Gwendy's Magic Feather

14

“RYAN! I’M SO GLAD you called.”

“I’ve been trying to get a… for days, sweetheart,” he says, his voice momentarily gone amidst a blast of static. “Stupid phones here are worthless.”

“Here” is the small island of Timor, located off the southern end of Southeast Asia. Ryan’s been there since the first week of December with a Time magazine crew covering government unrest.

“Are you okay?” Gwendy asks. “Are you safe?”

“I stink like I’ve been living… barn the last couple weeks but I’m fine.”

Gwendy laughs. Happy tears stream down her cheeks. She gets up from the sofa and starts pacing back and forth. “Are you going to make it home in time for Christmas?”

“I don’t know, honey. I hope so but… are heating up here.”

“I understand.” Gwendy nods her head. “I hope you’re wrong, but I understand.”

“How’s… doing?” he says, cutting out again.

“What? I didn’t hear you, baby.”

“How’s your mom doing?”

Gwendy smiles—and then stops in her tracks.

She stares at the curtained window that occupies the upper half of the kitchen door, unsure if it’s her imagination. A few seconds pass and she’s just about convinced she’s seeing things, when a shadow moves again. Someone’s outside on the deck.

“…hear me?” Ryan says, startling her.

“Oh, she’s doing fine,” Gwendy says, inching into the kitchen and pulling open a drawer. “Gaining weight and going to her appointments.” She takes out a steak knife and holds it against her leg.

“I’ll have to make her… secret recipe pancakes when I… home.”

“Just get your butt home in one piece, will you?”

He laughs and starts to say something else, and then there’s an ear-piercing jolt of static—and dead air.

“Hello? Hello?” she says, pulling the phone away from her ear so she can look at the screen. “Shit.” He’s gone.

Gwendy places the cellphone on the counter, crouches, and edges closer to the door. When she reaches the end of the row of cabinets, she crab-walks the last couple of feet into position directly behind the door. Before she can lose her nerve, she lets out a banshee cry and springs to her feet, flipping on the outside light with one hand and using the other hand to flick aside the flowered curtains with the tip of the steak knife.

Whoever was standing outside of the door is gone. All that’s left is her wide-eyed reflection staring back at her.