Burning for You (Blackwater) Read online

  “You met someone,” she says. She quietly puts my hands down and looks up at me. Her glowing eyes look haunted. “Your catalyst.”

  “My what?” I ask stupidly. “What the heck is a catalyst? I suck at science, Isabel, you know that. Remember when Mr. Dworkin told me never to take science again, if I could help it?”

  “I told your mother to teach you these things, but she would never listen,” Isabel sighs, leaning on the vacuum cleaner dramatically. “I’m almost done up here. Go downstairs to the kitchen and see what you can dig up in that bare fridge downstairs and fix us something to eat. Not a Lean Cuisine. Real food. Then we’ll talk.”

  “I’ll probably have to order a pizza,” I joke. Isabel rolls her eyes and switches the vacuum back on, returning to the hallway carpet.

  I pad downstairs, looking for signs of my mother but see a note from her. “Went to lunch with Renee. Back in a few hours.” Renee is Renee Dubois, my mother’s best friend. Her daughter Eleanor is my age, and the three of us were often thrown together to play. Eleanor and I got along pretty well. We would bond by making fun of Heidi together, mostly because Heidi is insane. I look up at the clock, wondering how it could be lunchtime already, but there it is, past noon. I can’t remember the last time I slept so long, but a five hour drive and an emotional day wiped me out. I’d planned my escape from Michael for some time. Now that it was finally executed, I wondered how long it would take for the shit to hit the fan. So far he hasn’t called, which puts me on edge. I’d almost rather hear from him and know what his reaction is than expecting to see him pop out from around every corner. Just thinking about it makes my heart pound and my throat clench up in fear, and so instead I attempt to distract myself with food.

  Except of course there’s practically nothing to eat, which is revealed when I open the fridge. The cliché bottle of ketchup and box of baking soda are there, as well as twelve stocked cans of cold Diet Coke. Upon further inspection, I do find six eggs, a stick of butter that very well may be expired, some heavy cream, a block of white mystery cheese and two apples. I take those out and smile, realizing that all of the things I need to make the only thing I actually know how to cook are here. I inspect the butter and see the expiration date is still in the future, and my memory serves me well enough to locate a bowl, a whisk, a frying pan and two plates. I help myself to a Diet Coke as I start to cook, cracking the eggs into a bowl, adding a generous amount of heavy cream, salt, pepper and small chunks of butter into the eggs. I’ll make French eggs for Isabel’s and my lunch. I even find some truffle oil to coat the pan, which is something I haven’t indulged in since I left Blackwater. As the egg mixture bubbles and solidifies on the frying pan, I cut chunks of cheese and the apples up into slices on a wooden chopping board and lay them out on the plates. In three minutes, the eggs are done. I serve them on the two plates and set them on the small kitchen table, built to seat four people. The likely truth is that four people haven’t sat at this table since my dad left.

  Isabel has finished upstairs and comes to sit with me at the table, grabbing a Diet Coke out of the fridge first. I watch her pop it open, wondering how she can open a can without breaking her perfectly manicured and blinged out acrylic nails. She uses her fork to cut into the eggs and takes a bite. She moans dramatically. “You always did make the best French eggs.”

  “It’s amazing I found anything to make at all,” I say, quietly agreeing with her. I would try to make these for Michael but without being able to afford good truffle oil, mine never compared. “So don’t pretend like you didn’t just drop a bomb on me, Isabel. What is a catalyst? And what is it that my mother never talked to me about? I mean besides everything.”

  Isabel winces, feeling the truth behind my words. “Your mother has had a hard time, Leah,” she says, making me not want to hear what she has to say. It’s hard to dredge up sympathy for a woman who made it clear that she wanted me out of her life at an early age. “She’s changed since your dad left. Without him, she’s not everything she can be.”

  “Where’s the part where you get to the catalyst?” I ask. “I want to know what that means.”

  “You’re always so impatient,” Isabel says, picking up a piece of cheese and tearing it apart with her long nails. “I was going to explain. Your dad is your mother’s catalyst. A catalyst is the person who makes you realize your full potential. Your mother has powers that she can no longer use when your dad isn’t around.”

  “Powers?” I say. “Like witchcraft?”

  “Like witchcraft,” Isabel agrees. “Or crafting. You already knew that you come from a long line of crafters.” I nod. That’s never been a secret. On both my father’s and my mother’s side of the family, there have been crafters the whole way back, as far as we can trace. It’s something you grow up knowing about in Blackwater, but you aren’t allowed to talk about as a child. My parents were never open about crafting and their own abilities. I’d suspected as much, from the women who came to see my mother to ask about the gender of their unborn children, or whether their daughters would ever be married, or their sons would wind up dead before the next male in the line would be born. Lineage is important to people in Blackwater. If you can count your family back at least six generations, you’re solid. Anything less would be considered a newcomer. “Since your dad left,” Isabel continued, “Your mother is empty. He is her catalyst. He is what fuels her craft and gives it life. Without him, she isn’t able to do what she has been born to do.”

  “And what exactly is it she can do?” I ask. “She’s never bothered to share with me anything about her craft. She’s shut me out my entire life.”

  Isabel smiles and takes another bite of her eggs. The steaming forkful pops into her mouth and comes out clean. “Do I need to teach you the elementals?” she asks.

  I shake my head. “No, I know what it means. Elementals are what element in nature controls your craft, like earth, air, fire and water.”

  She nods. “Good. So you know something.”

  “Everyone in Blackwater knows that.”

  She shrugs. “I suppose. You’d be surprised. Your mother is a water elemental. Water elementals have the ability to know things. They can see things others can’t see.”

  “You mean like you?” I ask. Isabel nods. “But wait, you said that without my dad as my mother’s catalyst, she can’t craft. How can you craft? Was your husband your catalyst?”

  “Hell no,” Isabel says. “The only thing that man was good for was getting me out of my mother’s house.” She pauses and her hand flutters to her chest with a flash of sparkle from her nails. “Did I ever tell you about Nerita?”

  “You mean your twin sister that died?” I ask her. Isabel’s eyes lower and she nods. I remember hearing the story about her twin sister that fell out of a window and broke her neck when she was only six. “Was she your catalyst?”

  “She still is,” Isabel says, pulling her necklace out from under her shirt. It’s a locket that’s the most modest piece of jewelry that she owns, but she’s always wearing it. She opens it up and I see a small tuft of something that looks like hair inside, the exact color as Isabel’s. “As long as I have this piece of her on me, I will have my craft. It will never be as strong as when she was alive, but I still have it.”

  “I see,” I say, mystified. “So when you said I met my catalyst, how did you know?”

  “Because you’re ignited,” she says. “I can feel it all over you. You’re radiating heat and energy.”

  “Ugh, now you’re reading my aura?” I say with a smirk. Something about what she is saying is ringing true with me, though. I’m feeling different this morning than I did yesterday morning. Of course, yesterday I woke up knowing I’d be leaving Michael. Today I woke up knowing I’d left Michael and that chapter of my life is complete.

  Isabel swats my hand playfully. “Don’t belittle other people’s talents,” she tells me. “Your own are going to serve you well, and I’m pretty sure they’re alive and kicking inside
of you right now.”

  “You talk about it like it’s a baby,” I say. “So who’s my catalyst?” I ask her. “The only person I ran into yesterday other than my mother…well, I literally ran into them. With my car.”

  “Your car?” Isabel asks. “You got into an accident? I didn’t see any damage.”

  “What are you talking about?” I say, alarmed. “Betsey’s front end is crumpled like a Styrofoam cup!”

  Isabel shakes her head. “I walked by Betsey this morning, and since I hadn’t seen her in years, I was surprised to see what good condition she’s in. Practically looking better than when I saw her over ten years ago.”

  I shove my chair back and run toward the front door, flinging it open and running outside. The fall air is crisp and cold. I’m still only wearing boxer briefs with my t-shirt and no shoes, but I have to see what the hell Isabel is talking about. I gasp when I see Betsey. Not only is the damage completely gone, but she’s shiny and clean, without a single bump or dent or ding. Betsey hasn’t been perfect since I took her to Chicago and mastered the art of parallel parking in the city. And by “mastered”, I mean pushing the car behind me and the car in front of me with Betsey’s bumpers to make room for myself and get closer to the curb. “What the hell?” I say. “She looks new!”

  “That’s what I thought,” Isabel says, coming up behind me, putting a hand on my arm. “It’s cold outside, Leah, come back in the house.”

  “But this is wrong,” I say, shaking my head. Were yesterday’s events just a twisted hallucination? It can’t be true, I remember my mother looking right at the damage with me when I pulled in to the driveway. I’m pretty sure she was annoyed that my trashed up car was lowering her property value. Still, I let Isabel turn me around and away from Betsey and back toward the house. “Just yesterday I pulled up to the house and the front was bashed in, Isabel, I swear….”

  “Sit down,” she commands me and leads me back to the kitchen table, in front of my plate of half-finished eggs. I shove the plate away, since I’m no longer hungry. “Breathe,” Isabel commands, and I realize I’m holding my breath. I lean back and take a few deep breaths and let them out slowly. Isabel gets up from the table and pours me a glass of water from the dispenser on the fridge and places it down in front of me. “Drink,” she commands.

  “Stop babysitting me,” I grumble, my face fallen in frustration and confusion. I’m completely shaken by what I just saw. “Isabel, I swear, I smashed into the back of a black SUV yesterday at Emerald and Center-“

  “I hate that damn light,” Isabel says, scowling.

  “Me too,” I say. “Anyway, Betsey was smashed in front. The SUV was okay, just a small dent in the bumper. But I don’t understand, what the hell happened to fix the damage? Even if someone got Betsey fixed behind my back, there’s no way that much damage could be fixed that quickly.”

  “Who did you hit?” Isabel says. “It was a black SUV?” I nod, push back my chair and walk over to the counter, where my purse still is from last night.

  “He wrote down his information for me,” I tell her. “So I could contact him for insurance reasons.”

  As I rummage through my purse, I see Carlton standing at the entrance to the kitchen, little head poking around the doorway, huge body hidden by the wall. He must have sensed my hand was in my purse right next to his cat food cans. He decides to curl his fat self around the door frame and howls at Isabel. “Holy shit!” Isabel jumps up from the table, knocking over the glass of water she got me. “Where did that damn cat come from?”

  “That’s Carlton,” I say. “He’s mine.”

  “Is he pregnant?” Isabel asks, making me laugh out loud. She goes to the counter and grabs a large handful of paper towels and begins to wipe up the spill. “I thought they only had cats that fat in China.”

  “No, he’s just big boned, aren’t you Carlton?” I coo at him. Carlton looks annoyed. I grab a can of cat food out of my giant purple purse and pop it open and set it down on the floor without bothering to find a bowl to put it in.

  “What are you feeding him, Foie Gras?” Isabel asks, naming my most favorite fattening French delicacy. She trashes the wet paper towels and bends over to stroke him from head to tail. She’s hit on Carlton’s favorite way to be petted, and he immediately warms up to Isabel, turning away from the food and rubbing his self in a figure eight between her legs.

  “Wow, you distracted him from eating,” I say. “I didn’t think it could be done.”

  “Cats and I have an understanding,” Isabel says. “Right, Carlton?” I can hear Carlton purring from across the kitchen. I’m astounded, but I get an idea.

  “Do you want to keep him at your apartment?” I ask her. “I can supply the food and litter and everything, but as long as I’m living here, I don’t think my mother will tolerate him for very long. I’ll take him back when I move out.”

  Isabel shrugs. “If it’s okay with Carlton.” We look and see Carlton lying on his back, belly in the air, almost like an overweight Pug.

  “I think it’ll okay with Carlton,” I say. “You’d be doing me a huge favor. I appreciate it.”

  Isabel laughs. “I’ve been cleaning up your messes almost your whole life. What’s one more? Now back to what you were doing. Find that information.” I nod and find my wallet somewhere in the mess of my purse, between the cans of cat food and the crumpled receipts and the countless empty inhalers and tubes of lip balm. I find my notebook nestled between a brochure that some religious fanatic gave me on the train about a year ago and a magazine that’s from two years ago. I make a mental note to clean out my purse in an attempt to get my life in order, or just trash this purse and get a new one. I come back to the table and hand the notebook page to Isabel, whose eyes widen. “Ash Lavanne,” she whispers. “Of course.”

  “You know him?” I ask her.

  Isabel nods. “Your mother always knew that you possess the fire elemental. Like your dad.”

  “So?” I ask. “What’s so special about fire?”

  “Fire allows you to change things as they are,” Isabel explains. “Fire elementals are the alchemists of the crafting world. You can build, destroy, create and damage. It’s arguably the most dangerous elemental there is.”

  “So Ash Lavanne,” I say. “He’s a fire elemental?”

  “He is,” Isabel agrees.

  “How do you know that?” I ask her.

  Isabel rolls her eyes. “I know everything,” she snorts. “You should know that by now.”

  “Forgive me for questioning your vast knowledge,” I say sarcastically. “Listen, this is all well and good, but I don’t know the first thing about crafting, I don’t know about fire and alchemy and all of this stuff sounds like a dumb video game Michael used to ignore me to play all night long.”

  “Your car,” Isabel interrupts me. “You changed the damage. You fixed Betsey.”

  “That’s insane,” I say. “I’m not a mechanic.”

  “You’re a fire elemental,” Isabel says. “You don’t have to be a mechanic.”

  “But I didn’t do anything,” I say. “I didn’t touch Betsey. I drove her here, parked her, and went inside. I haven’t been outside since I got here.”

  “You wanted her fixed, didn’t you?” Isabel asks me. I nod. “Sometimes that’s all it takes. A desire so strong, it can change something you want changed.”

  I sigh. “Okay. Let’s glaze over that part. I need to wrap my head around some other things. Like this Ash Lavanne guy. He’s apparently the catalyst, isn’t he?”

  “It would seem that way,” Isabel says. “You were drawn to him.”

  “More like Betsey was drawn to his SUV,” I remark.

  “How did you feel when you met him?” she asks me.

  I pause. “Like I couldn’t breathe. Like I was alive for the first time in my life.”

  She nods smugly. “There you go.”

  Chapter 4

  Isabel leaves, taking Carlton home with her, and I decide to g
o for a run in the woods behind our house. Running is the only thing that will clear my head. There’s too much happening in there so it needs some major clearing. I realize that waking up at noon, eating lunch and going for a run is not the most productive use of my day, but it’s Sunday, and there’s not much I can do about getting my life together on a Sunday.

  Social Distortion is blaring through my ear buds and as “Ball and Chain” comes on, I almost laugh. Michael hasn’t called, and I doubt he’d follow me here. I feel exhilarated by the fact that I’m free. I mean hell, I could go hit a bar and fuck anyone I want tonight, if I were so inclined. The fact that I am still technically married to the guy and that there aren’t really any pickup bars that I know of in Blackwater are irrelevant. Looking ridiculous, I spread my arms to the sides, closing my eyes and enjoying the feel of the crunching leaves beneath my feet and the cold wind whipping against my face, tossing my ponytail back away from my head. I make it this way for about fifteen paces when I slam directly into something, knocking the wind right out of me.

  I open my eyes, expecting to see a tree on the ground, but it’s a man standing above me. Mike Ness continues to scream away into one of my ears, the other ear bud knocked out and resting against my chest, making the music sound tinny and small. I yank the remaining ear bud out and rake my eyes over the guy who’s looking down at me, wondering when Blackwater turned into a cabbage patch full of hot young men.