Kelsey Sutton: Some Quiet Place

Things unraveled quickly. Morgan came in search of me every time she knew I was at her house, and she would scream if anyone tried to take her away. I didn’t care, of course, but Sophia was another story. She watched the two of us with narrow eyes and a pinched mouth. Her thoughts were written in every line of her face, visible in every movement. Mrs. Richardson started calling me when Morgan was in one of her moods. She asked me if I was willing to take over as her babysitter—which earned me the money to buy my truck.

Then, one day, the phone calls stopped. The invitations halted. And Sophia began to spend her time with other girls at school. She’d finally had enough. I think some part of her hoped I would grovel, fight for our friendship. But, being me, I did the equations. It wouldn’t work. So, since it would be fruitless to pursue anything, I went on my way.

Mr. Anderson has finally noticed the disturbance in his class and his piercing gaze shoots through Sophia, then me. I scoot down in my seat like a properly chastised student, and with one final glare, Sophia leaves me alone for the rest of the period.

The day passes quickly, and for a few hours everything is completely ordinary. I sit alone at lunch, I listen closely to the lectures, and I don’t talk to anyone in my classes. It isn’t until I’m back in my truck and heading home that I sense it again. That presence. I actually stop in the middle of the road, tasting it, tilting my head as I flip through my memories for a match to this essence. It’s no one I’ve met before, I realize. Yet there’s something so … oddly familiar about it. How can that be? And it isn’t trying to hide itself from me; it’s as if it’s calling to me, hoping I’ll try to find it. Is it an Emotion?

But Dad is expecting me home. The cows won’t milk themselves. I also need to make a call to the hospital to see how Maggie is doing—the normal behavior of a friend. Shifting back into first gear, I continue on my way home.

The presence stays with me until I pull into the driveway; then it leaves, a silent mystery.

I know it will be back.

Everyone has a purpose. There are those who are unfortunate enough not to know what that purpose is, and there are those that are bound by it, thrive in it, know nothing else.

Unlike humanity, Fear and all the rest like him have no governors or presidents or kings. They’re ruled by their own natures, which are hardwired into their every pore, vein, eyelash. And Emotions are not alone in their purpose. There is a design for every single thing. There is a being for Light, Song, Wind, Grass, Life, and Death. Winter, Spring, Fall. The Elements and the Seasons. They are part of our world and apart from it. They exist on another plane, spiritlike creatures that humans can’t hear or see … unless they’re strange, like me. There doesn’t seem to be a limit on how many places they can be at once.

Some of these creatures I’ve met. Most I haven’t. So every time I see an out-of-place being out in the fields, as I do now, I wonder who I’m looking at. It’s dark out, and there’s a thick mist. The figure walks with purpose through the crops, hands outspread. Fog again?

After a few moments, the stranger in the field vanishes, finished with whatever he or she set out to do. I pull my gaze from the window and try to focus on the conversation. Something about football, I think. Friday night. My brother is home for the weekend, as he usually is; he works at Fowler’s Grocery in town until he goes back to college on Mondays. I’m quiet—I think my parents prefer it this way—and keep my head down, studying the patterns in the flowered tablecloth as I pick at my food. Corn and potatoes and pork. Yellow, white, pink.

“Liz, you haven’t said a word all night,” my brother says suddenly, and when I look up, his gaze is gentle, encouraging. Even though he probably thinks I’m weird, like the rest of the town, Charles is kind to me.

Something is off about him tonight, though. I sense it, and I probe Charles’ expression. I suspect it has something to do with school; he told me he’s been having trouble with his classes. I notice the way his hands shake slightly as he lifts his glass, the way his eyes dart to Dad and back to his plate again nervously. Apprehension is behind him, resting his hand on my brother’s shoulder. The Emotion pays me no mind.

“I have nothing to say, thanks,” I murmur. I’ve been watching the situation and I have no intention of taking part in it. If Charles has bad news, Tim—Dad—will need someone to take his anger out on later. Because Charles is the favorite child by far, I know it won’t be him. Instinct urges me to be as invisible as possible until the inevitable storm hits.

“What about your friend Maggie? How is she doing?” Charles asks next.

“She’s fine,” I mumble to the table. To discourage more questions, I shove a forkful of potatoes into my mouth.

Dad says something about football again, and Charles dives back into that discussion. I shift my attention from him to Mom. She looks tired. There’s a new bruise by her temple. She’s doing her best to hide the pain, though. She butters a piece of bread as if it’s her sole purpose in life.

“Sarah, my glass is empty,” Dad mutters, and my mother doesn’t hesitate; she gets up, a weary shadow. Charles says something about how good the pork is. There’s no way to ignore what’s happening, but he’s always done his best. The three of us eat in stiff silence. The food is a tasteless lump on my tongue. Tim keeps his head down and Charles’s knee bounces. My gaze strays to the window again. The mist rolls over the fields.

When Mom comes back from the kitchen, I see that Resentment is following her, touching her shoulder as she sets Dad’s precious milk in front of him and sits down. The chair protests by uttering a long groan. The conversation doesn’t continue. We’re silent, a fragmented pretense of belonging, and we all know it.

When our eyes meet, Resentment nods in greeting. He’s bald—even though they’re immortal, Emotions resemble humans in appearance—and I’ve always thought he looks a lot like Mr. Clean minus the gold hoop earring. “How are you, little one?” he questions me. He’s one of the few Emotions that enjoy talking to me. Then again, he enjoys talking to anyone. Resentment has always had a chatty tendency.

I give everyone an excuse and push my chair back, slipping into the kitchen with my glass in hand. Without looking, I know Resentment will follow. No one would appreciate me speaking to the air, so I’m careful to keep my voice low as I say, “I’m the same.” I don’t bother to tiptoe around his question. When dealing with anything otherworldly, I’ve learned to avoid playing the games they love so much. I twist the knob on the sink.

Water spills over the rim of the glass and splatters against the silver sink bottom. I don’t even notice until I feel the cool splash on my fingers. I turn the knob back quickly. Resentment is appraising me. I move by him to stand in the doorway, watching the people I call family. The walls of the house creak, noticeable now because of the heavy silence.

Although Resentment has released his hold on my mother, his effect lingers. She will feel it for hours. And of course more will come to touch her during the course of the evening; it’s the way of humanity to be consumed by Emotions. She hides Resentment’s essence the same way she hides everything else. The only sign of her feelings toward Dad is the purse of her lips. Something no one else will notice but me.

“Fear has been looking for answers,” the Emotion tells me now. “I actually caught him going through some newspaper archives the other day. I haven’t seen him this intrigued about a mortal in over a decade.”