She opens her palm, exposing the heart of some anonymous desire to me.
It reads only, I wish …
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
In Which I Pick Up a Necessary Part
I don’t know how long I sit with Dulcie. Time seems elastic there under the Wishing Tree. We play charades, which are an exercise in the completely indecipherable and unintentionally hilarious. Mostly, Dulcie hops and twirls and makes wide-eyed faces that, I learn, could stand for anything from Bolshevik Revolution to aurora borealis. My body feels loose and light from laughing. A few feet away, Dulcie totters around like a cat with something on its tail.
“Alcoholic ballerina!” I shout, and she rolls her eyes. “Blowfish in a death spiral! The reason the dinosaurs are extinct!”
She stops, hands on her hips, and blows a lock of hair from her forehead. “Falling star!”
“Wow. You officially suck at this game. I just pwned an angel at charades. Go, me.”
Two of the paper leaves drop to the ground. The ends curl up and decompose.
“What just happened?” I ask.
Dulcie plops down next to me. “Those wishes have been granted. Sort of.”
There’s something that’s been nagging at me for the past hundred miles or so.
“Dulcie …,” I start. “What happens once I find Dr. X and he cures me and the wormhole is closed?”
Her eyes are closed, her head back. “The world is saved, and you are cured. Huzzah!”
“Yeah, I know. But, like, what happens to you? Do you stay here or go back to wherever it is you’re from? Will I ever see you again?”
She jumps up suddenly. “Hey, wanna see me pretend to be an ice sculpture? I’m really good at it. Watch this.” She stands perfectly still, hands pressed together, her left foot balanced against the inside of her right knee. “You kinda have to imagine the caviar in small bowls around my feet.”
“You’re avoiding the question.”
“No,” she says, dropping the pose. “I’m avoiding the answer.”
“I just wanted to know what’s next,” I say.
“You people slay me,” she says with a laugh, and there’s an edge to it. “Always worrying, ‘What will happen? What’s next?’ Always everywhere but where you actually are. You just don’t get it.”
“Get what?”
“Here. Now. This.” She gestures wide, turns around. “This is it, cowboy. The whole ride. Pay attention.”
“Thanks for enlightening me with your advanced angel wisdom,” I snipe.
“Whatever’s needed,” she says, without a trace of sarcasm.
The rain picks up again. In the blink of an eye, Dulcie’s stretched out on a branch above me, shielding me from the damp with a wing.
“Nice umbrella,” I say.
“Like I said, whatever’s needed.”
My dreams kaleidoscope in and out of each other. I’m lying in my hospital bed, listening to the whirr of a respirator, Glory marking something on my chart. I’m in that house by the sea, listening to the tide come in, while the old lady arranges her lilies in a vase. Back to the hospital room, Mom and Dad reading, the TV on, forgotten, Parker Day hosting a game show. The old lady’s house, a closed door. “Want to see inside?” she asks, her hand on the tarnished knob. I shake my head. She smiles, takes her hand away. “Some other time.”
I’m with Dulcie. I can’t hear what I’ve said, but she laughs. She’s beautiful.
Something goes wrong. The Wizard of Reckoning grabs hold. Dulcie’s arms reach out for mine, but I can’t get to her. A dark hole opens in the sky, and they’re pulled inside.
The fire giants lay waste to everything in their paths, and when everything’s gone, they open their jagged mouths wide, one last time, and blow, engulfing me in flame.
When I wake, the woods are calm and quiet, sweet with pine. Dulcie’s gone. A feather rests on my thigh. Nothing’s written on it. It’s blank and fresh as new snow. I bring it to my nose and breathe in her scent.
The rain has stopped by the time I get back to the Caddy where Gonzo and Balder are still crashed out and snoring away. The old man calls to me from his rocking chair on the front porch. “Got yo’ car workin’ fine now. Jes’ needed a lil rest.”
“Thank you. Um, how much …”
“Nevah mind that, young fella. I got som’m you need. Step on in heah.”
He hobbles into the shop and the chair goes on rocking. There’s nothing to do but follow him. If this shop has anything that anyone from the last century needs, I will be shocked. A layer of dust an inch thick covers every surface. The walls are filled with mismatched bins and worn storage drawers. Above each one are plates that say NEW or USED or, more mysteriously, NECESSARY. The old man shuffles along, peering at the titles, searching for something. Occasionally, he makes little sounds under his breath—“hmmm” or “uh-uh” and once an exasperated “Now, that ain’t it.”
