When Ida Isar entered the bedroom to find her fifteen-year-old daughter floating two feet above her mattress, the floral sheet draped elegantly across her like a funeral pall, she was not surprised. What did surprise her was the distinct increase in humidity as she stepped into the room, as if the southern summer had slipped inside. Mist curled up in delicate threads from the young woman’s skin while her sweat-dampened hair flowed behind her, giving the appearance of a corpse stumbled upon in an invisible creek. The unsettling serenity felt characteristic. The warmth did not. Ida called out softly to Edith.
Edith’s remoteness had always been present and had always disturbed her mother. When the little girl was old enough to walk distances on her own, Mrs. Isar would take her through the trails in the forest behind the house. Looking back, Ida recalls her expectations of the challenges of motherhood—rambunctious behavior, messes, scraped knees. Instead, she found it in Edith’s sallow hair blowing in the brisk morning air as she trailed her slender fingers through the plants at the edge of the path; her blue eyes like the sky in daylight, hiding all that existed beyond that beautiful ceiling. It had been difficult for Mrs. Isar to hide her discomfort when Edith looked at her. The child had quickly noticed this and learned to see her mother in stolen glances. Ida Isar appreciated this kindness.
It was on one of these early meanderings that Mrs. Isar first saw Edith levitate. She walked slowly, allowing her daughter’s little limbs to create space between them. Edith had wandered far enough ahead that when she turned back toward Ida, her features were indiscernible. She could have been anyone’s child. Ida stared at the girl’s outline. She imagined a different face smiling and waving boldly back at her. She imagined a different giggle and a voice calling for her to hurry up. She imagined a different arrangement of arms and legs sprinting further ahead as Mrs. Isar neared. She kept imagining as she pressed onward, until the fantasy of any other child slowly melted back into the reality of Edith.
When Ida was near enough to make out the freckles across Edith’s shoulders, she stumbled over a branch. She caught herself and, looking up, found Edith’s feet hovering just above the trail. The girl’s head was tilted back, eyes closed, and arms down at her sides, the shadow beneath her making an exclamation point that her mother felt the urge to add words to.
“Edith!” Mrs. Isar’s said, prompting the little girl to bump against the ground. She opened her eyes to the sharp attention of her mother’s. “It’s time to go home. It looks like it’s going to storm. I’ve been calling for you.”
They both knew she hadn’t. Nonetheless, Mrs. Isar turned back down the trail without another word leaving Edith staring at her feet, a furrow cutting across the baby soft hills of her face. Her concern lasted only as long as it took her to begin down the path after Ida. At that time, neither mother nor daughter felt the need to dwell.
❧
At present, Edith’s body did not reacquaint itself to the earth as it had done in every previous instance since her first float in the woods ten years prior. Instead, she shifted her head in the direction of her mother, her mouth opening a fraction.
“You aren’t feeling well, are you?” Mrs. Isar said. Edith closed her mouth and rolled her eyes back up to the ceiling.
“I can call Dr. Faramund, hmm? She’ll know what to do.” Ida stood at a distance, extending her arm until her hand hovered over Edith’s forehead.
“She’s always been so helpful. You know when I first met her, I was a bit skeptical, but she came so highly recommended by Mrs. Greene. Which, well, I guess that seemed like a good thing at the time... But you like Dr. Faramund, yes? And it’s been so long since your last episode.”
Once Ida talked herself into distraction, she touched her fingertips to Edith’s skin. They sank beneath the flesh like thick, miry soil. Edith flinched, eyes snapping to a place just beyond her mother’s right shoulder. Mrs. Isar recoiled and looked away, wiping her hand on the pleated skirt of her calf-length dress.
“Well, Dr. Faramund then. Let me just . . . Can you sit up more . . . Vertically?” Mrs. Isar saw Edith shake her head as she turned toward the worn maple wardrobe at the far end of the room. She pulled open the drawer at the bottom and rummaged through it until she uncovered a length of thick silk cord.
“Mother, I don’t… That won’t help. I think it’s time.” Edith’s voice came to Mrs. Isar’s ears like a breeze from a slow building storm.
“Nonsense, schatz. Time for what? Let me just tie this off to the bedframe.”
Edith watched the plains of her mother’s shoulders shift in fastidious ripples as she busied herself with her task.
❧
They began using the rope shortly after that first loss of contact of feet with trail. Neither discussed why it became a fixture of their walks, but both grabbed one looped end of the smooth fabric. Mrs. Isar made it by hand, a fishtail braid of deep purple silk. She thought the color looked fashionable on their wrists, like a bracelet, but might hide the dirt it would inevitably collect. Edith wrapped her fingers through it like a handle, rubbing the fabric between her pointer finger and thumb as she walked as far away as their new guest would allow. It wasn’t far enough for Ida’s mind to wander to pleasanter thoughts.
This pattern continued throughout the summer. Mrs. Isar kept an eye on Edith and noticed that she never drifted more than a couple of feet above the ground, which she found promising. When midsummer had trickled away into cooler nights and shorter days, Edith insisted that it wasn’t possible for her to float any higher.
“How would you know?”
“I can just tell, Mama. I can feel it. I don’t think I could if I wanted to.”
“Mother,” Mrs. Isar corrected before continuing, “And why would you say that: ‘If you wanted to?’ Why would you want to get pulled up into the sky, tossed about by wind and storm? Is that what you want, Edith?”
“…No, Mother.”
“I wouldn’t think so.”
There was a pause, the arrhythmic crunch of their footsteps clattered about between them.
“Mother?”
“Yes?”
“Can I not bring it to school… Please?”
“Not bring what?”
Edith kept walking, attention focused on the trail ahead as she held the cord up and away from her.
After a pause, Mrs. Isar replied, “I’ll think about it.”
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
“What do you say, Edith?”
“Thank you, Mother.”
❧
Mrs. Isar decided to let Edith forego the silk in class, but packed it in her daughter’s bag along with a note for the teacher on the first day of class. Levitating little girls were a rarity in these parts, after all. But Edith never gave the teacher her note and within a week Ida was called into school to pick her up. When she arrived, the principal met her as she checked in, his arms crossed and voice paced by the clicking sound made as he fiddled with his nails. She needed to do something about Edith’s problem, he said. Until then, she wouldn’t be allowed back in class. Too distracting.
❧
That Sunday when Mrs. Isar had some of the local ladies over for book club, Diana Greene suggested she contact Dr. Marie Faramund.
“She specializes in eco-children. A real blessing in our small community.”
“And why would that interest me?”
Mrs. Greene paused, eyebrow quirked, “Well, for Edith. My daughter, Maggie, is in her class. She told me what happened.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, Ida, don’t be like that.” Diana smiled kindly. “Dr. Faramund has been working with Maggie since she could talk. I know it’s scary, especially out here in the country where folks are… less familiar with it, but it’s not a bad thing. It really isn’t. Just give her a try, hm?”
Mrs. Isar turned with her tray of deep blue striped cups and called quietly over her shoulder, “Write the number on the notepad. Just the number.”
❧
At present, approximately two hours after finding her teenage daughter hovering over her bed, Mrs. Isar made her way up the staircase of her home with a serving tray laden with that same coffee set—a gift given to her by her Oma before she came to America. When she reached the top, she paused for a few moments listening to the wave of Dr. Faramund’s voice swirling around the seafoam shush of Edith’s laughter. Her arms trembled. The ceramic ware rattled. The doctor opened the door.
“You are welcome to join us now.”
“Ah yes, well, I made some coffee. I thought it might do us all a bit of good. You like yours black if I recall correctly. Edith uses soy milk, so that’s what’s right here.” Ida placed the tray on Edith’s nightstand and gestured toward the small container for creamer, knocking some out of it. Her jagged string of apologies were softened by Dr. Faramund’s good-natured reply, “No worries. I don’t know that Edie will find it so easy to drink without a straw anyway.”
Her smile in Edith’s direction brought Mrs. Isar’s eyes to her daughter for the first time since entering the room. She immediately noticed the silk cord resting on the ground beside the bed. She picked it up and handed it back to Edith, making sure they didn’t touch. She still felt the marshy wetness of Edith’s skin and drew her hand away swiftly. When she glanced up, Edith was looking out the window to the right of the bed. She wondered if she had imagined her laughter.
Mrs. Isar turned back to Dr. Faramund. “So, what’s wrong with her? She usually doesn’t float this long and at such an inconvenient angle. It’s fortunate this happened now instead of when school starts back. She really can’t begin the year missing a bunch of days. I know you have Mrs. Greene homeschooling Maggie, but you know that I—”
“Perhaps we can step out for a moment,” interjected Dr. Faramund, who looked toward Edith who still stared out the window.
“Well of course. If you think that’s necessary.” Mrs. Isar led the way downstairs to the kitchen, serving tray again in hand, a wasted gesture. There, she placed it down on the counter and served herself and Dr. Faramund a cup of coffee. The doctor’s black. Hers with milk and sugar. The doctor’s untouched. Hers gripped firmly in two hands. Mrs. Isar took a sip before she began, “Is there something you can give her?”
“Excuse me?” Dr. Faramund asked, brow creased by her frown.
“Whatever you’ve been doing thus far clearly isn’t enough anymore. Things certainly got better for a while there. We’d go months without an incident. But lately it’s been happening more often. For longer. Now this.”
“There is nothing to give her. All told, there is nothing wrong with Edie.”
“Edith. Well then what do you even do when you meet?”
“We talk. You know that.”
❧
Dr. Faramund and Edith began talking when Edith was five years old, a week after she was sent home from kindergarten. She slid into their home like golden hour in autumn, casting a forgiving glow on all she beheld. Each week for the proceeding ten years as she sat in Edith’s room, Mrs. Isar would listen for her daughter’s voice, disentangling it from Dr. Faramund’s. She’d close her eyes and try to imagine what Edith would look like as words streamed freely from her lips. Sometimes the features of her face would shift and morph. It was difficult to think of her daughter as anything but quiet.
After their first session, Ida met Dr. Faramund in the kitchen with hands scurrying across dirty dishes. The doctor had claimed that more time was needed before she could be sure what Edith was experiencing. She had smiled, which Mrs. Isar disliked. Her daughter may float away at any second. Mrs. Greene had already called, letting her know that Maggie could bring over their assignments if she’d like. She was doing so well; it wouldn’t be a problem for her to explain them to Edith. Mrs. Isar said she would pick them up herself but thank you just the same.
It had taken Dr. Faramund a month of meeting with Edith before giving Ida her diagnosis.
“Does your family have a history of eco-magical ability?” Her eyes had crinkled as she spoke. Mrs. Isar had turned away.
“No. Not mine.”
“Oh, well it could be a case of atavism. If so, Edith may be linked to something very ancient. The Feldgeister, the Nix. Such beings are the foundation of our world. They keep things balanced. That’s a very special gift, Mrs. Isar.”
“Can she go back to school?” She turned back to Dr. Faramund, whose smile faltered.
“Um, yes. If you’d like. We’ve been working on some techniques to help her gain control. Self-awareness. But, ma’am, I believe your daughter isn’t of air, she’s of water. Her life will be very different.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning she isn’t floating exactly, she is evaporating. Or, at this point, her body is preparing to evaporate someday. To rejoin the earth in that form.”
“But you don’t know when?”
“No, it’s difficult to predict without knowing more about your family. Where her connection to water comes from. If she is of storm or ocean or river. She’ll be at least a teenager, possibly older.”
“Good.” Mrs. Isar cut in. “We’ll be seeing you in the late afternoons then. Same day next week?”
The remaining peaks and valleys of Dr. Faramund’s face smoothed into blankness. “Yes. Same day.”
Mrs. Isar loomed behind Dr. Faramund as she led her to the door. The doctor paused in the threshold, keeping it from shutting on her as she said, “You should really connect with Mrs. Greene. Let Edith and Maggie get together. This community is isolated. They’d be good for each other.”
“I’m sure. Have a good day, Dr. Faramund.”
❧
And she did, though not without some initial hesitation. Each weekend, the two girls would go into the woods. Mrs. Isar would protest. Mrs. Greene would soothe. With time, it became a comfortable routine for all of them. The distance again allowed Mrs. Isar to luxuriate in the fantasy of the body she wished Edith had and Edith the space to feel at ease in her body as it currently existed.
This weekly habit endured as toddler bodies grew steadier and childlike softness made gestures toward maturity until one summer day approximately a year prior to the morning of Edith’s unrelenting muggy flotation in her bedroom, she and Maggie made a pact. The two of them watched the leaves overhead undulate in the breeze. The cool light glittering through the ever-shifting canopy combined with the shh of the wind’s dance and the cicadas’ hum made it seem like they were laying beneath the ocean.
“Do you ever wish you were normal?” Edith asked as she extended a hand toward that chlorophyll sea.
“No. Not really. Do you?”
Edith turned toward Maggie where she laid beside her on a worn picnic blanket—red, blue, and green plaid faded by sunlight.
“Sometimes. It seems like it would be easier. Knowing what lies ahead. Doing what everyone else does. Having people just understand.”
“I understand, Edie.”
There was a pause as Maggie shifted onto her stomach. A bead of sweat trailed down her neck as she stretched to the bundle of meadow violets they’d gathered on their walk into the woods. She turned back to Edith, who quickly looked out to the shifting sea of leaves. A carefully curated serenity painted her features.
Maggie smirked and gestured for Edith to fan out her hair. Edith had left it unbraided despite the oppressive humidity specifically because she knew Maggie liked it, so the request was a cool breeze of validation for her discomfort. She brought her arms back down to her sides as Maggie rested her own across Edith’s torso and began to place wildflowers in her hair.
“Did I ever tell you about the water women of Malin Head?”
Edith shook her head, careful not to disturb the flowers.
“Mama told me that there was a time way back when people cherished children of water, earth, air, and fire. The water women of Malin Head were so in tune with the elements that they knew which children born were of water. And they knew exactly when they’d return.”
“How?” Edith listened with rapt attention.
“I’m not sure, but they did. And in their community, it was always three who went at once. One old, one middling, and one young. The three would sit on a special seat built into the shore. Together they would look out to the ocean holding hands until the tide came in and took them.”
“Were they afraid?”
“Mama said they stayed real calm and quiet. And they’d smile and they wouldn’t even look back to the other women of the community who watched them from further up on shore. They’d just sit there until they’d disappear with the waves.”
The corner of Edith’s mouth pulled upward at the edges. She took in the pattern of pores across Maggie’s nose as she continued, “The ladies who watched from shore stayed because they wanted to see the water giant.”
Edith arched a brow. Maggie’s words formed around her laughter, “They thought the three came together to become the giant. Mama said that was likely only kind of true. They probably just saw a storm at the distance, a welcoming of new water.”
They fell back into comfortable silence. Edith observed the peach fuzz on Maggie’s face made slightly more noticeable by the light streaming down toward their own ocean floor fashioned of moss and grass and earth and a shabby old blanket. It made her look ethereal, and when Edith closed her eyes, she considered that the vibrant afterimage was evidence of a divinity in Maggie’s current form that would explain her reverence. When she opened them again, she asked in a hushed voice, “Do you think we might be able to go together? On the same day, I mean?”
Maggie shifted away from Edith; the only evidence of their previous proximity a light band of perspiration on Edith’s tank top where Maggie’s arm had been. She flopped down. Both looked up to the sky.
“I… I don’t know. Our ways are different. You’ll fade into water, dispersed far and wide. I’ll be rooted here somewhere forever. Tied to the earth. And we don’t really know when we’ll go like they did.”
Edith twisted her head toward Maggie, finding the other girl’s attention already fixed on her. Maggie continued, “But I’d like it if we did.”
“Me, too,” Edith replied.
“Maybe… Maybe we can promise each other, whoever goes first will call on the other. To be there until the last of this current vessel,” Maggie grabbed Edith’s hand, “is gone.”
Edith nodded and they both tried desperately to memorize each other’s faces, hoping that some part of it would remain with them even when their bodies were no more.
❧
But even the best laid plans can be thwarted by sterner forces. At midday on the day of Edith’s return to water, Mrs. Isar was stern and a force. With an eroded expression, Dr. Faramund explained to her that Edith was evaporating. They had anticipated this, she claimed. Mrs. Isar was sure they had not. Edith was ready, pleased even, she claimed. Mrs. Isar was sure she was not. The doctor’s placating tone drifted around Ida providing her nothing to anchor herself to as she washed up her Oma’s coffee set.
She clutched each piece in her hand, contemplating the unique shade of blue of the design. As she dried the final piece and lifted it back onto its cherished place in the display cabinet, it slipped from her hand landing with a solid thunk on the counter. Mrs. Isar gasped. Dr. Faramund went quiet. Ida lifted it up, found it unscathed, and put it back where it belonged.
“I want to keep her solid. We can insulate the room. Seal it off and cool it down. She should come back together, right? I can always homeschool her like Maggie if need be. We can make this work. You made it work for Mrs. Greene.”
“No.”
“What do you mean no?”
“I’m not ‘making it work’ for Mrs. Greene. Mrs. Green and Maggie embrace what is happening and are enjoying the time they have together. Edith is trying to do the same.”
“Nonsense.” Mrs. Isar replied, turning to face Dr. Faramund. “So, you won’t help?”
“I am trying to help you, Ida. These next few hours are your last chance to be with Edie. To see her as she is. Then, she will be gone, no matter what you do, and you’ll never be able to experience each other like you can right now.”
“So, you won’t help her?”
Dr. Faramund stared at Mrs. Isar.
“Then get out.” Ida showed the doctor to the door.
❧
Upon Dr. Faramund’s departure, Mrs. Isar called up to Edith that she would rejoin her shortly. Hearing no reply, she gathered the necessary supplies and changed into her oldest dress and work apron. When she finally made it back into Edith’s room the sight of her daughter caused Mrs. Isar to shrink to the floor, huddling into the doorframe, abandoning the hastily gathered plastic sheeting, tape, and staple gun as she descended. When Dr. Faramund had said Edith was evaporating, Ida had expected an ethereal discorporation. Some gothic, ghostlike flickering that would prettily tease at a liminal part of the mind. Mist on the moor. Dew in the sunrise.
Instead, Edith was evaporating from the outside in. The hazy external layer of her flesh drifted upward in wisps of steam from her face, revealing tender pink underneath. Her mother sobbed and the dramatic inhalation that followed came with the thick scent—the taste—of Edith lashing across her tongue. Through her sinuses. Swirling about her lungs. She gagged and coughed, skittering back into the hallway by her heels. A few deep breaths of arid air fueled her crawl to pull the bedroom door shut, arm stretched to allow fingertips to barely graze the doorknob. Mrs. Isar knew she had to go back in. So much of Edith might be lost already.
Ida couldn’t recall a memory of Edith being ill outside of the floating. With her eyes closed, breaths just slower-than-frantic, all her brain could supply was the unity of sound, sensation, and sight as her heartbeat pulsed brightly in the darkness behind her eyelids. Since her mind offered her no reassurance that she could put aside her disgust and feign a maternal gentleness, she didn’t. With a gulp of air, Mrs. Isar returned to the bedroom and kept her back to Edith as best she could. She edged about the periphery, working inward stapling and taping plastic sheeting along the walls, floor, ceiling. It was efficient, but she didn’t have time for the level of precision she would have preferred. If only she had known sooner.
Once she’d secured the last bit of plastic around the legs of the bedframe with several layers of duct tape, gaze fixed on her task, Edith said something. It did not sound like her, as if the words had to move around obstacles in her throat. Maybe she didn’t have a throat at that point, the air in her lungs making a final sprint across her exposed vocal cords before they were lost, something Ida could have witnessed if she had looked at her daughter. Instead, she circled widely around Edith’s bed into the hallway where she sealed off the room.
After turning down the thermostat, Mrs. Isar sat against the door as the sun began to set on that long summer day. Filtered in this manner, Edith’s voice felt more familiar to her. The sound bumped softly against her back, and she listened as it faded like a receding tide. For a moment, it sounded like she was saying “Maggie, Maggie” over and over, but that seemed unlikely to Ida. Just her mind trying to apply logic to indecipherable sounds. The memory of Edith’s words steadily transformed as they sloshed around her mother’s skull. Ida considered what she might tell Mrs. Greene of this moment as she stood and walked to her bedroom hoping to dream of a child who was rambunctious, messy, and carefree.
❧
As Mrs. Isar mopped up what remained of Edith in the cool light of sunrise the next morning, she savored her newfound ease. Even as she wrung out the mop, sheets, and clothes and noticed there was less water than one would expect to come from an evaporated young adult, she felt unburdened. Edith would fit nicely in her Oma’s carafe, which seemed like a fitting container for her. The dark blue line work was reminiscent of the girl’s eyes, though more pleasing to look at. Something akin to the evening sky, perhaps ominous to behold but transparent about its mysteries. Mrs. Isar placed the bird shaped topper to seal her daughter in and brought her to the breakfast table. The conversation went much as it always did, with Ida’s voice filling the space as Edith sat quietly.
After breakfast, Ida decided it would be pleasant to walk to Maggie and Mrs. Greene’s. She couldn’t recall the last time Edith had visited Maggie. Perhaps it was before Maggie’s condition made it difficult for her to walk. It would be a kindness to encourage her to seek the comfort of old friends as they all adjusted. Mrs. Isar pulled on her favorite day dress, tucked Edith into the crook of her arm, and headed out the door.
As she walked down the dirt trail, the late summer sun fitfully regained its strength and exerted it willfully on Mrs. Isar. Sweat began to collect between her shoulder blades, carving paths down her back. She tapped her fingertips along the solid ceramic form of Edith and pushed forward, murmuring into her arm, “The heather is blooming.”
A pause. The whisper of a breeze through the heather. A pointed cessation.
“You’re pleased I noticed, aren’t you? Maggie used to teach you all about these things. You used to run so far ahead and find them. You’d stare and stare until I called you back to yourself.”
Mrs. Isar’s walking boots scraped against the ground, kicking dirt up to the hem of her dress. She reached down to brush it off. As she straightened, something whirled up from where Edith lay cradled in her arm. Her eyes shot down and found steam curling around the edges of the topper, then disappearing. The world fell into a roar. Ida’s heart, her thoughts, her feet rushing. She had to close the distance to Mrs. Greene’s. She hadn’t considered it might be too hot for her little girl. A foolish mistake. What a horrible child. What a horrible moth—
Mrs. Greene’s house appeared in the distance, dappled in tree filtered light, and at the door stood its owner. Mrs. Isar called to her. She reached an arm out as if all she needed was to be lifted from the dusty path. Mrs. Greene looked up, but did not move. Mrs. Isar frowned but did not slow. That woman knew something. Dr. Faramund must have told her something that would save her Maggie and she was keeping it to herself, Ida thought. She charged forward and, in her haste, tripped over an unseen root. Edith toppled from her arm and landed shattered at the foot of a maple tree at the edge of the drive, the liquid within promptly absorbed by the earth.
When Mrs. Isar stared down at the fractured carafe mosaicked across drying soil, she was not surprised by the stillness she felt as she contemplated which loss she regretted more. What did surprise her was the realization that she had never seen this tree in Mrs. Greene’s yard before. Its height suggested a level of maturity, body contorted into an upward spiral, branches like countless limbs triumphantly beckoning the sky. A storm rumbled overhead.
Jamie A. M. is a writer & Buschgroßmutter based in Nashville, TN. They currently work as Managing and Associate Fiction Editor at The Dodge. Their writing has been published in Frogpond and Grimoire Magazine. You can follow their doings and beings at www.jamiemorning.com.