Smoke Gets in Your Eyes
By
E. S. Young
Chapter Ten: Methods of Communication
I really don't know where the ideas for this chapter came from (just like I don't know where the little girl came from – y'know, the one who told Lyn that it was wrong to steal?). I think Lyn needed to 'vent' or something, although she doesn't seem like the venting type. Although there really isn't a lot known about that girl (mostly because I keep coming up with things to add on to her character as time goes on 9.9). But this chapter isn't all about her. It's got more of Sands and Zebbidy in it, just so's ya know.
"What do you mean you don't remember?" Sands demanded as he followed her down the woman down the stairs and into the living room.
"I just forget them, that's what I mean!" Zebbidy said defensively, turning the corner and entering the kitchen.
"Okay," he said, trying to be reasonable, "That's normal, not exactly helpful, but normal nonetheless. Have you had any of these dreams before?"
"Well, if I did, I wouldn't remember, would I?" Zebbidy snapped. She reclined her body slightly so she could lean back against the kitchen countertop. Folding her arms over her chest, she gazed up at him expectantly.
"No, I suppose you wouldn't," Sands replied, annoyed.
"Listen, I don't know why I don't remember any of my dreams," she said to him and a much calmer voice. "It might be because they're so confusing and stupid, or it might be because I don't want to remember them."
Sands turned his head sharply in her direction. Immediately he regretted the sudden movement; his head was already throbbing from its lovely meeting with the coffee table in the living room. Still, the pounding in his brain didn't stop his questions.
"Why wouldn't you want to remember them?"
Zebbidy shrugged carelessly.
"Care to answer that?" Sands wanted to know.
"Are you all right?" Zebbidy asked suddenly, her voice laced with concern when she saw the agent rub his shoulder gingerly.
"Fine, Zeb, I'm just peachy," he replied sardonically, "however, unless you stop avoiding the subject, I'm gonna be asking you the same question."
Zebbidy gave him a 'please' expression before rolling her eyes and returning to what she saw was the real problem at hand. She had mastered the blender easily, and already knew what flavor she wanted. Fruit wasn't a problem; somebody – probably Lynné or Liam – had stocked the refrigerator before leaving. But she couldn't find anything that even remotely resembled protein powder. Zebbidy frowned at the blender.
'I really don't wanna resort to fish or peanut butter, but that doesn't mean I'm not willing . . .'
The entire time she was contemplating all of this, Zebbidy paid no mind to the CIA agent or the all agitated look that were being thrown at her. Little did she know, Sands wasn't one to take being ignored lightly.
"All right," Sands sighed, "If that's the way you're gonna be . . ."
He shook his head, looking as though Zebbidy was forcing him into something he really didn't want to do. He then disappeared through the door that lead to the living room, and once again Zebbidy thought nothing off it.
'Damnit,' Zebbidy swore in her mind, 'How in the HELL do they expect me to make a goddamn smoothie without protein powder??'
"Ah, fuck it," she muttered aloud and she began to toss her pre-cut strawberries and peaches into the blender. After adding a couple of ice cubes and a squirt of water to the mix, Zebbidy prepared to send the blades of the blender spinning. Flipping out her index finger, she reached out and pushed the button marked 'START.'
Nothing happened.
Zebbidy's eyebrows contracted slightly at this. Not ready to be stopped, she jabbed the start button again.
Still nothing.
The blades didn't spin, there was no satisfying grinding sound that told her that her smoothie was being made, and the fruit remained stationary inside the contraption, slowly growing soggy and mushy as the ice melted with time.
A thought struck her, one that she knew she would be kicking herself for forgetting. Zebbidy took hold of the blender and pulled it towards her. Prepared to be aggravated at her own stupidity, she leaned around slightly so she could see behind the miniscule machine and her eyes widened in incredulity. The blender was still plugged in.
'What the hell . . . ?'
Then realization dawned on her.
'That bastard!'
"Turn it back on!" she yelled to Sands, wherever the asshole was.
Said asshole chose not to answer.
"Turn the power on NOW, damnit!"
Still, Sands made no response. Zebbidy leaned back against the kitchen counter, crossing her arms and holding back her huffs of annoyance. Then, a thought struck her.
"Y'know," she called out to Sands, "If the food in the refrigerator starts to rot because there's nothing to keep it cold, it's gonna be your ass."
"And why's that?" the agent called back.
"Welllll, I don't think your sister would be very pleased with the knowledge that she's gonna have to go to the store again."
"She'll send Fusco out in her place," Sands told her after a moment of pondering this.
"Still, she doesn't' seem like the type who'd be too happy with no power," Zebbidy replied casually. "But if you don't mind provoking her anger, then by all means, leave the power off. I can find other things to do."
At once the blades of the blender began to whirl, throwing her fruit, ice, and water into a mini, edible tornado. Grinning in satisfaction, Zebbidy called to Sands one more time.
"Thank you!"
She had met with another agent stationed in France. The fact that her phone had cut out while she had been talking to her so-called superior was just a minor mishap. After digging around the bottom of a water fountain for a while, her spilled change had finally resurfaced and she had been able to contact the CIA again. A meeting had been set, and, several days later, she had met with another agent. They had sat down and worked everything out.
She had received a new team set up somewhere in Paris while she, Sands, Liam, and Samhain were to remain stationed in the large summer cottage.
She hadn't been burned . . .
Not yet.
But the thought still plagued her. Which was why, about a week after the meeting with her fellow agent, Lynné was walking through a graveyard in the middle of the afternoon.
'Don't know why I'm doing this; there really isn't a point . . .'
You're right. You're just going to embarrass yourself – although I'll get a good laugh out of it – if you go through with this, so just don't. Turn around, get back in your car, and drive away.
'No,' Lynné responded quietly, 'I never go anywhere unless I intend to accomplish something. If no, it's just a waste. So here I stay.'
Aren't you the little recycler.
'Just be glad I didn't bring a Ouija board,' Lyn muttered distractedly.
Rows of tombstones were lined up on either side of her as she walked down the dirt path that was littered with gravel. The gray granite of the headstones seemed to give off an air of foreboding as she passed them, almost as if they didn't want her to be there.
Oooh . . . aren't we getting dramatic?
'Shut it. These are my thoughts, therefore nobody else can hear them.'
Except for me. You're not the least bit concerned about that?
'You're the fucking voice in my head – do you honestly think I give a rat's ass about your opinion of me?'
The voice didn't have a response for that, something that assured Lynné that she had won that argument. She continued onward through the graves, straying off the path and eventually ending up in front of the tomb she was looking for.
"Y'know," Lyn said, looking down at the headstone, "I don't know why Dad saw fit to bury you here. He could've just kept your body in America." She shrugged. "Would've been more convenient for me, at least. D'you know just how long it took me to find you?"
Lynné sighed as she gazed down at the polished gray stone before her.
"Hello, Odette," she greeted quietly, "Or should I say Mom?"
Well, did she really have a chance to be your mom?
'She died when I was three, I'd say she got enough time to act all matronly. Plus, I suppose I should call her 'Mom' out of respect.'
First you turn into a tree-hugger and now you're learning to respect people. The let out a sigh of absolute disgust. Beatrice Lynné Sands, what has become of you?
Her eyes may have been narrowed but they were focused on the gravestone, even though it had done nothing but sit there beside her. It was the voice she was really fed up with, but since it was just a figment of her own imagination, it was not visible. It would never be unless she went totally and completely crazy.
And talking to headstones doesn't count as crazy in the least.
Lyn shook her head muttering, "I don't even know why I came here. You two are lousy conversationalists," she added to the voice and her mother's grave.
Just get on with it, the voice told her in a bored tone.
'Fine,' Lyn replied, rolling her eyes behind her dark glasses.
"I suppose you would've wanted to be buried in your own soil, hmm?" she said to the grave. "This is your country of origin, so I guess it makes sense if you would've wanted your cemetery plot dug here.
"But I'll never know, will I? That could've been a request in your will or Dad just might've wanted to rid himself of you. I'm betting on the latter, but that's just me. Dad and I aren't exactly on the best of terms, especially at the moment.
"Did you love him? I mean really LOVE him? Or did you just wanna have kids? I don't see why you would – sticky, loud, grimy, little mooks that they are – but that's just me."
Lynné paused to put a cigarette in her mouth. She was just about to light up when she paused, staring intently at her mother's grave.
"D'you mind if I smoke? Or are you gonna bitch at me about getting lung cancer?"
No response. Lyn smirked.
"Guess not. Besides, it's not like you have to worry about second-hand smoke anyway, right?"
She inhaled deeply, closing her eyes in relief as she felt a few more of her cells being killed off. Lyn held the smoke in her lungs for several seconds. The trees of the cemetery swayed almost disapprovingly at her as a gust of wind blew by. Lyn scowled up at them.
"Come on . . . don't make me do the 'It's my body' routine. It's been done to death, so to speak."
She paused, grinning again at her choice of words.
"D'you know that he tried to get me to marry someone? It's true. We held a wedding and everything. Went through with the entire ceremony. Then, at the reception, Sands – that is, you're darling Jeffery – kidnapped me. I went without protest, as I'm sure you already know.
"We never got a marriage license, Tim and I, so we weren't technically wed anyway so I'm not a total sinner. Besides . . ." She took another drag on her cigarette. ". . . it's not like I've got much to lose anyway. My soul's already gone along with my leg – did you hear about that? Bet it came as a shock.
But I've learned to cope.
"Although the prosthetic one starts to hurt if you stand on it for too long," she informed her mother, leaning against the grave casually.
The wind swirled angrily around her as if it was protesting what she was doing. Lyn raised an eyebrow.
"You think I deserved it?" she said thoughtfully. "If you think about all the things I'd done before – all the things I did AFTER – you could say I did. But that's who I am, Mommy dearest. I'm a corrupt, amoral bitch who does what she can to get what she wants and has no sense of guilt if she gets someone hurt or even killed in the process."
Lyn sighed, allowing small gusts of smoke to escape through her nose. Her dark eyes scanned her surroundings: Lots of trees, plenty of headstones and monuments, flowers, and the mourners come to pay their respects or weep all over the ground.
Unlike you who's just come to interact with a corpse.
Grounding her teeth, Lynné asked her mother's grave, "I wonder . . . . did you ever hear it? Or . . . them? You had to have had at least one – "
"Celui que?" (One what?)
It wasn't her mother's voice and Lynné knew that, but that knowledge didn't stop her from being suspicious. She spun around as she pushed off of her mother's grave, her eyes narrowed with dubiety.
"Mademoiselle?"
Pressing a hand to her chest to steady her pulsating heart, Lynné rolled her eyes towards the sky, more annoyed with her own paranoid overreactions than the little girl's sudden appearance.
"Mademoiselle, que faites-vous?" (Miss, what are you doing?) the child asked with pure interest.
'She's not going for the Marilyn/Little Debbie crossover look, I see,' Lyn thought absentmindedly when she noticed that the little girl was wearing a pale yellow sundress today. It had bright red strawberries sprinkled all over it, and she had equally red sandals to match. Cute. Too cute.
Hey . . . the voice warned, Don't go getting any ideas. It's Sands job to restore the balance, not yours. You just . . . make sure everything falls . . . into place.
"Mademoiselle . . . ?"
'Isn't that kind of like the same thing?'
Here we go with the logic, the voice sighed.
'Logic doesn't exist in the world of Beatrice Lynné Sands, darling, you should know that by now.'
Yeah, well . . .
"Mademoiselle!!"
"WHAT IS IT . . . . . . . dear?" she asked, feigning kindness.
"Que faisiez-vous le fait de parler à une tombe?" (What were you doing talking to a grave?)
"Do you follow people on a regular basis, hmm? Keep a little schedule as to who you're gonna stalk next or do you just have a fascination with American touristes?"
"Non," the little girl laughed, seeing right through Lyn and thinking her questions ridiculous. "Je suis venu pour visiter mes parents, mais alors je vous ai entendus," (I came to visit my parents but then I heard you,) she explained. "Je vous ai trouvés!" (I found you!) she cried, sounding oddly delighted that she had accomplished such a feat.
"Well, good for you, kid, but if you don't mind, fu – "
"Que faisiez-vous?" (What were you doing?) the girl cut in simply. "Je voudrais savoir." (I would like to know.)
"What does it look like I'm doing, kid?"
"Je - mademoiselle, je ne peux pas . . ." (I -- miss, I cannot . . .) The child faltered, bringing a hand up to cover her light pink lips. A pale curl had captured the attention of her remaining hand and it was being wound around her index finger tightly.
It was then that Lynné remembered. Weeks ago, when she had first seen the her, the little girl had kept her hands hidden behind her back. At the time, Lyn had thought nothing of it (she was more focused on contacting the agency at the time) but now it seemed important beyond understanding.
And today, when the girl had interrupted Lyn's conversation, she had kept her hands the same way: Hidden. But now they were in plane view, Lynné could see them and the child's arms clearly. In the crook of the little girl's left elbow hung a small, simple cane made of wood. A walking stick.
The girl had mastered the art of disguise even though she could only have been six or seven years of age. She had even fooled Lynné for a time, so she had to be good. Very good. She kept her eyes focused intently on where she thought a person was standing. Her gaze was incredibly accurate. So accurate, nobody would ever know the little girl's handicap.
She was blind.
Ooo . . . betcha didn't see that coming, did ya? Well, to tell you the truth, neither did I. I think the idea struck me a little while ago when I was reading the first story in Stephen King's 'Four Past Midnight' (Yes, the one with 'Secret Window, Secret Garden' in it). The story's called 'The Langoliers' and if anyone out there has read it, then you'll probably know where I got my inspiration.
Author's Thanks and Review Responses:
vanillafluffy: Ooo, Donnie Brasco ref! Heh, anyway, don't mind me, I'm just paranoid about many things (plagiarism especially even before I read SW). As a note on Liam's arm problems, I was originally gonna have him say "I lost my arm in the war" but then I couldn't think of any recent wars he might have fought in (not if I wanted to keep the story present-day, at least) so I went with him saying that he lost it on duty. Didn't think it was as funny but I guess I was wrong, lol. And, yeah, now it looks like Lyn's got her own stalker kid. Although the little boy in OUaTiM didn't exactly follow Sands around, did he?
Dawnie-7: (contemplating this) Hmm . . . WWLD necklaces . . . I could start a whole market for those things and make millions and never have to worry about anything again! Nah. I'd rather finish this fist. But maybe after I'm done . . . (begins plans for evil marketing scam)
DragonHunter200: lol, Ichabod! But he'll get to tell Lyn what's what eventually, although, knowing her, she won't be too affected by it. 9.9 (snicker) Yes, he sorely needs to prove he's a man. (points threateningly at Captain Jack) Not a word, you. .9;;
Captain Jack: (holds up a hand in casual defense) Wasn't gonna say a word, luv. Although yeh gotta
admit --
Sidney: (warningly) Shut it. -.9
morph: Seeing Sands animated wouldn't be that strange to me, I don't think. Probably because whenever I draw him, I always draw him as a cartoon figure instead of a realistic person.
Sands: Yeah, and you make me look like a girl. -.o
Sidney: That was that one time I drew you in realistic style, remember?
Sands: You made me look like a girl.
Sidney: That's just what that one guy said and what does he know? He probably hasn't even seen your movie. u.u I'm sure if 'Mexico' had been as popular as 'Pirates' nobody would mistake you for a woman.
Sands: GIRL. Not woman. GIRL. .O
Sidney: Oh, firmez le bouche.
Captain Jack: Yeah, listen to her, yeh eunuch.
Sands: (glare!!!)
Sidney: o.o' Oy vey . . .
o