What Flames Can Give Us

I tear at the envelope carefully. Part of me is curious to see if it really is a check. Or a death threat. Or a bomb. No matter what, it’s small and thin. The envelope doesn’t feel like it’s carrying much. When I open it, the only thing I can grab is a notecard. There’s no paper or check or five-page apology letter from my mother. Or father, for that matter. Both of them owe me an apology, but it’s not in this envelope. I take out the notecard and read it before I look at my friends in confusion. “I literally have no idea what this is,” I say. Ryan snatches it from me. Liz jumps up from the table and hurries to his side, reading it with him. He reads it aloud after reading it, I’m sure, four or five times with his lawyer brain. “A sea of words can hold her hand. Help her sleep, give her peace. Without the sea, I had no plan. Now it’s here, now it’s clear. We need to swim.” “Weird,” Liz says. I chuckle. “Yeah, safe to say I’m at a loss.” Ryan hands the notecard back to me. “Sounds like a clue to some weird game,” he says. “Or maybe a scavenger hunt? I don’t know. Good thing it wasn’t a ransom note or a death threat.” Liz nods. “So what do I do?” I ask. “Who’s it from?” He laughs. “Hell, how am I supposed to know? I’m a lawyer, not a psychic.” “You could take it to the post office? Or the police?” Liz offers. “It’s not stamped,” Ryan says. “If it’s not stamped, then it didn’t go through the post office. Whoever delivered it must have put it in your mailbox with his or her own two hands.” I take a deep breath. My mind is boggled as to what the note means, let alone who sent it. Liz and Ryan end up leaving at around noon, and then I’m left alone in the house, stuck with my thoughts about the stupid note. To try and distract myself, I go shopping. I need a few groceries, so I head to the market first. Then I go dress shopping because a girl can always use a new dress or two or four. My fresh paycheck is burning a hole in my account, and rent isn’t due for another week. Around three o’clock, I leave the clothing store and head to the charming bookstore in my little town. The great city of Sarova only has the one bookstore, and it was built right next to the police department. I’m browsing fiction books with the notecard in my purse. I can’t stop thinking about it. The tiny little poem or clue or whatever it is…it’s running laps around my skull. I look for books that might give me some sort of information about a “sea of words,” but I’m coming up empty. Obviously, a sea of words is a book. Right? I pull out my phone and Google the phrase while I’m in the bookstore, and still come up with zero answers. There’s absolutely no information about a “sea of words,” or anything about “needing to swim” on the Internet. God forbid the Internet helps me – aren’t answers to everything supposed to be on there? Stop, Mya, I tell myself. You don’t even know who sent this note. Let alone what it’s asking you to do, if anything at all! Maybe it’s just a big prank meant to drive you crazy. I almost chuckle. The note probably means nothing at all. But the question still bugs me: who would send me a note purely to drive me crazy? My phone rings. I dig it out from my purse shortly after putting it back in there after my Google search: a number I don’t recognize stares at me. Panic rushes through me. Could this have anything to do with the note? What if it’s the person who sent it? I rush out of the bookstore in time to answer it without anyone overhearing. “Hello?” I say carefully. I half expect a stalker or some serial killer. “Mya?” It’s worse. My chest begins to burn. My throat closes. My fingers go numb. Anger rushes through me, electrifying my body until I feel like fire itself. Mom. My mother, to whom I haven’t spoken in about four months, is on the other end of the call. Before those four months? I can’t even remember when I spoke to her last. Usually, when she calls me, it’s an emergency. Like when my dad went MIA. Or when she was in the hospital with alcohol poisoning. It’s never something simple, nor is it ever something encouraging, helpful, or happy. My mother always calls me to ruin my life—or better, her own life at the expense of mine. One time, when I was in high school, after my parents divorced, she called me and asked if I could pick her up from a bar. Of course, I did, but I didn’t realize I would also be picking up two men who were “coming home with us to watch a movie.” My mother is a horrible person, and she’s the exact reason my dad divorced her. I’m convinced he didn’t rape her, as she alleged. I think she was drunk and made it up and used it as an excuse to get a restraining order against him. I haven’t seen him in six years. “What do you want, Mom?” I say flatly. She doesn’t deserve anything from me, but I know she needs something. “Mya,” she says. Her voice is pleading and desperate. “Oh, Mya. I’m so happy to hear your voice. How are you, sweetie?” “I’m fine.” She sounds uneasy. “Oh, that’s so good, honey. I miss you so much. I’d love to see you tonight, and I’ll treat you to dinner, if you want.” She’s about to drop a bomb on me. “I just have a huge favor to ask.” Boom. There it is.