fiber-optic paintbrushes, sits cross-legged on the floor, and starts to draw a landscape. It takes Ibrahim a while to settle in—for several minutes, he just stares at the blank page—but eventually he picks up the brush and begins to doodle. Random squiggles and lines at first, as he gradually warms to the task. The next time she glances at him his eyes are pinched shut. It looks like he’s in excruciating pain. Constipated. She almost asks him what’s wrong, if he’s okay, but the fiber-optic tip of the brush is tracing out lines on the pad, spreading broad swaths of color. He’s drawing blind, either too afraid to look at the images taking shape in front of him or focused on some internal mindscape that’s only visible behind closed lids. It takes an effort not to stop what she’s doing and watch. She doesn’t want to interrupt him. Fortunately, every stroke is being recorded. If need be, she can go back later and reconstruct exactly how the picture was drawn.
He’s really getting into it, attacking the sketchpad with an intensity that borders on psychotic. The brush has become a weapon, stabbing and slicing the screen. Good thing it’s not a knife. No telling what he’d try to slash next.
Gashes open up on the sketchpad, suppurating wounds of red, green, and yellow. Bubbles of saliva fleck the corners of his mouth. His chest heaves, as if he’s suffocating. His fingers begin to tremble, then shake. An uncontrollable spasm races up his hand, travels along his arm and into his body, jolting him. He jerks once, stiffens, jerks again. The brush clatters to the floor.
The words
gran mal
condense in her mind. She lunges toward him on her knees. Afraid that he’ll hit his head, she gathers him into her arms and holds him tight to keep him from hurting himself and her. Still, his head bruises her chin, batters both collarbones.
Now what?
She can’t let go . . . can’t get help. All she can do is hold on for dear life and hope that she survives—that they both survive. There’s no retreat, no stepping back. They’re in this together, for the duration. Anthea hugs him tighter, the only protection there is for both of them. It feels like she’s in an earthquake. The shaking goes on and on. After what seems like an eternity the spasms finally subside, degenerate into sobs. First his, then hers.
“It’s okay,” she says, “it’s over. Everything’s going to be all right.” Reassuring herself as much as him, now that they’ve survived the cataclysm.
Unscathed? It’s too early to tell at this point.
She finds that she’s rocking him in her arms. Her ribs ache where they’ve been gouged by his elbows and the ax-blade-sharp edges of his shoulder blades. She kisses him lightly on the top of the head, presses one cheek against it. His tear-matted hair is bristly as a coconut’s. The taste of salt lies heavy on her lips.
Anthea sniffs, blinks to clear her vision. She glances at the sketchpad on the floor.
The rabbit hole has really taken an unexpected turn this time—deposited her in bizarre and disturbing territory. Like Alice, she’s trapped, has no clue how she’s going to find her way back home.
FIVE
Dinner with Anthea and Josué, who’s tagging along unexpectedly.
Instead of the Asian Rose, which serves Sri Lankan food—far too exotic for the taste buds of a nine-year-old—they end up going to the Pontiac Grill for tofu burgers, fries, and soyshakes. The Pontiac, a 1950s historical, has been around for over a century. It still has red-speckled linoleum floor tile, black Formica tables banded with polished chrome, a soda counter, and red vinyl barstools and seats. Originally the place was a car dealership, a showroom for dinosaur-powered automobiles. Consequently, it has big floor-to-ceiling windows that soak up glare.
The room is awash with early evening twilight and tourists. Mounted on the wall behind the soda counter, just above the service window to the kitchen, the detached grille
He’s really getting into it, attacking the sketchpad with an intensity that borders on psychotic. The brush has become a weapon, stabbing and slicing the screen. Good thing it’s not a knife. No telling what he’d try to slash next.
Gashes open up on the sketchpad, suppurating wounds of red, green, and yellow. Bubbles of saliva fleck the corners of his mouth. His chest heaves, as if he’s suffocating. His fingers begin to tremble, then shake. An uncontrollable spasm races up his hand, travels along his arm and into his body, jolting him. He jerks once, stiffens, jerks again. The brush clatters to the floor.
The words
gran mal
condense in her mind. She lunges toward him on her knees. Afraid that he’ll hit his head, she gathers him into her arms and holds him tight to keep him from hurting himself and her. Still, his head bruises her chin, batters both collarbones.
Now what?
She can’t let go . . . can’t get help. All she can do is hold on for dear life and hope that she survives—that they both survive. There’s no retreat, no stepping back. They’re in this together, for the duration. Anthea hugs him tighter, the only protection there is for both of them. It feels like she’s in an earthquake. The shaking goes on and on. After what seems like an eternity the spasms finally subside, degenerate into sobs. First his, then hers.
“It’s okay,” she says, “it’s over. Everything’s going to be all right.” Reassuring herself as much as him, now that they’ve survived the cataclysm.
Unscathed? It’s too early to tell at this point.
She finds that she’s rocking him in her arms. Her ribs ache where they’ve been gouged by his elbows and the ax-blade-sharp edges of his shoulder blades. She kisses him lightly on the top of the head, presses one cheek against it. His tear-matted hair is bristly as a coconut’s. The taste of salt lies heavy on her lips.
Anthea sniffs, blinks to clear her vision. She glances at the sketchpad on the floor.
The rabbit hole has really taken an unexpected turn this time—deposited her in bizarre and disturbing territory. Like Alice, she’s trapped, has no clue how she’s going to find her way back home.
FIVE
Dinner with Anthea and Josué, who’s tagging along unexpectedly.
Instead of the Asian Rose, which serves Sri Lankan food—far too exotic for the taste buds of a nine-year-old—they end up going to the Pontiac Grill for tofu burgers, fries, and soyshakes. The Pontiac, a 1950s historical, has been around for over a century. It still has red-speckled linoleum floor tile, black Formica tables banded with polished chrome, a soda counter, and red vinyl barstools and seats. Originally the place was a car dealership, a showroom for dinosaur-powered automobiles. Consequently, it has big floor-to-ceiling windows that soak up glare.
The room is awash with early evening twilight and tourists. Mounted on the wall behind the soda counter, just above the service window to the kitchen, the detached grille
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