Page 51 of Fear No Hell

Calliope

“Mnemosyne, daughter of Gaia, consort of Zeus, mother to the muses nine.” I lower the tied cluster of dried Forget-Me-Nots and pansies into the flame of the candle before me and watch as they catch fire.

Before they can burn to nothing, I drop them into the amethyst offering bowl—a tremendous find by Sam of the crystal most connected to my mother that had taken a week to arrive—and smother the flames by pouring water over them.

As the charred floral scent and smoke waft around me, I utter the final words of the invocation, the ancient words practiced on my tongue after decades of saying them in Arthur’s attic.

“I summon thee on this night of the waxing crescent moon, your time of power, to come to the aid of your eldest daughter, the muse Calliope.”

And then I sit, centered in a circle of myrtle branches, and wait. I wait there until the sun comes up. Until Sam gets home. Until he finishes preparing breakfast and comes to lean quietly against the doorframe across from me, his stance casual but his eyes watchful.

“She didn’t come?” Sam kisses my hair gently as I wrap my arms around him.

“No. Not too big a surprise, though. She didn’t come once when I tried to summon her in the attic.”

That flash of obsidian covers Sam’s eyes, the blank darkness that covers his hazel irises and white sclera completely. I’ve been seeing it happen more and more often, especially when he grows angry like he is now.

“It’s okay, my love.” I press my fingers to his lips as he parts them to speak.

“She’s most responsive on waxing moons. We’ve got another nine days before the last waxing gibbous moon of the month.

And then another four waxing crescents at the end of the month.

Eventually she’ll get tired of hearing from me and respond. ”

If he hears the doubt in my voice, he doesn’t comment on it.

“Any luck with your mom?” I ask. He has been trying to get in contact with her for months, doggedly calling and texting her in the hopes she’ll respond.

On a few memorable occasions, he went to her house to, and I quote, “make sure she wasn’t decaying in her kitchen.

” She wasn’t, which made her radio silence even more bizarre.

Despite hundreds of phone calls and even more messages, she hasn't responded.

And since we've started trying in earnest to contact her over the last few weeks? Nothing.

“Nope. Straight to voicemail again.” Sam shakes his head.

“You know how long I had gone without speaking to my mom before this? A month. That was the longest I ever went without talking to my mom before this year. Even when I was hospitalized, she came to see me every day. We usually talk at least once a week. And yeah, it’s mostly because she calls me but still.

Now she drops a cagey, life-changing factoid and I actually need her, and she just fucking vanishes for months? What the fuck?”

“We’re a pair, aren’t we?” I muse, taking a seat at the table in front of my plate.

Sam snorts and rolls his eyes as he drops into the chair next to me. “We did great in the parental lottery, huh?”

“Could be worse.”

He lifts an eyebrow.

“They could be Hitler.”

His mouth drops in surprise seconds before he cackles. “Way to put it into perspective.” He intertwines his fingers with mine. “Could be Charlie Manson.”

“Touché.” I lift a finger victoriously. "Henry the Eighth."

“Pol Pot.”

“The Turpins.”

"Jim Jones."

"Oh gods, I nearly forgot about him. He was an absolute dickhead." I giggle before it turns into a grimace. "I mean, even outside of the mass murders.”

“Wait, you knew him?”

“Yeah, for a brief time. He was writing a manifesto in the early days of Jonestown and begged me to inspire him. Seriously, days of sanctimonious pleading. He wouldn’t shut up. So I showed up for a few days, saw what he was writing under my inspiration, and left immediately.”

“That wasn’t all you did, though, was it?” he asks.

“Ummm. No.”

“What did you do?” There’s a smirk on his face that tells me he already knows the answer to his question.

“Well… I may have gone to a couple of journalists Jim Jones thought were plotting against him and inspired them to write an investigative piece on Jonestown.”

“That’s my girl.”

I chew at my thumbnail. “The allegations in the article they co-wrote were the reason Jones and his cronies left for Guyana permanently in '77.”

“Don’t go there.”

“And it formed the early foundations for the Congressional investigations that resulted in the—”

“Nope, you’re not responsible for what you inspire.” He squeezes my hand. “You can’t make everything your fault, sweetness, no matter how easy it might feel.”

I shoot him a weary smile and squeeze his hand back.

I have no idea how he doesn't get tired of me.

It feels like every step forward into comfort and happiness with him is punctuated by ten steps backward when some unexpected, ugly memory of the things I've faced—Arthur or otherwise—rears its head.

“I know. I know.” His thumb rubs over the pulse on the inside of my wrist reassuringly. "I'm sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry about." He lifts my hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to the back of it. "It's hard to stay present in a happy moment when the rough ones keep dragging you back."

I squint at the unusual phrasing. "Therapy?"

"Therapy," he confirms as he lowers our joined hands back to the table and picks up his fork with his free one. "That little gem courtesy of Dr… Mulligan, I think? She was full of popcorn therapeutic sayings that would probably make a killing on TikTok. 'TikTok Therapy' or some bullshit like that."

"Careful, my love, your professional snobbery is showing."

"I know, and I stand by it," he says resolutely and without a hint of apology.

"Somehow I don't think telling your teenage patient who just tried to kill himself, 'your world is what you make it,' is a good idea.

Like, imagine if I told a patient, 'your body is a temple,' after they got shot. Feels wrong, right?"

A sudden protective rage surges through me at the idea of my sweet Sam, scared and fresh off a suicide attempt, being lectured at by a therapist with zero sense. "Want to hang her up with Arthur?" I'm only half kidding with the offer.

"I think we can leave her to her corny, barely ethical witticisms. We'll save the basement for the really bad ones."

Feels like Dr. Mulligan is one of the really bad ones if she couldn't be bothered to help my Sam when he needed it.

With a grumble, I dig into my meatloaf—which is unexpectedly delicious for something called "meatloaf"—and we settle into an exhausted silence that remains unbroken until Sam rests his fork on the side of his plate.

“Hey, um, I wanted to ask you something. It’s not a big deal, though, if you don’t want to do it.”

I tilt my head at him, intrigued by the nervous tremble in his voice.

When he doesn’t start talking again, my stomach sinks.

“What’s wrong?” He wasn’t even this nervous when he told me he loved me the first time.

How bad must it be if he has to build up this much courage to say it?

My mouth goes dry as he chews at his lip. “Sam?”

“Doyouwanttocomewithmetomyresidencygraduationdinner?” he blurts in one long word scramble that’s unbroken by breath.

“My love, I didn’t understand a single word of that besides ‘dinner.’ And while I’m always game to eat with you, it feels like there’s more to this ask.”

“I-I finished my residency at the end of May.” He fidgets in his chair. “And the hospital likes to make a big deal over their graduating residents because, y’know, it’s a brutal program.”

“Okay?”

“And so, um, they host a big dinner—this year it’s at The Hampton Social—and invite the residents and all of the hospital staff that work with us.

And we can bring a plus one. Y’know, if we have one.

” Another shift, and he bites down hard on his lip before blurting out, “Would you like to go with me?”

“So it’s to celebrate you graduating from your residency program. And you becoming a full-time attending.”

“Yeah. I mean, more the first thing since I’m the only resident who got brought on permanently.” He’s still chewing on his lip like he thinks I’m going to say no.

“You want me to go?” I ask quietly.

“Of course I do.” He blinks in surprise. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because I look like this?” I gesture at my body.

My tattoos are everywhere, covering my body in lines of varying thickness from my feet all the way up to my neck.

My claws appear to be permanent at this point, long, pointed, and black.

And my irises are red more often than not.

I look like some otherworldly version of myself and not at all like a doctor’s significant other.

“You’re perfect. Why would the way you look be a problem?”

“Because I’m-I-shouldn’t you be bringing someone respectable looking and gorgeous with you?”

“I am.” He takes a bite of his meatloaf. “I’m bringing you.”

“Sam—”

“Lila, you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.

” He pushes back sternly. “So you have tattoos and claws and what look like colored contacts. You won’t be the only one.

We live in the city. It’s more likely than not at least one of the resident’s spouses will have tattoos.

And, even if they don’t, who the fuck cares?

I want you there with me. Not to mention all of those things you think aren't respectable are actually fuck hot.”

I duck my head at the compliment. “Okay.”

“Okay?” A hopeful expression starts forming on his face. “Okay as in you’ll go with me?”

“Yeah. Yes, I would love to celebrate your accomplishment with you. I’m so proud of you, my darling.” I squeeze his hand hard before asking, “When is it?”

“On the sixth. I already picked up something for you to wear. Just in case you said yes.”

My heart squeezes in my chest at the thought that he ever thought I might say no.

“I’ve been trying to invite my mom too…” He trails off with a sigh.

We eat the rest of our dinner in silence and crawl into bed together.

My head’s on Sam’s chest, right over his heart where I can hear its steadfast rhythm.

Count every thump, each one a resonant reminder that it beats for me.

My mother may not care enough, love me enough, to show up for me, but Sam has proven time and time again that he does.

“I love you, sweetness,” he mumbles in a sleepy voice.

“I love you too, Sam.” I press a kiss to the skin above his heart. Resting in his arms, my optimism from before feels more real now than it did earlier, and I sink into another night of dreamless sleep surrounded by the only love of my very long life.