THE FIRE SAGA

SPARK 1 - OBLIGATION

We drive in silence. I wish for a knife to cut through the suffocating tension. While the March air is seasonably brisk, I still feel overly warm. I have since lunch.

My tropical moments are increasing in frequency, but I can't discuss the matter with my absentee landlord. Jeremiah Tierney can barely feign pleasantries. A serious conversation about problematic thermostats is fanciful.

I crack the window, earning me a disapproving scowl. The small gap between us might as well be a continent. Unsaid goodbyes separated us long ago, my birth the canyon divider leaving us on opposite sides, and the death of my mother the uncrossable river.

The icy air against my fingertips helps cool me down. I'm not looking forward to our yearly journey, but I know better than to acknowledge the knot tightening in my gut. Emotional avoidance is mandatory. Indifference is my shield, and I can't afford to lower it.

We walk to the mausoleum, our ritual exercise in futility. I allow him to take my hand as we progress with labored steps. It's routine, the closest we'll ever come to a standard physical connection, albeit obligatory. He needs my support, and if I'm honest, part of me needs his.

The heat I've been battling all day centralizes in my palm, causing him to pull away. His disappointment does little to abate the uncomfortable sensation. When we enter her tomb, I draw in a deep breath, the smell of disinfectant burning my nose.

"Hello, my love," he addresses the shell that used to house my mother.

Why does he force this? It isn't like she'll jump up and embrace him in a long-awaited moment of revival. She's dead. Well, dead in the sense of mental capacity. She sort of exists in a comatose state at Ceobhránach Cove Hospital, where she gave birth to me. Her body never left. Her spirit? Long gone, but my father believes he's destined for some fairytale, happily ever after, starring her as the princess and him as the dutiful prince. So far, he's waited faithfully by her side for eighteen years. Plug pulling? Unconscionable.

He slides his hand down the length of her face with nauseating affection. It's only in seeing them together I realize how old he looks. Her face has no wrinkles, and what hair isn't shaved is still a rich chestnut. She's a sleeping angel, frozen in the moment of her murder. How did he look before I skewered his heart?

He motions me closer so she can hear me. I was eager to play along at a young age, but time eroded the appeal of one-way conversations. It wasn't until her ventilator exploded during my first year in high school he stopped encouraging the unsupervised visits. He put up a wall, and I erected one of my own, barricading my emotions. The wall is the only thing we have in common. Lately, mine is showing signs of degradation.

When he motions again for me to join him, I begrudgingly advance to the opposite side of the hospital bed. Always, she's the dividing river. "Our Sheyla's eighteen today," he murmurs.

He hasn't even wished me a happy birthday. Hearing it now is the icing on the cake he didn't get me. You're feeling jealous, Superego calls me down.

"It's been a great day," he continues with grating enthusiasm.

Emotional friction ignites my tinder heart, restricting airflow. "I have to go," I wheeze out.

"Sheyla, we just got here," he scolds.

His playing dad for our non-audience nearly does me in. I clamp down on my tongue until I taste blood before rushing from the room.

The crisp outside air effectively chills me to the bone, chasing away my heat flash. I sit on a bench and watch people enter and exit the hospital, tugging their coats tighter around their necks. Have I ever been cold?

"Do you mind if I sit?" His voice is melted caramel, sticky and sweet, and the scent of his breath reminds me of my favorite time of day, just as the light skims over the horizon. Mmm. Morning Glories and Sunshine.

Stranger danger, Superego cautions. Don't look!

I can't not look.

Rockets go off inside me. His eyes are dripping honey, his hair unruly, rust-colored waves that are brown under the cloudy sky with bits of red visible as the traffic lights the snow-covered ground. I lose myself in the hypnotic color exchange.

You're drifting, Superego chastises. Get a grip.

I shift my gaze to the hospital exit, wary of his proximity affecting me so absolutely. If my father cuts the visit short because of my rude departure, I can avert a crisis.

He follows my line of sight. "Are you waiting for someone?"

My collar strangling me isn't a good sign. We're sitting on the only bench. I can't get up and move. Besides, my inconveniently flaccid knees won't support my weight. I settle for shrugging noncommittally.

He takes a deep breath and tries a second time to break the ice. "I'm Derry Connell."

"That's nice," I mutter. It really is nice. The way he says it is nice. Everything about it is nice.

"And your name?" he pushes.

"Sheyla."

"A lovely name I won't be forgetting soon."

Heat accosts my cheeks, and the more he gazes into my eyes, the more sparks spread, leaving a tingling sensation where they move. I fight the instinct to fan my face.

He grimaces. "You cool?"

I suck in a breath. I'm definitely not cool. His mere presence threatens to release the emotions I've been suppressing for years. My carefully crafted, stoic shield wall has an unsealable crack, courtesy of a stranger danger wedge jammed in there.

Robotic as I endeavor to be, I've equipped a necessary shut-off switch for use in emotional emergencies like this. I move into self-defense mode and pull the lever.

Derry snaps his fingers in front of my face. I see them from my secure location behind the pressurized glass but can't respond. Thirty seconds of awkward silence ensue.

"Where did you go just now?" His eyes narrow suspiciously. "It got so...quiet."

"Nowhere," I reply evenly. He won't believe me, but I don't care. He isn't the first person, nor will he be the last, to witness me in a moment of dissociative weirdness.

"So, you're waiting for someone," he reiterates.

"My dad."

"I'm waiting for someone, too."

"Cool."

"You're a hard sell," he offers candidly.

"Not an interested buyer," I counter.

"Interesting, regardless."

Sitting next to me, oblivious to the danger he's putting himself in by simply breathing, is a wedge by the name of Derry Connell. One chance meeting has destroyed the structural integrity of my blockade.

"Are you free tonight?" He's more than a wedge.

"No."

"Want to see a show at the Rec Room?" He's a sledgehammer.

"No."

"I have it on sound authority the show will be awesome." Crack.

"Good for you."

"My sister's singing." Crack.

"Good for her."

"You know, I'm a very persistent person," he warns.

"And I'm a very consistent person," I warn him right back.

I've never been so thankful to see my father as when he emerges from the hospital. I practically run to greet him.