Charles De Lint - The Ivory and the Horn

I'll be glad when I've regained my strength. I think I've caught some bug— a summer flu or something— because I keep getting these waves of dizziness that makes the room do a slow spin. It only goes away when I rest my head.

I forgot to mention: I checked my weight this morning, and I'm right at a hundred pounds even. When I look in the mirror, I still see some flab I could lose, but I really think I'm getting there. Once I hit a comfortable ninety-six or seven, I'll switch to a hold-and-maintain diet. Well, maybe ninety-five. No point in going halfway.

I just wish I didn't still want a cigarette. You'd think the urge would be gone by now.

Jim's been on my mind a lot. I'd really been enjoying our telephone conversations. I find I can relate to him so much better knowing that he can't see what I look like when we're talking. It seems to free me up and I found myself talking about all sorts of things— the kinds of conversations I had when I was in college, when we were all going to change the world.

A couple of miles back towards Newford, there's a diner and garage sitting on the corner where a County road Crosses the highway. I noticed a pay phone in its parking lot when I drove by. I'm thinking of driving down tomorrow evening and giving Jim a call. This time I'll really be out of town. The only thing I worry about is moving the car too often. If I keep driving over the lawn, anyone with half a brain will be able to see that someone's staying at the motel.

Then I laugh. What am I worrying about? I'm not trespassing. I paid for my room.

I wonder what a ghost does with money.

I give Ellie a little longer to show up, but when the minute hand's crept to quarter past ten, I finally put on a jacket and go outside. I want to clear my head. It takes my eyes a few moments to adjust to the dark. The night gets absolutely black out here. The stars seem so close it's like they're hanging from a ceiling the height of the one in my unit, rather than in the sky.

But you get used to the dark. Your eyes have to work harder to take in light, but after a while you can differentiate between shapes and start to make out details.

I look around, listening to the crickets and June bugs, the frogs down at the bottom of the pool. My gaze crosses the lawn to where the rose bushes have overgrown the wishing well. After a while I cross the lawn. The tall grass and weeds make swishing noises against my jeans. My legs are damp from the dew, right up to the knee, and my sneakers are soon soaked.

I use my flashlight to light my way as I squeeze through the rose bushes, but it's a more awkward process than it is by day and I'm nursing a few thorn pricks before I make it all the way inside to the well. I shut off the light then and put a match to the candle I brought. There's not much of a wind at all, just a slight movement in the air so that the candle casts shadows that make the rose thicket seem even denser than it really is. I pretend I'm— well, not Sleeping Beauty, but one of her handmaidens, say, hidden away behind the wall of thorns. Did they all sleep straight through the hundred years? I find myself wondering. Or did they wake from time to time and glance at their watches, thinking, "When is that prince coming?"

It's weird what'll go through your mind when you're in a situation such as this. There are people who pay good money to go away on spiritual retreats. I always thought it was kind of weird, but now it's starting to make a little sense. When all you've got is yourself, it changes the way you think. You have the freedom to consider anything you want, for as long as you want, because there aren't any distractions. You don't have to go to work. The phone won't ring. Nobody drops by your apartment. It's just—

"So what are you hiding from, girl?" a voice asks.

I'm so startled I jump about a foot off the fieldstone wall. This is getting to be a bad habit of hers, but I've got to admit, Ellie sure knows how to make an entrance.

I see her sitting on the edge of one of the benches, the candle's light playing a thorny pattern on her white hair. She never made a sound, coming through the bushes, but then I guess a ghost would just float through.

"Who says I'm hiding?" I ask.

"Everything about you says it."

I shake my head. "I just need some time to be by myself, that's all."

"You're not a very good liar," Ellie says. "I think the only person who believes you is yourself."

"I'm not lying," I tell her, but the words ring as false to me as they obviously do to her.

If I stop to think about it, I know she's right. I have been lying, most of all, to myself.

I look at her, half-hidden in the dark, and find myself telling her what's brought me here: all the messy baggage that I seem to drag around with me wherever I go. I have to laugh at myself as I'm doing it. In the stories, it's always the ghosts that unburden themselves.

"What makes you think hiding'll make it all go away?" Ellie asks when I'm done.

"It won't, I guess. There's a lot I'll have to face up to when I get back. I know that. But at least I'll be able to do it with a little self-esteem."

"Seems to me you're just going to the other extreme," she says.

Like she knows me so well.

"You don't know what I'm like," I say. "You don't know how hard it is, just trying to be normal. To fit in."

She seems to consider that. "It's easier when you're my age," she says finally. "Nobody expects you to be pretty or fashionable. You can be as pushy or as cantankerous as you want, and they don't blink an eye."

"I suppose."

"It was easier when I was younger, too," she goes on. "Oh, we had movie stars and singers to look up to, the pretty girls in the Coca-Cola adverts and all, but there didn't seem to be as desperate a need for a girl to make herself over into one of them. We all wanted to, but we didn't have to, if you get my meaning."

I shake my head.

"You didn't have to be pretty to land yourself a husband and raise a family. You just had to be a good person."

"Like the best looking girls didn't get the best men," I say.

"If you think the girls you see as pretty are any happier than you are, you don't know much about anything."

"Yeah, well—"

Ellie doesn't give me a chance to speak; she just barrels along over the top of what I was about to say.

"What you don't understand," she tells me, "is that all these problems you've got— none of them are your own fault."

"Oh, right. The old cop-out: Society's to blame."

"It is, girl."

"Brenda. My name's Brenda."

I hate the way she keeps calling me "girl."

"Society makes you get all these expectations for yourself and then, when you can't meet up to them, it screws up your life. You spend money you don't have because you're trying to comfort yourself. You smoke because you imagine it relieves your stress. You lose weight, not because you need to, but because you think if you can look like some woman in a magazine your life's suddenly going to be perfect. But it's not going to work that way.

"First you have to accept yourself— just as you are. Until that happens, nothing's going to get better for you."

At least she's not going on about my father, the way the therapists always do, but it still all sounds so pat. And how much did she make of her life? Working her ass off trying to keep her business afloat, having to declare bankruptcy, probably dying broke in some alleyway, one more burned-out baglady.

"What would you know about why I'm doing anything?" I say.

"Because I've been there—" she hesitates for a moment "— Brenda. I spent too much of my own life trying to be somebody that everybody else thought I should be, instead of who I am. If there's anything I regret, if there's anything that really gets me riled up still, it's all those years I wasted."