#<\/p>\n
During the week number three hundred and thirteen I run out of my medications, the little pills in bottles labeled, May cause drowsiness<\/span>.\u00a0 There is a problem with my medical insurance and I can\u2019t pay for the pills out of pocket.\u00a0 Three days later Melissa\u2019s voice, full of torment and pain, calls to me in my dreams.\u00a0 It is no longer a whisper, the way it used to be, but a cry for help, as sharp and urgent as a razor blade pressed against a trembling wrist.<\/p>\n I know about wrists and razors.\u00a0 When told my relatives in Russia about Melissa and me over the phone, they disowned me.\u00a0 I became a lesbianka<\/span> to them–only murdering someone would\u2019ve been worse.\u00a0 I was eighteen at the time.\u00a0 The razor seemed the only way to cope.<\/p>\n When I wake, I find that Melissa\u2019s voice has followed me from the dream, like a pulsing red thread of Ariadne.\u00a0 Instead of meditating it away the way my shrink taught me, I listen to it closely.\u00a0 I will not snap the thread that connects us.\u00a0 Not anymore.<\/p>\n In my backyard where a stunted olive tree grows among knotgrass and oxalis, I dig a hole in the damp soil next to a sprinkler.\u00a0 \u2018If you have a woe, dig a hole and tell your woe to the Mother Moist Earth.\u00a0 Make an offering to Her and to the one who can grant your wish,\u2019<\/span> my great-grandmother told me when I was a little girl, back in Russia.\u00a0 \u2018Superstitious nonsense,\u2019<\/span> I would\u2019ve said a few months ago, maybe even a few days ago.\u00a0 When I came to this country, I made a decision to leave all the superstitions behind.<\/p>\n On the other hand, maybe it\u2019s just the lack of pills talking, telling me to do the things for which my shrink, if he knew, would have me admitted to a psychiatric ward.\u00a0 But after six years of his cream-colored cards, the lake still holds my lover and me captive.<\/p>\n A handful of redwood compost goes into the hole.\u00a0 It smells like decaying pine needles on the forest floor that sees only dappled sunlight.\u00a0 Then I sprinkle in the seeds from different flowers: daisies, begonias, dahlias, dianthus. \u00a0Perhaps one or two will be chosen.\u00a0 I whisper my plight into the hole, my words falling in like droplets of sorrow.<\/p>\n From a plastic jar I pour lake water onto the mound.\u00a0 And I wait, and water, and mark the days on a calendar with a red pen.<\/p>\n When the plant finally blooms, I recognize a dahlia, but not the kind I have ever seen before.\u00a0 Its outer petals are blue, like the lake on a summer day without clouds.\u00a0 The inner petals are as black as the lake at night and among them a moon-yellow center is nestled, bristling with the tentacles of stamens.<\/p>\n I wear gloves to cut the dahlia.\u00a0 The way its colors glow, its melody that I can almost hear, this flower is not meant for human hands.\u00a0 I do not know if the lake will accept this otherworldly dahlia in exchange for Melissa\u2019s soul.\u00a0 Perhaps it no longer knows the meaning of beauty because it has grown used to empty beer cans, candy wrappers and other garbage that people toss into its waters.\u00a0 I have to take my chances.<\/p>\n So, I drive the dahlia to the lake in a closed cardboard box marked \u201cX-mas, etc.\u201d and Melissa\u2019s voice grows louder with every mile.<\/p>\n The night is eerily like the one from six years ago: the drowned moon, the fishy smell of silt, the drooping willow branches combing the waves…<\/p>\n When I drop the dahlia into the lake, it does not float but sinks like a chunk of lead.\u00a0 I wait.<\/p>\n The mist rises, just like before.\u00a0 Fear is a copper coin on my tongue.\u00a0 But I wait for her<\/span> to come to me.\u00a0 She<\/span> steps out of the mist, her lake-weed hair trailing like a bridal veil.\u00a0 Her<\/span> body looks as before: It is made of aquatic plants, fish, a beer can, a candy wrapper, a used condom.\u00a0 Her<\/span> <\/em>terrible beauty that held Melissa captive as she<\/span> kissed my lover\u2019s life away on that night still glows like a will-o’-the-wisp.<\/p>\n My road splits here: She<\/span> will accept my offering or I\u2019ll join Melissa.\u00a0 The lake will take its toll either way.\u00a0 That\u2019s alright with me.\u00a0 Mostly.\u00a0 As I meet her<\/span> glowing yellow gaze, a drop of sweat slides down my left temple.\u00a0 It is chilly as melt water, even though the night is warm.\u00a0 I shiver.<\/p>\n She<\/span> holds her<\/span> hands together, as if harboring a live moth within.\u00a0 The dahlia blossom has replaced the beer can that used to be her<\/span> left breast.\u00a0 She<\/span> nods to me, opens her<\/span> hands and lets a puff of fog rise from her<\/span> palms.\u00a0 Before the fog dissipates, I catch in it a glimpse of a face, a lopsided smile and a dimple in the right cheek.\u00a0 \u201cMelissa,\u201d I whisper.\u00a0 Then I am alone and silence is only silence–it whispers nothing into my ears.<\/p>\n Back at home I keep vigil by the fireplace as I watch the cream-colored business cards turn to embers, then to gray ash.\u00a0 The lake at last has let me go.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n The end<\/p>\n A Witch Without Magic<\/a> (paranormal fantasy novel)<\/p>\n After six years of therapy, Melissa\u2019s voice still calls me from the lake.\u00a0 My shrink\u2019s three hundred and twelve cream-colored business cards sit on my desk.\u00a0 One card for each appointment that failed to stop me from hearing my lover\u2019s … Continue reading ![\"\"](\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/larisawalk.com\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2012\/11\/Cover-page.jpg?resize=228%2C300&ssl=1\" "\\"Cover")
<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"