Sarah Durst - Conjured

With her hand on my mouth, I watch the magic boxes swing back and forth. The boxes are decorated with jewels. Sapphires, emeralds, and diamonds. Each edge is gilded in silver, and each clasp is unique—on one, the clasp is curved in the shape of a cat; on another, it’s split into branches of a tree. Within the boxes are eyes. Blue eyes, brown eyes, black eyes, cat’s eyes, red eyes, all watching as the Storyteller lifts me into her arms .

I see her face—and she is young. Her cheeks are smooth. Her wrinkles have been washed away. Her eyes are clear, with ivory whites and brown irises, as if her old milky-red eyes were glasses that she removed. Her hair is silk-soft and black. Only her hands are still old. She places one of her hands over my eyes .

I am again within a box. This time, I am carried for far longer. I knock from side to side as if being tossed from hand to hand. I see moonlight through the slats of my box. I see sunlight. And then I see moonlight again .

I hear the click of the lock, and the lid of the box is pried open .

“ She’s broken.” A woman’s voice again. Familiar, soothing .

“ She’s perfect.” Again, a man. Familiar, frightening .

I squeeze myself tighter into a ball as he reaches in to touch me .

Eve’s hands were wrapped around a glass of orange juice. She blinked at the pulp that swirled in the orange. Aunt Nicki was talking as she buttered toast. “… doesn’t matter. If Lou says jump, we fetch the trampoline. You have to try harder.”

She didn’t remember coming into the kitchen, sitting down at the table, or drinking the orange juice. She didn’t remember anything since the cafeteria and her last vision. Her hands tightened around the glass. Calm , she told herself. Stay calm . She looked out the window. Outside was bathed in pale yellow, as if it were morning.

“Are you even listening to me?” Aunt Nicki asked.

The clock over the refrigerator said 7:05. She swallowed. It was hard to breathe. Her lungs felt constricted, and the air in her throat felt as if it had hardened. It was morning. It had been late afternoon at the agency. She’d lost all her memories of last night, plus any memory of what she’d done since she woke—everything since her last vision.

She was wearing a pale-purple T-shirt and jeans—different clothes from yesterday. This shirt had a picture of a bird on it. She didn’t remember putting it on, but she must have. She must have slept, woken up, showered, and dressed. Aunt Nicki snapped her fingers underneath Eve’s nose. “You have work at seven thirty,” Aunt Nicki said. “Pretend to care.”

About to reply, Eve looked at her, and the words died in her throat. Aunt Nicki’s black hair was cropped short above her ears, and her face was a deeper tan. Slowly, afraid of what she’d see, Eve twisted in her chair to look at the rest of the kitchen. Dishes were piled on a drying rack, enough to have been used for multiple meals. A collection of cereal boxes lined the counter. A half-eaten loaf of bread was shoved on top of the refrigerator. Photos were stuck to the fridge—more of her and Aunt Nicki. One of them had Aidan, the blond boy from the agency.

She crossed to the fridge. With shaking fingers, she eased the photo out from under a “Remember to Recycle” magnet. She and Aidan were next to each other in a booth. A pizza was on a checkered table in front of them. Both of them were smiling, and Aidan’s arm was draped around her shoulder. She put the photo back on the fridge. She straightened it, shifted the magnet, and straightened it again before she finally stepped backward and inhaled.

Aunt Nicki was watching her.

“I …,” Eve began. She didn’t know how to finish the sentence. “I need to get ready for work.” She fled the kitchen for her bedroom. Shutting the door behind her, she leaned against it.

She saw little differences. Her sheets were rose-striped under the quilt instead of blue, and a stuffed monkey was propped up on one pillow. She’d never owned a stuffed animal as far as she knew. Leaving the door, she crossed to it and picked it up. The monkey’s head flopped to the side. Clutching the monkey, she examined the rest of the room.

The birds were still missing from the wallpaper. She checked the top drawer—still there. But the other drawers were full of socks, underwear, shirts, and sweaters. She opened the closet. A few skirts and pants hung from hangers, and a few pairs of jeans were piled on a shelf. There was a mesh hamper half-full of dirty clothes that she had no memory of wearing. Eve closed the closet and hugged the monkey.

She hadn’t forgotten a few hours. She’d forgotten days. Maybe weeks. Bouts of short-term memory loss , the doctors had said. Her mind had betrayed her. Again.

She started to shake so hard that her knees caved, and she sank to the floor. Closing her eyes, she tried to summon up any memory of the time between when she’d collapsed at the agency and this moment. Just one conversation. Or one breakfast. Or one sleepless night. She must have done something —the photo of her and Aidan with the pizza proved that. She remembered every detail of the moments before the vision: the white-hot sparks on Topher’s fingers, the lazy smile on Aidan’s lips, the flat stare of Victoria’s snake eyes. Victoria’s eyes had been golden. The billiard balls had been purple, blue, and red. The cafeteria had smelled faintly of pepperoni pizza and coffee, and the air had tasted stale, pumped in through the air-conditioner vents. She could resurrect every moment in her mind, including the vision of the silk ribbon with silver-edged boxes that shook as the wagon was pulled over bumps, cracks, and potholes in the road. After that … there was nothing. A blank, empty swirl in place of her memories.

Eve heard the door to the house open and shut. She listened to heavy footsteps in the hall. Outside her door, Aunt Nicki greeted Malcolm. Eve knew she should stand, but she felt as if the weight of the lost days held her to the floor. How many days? Or was it weeks? Months? Weeks , she guessed. Judging by the clothes and the trees outside, it was still summer. She could stand, open the door, and ask Malcolm … but she couldn’t face the sight of his eyes, of the disappointment she’d see there.

A knock on the door. “Ready, Eve?” Malcolm called.

No , she wanted to say. But then she remembered the door had no lock. He could open it. She peeled herself off the floor and called, “Coming!” She laid the monkey on the pillow and crossed its arms so it looked as if it were defying the world, and then left the room.

Malcolm waited for her in the hall. Eve pasted a smile on her face, but he only glanced at her and then headed out the door. She followed him out of the house.

Outside, it was humid. The sticky air prickled on her skin. Eve sucked in a breath and smelled overripe trash. She heard a dog bark once, but didn’t see anything move in either direction. Even the leaves were motionless on the trees.

The car was red with a gash on the back door. She’d never seen Malcolm in anything but a black car. She thought about teasing him, saying the car was blushing in embarrassment at the gouge in its paint—that seemed like something he’d like her to say. But maybe she’d already made that joke. It wasn’t a very good joke anyway. She climbed into the passenger seat without saying anything.

Malcolm got into the driver’s seat and locked the doors. His muscles were tense. He hadn’t been this tense before. She wondered what had changed in the missing weeks.

Anything could have happened. Or nothing. She didn’t know which would be worse.