Page 12 of Jack Frost
While his eyes are downcast, reading the note, I examine his face. A few snowflakes have caught in the thick sweep of his dark eyelashes and they gleam there without melting.
His lashes flick upward, unveiling blue eyes dancing with humor. "You're right. I'd make a very incompetent monk." Then he winces apologetically and mimes zipping his lips. Of course the gesture only draws my attention to his mouth—wide and expressive, with a mobile softness that hints at his penchant for chatter and ridiculously broad smiles.
Quickly I look away, out the small oval window of the plane.
I manage to last another twenty minutes before I type another note. "Fine, I guess you can tell me more about what you do."
But when I glance over to get his attention, he's fast asleep.
Eventually I close the window shade and doze off too, though I'm careful not to lean against him. That would look fairly strange, me slumped against an invisible shoulder.
The plane's interior is dark when I rouse again. A few islands of golden light mark the people who are still awake, reading or working or watching a movie.
Jack shifts beside me and angles his face toward mine. In the gloom, his eyes are azure tide-pools, and his hair shimmers faintly like snow at night. He's all tousled and tempting, loose-limbed and slow-blinking in the seat beside me.
It's weirdly intimate, waking up next to him in such close quarters. I shrink toward the window, eyeing him with suspicion.
"You're awake," he says, with a soft smile. "Hello."
Panic surges in my chest because while his voice is perfectly audible to me, no one else reacts. It's the weirdest sensation.
My fingers constrict around my knees and I swallow hard, trying to breathe, trying to force my heart into a slower rhythm. I look toward the window, centering myself with its prosaic oval shape and ugly beige shade.
It was easier to believe in him when I was at the end of the world, in a wild land of snow and ice and savage beauty. But now, in this cocoon of canned air, textured plastic, and upholstery, I can't believe in magic. It's not rational, and therefore not true. None of it fits with what I know, what I believe. I'm slipping back into my original theory: that when I was wandering in the blizzard, my consciousness split into another persona, someone who could protect my mind and help me survive. That's what I'm seeing right now. And my perceived imperviousness to the cold—that's got to be a blend of acclimation and my body's psychosomatic response to stress factors.
Jack does not exist.
"Emery?" His voice pierces my internal monologue. Or maybe it's part of my internal monologue.
I inhale sharply and close my eyes. I won't feed the illusion or indulge this persona.
"You're not real," I whisper. "I can't believe I actually thought you were real. But none of it's true, is it? I'm having some kind of breakdown."
No answer.
I open my eyes a slit and glance at the seat beside me.
He's gone.
An imaginary friend, after all. And I banished him from my brain. Hopefully he won't come back.
Stifling the odd sense of unhappiness that creeps over me, I settle back into my seat for another nap.
The next thing I'm conscious of is the shudder of the plane as the landing gear unlatch and lock into position. The seat next to me remains empty. Apparently I've retained my sanity, which is a good thing because my friend Karyl has little time for nonsense. She and I have been like sisters for four years now, ever since we were sophomore roommates in college. She hated me at first—called me a "basic white bitch" once when she didn't think I could hear her—and I thought she was a sour snob. We challenged each other's preconceptions in countless little ways over the course of the year, and by the end we were bringing each other coffee and sharing clothes—which according to Karyl was far more to my advantage than hers. I have to admit, my personal sense of style doesn't extend far beyond jeans and T-shirts, with the occasional blouse for work. I almost never wear dresses, because each time I do my mother's voice echoes in my head: "You have the knobbliest knees I ever saw, Em. So crooked. And your calves are way too thick for the rest of you. Do yourself a favor and leave the dresses to someone who can pull them off." All this while she sashayed across the living room of our mobile home in a silky ivory slip and no bra. She'd go outside like that all the time, nipples poking the thin fabric, the bones of her chest clearly defined above the pink lace edging the neckline. Smoking kept her skinny, drew pucker lines around her mouth, and put gravel in her voice. Even now, whenever I picture her, it's always with a cigarette tucked between two bony fingers, ash flicked aside by glossy red nails.
I shuffle off the plane with the other passengers. Jack may not be here anymore, but he occupies space in my head—I can't help it. It concerns me, how real and tangible the illusion was. I'll need to make an appointment with a psychologist, and soon. Can't let this kind of mental health issue get out of hand. I've got work to do.
The conservation non-profit where I'll be working is hosting a holiday benefit on Christmas Eve. I haven't been part of the planning, of course, since I've been away; but as the newbie, I'll be expected to help out with a lot of party-related errands. They offered to let me start after the holidays, so I could recover from my trip; but I wanted to be involved in the festivities. The event is a networking opportunity I can't give up. Plus, one of the non-profit's directors, Marian, wants me around so I can film a few promo clips and chat with the wealthy guests about my trip to Antarctica. It's good press for the organization, having a member of the Antarctic expedition on staff.
Laden with my backpack and duffel bag, rolling my suitcase behind me, I trudge outside to the pick-up area. I do a quick scan of the waiting cars, and there's Karyl's red Toyota. She's standing beside it, talking to some guy wearing a knit cap.
I hustle toward them. In spite of my weariness and my anxiety about the Jack thing, my mouth stretches in a huge grin. Karyl is family to me, and her very presence makes me feel better about everything.
Weird—that's how Jack said he felt around me.
"Babe!" Karyl squeals and charges me, engulfing me in a hug. "Let me look at you. You look amazing, but tired of course—we gotta get you a coffee. Not the creepy mega-chain stuff, either—we're going to Julia's Coffee & Books. It's like twenty minutes away—and don't worry, they're very environmentally and socially conscious. You coming with, Jack?"
At the name, my very bones freeze. I angle my head to peek over Karyl's shoulder, and there, standing behind her, is Jack Frost, looking very human in his knit cap, blue sweater, and leather jacket. He gives me a satisfied smirk. "Sure, I'll tag along."
