A Lion in a Flower Field

Magic was waiting for her again the next morning and the same routine repeated, though with fewer outbursts. He was sluggish the entire walk to the building, made several missteps and nearly walked face first into the door on the way into the main lobby.

Mira found him waiting for her outside all of her classes, leaning on the lockers with his eyes closed as though he were asleep standing up. During lunch, he ate nothing and wasn’t responsive to anything Mira had asked or spoken about throughout the period—halfway through she realized Magic had dozed off and spared him the trouble of humiliation by pulling the hood down over his head to hide his face.

That Wednesday, Magic was not waiting for her in the doorway as he had done the previous two days, and when Mira’s knock went unanswered for nearly five minutes, she felt a shiver up her spine. Even the house seemed dead; there were no lights she could see flickering from the windows, there were no noises she could hear, and no sign that anyone was coming down to greet her.

Eager to get moving, Mira turned to make her way towards the school building without her brother but before she got two steps down the front porch, something creaked. She spun around, eyes wide. In the doorway, leaning heavily against its frame, was Magic, his comically large backpack dwarfing him by a size or two because of his slouch.

Mira felt sick just looking at him. If she thought he looked bad the other day, he somehow managed to look worse over the course of twenty-four hours; his skin was deathly pale with an ashen tint in the moon’s dying silver glow and the hollows beneath his eyes looked like sunken craters from lack of sleep. A tiny wobble rocked his right knee but he righted it quickly as though to hide it.

“Mags,” she whispered, “you don’t look well.”

Her brother glared at her, but his eyes were too dull to carry the bite that he forced past his lips. “Thanks.” Even that was pitiful; his voice was weak and fragile, as though he could hardly muster the energy to speak the words, let alone stand and think of them. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”

“I’m not trying to be sarcastic, Magic, I mean it. You don’t look well.”

“When are we going?”

Mira scoffed. She made her way up the porch and slid her backpack inside the house like a curling stone, much to the confusion of her brother who stammered and stuttered over threads of words. In the midst of those jumbled words were stifled coughs he hid behind his elbow. “We aren’t going anywhere,” she said. “But you are going back inside to sleep.”

It was a small and feeble thing, but Magic’s lips curled into what Mira would have considered a snarl had he the strength to even manage it. It looked more like a grimace. “No,” he insisted, “because if I do that, then I see it all again. And I don’t—I don’t want to see it anymore, it makes me sick.”

“Magic, you’re already sick. Pushing yourself like this won’t prove anything to me, or Amelia, or Bennett—”

“Cut it out, Mira,” he mumbled.

She took a breath and opened her mouth to speak as Magic attempted to barge past her; he tripped over his own two feet and Mira barred him at the chest, lightly pushing him back inside the house. “You first. Sit down, Mags. You sound like you can barely breathe.”

Finally, he obeyed. Magic sank to the floor with his head tipped back against the wooden panel walls as Mira closed the door and crouched in front of him, handing over a water bottle from her backpack. In the quiet, she realized he wasn’t just wheezing, he was gasping for air, his breathing so labored from either his sickness or lingering panic she wasn’t certain, but enough to cause him significant distress. He didn’t even react when Mira placed a hand along his temples, the skin red hot against her knuckles.

“Does Amelia know you’re sick?” she asked, motioning for the bottle back to stuff into her bag.

“Yes,” he replied. “She was a bit upset about it.”

She hooked one of Magic’s arms around her neck and hoisted him to his feet, lifting her own book bag onto her shoulder simultaneously. Again, he put up no fight about the close proximity. “Are you?”

He shook his head, muffling a series of coughs behind his lips. “I always get sick in the winter. It sucks.”

“And is she awake? Your mom?”

“No,” he replied, latching onto her arms with a groan as she half-dragged, half-walked with him up the stairs to the second floor. The wood beneath their feet creaked ominously with their combined weight and Magic’s breathing was dangerously heavy. Mira thought he was going to keel over right there on the steps, but he took a couple of ragged breaths before he went on. “She was asleep when I woke up. I want to keep it that way.”

“Why? She’ll know you’re home when she finds you in your room instead of out of it.” Magic kept quiet, his footsteps quickening the closer they got to his room. Mira let him go and watched him practically collapse onto the mattress from her spot at the door frame.

Neither spoke for a while, but when Magic finally wormed his way beneath the covers, which Mira could only pin based on the shuffling of fabrics because of the dark, he huffed and said, “She frets too much.”

“She’s your mom, Mags,” Mira said, an eyebrow raised. “That’s her job. Dad does it to me, too. You should’ve seen what his household rules looked like when I was nine. He isn’t as bad now, but he used to be pretty overbearing himself.” In the dark, she could barely make out the shape of her brother, his presence only noted by the small bits of static that passed for night vision. It was all she had and she made use of it, stumbling slowly over until she could perch just at the edge of Magic’s bed. “How long have you been sick?”

“Four days at least. Wasn’t so bad before the week started. But it’s not just my chest that hurts, it’s my stomach, too.”

Mira squinted to better see him in the dark. It wasn’t successful; Magic looked just as scratchy and staticky as he had moments before. She gave up the attempt after a second or two. “I know you’ve been having a bit of a rough time eating stuff at lunch, but did you eat anything this morning?”

Magic said nothing.

Discomfort settled on Mira’s shoulders like a permanent cloak. “Did you eat anything for dinner yesterday?”

Again, Magic was quiet and Mira felt like her mouth had gotten sealed shut with mangleroot paste. She didn’t even have the courage to ask another question—she had a feeling that she knew where the conversation was going.

Then, after a minute of uninterrupted shuffling around from Magic beneath his covers, he spoke in a way that sounded like he’d covered his face with the blankets. “I don’t feel hungry, Mira.”

“No wonder you look like shit,” she said, forcing words through her mouth. “You aren’t eating enough.”

“I’m picking.”

“Which still isn’t eating, Mags. When was the last time you had a meal—a good meal, Magic?”

“That’s not a fair question,” Magic blurted out and immediately Mira felt the shame of it. “The last time I had a good meal was when you and Benji invited Mom and I over to celebrate Benji’s birthday.”

“Okay, when was the last time you finished a meal at your dinner table?”

Now, he was quiet again and Mira had to fight the urge to reach over and shake him by the shoulders. This had to be a joke.

But, of course, it wasn’t. Because reality was never kind when you desperately needed it to be. “You don’t remember the last time you ate?”

“It’s been very hard,” he mumbled, “keeping track of anything because I’m exhausted. I’m not hungry, Mira, I’m tired.”

“Because you aren’t eating anything, Magic. Like it or not, it all comes back to that fact—you have no energy because you aren’t eating enough.”

“It’s fine, Mira. Stars, leave it alone.”

“Not when you’re spiraling, Magic!” she hissed in a low whisper. “I won’t. I know for a damn fact that this kind of issue got you into Grimmshollow’s clinic before and I refuse to allow that to happen again! Not when I know that it can be avoided!”

Magic’s question was soft. “How do you know that?”

Mira felt herself shuddering and she planted her elbows into her legs, heels of her palms against her eyes as she forced deep breaths into her lungs. Hell, they were heavy, as if someone had forced her head underwater. With a messy sniffle, Mira dragged her hands down her face. “Amelia.”

During one of Magic’s extended stays with Mira and her father while Amelia was on a trip selling fabrics three years ago, they’d run into issues getting him to eat and rang Amelia in the hopes of getting answers; what they got instead was the guilt ridden worries of the seamstress poured through the speaker of the phone.

Amelia told Mira and Benji about Magic’s three week-long stint at Grimmshollow’s clinic following a week’s worth of inconsistent eating. She went into horrifying detail about the weak, sickly state Magic was in despite her efforts to help him recover before she carried him on her back through an impending winter storm to find better care for him one town over.

The full extent of his unresolved grief, compiled with the knowledge of his father’s death and inability to process the emotions that came with it exacerbated his already poor appetite. Mira remembered seeing the signs as a child—his fatigue, the disinterest in his favorite fruits and, worst of all, his tolerance and active seeking of having people in his space—but, like her father’s issues, lacked the ability to say or do anything about it.

Mira took a deep breath through her nose, hoping to rid herself of the sinking feeling in her chest that always accompanied worry.

Amelia had told them everything, right down to her fear of losing both her husband and her son less than two weeks apart.

“How much does she know, Mags?” she asked. “You said she knew you were sick, but does she know you’re having trouble eating again?”

A singular ray of gold shot through the sky, passing into the room. Now, Mira could see glimpses of her brother’s face, half buried in his covers that were pulled up to his nose. “She does. They called her on Monday.”

“What do you mean they called her? What did they call her for?”

He fidgeted with the mattress cover, plucking at stray strands. His eyes closed and his chin tucked towards his chest as if recalling the memory were a physically painful thing. “I left Prehistory. We–”

“Magic, you can’t keep leaving your classes, we talked about this. It’ll—”

“No, Mira, you don’t—she was supposed to tell me.” Magic’s wracking coughs coincided with a gasping breath that sounded like a rattle. “She was supposed to tell me. We—We were … She talked about the mountains. She didn’t tell me. And I–I didn’t know … I didn’t …”

Now the pained expression on his face made more sense. Because if Magic could barely speak about the fact that his teacher had put him through the hell of talking about the mines and the factories without informing him—like she should have—Mira could only imagine how difficult it must have been for him to recall it all.

She kept herself quiet. As uncomfortable as it made her to watch her brother struggle, Mira wanted to hear it directly from him.

“I tried. I tried—I wanted to stay. But I couldn’t and I left and I went to Art. And I was really—I couldn’t breathe. So I went and I stayed at a table. But I didn’t know—I didn’t know what to do. She took me to the hallway and—”

“Miss Flannise?” Mira asked. “Miss Flannise brought you outside?”

“Helped me outside,” he clarified. “But I couldn’t—the smells, Mira, I couldn’t get rid of it. And my heart—it was speeding. I could hear it in my head … I wanted to get rid of it … I tried …”

Magic paused and, taking a breath, moved away hair that had covered his forehead and placed his hands outside the covers. Mira’s heart stuttered at the faint green and yellow bruises coating his knuckles and forehead. It was clearer now in the approaching dawn. “Heavens,” she muttered. “What did you hit?”

“The walls. I don’t … I don’t remember how long that took. But … then after that I was in the back coloring and I felt a bit better … Then the other class left. Miss Flannise asked me something and I went over and then I … woke up. On the floor.

“Miss Barrister and Miss Flannise sat with me in the back of the room,” he said. “They gave me a juice box and a couple of crackers. And then they had my mom on the phone. If you could’ve heard her voice …”

Mira didn’t think she needed to. She’d never seen or heard Amelia frustrated or angry, but those were the worst people to ever cross. Based on Magic’s mousy tone, she imagined his mother hadn’t taken his note that morning lightly.

And there was something else, too. “Is that why you didn’t show up?” she whispered. “By some of my afternoon classes?”

Magic didn’t say anything, only buried himself further into the covers, but his shuffles looked vaguely like a nod. Guilt hit her head on. “Shit, Mags. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he murmured.

“No, Magic, it isn’t. Because I know how I sounded that day. And that isn’t fair to you.”

“I wasn’t any better. I was just as bad. And that wasn’t fair to you, either.”

Mira took a long breath in, listening to the caws of ravens and crows as they flew past the house. It was so quiet that she could hear the stirring from the other room, which meant that Amelia was likely close to waking up. “So what are you planning to do? About this?”

“I don’t know,” he said, sounding pitifully dejected. “I want to figure out a way to do it on my own. I’ve already had so many people do things for me.” Magic huffed and rubbed at his eyes, hiding a yawn behind his wrist as his glasses wobbled up and down. “It’s embarrassing.”

“People are helping you because they care, Magic. You may not like it, but it’s not a bad thing to accept help from other people. Take my dad for example.” She immediately regretted the words as they came out of her mouth and she took a minute to choose the rest of her statement carefully. Not because she didn’t like comparing Magic and her father, but because she still hated addressing the issue out loud. It always sounded far worse that way. “He’s capable of doing so much by himself like running the bakery and even preparing dinner the night before so that it’s easier to cook. But he isn’t free of his own struggles. He’s … been stressed. And I know he struggles with keeping that box closed. Which leads me to my point: help isn’t a bad thing.”

Magic shrugged. “I … I still don’t like it.”

“You don’t have to. You just have to accept it. Because if you want to get a better hold on your situation, you’re going to have to ask for help—I’ll even give you an incentive.”

That got her a weird look. “What are you talking about?”

“Simple,” said Mira. “I won’t leave for school until you ask for help—I want to hear you say it.”

Instantly Magic popped into a sitting position, swaying back and forth. He blinked several times as if he were getting rid of stars. “What?!” he whispered harshly, and Mira had to shush him to keep his voice down. He got the message, his next words nearly inaudible. “You’ll miss your class!”

“I’m at peace with that.”

“But you’re jeopardizing your—”

“Waiting.”

Magic huffed, sputtered, and puffed out air, rolling his eyes with a groan as he fell back against his pillow. The covers slid back over his face to hide his nose and mouth, leaving only his eyes and glasses exposed, his breath fogging the lenses.

Mira needed only to wait; she watched him scan the room, fidget with his fingers and do everything in his power to avoid looking at her until his hard, green and hazel gaze landed on hers. It was a silent staring contest filled with intense, unflinching eyes; neither dared to break the silence. Magic was far too prideful to do so and Mira was too stubborn to back down.

It wasn’t until Magic began to squirm around uneasily in his bed, as if he couldn’t find a spot to get comfortable in, that Mira began to smile. She could see his frown through the creases in his forehead, the narrowing of his eyes.

Stop that, his gaze seemed to say.

No, she replied silently, because you know I’m right.

They kept this quiet battle for several long, excruciating minutes; the sun had risen high enough to sprinkle the faint yellow rays of dawn to awaken the birds. Magic’s fingers drummed anxiously along the blankets before he eventually hid his face behind them and said, “I want your help.”

“Good,” Mira said with a satisfied smile despite the knowledge that the feeling wasn’t mutual. “Would you like the packet of crackers my dad gave me for lunch to put on your side table? All you’d have to do is reach for them.”

“Yes, please.” It was the agreement from a small child, a pitiful reluctance to a compromise. In moments like these, he reminded Mira so much of the tiny, fragile child she grew up sheltering from the punches this town seemed to throw at him.

She watched him eye the food curiously as she placed them on the table, as if he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to take them. Mira gave the edge of his mattress a small pat. “You don’t have to eat everything, just what you feel comfortable with. Got it?”

Magic nodded and, as she zipped up her bag and moved to stand, seized her by the jacket sleeve. It was a weak grip, fingers barely closed over the insulated fabrics of her coat, but it was enough for Mira to get the message. She knelt on the wood floor at his bedside as he spoke through racing pants. “Don’t make me go back,” he pleaded, stifling another cough behind his bedsheets. “I don’t want to go back. Please don’t bring me back to Grimmshollow.”

So he did know. Whatever it was he could recall about his stay in Grimmshollow, it had to have been horrific for Magic to beg this way—something Mira knew shot through his pride to do. At least this was a promise she would fight tooth and nail to keep. It was the least she could do for getting him into this mess in the first place.

Mira held onto his shirt sleeve. He slid his arm away from her jacket and wormed his fingers into the spaces between her own, clamping down on her palm; Mira did the same and though he looked wildly uncomfortable with the handshake he initiated, Magic didn’t work to squirm free. His breathing, however, quickened. Mira kept her words short.

“You won’t,” she vowed. “I promise.”

No matter the cost, she added silently.

12-05-46

a blonde-haired girl sat with me today.

miss flannise had her sit with me. i knew her; she tackled mira the first day of school. but i hadn’t seen her since. until today, anyway.

she was doing her own art piece, the end of the semester stuff that makes up part of the big grade.

she was drawing a vision. a landscape village from a town further west. all golds and blues. pretty. she told me stories about it and talked to me during the class, even when people stared at her. i know how it looked. like talking to a wall. a ghost. something that couldn’t speak back. but she didn’t look bothered or annoyed sitting with me.

but then she asked what i was drawing.

and i was drawing a nightmare. messy little scribbles, a dark, scratchy void. i don’t know where it came from. i just let my brain do it. it didn’t have a shape; i couldn’t give it one. it just happened like that. and words didn’t feel like they did the job. so i kept quiet.

i didn’t think she’d ask to see it. and i made her promise not to tell mira. but she saw it, she looked at me, she looked at the scribbles.

and she was nice about it.

none of the other kids have done that before.

i didn’t know what to do. or say. or write. she didn’t look like she wanted me to say anything back, though. she said miss flannise could help with it and there was no pity in her face when she said it.

when she turned the mic off and the class left, i put my head down. i didn’t mean to cry and i don’t know what happened after, but i showed miss flannise, and after mom hung up, she thanked me for trusting her.

i didn’t think i’d feel happy knowing that someone saw.

but i feel better now that she did.

mc