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three

Astoria

I scarcely remembered the last time I showered. Dry shampoo, could only lie for so long before the truth started to show. Eventually, I would have to go home to shower and grab more clothes.

It was day eight since Death’s sudden appearance, and Piper, who only ever had a happy-go-lucky disposition, was beginning to worry about me. But the thought of leaving Ishani’s side was unfathomable, especially when Death lurked close by.

His sinister presence was presented in every slam of a door, in the echoes ringing throughout the cold halls, and in the frequent crows passing by the window.

Even the room number carried on his haunt, and every thirteenth dose of meds given to Ishani seemed to tear at her body, making her cry out in pain, reminding me that I’d soon have to make a difficult decision.

He’d warned me that her time was drawing near, as if the evidence was not in front of our eyes.

I’d learned years ago that my gift could only be used when someone was already dead, their spirit somewhere in between.

Freshly gone from this side of existence, but not quite crossed.

I was useless now. There was nothing I could do, not when she still drew breath.

Each one labored and dense, the cancer weighing against her small body.

I thought watching my children age and die had been hell itself, but I was wrong. They lived full lives. Ishani was only ten. She had a long and beautiful life ahead of her. It was torture to watch her fight.

If I left, for something as trivial as a shower, Death could take her and I would be none the wiser, with only minutes to steal her spirit back. Bring her back to me . To her mother, her father, to the side of the living.

I could recognize that I was becoming irrational, my fear overpowering all common sense, but going home was too substantial of a risk.

I’d lived my life by risks, and this was one I was not willing to make.

My back ached as I stretched it for the hundredth time today, standing to twist the sore muscles away. Piper stepped out in the hall with Regina to talk over Ishani’s newest regimen of meds that continued to make her sick.

“Elizabeth?” Ishani called out weakly, her hand rising from the sherbet tie-dyed blanket.

“I’m here,” I assured, coming to sit beside her.

She was nestled between two huge stuffed animals, one an octopus we’d bought at the aquarium last summer and the other a unicorn that appeared with a reassuring note when she was first diagnosed.

Both, she couldn’t live without. Smiling down at her, it was a comfort to find her brown eyes still shone with that glimmer of gold, a telltale sign that our little fighter hadn’t lost her spark.

“Where’s mommy?”

“Talking with Miss Regina, do you need me to grab her?” I stroked her forehead, right above her nose and up toward her hairline in a repetitive motion. She’d found it soothing as an infant and even now it calmed her.

“No, will you tell me a story?”

It wasn’t a surprise; she had asked me this many times as she grew older.

The thing was—I wasn’t an exceptional storyteller.

I’d spent many evenings wandering bookstores looking for new stories to pacify her.

But sometimes I felt a strange compulsion to tell her my story, to share Astoria’s life with someone who might remember her, even if she believed it all to be fiction.

“About Astoria?” she said, peeking one eye open at me as she nestled herself further into the blankets with a shiver.

With one pout, I was defenseless against her. “Alright, where were we?”

“Her daughter…” Ishani trailed off.

I frowned. She was going to say we left off where Astoria's daughter died. “Hmm…” I pulled a chair closer and Ishani reached for my hand as I settled in, propping my feet up on the end of her hospital bed. “Beatrice passed away from a terrible sickness.”

“Like me?” she asked.

My nose pinched as I shook my head. “No, not like you. You’re a fighter.” My daughter was a fighter too, but some battles were lost before the first draw of a sword.

Ishani shrugged, her narrow shoulders moving up and down again with heavy breaths, furthering my heartbreak.

“Bea was sick and passed away. Astoria was unable to save her because she had already brought her back to life once before, and so Astoria went far, far away.” The more I spoke, the more I was certain this wasn’t a story for children.

It did not have a happy ending and each detail of my life made me feel raw and exposed in a way I wasn’t prepared for.

“What about her boys?”

That question pained me more than I cared to admit.

My sons were devastated when I left for London. Things were changing, too much time had passed, and I would have had to pretend to be someone in their life that I was not. It wasn’t an easy choice, but it was the right one.

“That’s a good place to start,” I murmured, glancing back at the setting sun.

It was October, the nights had grown long and the days shorter.

The break of sunshine waning, similar to the skies almost seventy years ago.

“Leo and Arthur were sad to watch Astoria go, but they knew it was for the best. They said their goodbyes and sent Astoria off on an ocean liner to London, England. Do you know what an ocean liner is?”

She shook her head, playing with the stuffed octopus in the air.

“An ocean liner is a giant cruise ship that sails around the world. It took Astoria from New York to London.”

Her eyes lit up. “Like the Titanic?”

“Yes, like the Titanic… but without the giant iceberg,” I said with a grimace. The journey was only four days, but the experience was one I wouldn’t soon forget.

From the moment I stepped on that ship, I was enamored; it was a magnificent and giant beast, it’s opulence a luxury I did not deserve and spent a lot of time hoping the boys hadn’t paid too much for.

Leo and Arthur were devastated when I told them of my plans to leave, but they agreed I could not live my life locked up on our family estate.

They were dutiful sons. Doting, loving, kind, compassionate.

The curse meant nothing to them, and they never treated me as if I was anything but their mother.

Leo, my firstborn, was my sun and moon. His birth was a joyous occasion that even my grumpy mother celebrated.

All of the Tempest women gave birth to daughters, and when nothing obvious had afflicted me on my twenty-second birthday and just a year later I gave birth to a boy, we all wrongly believed the curse had been defeated.

He was as stubborn as his father, but unlike James, Leo was gentle and thoughtful.

Arthur, was born three years later in the middle of a summer storm.

His birth was difficult and James scarcely made it home in time to see it.

Reminiscent of the night of his birth, he was thunder and lightening.

Loud and rambunctious, he often came inside far past his bedtime, covered in mud, sporting a new bruise or two.

His trophies, he called them. There wasn’t a challenge he ever shied away from.

I had been restless for years, even before Beatrice had fallen ill.

Influenza took her from us only nine years after I had saved her and my husband James died.

A notion that made me dizzy, considering now you walked into a drugstore and received a shot to prevent such things from happening.

The boys were adults, running their fathers company and beginning to work at having families of their own.

When I left New York ready to start anew, it was in the hope that I was leaving that piece of my life behind.

Tragedy had dug its claws deep into my flesh.

My heart was heavy with grief—for my daughter, for my sons, for my lot in life, and for what was ahead of me.

That weight grew heavier each day, knowing that I would not see an end.

I’d have to bury the boys, their wives, and their children too. It was too much.

So, I left.

Except that anywhere I went, Death lurked.