Arielle was just as lovely as Salem remembered. Seeing the girl standing at her front door, Salem rid herself of any misgivings she might have had in inviting her. Arielle rushed into her arms as if they’d been lifelong friends. By the afternoon, Salem felt as comfortable with Arielle as she would have one of her cousins. And the house no longer seemed so threateningly empty.

  “Daddy was so pleased you gave him the chance to talk with you,” Arielle told her as she peeked into Salem’s freezer and suddenly removed a package of frozen chicken while they talked in the kitchen. “He told me that he finally got to tell you about how much he cared for your mother.” She began rummaging through Salem’s cabinet until she found a skillet. Placing it on the stove she turned to Salem and said, “You don’t mind if I make us dinner, do you? I’m kind of hungry.”

  “Knock yourself out,” Salem smirked, both surprised and amused at the girl’s complete forwardness.

  Arielle placed the chicken pieces, still frozen, in the skillet and placed it atop the stove. “I hope you don’t mind that I’m talking about your mother and their relationship. Daddy has always confided in me—even when I was little. We tell each other everything.” She fumbled for a minute in the pantry until she found a bottle of vegetable oil and poured it over the chicken. “He knows I came here, but I told my mother that I was visiting a friend in Connecticut who I went to boarding school with.”

  Salem was listening to the words, but the sight taking place before her eyes held the majority of her attention. Arielle began opening drawers, then more cabinet doors, then back to the pantry where she found what she was looking for. She withdrew a bag of flour and opened it. She dumped half the bag on top of the oiled chicken. The flour dust swirled into her nostrils and she winced.

  “My mother and my sister are awful people,” Arielle continued. “Mother doesn’t like me very much. Never has. I used to think it was because I always felt closer to Daddy and her sister, my Aunt Blackie, but Cassandra told me once that I reminded our mother of the fact our father doesn’t love her.”

  “How so?” Salem asked as she further observed the cooking catastrophe before her. Arielle was now cracking an egg and dropping it over the pile of flour, which was sitting atop the oiled frozen chicken. Salem continued to watch as Arielle then poured a little milk on top of that.

  “You see,” Arielle explained, “my mother tried to seduce him once after the whole trial with your mother was over. She cast a spell on him to get him to come to her bed one night.” Arielle paused her story and began inexplicably beating the chicken with a wooden spoon. “This batter doesn’t seem to be sticking very well.” Salem snickered as Arielle picked back up with her tale. “Anyway, the spell worked, but not the way Mother wanted. She meant for it to make him love the woman he saw—meaning her. Instead, he saw the woman he loved—meaning Nacaria. Daddy thought he was making love to Nacaria and even called out her name. Mother was furious. And that was how I was conceived. As a result, Mother doesn’t like me a whole lot.”

  Surveying the contents of the skillet, Arielle rubbed her forehead a moment, then added more oil. She began smacking the chicken with the spoon again after which she pulled a lid from the cabinet of pans and covered the dish, turning the burner up to high.

  “Arielle?” Salem said softly. “You don’t know how to cook, do you?”

  “Not at all,” Arielle said. “But I think I did everything right. It just needs to simmer.” Suddenly the oil boiled over from under the lid and the skillet became wrapped in flames. “Is that supposed to happen?”

  It was all too much for Salem. She had been doing her utmost to remain silent and not hurt her guest’s feelings, but it was impossible to hold back now. She burst into laughter at the ridiculousness of it all as well as Arielle’s sheer innocence during the whole thing.

  Arielle began trying to beat back the flames with the wooden spoon, but to no avail. Salem took charge. She grabbed the fire extinguisher off the wall and was about to put out the flame, when she witnessed something extraordinary. Arielle pointed her finger at the skillet, gesturing towards the sink whereupon the skillet—as if obeying orders, lifted into the air and floated across the room to the sink and lowered itself into the basin. With a mid-air flick of Arielle’s wrist, the water faucet cut itself on, dousing the flaming chicken. As for the grease fire taking place on the stovetop, Arielle simply blew a small puff of air from her lips in the direction of the fire, and it evaporated. She turned back around to Salem’s astonished expression.

  “What?” Arielle asked, “Can’t you do that?”

  She hadn’t been aware she had put on one of David’s shirts—the red tee with his team number from office softball league. She crawled into bed beside Arielle, who was sitting Indian style as if she were at a slumber party.

  “You sure you don’t mind me sleeping with you?” Arielle asked. “The couch is totally fine.”

  “No,” Salem smiled. “I don’t want to sleep in here alone. Last night was really difficult.”

  They were quiet for a while as Salem tied her hair in a ponytail and Arielle picked lint from the toes of her knit socks. Salem broke the silence, perhaps in need of words to fill the stillness of that room.

  “Thanks for driving up here,” she told Arielle. She wanted to say more but couldn’t find the words. The feelings were all present, but the words would not come. Looking into the eyes of this girl, this sister she had never known, the dam broke inside her releasing a torrent of complicated tears. Tears for David. Tears for Michael. Tears for a father’s presence that she was denied growing up. There was so much to feel. Too much to sort through now. Salem didn’t try. She simply let it flow and hoped she’d feel the better for it after.

  Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

  Arielle was not experienced in grief counseling nor was she particularly adept at comforting anyone other than herself. Yet, instinctively, she knew that the best thing she could possibly do for Salem was to simply sit and hold her. It was enough. Salem snuggled in under the safety and sympathy of Arielle’s arms and remained there until the pain began to loosen its grip and let her breathe again. As the pain began to ease, Salem’s thoughts drifted for some reason back to the image of Arielle attempting to fix dinner. A sound rang out from within Salem which surprised them both, laughter.

  “What’s so funny?”

  Salem rubbed her tear-stained face with the palm of her hand and snorted, “You frying chicken. I can’t stop thinking about it.”

  Arielle laughed now too as she looked into her sister’s eyes, red and irritated from crying. “Well, I may not have been able to feed you, but at least I made you laugh.”

  Salem sighed and rubbed her eyes again. She exhaled a deep breath as if expelling away the feelings of sadness she’d allowed herself to succumb to. “Thanks for making me laugh. Thanks for taking what would have been an unbearable time and making me remember there are still some good times to be had. New memories to make. Last night here alone was very painful.”

  “My pleasure,” Arielle grinned. “I’m having fun. I know that sounds horrible with all you are going through…but I’ve never had a real sister before. Sorry I almost burned down your house.”

  “That was the funniest thing I have seen in a long time,” Salem said, slapping her knees. “And I grew up with ditzy cousins, so I’ve seen a lot of funny things.”

  “You’re lucky. Oleander is not a very fun place to grow up.”

  Salem now felt sorry for Arielle. How the girl had managed to retain such a warm personality was remarkable. The few minutes Salem spent in the presence of Atheidrelle and Cassandra Obreiggon were miserable. She imagined Arielle’s life could not have been very pleasant. Salem may have been knee deep in grief but at least she had known love. She’d known family and the joy having people who love you in your life can bring. Arielle was a stranger to these things.

  “When you moved that pan, and took out that fire,” Salem said, changing the subject, “that was remarkable. I can do some things. Freeze time, move objects. But it requires major concentration or a high emotional state. You just blew out a fire like it was nothing.”

  “My Dad—excuse me, our Dad, is full-blooded by six generations. My Mother even longer. I guess using the power comes easier for me. But it is a very simple concept. You don’t really have to think about it that much.”

  “It takes a lot for me to focus on an object to get it to move.”

  “Oh!” Arielle exclaimed. “That’s the problem! You’re doing it the really hard way. Don’t worry about the object, just focus on the air under it.”

  Arielle settled against the headboard and pointed to a picture of David on the dresser across the room. It lifted into the air and floated towards the bed, hovering before Salem.

  “Touch the air underneath,” Arielle instructed.

  Salem ran her hand beneath the floating frame. “Wind?” she asked. “I can feel a current.”

  “That’s right,” Arielle said confidently. “Air is everywhere. And so easy to manipulate. Objects are too complicated, and you have to zone in on every one. But if you master moving air around, then that’s all you have to think about. No matter how heavy the object, just focus on the microscopic spaces between the object and what it’s touching—the empty space—the air. Then once you have zoned into that, expand it, direct more air from other places around the room to merge into it, and soon you have a current strong enough to move anything. There’s always air.”

  “That’s brilliant.”

  Arielle took the picture out of the air and held in her hands. “Your husband was very handsome.”

  “He always was,” reflected Salem. “I keep expecting him to walk in. Realizing he’s never going to walk in again…” Her voice trailed off.

  Arielle set the picture aside and clutched Salem’s hand.

  “I still haven’t been into my son’s room yet.”

  “When you’re ready,” Arielle whispered. “You’ll be able to.”

  Salem looked at Arielle sitting beside her. She felt safe with her around. Stable. Not so alone after all. It was a different kind of companionship than if a Blanchard had been with her. As much as she loved the family, they were not very distracting. They pitied her too much. Or they worried too much when she appeared too strong. But Arielle was a stranger, yet didn’t seem like one at all. Salem felt free to feel or not feel whatever came to her at the time.

  “Arielle, will you stay a while?” Salem asked. “I think I’d like you here with me when this all sinks in. Right now, it is still so surreal. But I have a feeling once the surreal wears off and the real takes hold, I’m going to need you.”

  “I’ll stay as long as you want,” Arielle replied. “Do you want to talk about how you feel tonight?”

  “Not, now. Let’s just get some sleep. Tomorrow I’ll take you in to see my office, and you can meet my boss.”

  The baby. He’s crying. “David, wake up,” Salem moaned groggily. She pushed the body beside her. “It’s your turn.” He always does this, pretends to be asleep so he doesn’t have to get up. She stood and shuffled through the bedroom and down the hall. “I’m coming, baby. Mama’s coming.”

  She opened the door to Michael’s room and went over to his crib. She placed her hand down to grab him. He wasn’t there. “Michael?!” she screamed. “David where’s Michael?!” And she remembered. But that was just a dream, wasn’t it? Footsteps sounded behind her in the doorway. “David?”

  Salem collapsed to the floor in tears, anguish sweeping across the nursery like an ocean wave. Arielle rushed to her side and held her in her arms. Salem’s guttural cries softened into soft sobbing after a few minutes. Arielle said nothing, simply held her until the crying subsided. Then silence fell. A long silence, probably much needed, giving Salem time to process. Time to let some of her sorrow go.

  “This room has Michael’s scent everywhere,” Salem finally whispered. “And David, he’s in this shirt. He’s on the couch. In the bed. They are everywhere. What will it be like when I can’t smell them anymore?”

  “I don’t know, honey.”

  “Every day that comes is going to steal away a little bit more of their scent from me. My Aunt Demitra said something years ago after my Uncle Larry died. She called it the hollow moment. It is the moment when the last tangible thing is gone and all you have are memories and photos. Their favorite drink isn’t in the fridge anymore. The last post-it they wrote on has been tossed out or put away. The last bottle of shaving cream they’d used is used up. When everything in the house is new since they left.”

  “Nothing has to go, Salem,” Arielle said. “You don’t have to toss out anything you don’t want to.”

  “But to hold onto everything would be standing still…Fireflies and cigarettes.”

  “What does that mean?” asked Arielle.

  “Nothing. Just advice from another aunt.”