“Gramps, did you — did you make this?” Maria asked.
He opened his eyes, that soft, winning smile on his face. He looked younger all of sudden, youthful. He pointed to the rotating woman inside of the music box. She was lithe, beautiful, and carved out of a shining metal. “Yes, yes, in a way I did make this, Maria.”
“It’s stunning. The best gift I’ve ever gotten,” Maria said. She set the box down as it played its strange songs, and crossed the porch to hug her grandfather. His body went rigid. Maria never hugged anyone. Not unless it was her Bloodhound, Sherlock. Once the initial shock passed, Gramps hugged her back.
“Happy birthday, dear,” he said and kissed her on one wet cheek. They parted. “How do you feel?” he asked.
Maria was smiling. “I feel great. You know, except for having to go into work on my birthday, and all that—on a Saturday no less.”
“I mean in here,” Gramps said, patting his plaid shirt where his heart was.
“I feel good, Gramps,” Maria said, eyeing him suspiciously.
He reached out and put the back of his hand on Maria’s forehead.
“Cut it out!” Maria said, laughing.
Again, his odd behavior was normal. Maria wasn’t surprised.
“You sure you don’t feel…different?” Gramps asked.
Maria arched an eyebrow. “Are you feeling all right, Gramps? You gonna last the day without me?”
The serious look on her grandfather’s face melted. He smiled again. “Yes, I’ll be quite all right, Maria.”
From the front driveway, the sound of tires crunching over gravel filled the air. Sherlock barked madly in the living room at the noise.
“Ooh, Claire’s here!” Maria said. “Gotta get ready for work.”
Maria rushed toward the back door, holding the music box. Ignatius watched, feeling the hope deflate from his chest. He felt tired; more tired than usual.
He sat down on one of the porch chairs, the balloons hitting his head and the railing as he did so.
Maria, Maria, Maria, he thought, why aren’t you like your mother? Where is the magic? How can you save them without the magic?
At eighteen, Maria was supposed to have gained her powers. When that didn’t happen, Ignatius thought she was just a late-bloomer. He’d known many late-bloomers on Oriceran. But the months passed on and on until it was a year later. The music box, her mother’s music box, was supposed to be a last resort; a catalyst to Maria’s magical abilities.
But it didn’t seem to be, and now, for Ignatius and a lost tribe of people somewhere in the world in between, all hope seemed to be lost.
Maria set the music box on her dresser, directly across from her bed. Her room was done up in pink—pink carpet, pink wallpaper, pink vanity. Back when she was younger, her grandfather let her pick out the style of her room. She regretted it now.
Claire, a girl Maria had gone to high school with, came in behind her.
“Happy birthday, Maria!”
“Oh, please don’t start.”
“What?”
“Singing,” Maria answered.
“Happy birthday to youuuu…happy birthday to you…” Claire sang.
“No!” Maria slipped out of her bedroom and into the bathroom. Her work shirt hung on the towel rack. Embroidered on it in white letters was POPCORN PALACE, POPPIN’ GOOD TIME! The sight of it almost made her ill. Not to mention she was already feeling a bit…off, now that she thought about it.
“Okay, okay,” Claire said from the other room. “I’ll save the singing for putt-putt tonight.”
Maria brushed her wild brown hair out of her face and looked in the mirror. She had bags under her eyes. Sleep wasn’t the best lately. She’d been having nightmares, terrible dreams of death and blood and war—but when she woke (usually clutching the covers to her face and plastered in her own sticky sweat), she could never remember the dreams. Probably for the better.
“Ah, it’s only an eight-hour shift. You can do it, Maria. You can!” she whispered at herself in the mirror. She had already brushed her teeth that morning, but she reached for her toothbrush and brushed them again, and then gargled with Listerine. There was a chance she might run into Joe. She didn’t want bad breath if she ran into him.
“This what your grandpa got you?” Claire asked. She stood by the dresser and ran a finger over the music box. “It’s…cool?” She said it more like a question.
“Yeah, it’s very cool. Another whacky gift from my whacky grandfather.”
“Your life is very strange,” Claire said.
“Well, at least I get to go to work like a normal person today…on their birthday.”
“Hey, it’s not all that bad,” Claire said. “You don’t have to walk.”
Maria smiled. “Thanks, Claire.”
“Anything for the birthday girl.” They walked out of Maria’s bedroom and down the steps. Claire started to sing again. “Happpppyyy birthdaaaaay, dear Mariaaaa!”
The downstairs smelled like old people; even Maria knew that. Gramps hardly ever left the living room, unless it was to go to the new ice cream shop on Main Street. It seemed like all the senior citizens liked to chill there—pun intended.
A giant television took up one wall of the living room; a recliner, which was all beat-up and a faded denim color, sat in front of it. Gramps was posted on the arm of the chair.
“Oh, Maria?” Gramps called after her.
“Hi, Mister Apple,” Claire said, not looking in his eyes. She’d known Maria and her grandpa for years, but had never stopped feeling intimidated by him, for some reason.
“Hullo, Claire! If you want to sing to Maria, you should let me help.”
Maria’s heart dropped. She rushed across the living room, kicking empty pill bottles and packaged catheters out of the way. “No, Gramps!”
It was too late.
Gramps stood and burst into a song in that made-up language of his, the language from his fabled world of Oreoland or Oricerean-section, or something like that. It was a high, melodic sound, not unpleasant to the ears, but too embarrassing to be shared
