On Life as a Sarcastic Fringehead

The rewrite:

The aunt touched my hand. Then touched my shoulder. Put two hands to my face. There is barely space between us by the time she speaks to me again. “Not all of my life, Stillwater, but all of yours.”

Close to me, in one ear, she whispers in mystical tongues. Words that soothe, compassionate words that demand, chants of praise and of calling. I knew her name to be Magnificent as she held on tight and promised me centeredness and freedom from confusion, my permanence restored. The house darkened and I was vaguely aware of Parker’s movements in and out of the room, but I don’t know how long she, Magnificent, held me and whispered to me. Hours. She kissed my forehead and I fell into a chair at the kitchen table, crying uncontrollably. I do not cry. Even after broken bones, always mine and always because of her, my mother would brag to our crazy neighbors that I cried not a single pussy tear. Walking away from her that last day, not even tears of relief. Here, in this house, I didn’t think the tears could stop coming. Magnificent wiped them away.

I was born, I told her, seeing the lives of others, days at a time. I know things about people that they have forgotten or that they never knew. One look, one touch and I’m there, breathing with them, breathing for them. “It is my…”

I search and Magnificent completes: “It is your divine destiny.”

The irony makes me laugh to myself. Reliving the horror of some people being fucked over by the universe doesn’t feel all that divine most days. They pass by me on the street and transfer to me all their shit in all its shitty glory and, without knowing how or why, they can make it another day and another day, each day becoming less fucked up than the day before it.

“Or you could say, Stillwater, that your power, your gift, makes their following days more bearable, more optimistic. Without knowing why, people follow you, yes. They look for you, they need you. Why do they talk to you and tell their entire life stories while you are buying bread in the grocery store?”

Good fucking question, I say, but to myself.

“Redemption. Everybody’s looking for it and you are its host.

“It’s as though their spirits are floating wayward and unanchored, looking for you, looking for that shop, looking for the one person or thing that will remove from them the stain of being human. It is especially on this trip with Parker as you meet all kinds of people in all kinds of pain that your gift will at times seem more of a misfortune, but each day as you guide Parker nearer to what she needs, you’ll become more at peace with your own life.”

But, Parker, I whisper to Magnificent, is completely closed off from me. Nothing she says brings her spirit closer to me and almost everything she says pushes it away.

Parker is a carrier, reveals Magnificent. She absorbs nothing and, sometimes, being with her seems more like an affliction—she laughs and continues, “I’m being too harsh. It’s like this. When you catch a cold, you catch it from Parker. But she’s not sick. She’s not tired. Not a cough or a sneeze or one single symptom. You’re not sure why you know she gave you this cold, yet you do know she’s the one who brought the virus into your house and passed it on to you. You’re preparing to die from this, the worst cold you’ve ever had in your life and she, the carrier, gets to decide if she is going to care for you until you are well again or if she’s going to leave you behind to suffer and wonder why you allowed her into your life in the first place.

“Her mother died when she was a little girl, and we were all heartbroken. My sister, Parker’s mother, was the youngest, and everybody in our family adored her. She had a bit of a public reputation of being maybe selfish, definitely arrogant, but we all knew that was a façade. She had a generous spirit without knowing exactly how to show that to people she didn’t know very well.

“It was an accident as are all deaths involving three-year-olds. And my heart tells me that Meran was already dead before the fire started, but I can’t seem to convince those who want to blame Parker for being left alone with matches and her curiosity. But our sister drank in dangerous quantities very dangerous cocktails, and if she hadn’t died that day in the fire, it would have happened sooner than later from a drug overdose.

“English, Parker’s father, was incapable of taking care of himself and his family. He should have shouldered some blame for the fire, but he escaped blame that day simply because of his physical absence from the house in that moment. The first finger he pointed was at his own daughter--a baby--and I knew him to be insane.

“Parker came to live with me that very day. I was the natural choice. I always had six or eight or ten little munchkins running around here and I had room for many more. She tried to find her way around here, but she never quite fit in. She felt persecuted in all absence of malice or ill will in the company of the other children. She became the least transparent of everyone in the house. But she was always the most determined to work well within her limitations.”

“By pretending she has no limitations,” I said, now understanding the lies and the bravado and the little girl vulnerability all at once. I had to know: “Did you send Parker to me?”

With a wry smile, with a beautiful and distant look, Magnificent considered her answer. “I guided her to you, yes. This is her home, she is always welcome here. I sent her your way knowing when she returned, you’d be with her. But, this is not the end, you know that. It’s barely the beginning. You’ll complement, insulate and protect each other along the way. Rest here tonight, then get going."

Parker appeared in the doorway and waited. In the silence following those final moments, she led me upstairs to a drawn bath. Such a beautiful girl as she quietly asked should she stay with me or leave me alone. She asked, but she knew. I wrapped my legs and arms around her as we dipped ourselves into the warm water. “Tomorrow,” said Parker, “we mark our path.”