Our Ashes Will Fly

III. Such People

The moment Alistair and I step into the living room, everything that I expected to happen happens.

My father is sitting in his armchair, reading the Wall Street Journal. When he looks up, and sees me standing in the doorway, the paper drops from between his fingers, hitting the ground with a light rustling sound. He makes this whole fuss about how he's been so terribly clumsy lately, dropping things all over the place, but I know it's because he probably thinks I'm a ghost.

My mother is ripping lettuce for salad, and she stops, the green leaf in her hand torn halfway.

"Sylvie?" she asks.

I want to say, well, who else would it be? but it is kind of true. I haven't been around much. I've been more of a shadow than a daughter. I've crept around them, danced through the kitchen on light feet in the middle of the night, to eat the leftovers of the meal I refused to eat with them. The past year, I've been nothing more than the smoke that sometimes slips out from under my door. I've been nothing but screams keeping them up at night.

"This is Alistair," I tell them. "He's a phoenix."

"Nice city," my dad says. "I've only been once, for business. Only stayed overnight, but fell in love with the place."

"No. He is a phoenix."

"The fire bird," Alistair adds helpfully. He spins, model-like, showing them his wings.

"Oh. And where did you two meet, again?"

"I fell out of a tree, and Sylvie was sitting nearby. So we met because of fate, it seems."

"Oh," my mother says again. She puts on this horrible big smile, cheesy, her lips stretched like she wants to devour us. "Well, are you um, staying for dinner, Alistair?"

"Can I?" His eyes turn brighter blue when he gets excited. He looks at me for permission, and his shoulders droop when I shake my head.

"We're going out," I announced to them all.

"Well, you should find one of your father's old coats for Alistair to wear. The temperature is dropping." My mom looks at Alistair's thin black tee shirt.

"I don't think he gets cold."

"I don't get cold," Alistair says, but my mom points us in the direction of the closet anyway, mouthing get him a coat.

My mother likes taking care of people. That's why my burns hurt her, I think. It's the perfect chance for her. She wants to bandage me up. She wants to kiss my scars until they don't hurt, but I won't let her near. My mother wants to fix me, and she thinks covering the scars will do the trick. But it's what underneath the scars that's destroying me, and no bandages will heal it. I can't let her help me. Letting her help would mean letting her in.

Alistair gets stuck going up the stairs. His wings are caught on both sides of the banister. I have to grab him by both hands, and pull. We end up falling into a heap at the top of the stairs, a tangle of arms and feathers.

I laugh. And suddenly, everything downstairs stops. The pages of the newspaper stop turning. The thumping of the knife against the cutting board stops, and I know my mother had dropped her knife and celery, her neck cracking as she looks toward the sound.

I don't think I've laughed in two years.

Alistair doesn't know why, but he gets that something in the atmosphere has shifted. He helps me to my feet, and gives my hand a gentle squeeze. He takes the feather from behind my ear, and tickles my neck with it, until I'm giggling hysterically, gasping, screaming, "stop it, stop it!" and batting at him like a playful cat.