the window. You like looking out at the yard, don't you?" She said nothing.

The ceiling light trembled, flared brightly a few times, and went out — Chad looked up at it. "Probably burned out. Or maybe the wiring. This wing of the building is pretty old."

Emmy scanned the ceiling, paneled with perforated tiles. "Those little holes... It's like they're watching us. Maybe rats chewed through the wires up there."

He laughed. "Wild imagination. Nothing up there. Maybe a couple of house centipedes hiding out... You scared of insects?"

Insects...? No. No… What if something’s living up in those holes? All those tiny clinging legs crawling over my bare head… Yuck. Disgusting. Absolutely disgusting. Swarms of spiders in there… nests… one of them bites me…

She shuddered. "What if something nasty actually falls out of those holes? Right onto my head?"

"Don't worry, I'll grab a newspaper and fold you a printer's hat. It'll protect your head from any uninvited visitors."

Behind them, the dead lamp flared back to life; Chad glanced back. "See, everything's fine. Just a little short circuit. Look, there's an open bench right by the window. Let's go."

He settled her onto the bench. "Wait here. Carmen will come soon and take you to Dr. Harper." Straightening the cardigan on her shoulders, he left.

Emmy looked around — the wide corridor was filled with sunlight pouring through the large windows.

A heavy buzzing sounded near her ear, a fat blowfly sweeping over her head in wide circles.

You're the last thing I needed here…

The corridor drifted along in its drowsy routine; patients passed without hurry, staff moved on their way somewhere, everyone occupied with their own affairs.

Emmy stretched out on the padded bench.

Boring. So boring… This stupid bench is so lame... Why do all hospital seats have that nasty pleather? Either sit here or sweat here. No in-between. Oh… Should've grabbed the blanket from the car…

Tiny little things crawled across her leg — the fly settled comfortably on her knee, basking in the sunlight. It looked up at her, shifting from foot to foot.

No. No... No! Get off me…

Emmy flicked the pest away in disgust. It wouldn't quit; hopping from spot to spot, twitching its wings and rubbing its front legs together. She jumped to her feet, pulled the cardigan off her shoulders and started swinging it, driving the fly back. It disappeared from view.

She scanned the area, searching for the little menace — she spotted it on a book display, sitting on a book. Emmy crept slowly toward the stand. She shot her hand out and cupped it over the fly, pressing her palm carefully against the book.

Damn. The stupid thing got away. Clingy, just like that Mrs. Jackson.

She lifted her palm slowly. From the cover, a small white mouse looked up at her.

"Tommy," she read aloud.

Emmy picked up the book and went back to the bench, then looked around — no sign of the fly. She let out a slow breath through her lips. She turned the book over in her hands, picked at the plastic wrap with her finger and peeled it off, then crumpled the cellophane in her fist and quietly tucked it under the bench. Opening the book, she ran her eyes over the first page.

Emmy snapped the book shut.

Oh, this is for little kids. A mouse, a strawberry… Strawberries… I could go for some strawberries right now. The little sweet ones. Though… a degu. What's a degu, anyway? Just a mouse with a tassel on its tail. They could've just called it a mouse. When was the last time I even read a little kids' book…?

She set the book down on the bench beside her.

Her leg had gone numb. An unpleasant tingling spread through it. Emmy rubbed her leg with her palms, then stood and walked back and forth beside the bench.

Suddenly, on one of the ceramic floor tiles, she slipped, caught herself at the last moment and stayed on her feet. She looked down.

Where did this water come from? A water pipe must’ve burst somewhere... Or maybe not... If a pipe had burst, water would be all over the place.

She stepped on the tile. It gave smoothly downward and sprang back up. Clear water splashed out from underneath. Emmy reached into her cardigan pocket and pulled out a nail file. She crouched down, wedged the file under the edge of the tile and lifted it, moving it aside. The smell of rotted wood hit her nostrils. Sunlight slanted in through the gap, driving the shadows back.

The blackened wooden floor was covered in a thin layer of water. In a deep hollow lay a shiny white shell dotted with red.

Emmy dipped her fingers in the water and pulled the shell out. Its sharp edges pressed into the pads of her fingers, its ridges masking the dampness. She got to her feet and walked to the window, set the shell on the sill.

How did it get here? Who put that poor little shell on the floor...? Whose dumb idea was that?

A sharp ringing in her ear made her double over in pain. She squeezed her eyes shut, mouth opening in a silent cry.

The ringing stopped. Emmy opened her eyes. The shell was gone. In its place on the windowsill lay a cotton pad speckled with dried blood. She looked back at the floor. There was no trace of the wooden boards or the water. She prodded the tile with the toe of her boot, but not one of them moved, fixed solid to the floor. Emmy rubbed her eyes with her fingers.

That was strange... Very strange...

She went back to the bench. Looked at the floor once more, tapped her heel against the nearest tiles.

Nothing there. Fine.

She went back to her reading.

Something snapped inside her.

Stupid story.

She threw the book behind the bench. Leaned forward on her knees and buried her face in her hands.

"I'm feeding you and that brat, don't you forget it! Remember who's in charge here!"

The smell of alcohol hit her in the face. Emmy pushed the memory away. Leaning back, she reached down behind the bench, felt around for the book and pulled it out.

It's not your fault… Really, not your fault…

She set the book down beside her.

Relax... Just relax. Everything's fine... It's completely fine.

The sun was warm. Emmy lay down on the bench, placed her palms on her stomach. Her fingers laced into a tight knot.

If I lie in the sun I won't be so pale. I'll get a tan. Definitely. My skin will become tanned as the tents of Kedar, as the curtains of Solomon… Did she really memorize the Bible? The whole thing? And no one made her…

She closed her eyes. Small legs skittered across her face, worked their way toward the corner of her eye.

Oh, you again…

Emmy waved her palm in front of her face. The legs moved up onto her bare head.

How many times do I have to— you are so annoying.

She sat up sharply, grabbed the cardigan and threw it over her head. Left a small gap in front of her face. Swatting at the fly, Emmy settled in to watch the reception desk.

Same as always. Same faces. I know all of them by now. Every time they do the same thing. That one's about to beg for a pen and paper, and that one smiles at everyone and makes small talk.

And there's Carmen. With that same stiff smile and perfect hair. Can't stand her.

Emmy glanced down at the hem of her shirt.

She does have an imagination though. Drew a strawberry...

Emmy’s gaze drifted down the corridor and landed on Chad pushing Mrs. Jackson in her wheelchair. She lifted a hand in greeting, and he smiled back, easy and brief.

At the far end of the hall she noticed a familiar silhouette in a white coat. Sunlight from the windows caught his dark hair and turned it copper at the edges.

That's him. Double-H.

She pulled the cardigan off her head and smoothed herself down—straps, hem, a quick nervous adjustment. Then she paused, cheeks warming without permission.

Dr. Harper was walking toward them, greeting patients and staff as he passed. His smile was clean and bright; when he reached Chad and Mrs. Jackson, he folded himself down almost in half to speak with her.

Emmy lifted her hand again. He didn’t see her.

Something in the corridor shifted. A faint ringing started behind her ears and swelled until it seemed to fill the space between the walls. The ceiling light flickered, flared, and then snapped out with a sharp crack. A scatter of tiny sparks drifted down.

Nothing around her reacted. The corridor kept moving as if it had never happened.

She found him again at the reception desk, speaking with the nurses. One of them held out a folder, talking quickly and pointing to something inside it, then gestured toward Emmy. For a moment his head turned, and his eyes passed over her direction. Emmy waved—smaller this time—and still nothing.

She winced, pressed her lips together, then stood up too quickly and broke into a run.

"Dr. Harper! Dr. Harper!"

The fluorescent lights along the corridor switched on and began flickering wildly, bursting one after another.

The sharp ringing in her ears came back. It swelled and then faded to almost nothing, then swelled again. Emmy stopped and pressed her palms over her ears. The ringing didn't go away. It grew stronger, filling everything around her.

A hard shove knocked Emmy off her feet. She hit the floor, the tile slick with water that had come from nowhere.

The hospital building let out a long groan as a faint tremor ran through the floor and walls. Emmy pressed her palms to the ground and sat up, looking around as jagged cracks spread across the walls and plaster broke away in heavy chunks. The floor tiles buckled and shifted, exposing worn boards beneath them, and the dark-stained wood smelled of fish and iodine.

She got to her feet and pressed herself against the wall as the floor continued to vibrate. A second jolt hit harder. Ceiling panels came loose, light fixtures tore free and swung on tangles of wire, spinning slowly as sunlight cut through the rising dust. Then, for a breath, everything went still.

People in the corridor scrambled to help each other up, brushing debris from their clothes, anxious voices rising and overlapping.

“Everyone out, get out!”

A screech of metal cut through the noise. The building shuddered again. The floor heaved, then dropped away as the corridor tilted, and furniture and debris surged down the hall in a collapsing wave, sweeping everything before it. Screams filled the space.

“Level — GIVE FIRE!” Dr. Harper’s voice came through as if from behind thick cotton.

A tremendous crash tore through the corridor, and dense smoke poured in, filling every corner until sulfur worked its way deep into her lungs and forced a cough from her chest. Emmy pushed off the wall and moved forward through the haze, arms stretched out ahead of her, grasping at nothing as the world dissolved into gray.

Her fingers struck a body in the smoke. A short boy in a worn linen shirt stood directly in her path, clutching a leather bucket with its lid pressed hard to his chest. He stared at her for a moment with wide, unmoving eyes, then bolted, vanishing into the smoke as if it had swallowed him whole.

A strong gust of salt wind tore through the corridor and briefly cleared the air. A bitter taste of salt touched her lips and vanished just as quickly, leaving behind tiny flakes of dry, cracked skin.

A dozen feet ahead, legs planted wide, stood Dr. Harper. A broad cloak thrown over his old-fashioned coat billowed in the wind as he looked directly at Emmy and held out his hand.

“Emmanuèl!”

Emmy backed away.

Nearly knocking her down, Mrs. Jackson’s wheelchair flew past, the old woman screaming all the way. The chair slammed full force into the reception desk, and Mrs. Jackson was hurled over it, her voice cutting off mid-air as she went silent. Her body rolled slowly to a stop at Dr. Harper’s feet.

Emmy screamed. Hiding her face in her hands, she ran down the corridor away from him. Her foot caught on the leg of an overturned chair and she fell, striking her head hard against the floor. A wave swept through the corridor and carried her limp body under the reception desk, leaving her beside an overturned waste bin.

Emmy groaned and opened her eyes.

Something cold and slick brushed her arm. She looked down — a large fish lay thrashing at her feet, its long winglike fins spread across the floor, mouth opening and closing on nothing. She slowly sat up, her back against the filing cabinet, and wrapped her arms around her bruised head.

A familiar voice rang out nearby, followed by a harsh scrape of metal. The heavy cabinets along the walls shifted, then began to slide as one mass. One of them caught and pinned Carmen against the wall.

She pushed back with both hands, frantic, but the cabinet only pressed harder.

“Someone, help me! Lord, please, help me!” Her voice broke as the pressure tightened around her.

The cabinet tore free and surged forward, slamming into the counter and ripping it loose from the floor. A splinter of wood whipped across Emmy’s cheek.

“GIVE FIRE!”

Smoke closed in again. Something vast burst out of the billowing clouds toward Emmy, and she shut her eyes, drawing a deep breath.

A heavy wall of cold water crashed over her head, forcing the air from her lungs as her body fought the invisible current, salt burning in her throat. The current ground her body and spat her out onto a hard surface. Rough planks stretched beneath her like a ship’s deck, slick and worn, the smell of brine thick in the air.

“Enough of thy lounging, knave! Arise, thou milk-sop!”

Emmy opened her eyes. Bright sunlight pushed through her thick lashes, forcing her to squint. Golden specks darted around her, gathering into the shapes of people and dissolving again just as fast.

Long strands of sun-bleached, dirty-blond hair fell across her face, getting into her eyes. Emmy caught a strand between her fingers and pulled it away, water trickling down onto her wrist.

Is this mine? Hair? Do I have hair?

She dragged her whole hand through her hair.

Somebody's stupid prank… But… it's not a wig… This is my own hair! When was the last time… So long ago...

Her soaked clothes clung to her body, restricting her movements. The coarse fabric rubbed against her skin, scraping with every motion. Emmy slid her hand under the hempen shirt, pulling the wet cloth away from herself.

She looked down and went still.

A trail of soft hair extended from the waistband of her trousers, past her navel, spreading into a light dusting across her chest. Her palm moved over her stomach, across the hard ridges of muscle, then slid lower, toward her groin.

Emmy jerked her hand back, snagged on something foreign.

What is that?

Her body had changed.

This can't be happening… It can't be... Am I… dead?

Her face flushed, and a nervous giggle escaped her lips.

Emmy yanked up her sleeve. No puncture marks, no bruises. Bulging veins pulsed beneath her sun-kissed skin, right above the twitching tendons.

No, it's just a dream. Just a twisted dream…

The toe of a boot prodded her back.

"Up, boy. No time for thy slumber."

The skirts of his grimy doublet fell open. A heavy, nail-studded sole of a salt-crusted boot passed inches from her face. A wide, sky-blue silk garter with a jaunty bow, holding up a thin wool stocking, made a ridiculous contrast against the filthy, sagging mass of the garment. The puffed-out legs of his slops parted, and a strip of linen shirt, stained with filth, flashed between them. A stifling waft of sour feet and musk rolled over Emmy.

The man stepped over her and walked off, his posture a heavy sea-swagger as he planted his feet wide with each stride.

Emmy jumped to her feet and hitched up her sliding trousers. Among the chaotic tangle of folds, her fingers found a small leather pouch tied to the belt-cord.

"Chivey!" A sharp call rang out somewhere high above her head.

"Chivey…! Chivey!"

"I'm here! Here!" She ran toward the voice, peering upward and glancing around. Rising onto her toes, she skipped awkwardly between the tangled coils of rope strewn across the blackened deck planks. Sharp splinters, scattered generously everywhere, jabbed at her bare feet.

Well, where are you? How do I get out of here? Come on, let's finish this game already.

"Chivey! Cha! Cha! Kak-kak-kak…"

She stopped at the edge of the abyss, gripping the bulwark. High above her head, in a bright, wind-swept sky, gulls wheeled, screeching and cackling.

"Oh, you are…”

A wave slammed into the ship's side and threw a fan of cold spray over her. Emmy squeezed her eyes shut and wiped her face with the back of her forearm. The seawater burned like fire, the salt forcing tears from her eyes.

I'm not crying, not crying… my eyes just sting. Stupid birds…

Wiping the tears away, she glanced down. The ship surged forward, now rising above the water, now sinking into its depths. The great mass of water lived a life of its own. It swelled and breathed, built crystalline mountains, then shattered them, swallowing them whole. Dark chasms gaped their hungry mouths and were washed away in an instant by the next wave.

So this is what you look like, sea…

A low rumble knocked the top off an azure wave, turning it into a cloud of watery spray. A cannonball skimmed the water and burst it apart with a crash, spitting up a column of white foam.

"Get out of the way!"

A pair of fair-haired boys ran past her, clutching leather buckets of gunpowder tight to their chests. A crowd of sailors darted across the cramped deck, threading between the cannons, barrels, rigging, and crates. Gusts of wind carried the sharp smell of vinegar and unwashed bodies toward her.