Stranded in Parallel [Chapter 18- Final]

The car that had pulled into the park had clear markings of black and white, and atop it were lights, not turned on, but still visible red and white and blue. Sitting on the grass around me was my backpack, the notebook, and the knife. With hardly a moment to think, I grabbed everything and clumsily scooped it up against my chest

I shoved the knife between the pages of the notebook, then strung my arm through one of the straps of my backpack. The front of my bag banged against my knees as I dashed in the opposite direction.

As I approached the river, the roughly trimmed grass ended in patches of weeds, followed by tall river grasses. The ground beneath my feet turned to mush, and I could feel my shoes start to take on water. I heard shouting for me to stop. The rough reeds caught onto my hoodie and attempted to pull me back. A few steps further, I managed to push through, finding myself in ankle-high water and sucking mud, the river in front of me.

It was at that exact spot where the two rivers met and headed onward. Somewhere in the tiny ripples, the two bodies of water met and became one, their waters indistinguishable from one another.

The notebook had gotten crumpled under my arm, the edges of the paper all creased and folded over. The spine bulged where it held onto the knife. Somewhere behind me, I could hear the voices coming closer, calling my name.

I held the cover to my face, taking in its cold smoothness. Before my mind could change, I flung it forward. It splashed into the water effortlessly, lingering at the surface for only a moment before the flow brought it out of sight.

I almost screamed as a pair of hands grabbed me from behind, dragging me out of the mud and reeds. I held my breath as the men in dark uniforms flipped me around, hissing orders at me. Tears began to roll down my face as I lost sight of the edge of the water.

The next thing I remember was looking down at my muddy shoes, there in the back of the cop car, the doors and windows sealed around me. My cheeks stung with tears, and my hand stung as well, probably bleeding beneath my makeshift bandage. The air in the car was still and getting increasingly warm as the sun glared through the window. A shadow eventually came by to block it out. When I glanced up to see what it was, Mom was looking down at me.

“That’s her,” I heard her muffled voice from outside the window. “Open up the door, please.”

I was in her car next, headed back over the bridge and into town. My heart beat in my throat while I waited for her to ask the first of many questions.

“I called the house on my break. When you didn’t answer, I decided to stop by on my lunch. And you weren’t home. So I knocked on the neighbor’s doors. Of course, none of them had seen you. Not that they’ve seen much of you in the first place. So then I called the hospitals, the police, of course. I didn’t know if they would be able to do anything. It was extremely lucky that they had just been informed of a young-looking transient… a homeless… looking person headed in the direction of the state line. Wearing that blue sweater of yours. This bridge right here crosses over into Minnesota. Did you know that?”

Mom had barely taken her eyes away from the road. That last question sounded more like an accusation rather than wanting to know. Of course I didn’t. I shook my head just in case she was paying attention.

“Did you hurt yourself?” She asked, glancing down at the kitchen towel wrapped around my hand. The cuts I had made still stung. “Is it bleeding?”

“It’s fine.”

“You can’t risk getting an infection. Be sure to wash and disinfect it when you get home.”

I looked down at my lap. “I’m sorry.”

Mom reached over and rubbed my shoulder, eyes still fixed on the road.

“You’ve never done anything that warranted getting grounded, so I don’t know what to do in this situation.”

“I’m sorry,” I repeated.

“You scared me,” Mom sighed, finally glancing my way as we pulled up to a stop sign. Even though there were no other cars around, she rested there at the intersection, her foot on the brake and her blinker clicking. “I can’t even fathom why or how you would come all this way. When I normally can’t get you out of the house.”

I glanced in the side mirror at a car pulling up behind us. Mom finally moved us forward. “I saw something on TV. About something… at the park. I… must have gotten the day wrong.”

Mom let out a low breath from her nose. “You don’t have to tell me the truth. You just have to promise me that you aren’t going to try anything like this again. Running away. From… from what, even? From what, Nat?”

I shook my head and held my hand tight, hiding any signs of the marks drawn on my skin.

“If it’s something I’ve done… something I’ve been doing… tell me. Just know that anything I do, it’s for you. Because I care about you. Nothing about you has felt like a burden, either. Least of all, bringing you to those appointments. Which I intend to keep taking you to as long as it takes to get you better. And don’t worry, it doesn’t cost us anything. That’s thanks to your dad, you know.”

My head jerked her way. “Huh?”

Mom gripped the steering wheel hard despite the straight road ahead. She swallowed hard and shook her head slightly. “I was still waiting to tell you this. I didn’t know how to bring it up. But Dad didn’t just up and leave us. We… planned this.”

“How? Why?”

“These treatments are expensive. Ridiculously expensive. The Tribal insurance covers all of them for us, luckily. But if I were still in the same household with your Dad, our insurance companies would have only taken half. And the one from your Dad’s employer was barely going to cover any of its half. So we had to separate. File for divorce. Simply in the legal sense. We still love each other. But… it also has to appear like we’re separate for the courts. And that I have sole custody of you. So he’s going to keep staying with your uncle over in Minnesota. And the old house is going to stay in our family. And we… are going to stay here. Close to the clinic, so you can keep getting treated.

I… I’m sorry that you can’t see him. That we can’t see him. One day.

Until then… Whenever I’m off at work, I’m going to call you every hour on the hour. To make sure you stay where you need to be.”

I sighed.

Mom cracked a smile and side-eyed me. “Joking. But just a little bit.”

---

Mom kept that promise the rest of the week. I was even woken up a few times early in the morning to the phone ringing, then ringing again when I didn’t make it downstairs in time. The constant calls at least distracted me from thinking about the fate of the notebook.

By the time Friday came around, I was almost back to normal, my health and the cuts on my hand included. All I could feel was the mix of restlessness and anticipation about heading back into the clinic and being hooked up to the machines and their needles.

Once we were in and everything had begun, I was ready to simply sit back and let it happen, even if it didn’t feel like it was going to do anything for me. That room of the clinic and its various sets of chairs were mostly empty those early mornings, but that day, another patient sauntered in. I glanced up in time to see a tanned, taut face hiding behind a mask much like my own, and a mane of long, shiny dark hair.

The nurse guided him to the station one away from mine. “The tech will be around in just a bit to get you hooked up.”

The young man nodded and sat back in the seat. It was only when Mom touched my hand that I realized I had been staring. I turned her way as she flashed a grin at me.

“Stop,” I hissed, slumping back in the seat.

“I haven’t seen you here before,” came the voice from down the other patient.

“I… uh,” I stammered, adjusting my mask over my nose and cheeks. “This is like my second or third time here.”

“We just moved to town,” Mom added. “To get closer to the health care.”

I kicked at Mom’s feet to get her to stop talking.

“I see,” said the young man. “Then we might be seeing a lot of each other. I’m here weekly. Antibody treatment. CVID, it’s a pretty rare thing.”

I glanced at Mom, who nodded. “That’s… what I have,” I said, breathlessly.

“Oh, wow,” smiled the young man. “We’re in the same boat then. And you’re even younger than me, I guess. Are you a middle schooler?”

I bit my lip and shrugged. “I was going… to start 9th grade this year…”

“Oh, I’m going to be a junior at Central High this year.”

Mom petted my arm and leaned around me to intercept. “That’s the one closest to our place.”

The young man winked. “I might see you then… uh…?”

“Natalie,” I said, trying hard to maintain not too much eye contact.

“Hanzee. Short for Ohanzee.”

Stranded In Parallel [Chapter 17]

I barely said anything to Mom even up through Dinner.

“I can stay home tomorrow, too,” she uttered out of nowhere.

“For what?” I said back slowly.

“For… I don’t know what?” She seemed to ask. Her question was more for her than for me. “And it’s not like the bills are going anywhere, either. Hey, if you’re not feeling 100% better before Friday, hopefully the treatment will get you a little bit of a boost.”

I looked down at my food, barely picked at. I scooped up another sizeable bite just for appearances and swallowed it down the best I could. “Sure,” I responded, knowing that it was unlikely.

“I’ll be off on Tuesday too,” said Mom, still lost in her own worries. “Though it wouldn’t hurt to make up for lost hours.”

Her eyes shot over to me, looking at my plate before smiling my way. “Not that we’re going to end up broke, so don’t you worry about that. Done eating?”

I looked at the half-eaten pile of rice and stir-fry on my plate. I nodded. It didn’t matter what question I was responding to. The only thing on my mind was Ohanzee’s plea for help. I had to meet him… somehow, somewhere, for a reason I barely understood. And if I didn’t… I might never hear from him again.

As Mom grabbed up my plate, I clenched my hand, hiding the barely faded markings.

“The sheets are probably done in the wash,” Mom said back. “I’ll go up and make your bed if you want to head up and rest soon.”

“Thanks,” I mumbled, sitting back in the dining room chair. I wanted to pull on my hair and run my head into the edge of the table. I felt as if everything were pulling away at that moment, with me unable to do anything. As I stood weakly, I noticed something by the phone tucked into the end of the kitchen, a big book of knowledge.

As Mom finished tidying, I went to the fridge and peered inside, stalling for time.

“You’re not still hungry, are you?” Mom huffed.

“Just looking for something sweet,” I said back.

“Sugar isn’t good for you when you’re sick,” she scolded. “Go lie back down. We can maybe pop some plain popcorn later.”

I watched out of the corner of my eye as she finally departed. I dashed to the phone book, grabbing up the first chunk of pages in search of anything I could use. Just a few pages in, I spotted what I needed: a map.

“The Red River…” I mumbled to myself, eying the fine drawings on the thin yellow pages. “East…”

---

I barely slept, but that didn’t stop me from perking up the very moment Mom announced her departure that morning. As soon as I heard the door click downstairs, I was up out of bed. My body still ached, but it didn’t stop me from going about the tasks I had thought up in a half-asleep state.

I first went across the hall, pulling off my baggy pajama shirt in the process. With the page of runes open on the edge of the sink and marker in my hand, I began to copy the curing designs down across my chest, up from my underarms where I had left off the day before.

I turned myself back and forth there in the bathroom, making sure everything looked alright before capping the pen and folding the notebook back closed. Back in my room, I pulled on some fresh clothes, packed the notebook into the backpack, and slung it over one shoulder.

I had packed it the night before. The only stop I needed to make was in the kitchen for my final preparations. First was food from the fridge, which I shoved into my mouth unceremoniously. I wasn’t hungry, but I knew I needed fuel for my body. The leftovers immediately sank into my stomach. I didn’t even wait for the last bite to settle before I grabbed up one final necessity from the drawer, wrapping it in a kitchen towel tightly for protection.

I went out the door with my hood up and a mask over my face. It was the first time I had interacted with the door since we had arrived, using the key that I had been given, only for an emergency. This, surely, was one of those cases. If Mom came back before I returned… well, I wasn’t thinking of that.

The wind was blowing, and it almost felt cold compared to the still air inside. The orange morning light was glaring over the roofs across the street, casting fiery streaks onto the row of apartment buildings. My feet took me out of the apartment complex and onto the sidewalk with more courage than the rest of my body could manage at that moment.

I knew that there were no signs of any river in the direction of the hospital and the clinic, so they were probably to the west. If I just traveled the opposite direction, I figured, I would end up across it.

I clung to the straps of my backpack as it bounced around and my feet skipped along on the cracked and weed-infested sidewalks. My breath reflected back into my face from behind the mask, and I could feel my body start to sweat underneath my hoodie. My eyes darted about, glancing at every passing car. I nearly panicked as I saw someone moving up the sidewalk towards me, a dog pulling them along.

I considered dashing across the street, but the thought of tripping and falling and ending up under a car’s wheels deterred me. Instead, an idea popped into my head.

“Hiexcuseme,” I said with a huff. I made eye contact with the person, an old man in a flannel. His little fluffy dog sniffed at the hem of my jeans.

“Can I help you?” He said with a raspy tone, looking me up and down and tugging his dog away. “Are you okay?”

“I’m… going to the river,” I paused, hoping that was enough to make him understand. “Uh, which way?”

The man pulled his head back and started off across the street. “’ Bout two blocks that way,” he directed with a pointed finger. “What’s at the river?”

“A friend,” I mumbled, stepping down into the gutter to get around him. I sucked in a breath to get one last word out to him. “Thank you.”

I barely looked back. After a long stretch of houses, I found a crosswalk leading into another stretch of neighborhood. A patch of trees and wild-looking grasses laid far in the distance at the end of the block. I could feel my energy fading and my legs going all wobbly, but I knew I couldn’t stop.

When I caught sight of the brownish flowing water down past the final road, I almost felt my energy return. But I was yet to arrive at the vertex that Ohanzee had described. I looked both ways before deciding to go up the river, following the wild thicket separating the city streets and the natural state of the river.

I finally found myself at a bridge, a road for crossing from one side to the other. During a break in traffic, I dashed across the road, spending more of my meager energy. Just on the other side of the river was a wide, green park, where the river seemed to split in two. My heart jumped up into my chest.

The whole surface of the bridge shook under my feet as the morning traffic traversed the concrete and asphalt. There was barely enough room for my feet between the white line and the concrete guard rail. Despite the drivers trying their best to avoid me, I could still feel the ripping wind and deafening rumble of them passing by. My stomach began to ache as I marched the last few yards of the bridge. Just as my feet found the edge of the concrete, I was forced to pull down my mask as my stomach emptied itself down the dirt embankment.

Once I caught my breath and blinked the tears from my eyes, I forced myself back up, wiping my eyes and nose on the sleeve of my hoodie. I glanced back at the road to make sure nobody had decided to take pity on me and stop to help. My legs were shaking more than before then, but I knew I was almost at the destination.

Down past a row of hedges blocking off the stretch roadway, I found myself in the sanctuary of the park. There seemed to be nothing special about it, but I knew better. The point where the river split into two was a vertex, where Elohi was concentrated. And somewhere in a different world, Ohanzee was waiting for me.

A grassy peninsula sat between the diverging flows of the river. I pulled the hood and mask off as I settled down there on the grass. The warm breeze danced across my skin as I fished around in my backpack for the notebook and the fresh pencil.

I flipped through all the old writing, the notes taken before our first contact, our exchanges back and forth, the parallel lines, the map of the land, the inscriptions and body markings. A set of fresh, dark writing was present on the furthest page.

I’ve escaped. It wasn’t easy. I’m sorry if my writing is sloppy. A sliver of charcoal is no match for a fine quill and ink. When you’re here, please tell me. I shall keep this page open while I listen to the babbling of the river.

I propped the notebook as best as I could on one knee for stability and began writing. “I’m here. I’m exhausted. But this place is beautiful. I wonder if it looks the same on your side. I can almost feel the Elohi.”

I’m glad that you could find your way here. The response came soon after my pen stopped. I hope I didn’t make you worry too much. At the same time… I’m also worried. About you. Elohi is not the power you might think it is.

“You said Elohi brought us together.”

Ohanzee took no time in writing back. So I did. Elohi is always at work. But despite our understanding of it, it is not the only truth we follow. It is not the sole power to solve our problems. I’m worried you might think of it that way.

I read his words, then again, shaking my head. “But your people use it,” I wrote down in rough letters. “You told me about your healers. You thought you could heal me.”

I thought a lot of things.

Nobody can ‘use’ Elohi. At least not in a concentrated form. Such a thing isn’t even attainable. Nor tangible. Elohi acts on its own accord. We can make ourselves available to it, or open ways forward for it. But it is like the flowing of water. It will always find its own way. Just as you might see before you in the flow of the converging rivers here. The actions carried out by a healer could be compared to damming up a flow or cutting irrigation ditches for a field. And as much forethought as we put in, we are still at the mercy of things like floods and droughts.

I grabbed at the edges of the notebook and shook it, tightening my grip on the pencil in the process. My hand was shaking as I pressed the notebook back into my lap and grabbed at my backpack, slipping out the wrapped object. I slid off the wound kitchen towel from the blade and squinted into its reflection of the sun above. I passed it to my left hand and prepared to write again.

“The tattoos. I’ve copied the markings to my body with ink. All I should need to do now is pierce the skin along those lines, right? Those will… expose my Elohi, let it flow. Right? What happens then?”

I’m sorry for putting that idea in your head. I’ve put in more thought about your situation. You may end up doing more harm than good.

“What else is there?” I muttered aloud. “I’ll show you…”

Slamming down the notebook, I clenched my teeth and slipped the smooth wooden handle of the knife into my right hand before pressing the tip into the opposite palm, right where I had drawn the imagery before leaving my house. With a jab, it pierced my skin. From that first incision, the blade seemed to move more easily. I continued dragging it forward, following the gentle curve that looped around in a spiral before trailing up my arm. The fingers in my hands twitched and I couldn’t help but bite my lip. I began to lose sight of the markings beneath the flow of blood, followed by my whole body going limp, just for a moment. When the world returned, I saw a rough imprint of my palm against the page, colored in a deep crimson.

Stop!

I clenched my bloody hand, allowing my breathing to slow. I held my fist to my chest as I attempted to write more. “Do you see that?” I scribbled, hand shaking, a smile creeping across my face. “The color? The… pain is temporary. I can do it. And if I can’t… There is no good in this place, this world. Nothing in my world has allowed me to come close to feeling or being perceived as normal. As healthy. As belonging. You said Elohi brought us together. If that’s the case, why would it not be the answer to—“

Stop, Ohanzee wrote thick, hasty letters to cut off my next word. The last thing you should say is that you do not belong. We spoke of the divergence of worlds. Remember… the you right now, talking to me, is a result of countless decisions in the past. By yourself and others. It is completely false to say that you don’t belong. And right now, the way forward is only in your hands. Please, do not hurt yourself any further.

I blinked at the knife, sitting in my lap upon the unwound towel. I blinked at my palm, the trickles of blood finding their way deep through the creases in my skin. I blinked at the page, the blood drying and turning brown there on the paper.

I gritted my teeth before writing more. “Shouldn’t there be a world where I can be a normal, healthy person? If the decisions that lead me there are through pain and shedding my own blood, I see no choice but to make them.”

Normal is a word that has no single definition. Do you remember how I described Elohi as being present in all things natural? And that Elohi is called by different names in different parts of the world? In my world?

“What does it matter what it is called?”

Different people understand the movements and composition of nature in different ways. I looked that up too, the ways that the people across the sea in our world view that power. Science is what they call it. Medicine, the word you used. They are all the same.

“You don’t know that,” I wrote, my hand shaking.

You’re correct. I know we’re both pretending to know more than we actually do of our own worlds. Pretending to know that we’ve come to understand each other’s worlds would be the next step. It’s already started to happen. But this sort of knowledge was never meant to cross from one world to another. Worlds are supposed to be isolated. Parallel. Never meeting.

There must be a lot to know about your world that you haven’t learned yet. But be certain of this: there was no mistake in your being born into it. Even if you were born into it as imperfect. The world… every world is imperfect. The world that you inhabit has the mechanisms for holding onto and protecting those who are a product of it. Not any other world.

I could feel my stomach sink. It was impossible to tell if I was going to throw up again or if it was the words hitting me. My hand started to sting as the cuts began to slow their bleeding and meet with the air. I balanced the notebook carefully on one knee. I grabbed up the kitchen towel and wrapped it around the back of my hand, then brought it around the front, looping and fastening the two ends between my right hand and my teeth. By the time my hand was secured, tears were filling my eyes and falling upon the half-written pages.

I wiped the soggy splotches of paper with my makeshift bandage before picking up the pencil to write again. “Then… why any of this? Between the two of us?”

I can’t pretend to know that. No theory. Only a thought.

I would tell you this thought of mine, but that would rob you of coming to a conclusion of your own.

I’m going to turn in this journal. To more knowledgeable, responsible people.

I blinked fast through the tears, clearing my eyes and making sure I read the words as they were written. “Wait, why?”

Elohi still holds many secrets. Secrets that could help people.

I think I’ve helped you as much as I can. Which is why I want you to destroy this notebook of yours. The papers are one thing, but them having access to you is… irresponsible.

“No. I can’t. Why? I… don’t want to lose you.”

I understand. I feel the same way. But you can’t lose what you never had in the first place. That is the intended nature of our two worlds.

The river. The river will wash away the ink, dissolve the papers, disjoin the binding. Give everything back to Elohi.

My hand trembled as I grasped onto the pen, ready to write but unsure of what words to add to the page. With the tears blurring my vision, I could barely make out anything of the words on the page. I wiped my eyes with my sleeve, hoping to muster the strength and inspiration to say one final thing. From the corner of my eye, I could see a car pull off the main road and onto the grass.

“Stay where you are!” Someone called.

Stranded in Parallel [Chapter 16]

Mom nearly force-fed me breakfast when she found out that I hadn’t eaten yet. That was followed by a regimen of pills, both from the doctor’s office and ones that she had picked up at the drug store. I kept myself covered through most of it, hiding my temporary tattoos. Even when I was starting to overheat and sweat more, I could barely uncover myself, under risk of her popping back in at any moment.

Over the sound of the TV, I couldn’t help but listen for her doing something other than hoping to come to bother me. When I heard her start to work through the dishes with water running and plates clattering, I jumped up and snuck back upstairs, my tired legs wobbling the whole way.

Once I was behind the locked bathroom door, I began to scrub at my exposed skin and the unexplainable and certainly conspicuous marks. Neither water nor soap made any visible difference. Before Mom decided to come up and investigate the endlessly running water, I dried myself off and ducked back across the hall to my room in search of something with long sleeves.

I ended up in my hoodie before heading back down, most of my exposed skin covered. Mom was already at the bottom of the stairs, her trap sprung.

“Oh, that’s where you were.”

“Bathroom,” I sighed, trying to push past her.

“Are you drinking enough fluids? I can get you more juice.” She said, following after as I shuffled back to the couch. She stroked my arm, feeling at the sleeve of my hoodie. “Are you cold? Do you need another blanket back here? We can take your comforter off your bed since I’m planning on washing your sheets. They haven’t gotten washed since—“

“I’m fine,” I hissed, yanking myself out of her reach. “Do whatever!”

“Natalie,” barked Mom suddenly, freezing me in place. “I know you don’t feel good, but please don’t take it out on me. I just want to help.”

I shifted back to look her in the eyes. “You didn’t have to come home early today!”

Mom huffed, hands to her hips. “Well, here I am. You know, sometimes I want to have a little extra time off for myself, too. Besides, you shouldn’t be alone when you’re feeling sick.”

“I’m not alone!” I shouted without thinking. I huffed and leaned my face away, wondering why I had said that and how to backtrack. “I mean, I was just gonna’ sleep and watch more TV.”

Mom shook her head and frowned. “Fine, go do that then. I won’t bother you anymore.”

I opened my mouth to say something back, but Mom pushed around me and up the stairs before I could think of anything to say.

I wavered about the hallway until I made it back on the couch. The TV was playing some loud, nagging advertisements to break up whatever show I had tuned the TV to earlier. Despite seeing Mom march up the stairs, I still looked back at the hallway to make sure she wasn’t there.

I slid up the sleeve of my hoodie to see how much of the pen drawing was visible. The marks on my hand had faded just a tiny bit from my scrubbing, but everything up past my wrist was still as clear as day. I pressed at the center of my palm until it hurt, one of my vertices that Ohanzee had described. I shook my head, biting my lip. “What am I doing?” I mumbled to myself, shoving my hands back under the blankets at my side.

My fingers traced the edge of the notebook still hidden underneath. I turned and glanced at the hallway once more. I flipped through the pages absentmindedly.

Yet another page had been filled out. Freshly drawn were the outlines of two humans, or probably just one person, viewed from the front and the back. Their arms were held up in the air at their sides, legs spread just slightly. Within the confines of the drawing were multiple points and arrows and intricate lines, some resembling the inscriptions that Ohanzee had written on the previous page with his notes.

A sole caption at the bottom was written in Ohanzee’s careful writing. The Vertices of the human body and how to find them.

A tracing of one of the books in the library.

I’m in danger. I’m sorry.

I blinked at the last line, then read it again. The writing was thin and sloppier than the others, as if it were running out of ink. I glanced over my shoulder at the hallway. I nearly picked up the pen and started writing when a sudden thump shook the ground floor.

A pile of laundry making its way down the stairs was the culprit, followed by Mom kicking along a handful more. I slid back down into the crevice of the couch, holding the notebook tightly into my chest.

“How many times have you worn those pajamas since they last got washed?” Mom called out.

I silently tucked the notebook back down by my side. “They’re fine,” I called out sheepishly. I spied the pink-purple hue of my sheets in the pile of laundry.

“Well, I’m doing a load or two,” Mom said with a sigh, placing herself in the doorway. “It will make you feel better getting into some fresh clothes. And with your… body, it certainly wouldn’t make you feel any worse.”

I slapped my hands on the back of the couch. “I thought you weren’t going to bother me anymore!”

Mom jutted her head my way. “Sorry for trying to keep you and the house clean so you’re not exposed to every little germ that waltzes its way in here. A normal girl your age would be helping with these sorts of chores. Maybe I won’t bother taking you to the clinic for your treatments every week.”

I stared back at her, ignoring her hollow threat for the truth she had blurted out mid-sentence. “Sorry for not being born normal,” I huffed, settling down behind the cushions of the couch.

“Natalie, that’s not…”

“I know what you mean. It’s why Dad left, isn’t it? He didn’t want the responsibility of taking care of someone like me.”

“Don’t talk about things you know nothing about.”

“I know that he’s nowhere to be found. In my life or yours.”

Mom shook her head sadly. “And I’m truly sorry that I can’t change that fact. If I could have things another way, I would. But life doesn’t work like that. The last thing I want you to do… to ever do… is to blame yourself.”

I wanted to shout something back, but I couldn’t think of anything to say. I gazed at Mom tiredly over the back of the couch before sinking back down, making sure the notebook was still hidden away beneath the blankets.

“Fine,” I huffed finally, grabbing up the TV remote and pumping up the volume as if I cared what the screen was showing.

---

After what felt like forever, Mom switched off from noisily doing laundry and vacuuming to clattering around with dishes and silverware in the kitchen. I soon began to smell the scent of something being cooked.

I took that moment to flip out the notebook again, hoping to find more writing. The rough responses on the page made my stomach flip.

Please let this reach you. I am departing the halls of the academy.

Some little snakes— trouble makers— decided to ruffle my feathers for daring to enter the library on a day off. They tried to take these notes away. An elder got involved and saw what I had been researching and copying down. Asked me why I was doing so. I pulled away and hid. I beg he did not see your words.

I am writing this as fast as possible. If I flee too far from this location… I may lose you. I wish for you to follow. As soon as you are able.

The west of here… a confluence of two rivers into one. A vertex of Elohi. Please.

I could feel my hands shaking. My eyes ran over the words, followed by my fingers. Even though I could feel nothing but paper, I could sense the desperation and earnest in the hastily-scratched letters.

“Are you feeling good enough to eat?” Mom called out.

I jerked the notebook hastily back under the covers. “I… I guess.”

Stranded In Parallel [Chapter 15]

I awoke to Mom knocking on my door early the next morning. I scrambled about the covers, making sure the notebook wasn’t anywhere in view, just in time for her to poke her head in the door.

“I’m about to head off to work, Nat.”

“Okay,” I croaked, rolling over to face her.

Mom sighed, a disappointed look crawling across her face. “How are you feeling today?”

“Fine,” I lied, clearing my throat loudly. A cough crept up from my chest, but I did my best to hold it back.

“I really wish I could be here. I’ll ask to see if I can’t get off early. But in the meantime, I set up the couch downstairs with some blankets and a pillow. So you can rest without having to climb up and down the stairs to get food. Which reminds me, I made…”

“I get it,” I huffed, rolling to face away from her.

“Well, do get some food in you. And I mixed up some juice, too.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ll call you on my break and lunch. But don’t feel like you have to get up to answer if you’re all cozy.”

“Don’t worry.”

“Just… focus on resting, you know?”

I jerked back to face the door. “I get it! Go to work!”

Mom frowned at me, but ducked back out regardless, clicking the door against the frame as she departed. As the stairs creaked under her feet, I shoved my face back deep into the folds of the pillow to hack my lungs out without making too much noise. I held myself there until I heard the ground shake from the door being yanked closed.

Despite my body aching and feeling weak, I couldn’t fall back asleep. Not even after burying myself under the blankets and holding my eyes shut. I forced myself up against the wall and pulled out the notebook, trying to remember the last thing I remembered reading the night before. A few notes had been added about the drawings, embellished with arrows pointing to specific elements within them.

This one goes across your chest. From arm to arm, even across the palms, connecting in the center across your heart and lungs. You can apply pressure in the center of the hand and around the breast bone to find the spots most tender. Those are your body’s vertices, the locations that the inscriptions must reach. Healers inscribe variations of these tattoos on people, depending on the duration and intensity of the sickness.

I ran my hands all over the blankets and wrenched my body over to look on the floor, but I couldn’t find the pencil I had been using. It was dull anyway, I thought to myself. With the notebook in hand, I forced myself up, hoping to carry myself downstairs and look for something to write with.

My knees nearly buckled as my feet found the carpet off the edge of my bed. It took until I was at the doorway before my legs wanted to stay beneath me. The stairs down to the first floor sucked away what little steadiness I had managed to muster up. Stumbling, the notebook fell from under my arm and down several steps as I held tight between the handrail and the opposite wall. My heart jumped as its pages flipped open, splayed open at my feet a few steps down. It took nearly the rest of my strength to shuffle down the rest of the way, plucking up the notebook in the process. I could feel the sweat gathering on my skin as I came to a rest in the kitchen.

Once I could breathe properly again, I began shuffling through the kitchen drawers to find something to write with. Many of the drawers were barely half-full, filled only with things we had packed back from our original home. I finally happened across the junk drawer, containing leftover tape and pens we had used while packing everything into boxes. I wondered if a pen would come across to Ohanzee through the notebook pages like a pencil did. When my eyes landed on the permanent marker, it somehow ended up in my grasp as well.

With writing instruments in hand, I smuggled them back to the living room and placed myself on the couch, turning on the TV simply for the background noise.

“How accurate would markings like this have to be? Would a tattoo artist have to be aware of where my heart is? Like, the different parts and stuff? Should the lines up the arms follow my veins?”

Without knowing how soon Ohanzee would respond, I traded the pen for the marker, examining its tip, then the bluish veins running parallel up past my wrist and onto my pale arm. My eyes followed them up to my elbow, where the same veins had been used plenty for the various injections and blood drawings at the hospital.

With Ohanzee’s drawings right in front of me, it was not hard to recreate them from the center of my hand to my elbow and slightly further. My palm took on something like a spiral, but with curved sections looping back on themselves before continuing up past my wrist. My forearm took on triangles and dashes perpendicular to the main line of travel.

The higher I went, the more my left hand struggled, just barely able to recreate what was drawn on the notebook pages. At the very least, I thought to myself, I could reach my sleeve and armpit before having to stand in front of a mirror to continue to doodle across my chest.

In my concentration, I barely noticed the fresh words responding to my questions.

Did you find someone to do your tattoos? This soon? I hope you’re not trying to do something unwise, if not.

As for your question… Perfection is… not required. Elohi most often finds itself in states of imperfection, honestly. The main goal is to connect your body’s vertices that I spoke of. They are points where Elohi settles within you. The lines fashioned beneath your skin allow them to connect, especially in situations where their connections may have been blocked or severed. That could be what is affecting you. Maybe. I have little way of knowing.

At the very least, I want to share as much information as I can with you. I’m going to descend to our library again today and try to copy over anything relevant I find for you.

I almost responded, but a sudden crack from the front of the apartment made me jump. Even my tired body was able to react on reflex, slamming the notebook shut and hiding away the writing instruments.

“Natalie, I’m home,” Mom called from the front room. “Are you downstairs?”

I hid myself, my freshly marked-up arm, and other contraband under the blanket there on the couch. “Just… watching some TV.”

Mom marched back there a few moments later. “Well, I was in luck. I explained things to my supervisor at work, and she let me go home right away. How about that? Have you eaten yet?”

Stranded in Parallel [Chapter 14]

I laid in my bed, head on the pillow with the notebook beside it, waiting and watching for a response. After my body was warmed up enough, I could feel my body aching, including my stomach. I fought against the fog of my thoughts and the weakness of my limbs to finally push myself up and get dressed. I guess I was thinking that if I got up and got some food, I could act like I was somewhat fine when Mom got home.

I held onto the hand railing as I shuffled down the stairs, one careful step at a time. Several drags of my feet later, I found myself in front of the fridge and its chilly vapors, trickling into the room like slender ghosts. My eyes fell upon the half-full jug of milk.

It was more instinct than conscious thought that brought my hand to it. My arms ached as I held it up and unscrewed the cap. The jug sloshed as I tipped it forward to my mouth, something Mom would have hissed at me for. Something that Dad would have let out a singular shout over. My first gulp came easily, but it was far from enough. The second overflowed my mouth and went into my nose and all over my face. In my surprise, the whole jug slipped from my hands and fell to the linoleum with a hollow clatter and a splash.

“Shit.”

I nearly dove to the ground, and I would have if my reflexes weren’t held back by my weak body. Milk spilled across the ground, pooling around the base of the fridge and the corners of the cabinets. I yanked the jug up as it gave up what little it had left to spill. My head spun as I swished my head back and forth for the roll of paper towels.

With a fistful in my hands, I swabbed the ground, pushing around the puddle until the paper was soaked. My vision started to blur, and I could feel my knees enter the mess. As I grabbed for more paper towels off the roll, the entire thing fell to the ground and into the puddle.

The refrigerator began to hiss, struggling to compensate for the door being left open. I slammed it with the remainder of my strength, nearly collapsing in the process. With tears fully falling down my face, I leaned back against the cabinet door, leaving the mess barely better contained.

My heart jumped as the door clicked with the keys in the lock. I had been in that position for longer than I had expected. The floor still shimmered with the mess. My mom’s work shoes clacked on the entryway floor, and she announced her arrival at the house.

“Nat, I’m home. Are you… down… here…” She trailed off, spotting me on the ground there. “Oh… what’s all this?”

I hid my face in my arm, shaking my head. “I made a mess…” I said, trying to pass it off like it was a joke, like I was in the process of fixing it. “I’ll… get it…”

“Let’s get you off the floor here, first,” she said, trotting over and yanking me by my arm. “Dear, you’re burning up. Are you feeling sick?”

“I’m fine,” I growled, but my legs barely displayed that.

“You can’t even stand,” Mom sighed, shaking her head and holding me under my arms. “How long have you been feeling sick? Maybe it was something we touched yesterday at the hospital. And I was running late this morning, so I couldn’t check up on you before I left.”

I forced my feet beneath me. “I can stand. Let me go.”

Mom hovered behind me as I hobbled to the base of the stairs. “Can you make it? Head back to bed. Don’t worry about… all this. I’ll clean up this mess. I’ll make you something you can put down easily. I’ll… call in to get tomorrow off so you’re not just here by yourself.”

That last sentence made my hair prickle, as if it were a threat. “I’m fine!” I shouted, hefting myself up the next few stairs. “All this over a spill? You need to go to work. I’m fine.”

I glanced back down the stairs once I had reached the second floor. Mom was still staring up at me. She shook her head finally, hands on her hips, before turning to face the kitchen.

I dashed into my room and flopped down on my bed as my sudden burst of energy was fading. With what little I had left in me, I hid the notebook back under my pillow and laid myself up like I was simply waiting.

Mom eventually came with a bowl of food, her famous flavorless porridge that tasted like a book if it had been blended and boiled for hours. Mom sat on the corner of my bed and patted at my legs under the comforter as I forced several slow spoonfuls down, avoiding looking up at her. She mumbled out various vague apologies about Dad, about having to work so much, about moving, and about how I had to live like this. I handed her back the half-eaten bowl as a sign to get out.

“Well,” She sighed, taking the bowl. “I called, but because I’m still in my probationary period, I can’t call out. I just feel terrible about leaving you here all alone.”

“I’ll be fine,” I mumbled, still looking at the comforter instead of her.

“There’ll be some of this left over, and I can put something proper together too…”

“I’ll be fine,” I repeated, a little louder.

“I know, it’s just… how about I call you on my breaks and lunch?” She said, patting my knee. “Oh, but then you’ll have to come down the stairs to answer the phone…”

“It’s not my first time being sick,” I hissed.

Mom sighed and rolled her head back and forth. “I know it’s not. But… hopefully, with these treatments… it won’t be so bad from here on out.” With another sigh, she shuffled the bowl and silverware and stood up from the bed. “There’s more if you want. Don’t be afraid to shout if you need anything.”

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By the evening, Mom had spent all her energy doting on me and rightfully settled in to relax downstairs. I was usually quite fine with sleeping my way through these bouts of sickness, but the prospect of hearing from Ohanzee again kept me awake. Once I could hear no further footsteps downstairs, I slipped the notebook and pencil out and into my hands.

I’m glad that you would allow me back. Once more, I am sorry.

It seems we are both weak in body. But strong in mind. In will. Perhaps as beings we are similar parallels that have found their way into crossing.

I wish to remind you that Elohi is not magic, as you have spoken of. Not a power that can do anything without logic to guide it. It also has its limits. Despite the efforts of myself and various adept healers, my body is still stricken by the effects of the… white people’s sickness.

But Elohi has brought us together. Perhaps… the power of two worlds can bring about something else. Please, write to me about your illness so that I may understand it better.

All the moments sitting in the doctor’s offices, hearing the white-coated men talk around the issues while saying that everything would be alright, came back to me.

“My body… simply has no defenses against the… world. Anything and everything wants to make me sick. I even got sick at the place where I’m supposed to get better. They put medicine… or something into my body. It doesn’t work. Why would it? They told me and my mom that I would never even get better. So why even bother? Maybe… Elohi has decided to skip me right over.”

I gripped the pencil tightly, awaiting a response. I glanced at my bedroom window at the remains of the daylight fading into night, allowing my hand to loosen. I closed my eyes, trying to imagine what Elohi felt like, if anything at all. I almost began to write out a question with that in mind, but Ohanzee’s response was already being scrawled across the page.

Elohi is not so fickle… No, perhaps Elohi in your world is that fickle seeing as well utilized.

There are methods that allow the Elohi within yourself to orient with the Elohi present in the world around. But I must warn you that it may be slightly unpleasant.

I bit my lip and wrote out a response.“Anything. I trust you.”

The human body may be attuned to the various movements of Elohi through tattoos. Ink embedded into the skin. It uses a needle, and it is permanent. But it does offer some control. I have seen many of the common patterns, and I can write down where on the body to inscribe them. Allow me to write a few on this page here.

My heart dropped. The thought of getting a tattoo, let alone asking for one out of the blue, was impossible. A few simple drawings of concentric circles and curving lines began to take form on the opposite page of the notebook. I wrote again under Ohanzee’s words.

“I can’t. Sorry, it’s impossible…

I would have to be 18… or something… to even get one on my own. An adult would have to give me permission if not. And I can’t ask my mom, or I would have to explain this notebook. Everything. There’s no reasonable way I could ask for a tattoo anyway. Could I just draw those lines on my body, my skin, with pen? Ink for writing?”

It must be deeper than skin, I’m afraid.

I took a deep breath. “What if I carved those lines into my skin with something sharp? A knife?”

That is not safe. I don’t know… if that would work, either. I suppose it would. I understand your desperation, but… no.

I twiddled the pencil between my fingers, squeezing it over and over while my eyes darted back and forth over his response and the strange symbols. “I understand. I won’t do anything to hurt myself. But just in case I figure out something, maybe you can explain more about the tattoos. Like, where they go and stuff.”

Sure.

For several long minutes, Ohanzee began to make little notes alongside the cryptic drawings, adding more of them little by little. I watched his writing proliferate across another page until I could no longer hold my eyes open.