“And this,” Djuna explained, “assists those who wish to find a wholeness in their lives.” She held up an intricate silver chain, a small purple amulet dangling from the end of it. “It brings coherence and clear-sightedness.” In an effort to divert Zac’s attention, she was showing him the crystals she used in her work as a spiritual healer. Zac felt his eyelids getting heavy. This was boring.
“This promotes harmony, and is helpful in providing a balance between yin and yang,” Djuna went on, lifting another crystal out of the box. “In conjunction with one another, the two can be quite powerful.”
Zac yawned. There wasn’t a TV here, or even any toys. There were little figures that looked like they might have been toys, but Galath wouldn’t let him touch them. “Those are fertility goddesses!” he’d exclaimed. “Leave them alone!”
And there was a cat here, too, a big fat cat. Meaner than Gallagher.
“Okay!” Ariadne sang. “It’s ready!” She stuck her head out of the kitchen door, smiling brightly. “I’ve tried a new recipe.”
It was a new recipe all right. Zac stared at the stringy white mound on the plate in front of him and bit his lower lip. “It’s bean curd,” Ariadne explained. “With goat cheese and alfala sprouts. I also put in some peanut oil and sesame seeds.”
“It’s very good,” Djuna agreed.
Galath chewed thoughtfully. “Actually, to be honest with you,” he said, “I feel the peanut oil lends a bit too much of a. . . nutty taste? But that’s only my personal opinion.”
“I’d rather have Spaghetti-O’s,” Zac piped.
Three sets of eyes turned to look at him, astonished.
“Spaghetti-O’s?” Djuna repeated, as if the very word was disgusting to her. “Spaghetti-O’s?”
“Toxins,” Ariadne shook her head. “Preservatives.”
“It’s not even real food,” Galath agreed. “Spaghetti-O’s, my word. My word!”
“In fact. . .” Djuna began, “do you suppose he’s too young to fast in order to release the buildup of preservatives and toxins found in so many prepared foods?”
Galath and Ariadne considered this. “I suppose he is,” Ariadne agreed. “You should drink a lot of water, though,” she told Zac. “Eight to ten glasses a day.”
“And then can I have Spaghetti-O’s?” Zac asked.
“No,” said Djuna. “Never eat them again.”
Zac bit his lower lip and dug his spoon into the food on his plate, with no intention of eating it. Maybe he’d build a snowman.
“Do you know any stories?” It was dark outside, and Zac had climbed up on to the mat Galath was sitting on.
Galath turned. “What?”
“Stories,” Zac said. “Like about Hansel and Gretel and the three little bears.”
Galath took a deep breath. “Stories,” he said. “Stories.”
“Or about when you were a little boy,” Zac added.
Galath lifted his chin. “My father was a red meat eating Philistine who didn’t understand me,” he said. “My mother, an uneducated housewife who preferred girls to boys.”
“What?” Zac asked, confused.
“I was raised in a confining environment, one that promoted conformity and emotional deadness,” Galath went on. “I was not allowed to express myself freely, nor was anyone else.” He closed his eyes. “I have tried to express my sense of frustration and repression in my art.”
Zac smiled. Art he understood. Art was what Dan did. “You do art?” he asked. “Can you draw me a picture of Cookie Monster?”
“I am a sculptor,” Galath sighed. “I have chosen not to focus on pop-culture icons.”
“Oh.” Zac sighed. “But you still can’t draw Cookie Monster anyway?”
“I have already answered your question,” Galath said.
Zac wandered into the other room and found his backpack. He had crayons in there, and some toys. He found a toy car and slid it across the floor. He found another toy car and crashed it into the first one. When he lifted his eyes, Djuna was standing in the doorway.
“What are you playing?” she inquired.
Zac smiled. “Car smash,” he said. Maybe she would play with him.
Djuna’s eyes widened. “Car smash?” she asked. “How do you play that?”
“First you take one car,” Zac explained, “and another car, and you smash’em up. That’s the recipe for the game.”
If Djuna’s eyes had widened any further, they would have fallen out of her head. “You don’t have any. . . toy guns. Do you?”
Zac shook his head. “Dan won’t let me. He says it’s sick to play with murder weapons.” He looked up at Djuna. “Do you have toy guns? We could play with yours. I could borrow one. Not to keep.”
“Dan is right,” Djuna said. “It is sick to play with murder weapons.”
“I’d give it back,” Zac promised. He bit his lip. “Do you know Dan? Do you know where he is?”
“No, I don’t know Dan,” Djuna informed him. “But he’s right about toy weapons.”
Zac sighed. “I want to go back there.”
“I’m sorry, Zac, but there’s nothing we can do about that, is there?” Djuna asked.
“Do you have a car?” Zac asked.
Djuna nodded.
“You can take me to his house,” Zac said. “Tay has the number.” His lower lip quivered. His eyes filled with tears. “But I don’t know where he is. And I don’t know where Ike is. Or Dan or Nora or Mommy.”
Djuna was becoming flustered. “He’s crying!” she called to Galath. “What do I do?”
“I’m meditating!” Galath yelled back.
“Ariad-” Djuna began.
“She’s straining bean curd.” Galath sighed. “Tell him not to cry too loud. . . it’ll disrupt my concentration.”
Djuna wiped her palms on her skirt and cast a terrified glance at Zac, who had buried his face in his arms. “Um. . . crying doesn’t really solve anything. . .” she began.
“Go away!” Zac screeched. “I don’t want to see you.”
“If. . . if that’s what you want,” Djuna agreed, standing up.
“I want to see my brothers!” Zac wailed.
“They’re. . . they’re not hear right now,” Djuna interjected, but she dodged into the hallway as Zac heaved a toy car at her with all his might. There was a tinkle of shattering ceramic. There went a fertility goddess.
“Perhaps his homeostasis is off balance,” Ariadne suggested to Djuna, concerned. “Perhaps from too many additives.”
Taylor burrowed under an afghan on the couch in Aunt Miranda’s front room. He was hiding from the scary cats. He was hiding from Aunt Miranda, too.
He coughed, pulling the blanket more tightly around him. This was a scary house. Maybe there were ghosts in it. “Ike, I wish you were here,” Taylor said aloud. “You could look under the couch for me.” He blinked back tears. “All Aunt Miranda does is watch her shows all day long. And I can’t go to school, and I bet they miss me. And I miss you. And Zac.”
Taylor drew in a long, shaky breath. “And the cats here are bad. Not like Gallagher. They’re mean. And. . .” Taylor jumped a mile as a loud voice boomed through the room.
“Do you see them too?”
Breathing heavily, Taylor blinked up at Aunt Miranda, who loomed, ghostly pale, in the dazzling moonlight. The reflections on the lenses of her glasses made it impossible to see her eyes.
“See who?” Taylor whispered.
“He’s here.” Aunt Miranda looked to her right and left, leaning her face so close to Taylor’s that he could smell her steamy breath. It smelled like something decaying. “He follows me. And listens in on my phone calls. He reports everything I do to the FBI. They have headquarters next door, you know.”
An icy chill ran down Taylor’s spine. “Next door?”
“Next door.” An evil smile split the corners of Aunt Miranda’s face. “And if you are a bad little boy, I will take you there and they will give you shock treatments.”
“I’ll be good,” Taylor promised, his voice shaking.
“He’s here,” Aunt Miranda said. “Watching us both.” She glided out of the room, cackling to herself.
Taylor pulled the covers over his head and curled into the fetal position, trying to take up as little room as possible. He tried to cry silently, so that the scary man wouldn’t hear him.
“I don’t like this.” the doctor squinted at the thermometer. “His b/p and respirations are up, too. . . keep an eye on him.” She cast a concerned glance in Isaac’s direction and nodded to the nurse. “If anything changes, call me. We can send a blood culture to the lab, to see if it’s bacterial.”
The nurse nodded. “We’ll check his vitals every half hour.”
“Good,” the doctor said. “Keep me posted.”
Isaac closed his eyes and took as deep a breath as he could. His whole body was aching, and he didn’t want to tell the nurse. That would mean more pain medication than he was already getting, and pain medication was like drugs. Drugs were what his mother took. Drugs were why she was so messed up. Concentrate on something else, he told himself. Like the ceiling.
But Isaac had already memorized every crack in the ceiling, and staring up at it again did little more than remind him of how much everything hurt.
He sighed. “This really sucks,” he whispered, remembering Paul. The words made him feel a little better, and so he said them a little louder. “This really sucks.”
And it does, he reminded himself. It really does.
He wondered where his brothers were. He hoped it was somewhere better.