Hansel 1(3)

In this case, I can almost guarantee I know the trigger: sex.

This place probably doesn’t even look like Mother’s House. It’s just my mind, playing tricks, because I’ve been thinking The House, and Hansel.

We walk past a few more flickering torches, and one of the small, wood doors punched into the stone hallway walls opens. I flinch a little, and both my sisters’ eyes flicker to me. Thankfully, we’re all distracted by the ripped, bouncer-looking guy who steps out of the door in a black wife-beater and black jeans with black sneakers.

He clears his throat and flashes us a handsome smile. “You might want to pick up the pace, ladies. The show started several minutes ago. If you’re much later, you may miss it. No late entrances once we get past the five minute mark. Unless,” he says, looking up and down us, “you’re here for Edgar?”

“We are,” Lana says with a bob of her spiky head. “Eleven-thirty in The House, right?”

My lungs freeze mid-inhale. Did she just say The House?

The bouncer looks from me to Lana. “Let me see your stub.”

Laura and Lana reach into their pockets in unison. They turn their right hands in exactly the same way and dig into the pockets of their pants with exactly the same motion.

“You guys must be triplets,” says the bouncer.

There’s a round of yeses; one from me? Maybe not… I’ve mashed my lips together, pancaked, like a fish, and am drawing air through my nose in frenzied breaths.

Luckily, their attention is still on Mr. Muscles with the left-lobe earring and the perfect teeth.

“Yep,” he says, holding up Lana’s ticket stub. “You’re here to see Edgar. Follow me, and I’ll make sure you get there. Are you all donors?” he asks as he starts walking. He looks over his shoulder, and Lana and Laura follow, tight on his heels.

“We are,” Lana says. “Well, I am. These two are just my beneficiaries for tonight.”

Laura glances at me and makes a face, and we pick up our pace to keep up with Lana and the club guy.

The torches throw shadows over Lana and the broad-backed guy, adding another dimension of movement to their walking; making me feel dizzy.

Maybe you were hearing things, Leah. Or not. The House? It’s hardly a unique name. It could just be the name of a certain area within the club. Maybe one that’s decorated like a quaint little house or something. I don’t know.

But still, I can’t seem to get a good, deep breath.

I begin to tremble, little vibrations starting somewhere near my throat and spreading outward, everywhere.

Laura notices and drops back beside me, grabbing my hand as Lana chats it up with club guy, who leads us into another hallway—this one lit by torches, too.

Between the shifting shadows, I make out something on the wall that nearly stops my heart: a leaves and branches.

This hallway’s walls are painted like a forest.

No. No, no. No NO!

I can hear the club guy talking about the artist as Lana exclaims over the beautiful yellow aspens, but they sound so far away. I try to rally, to argue with myself again, but my mind chooses that very moment to send my visual memory careening through my head.

I can see the painting on my room’s wall perfectly, maybe even better than if I was looking at a photo.

It looks almost just like this.

Cold fear grips me. I’ve been clean for more than a year but maybe… Maybe I’m going crazy.

Oh Jesus, what is wrong with me?!

Laura’s hand touches my arm, and I notice I’ve stopped walking.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asks me softly.

“Nothing.”

Two steps ahead of us, Lana is going on about how unfortunate it is, the way religion stigmatizes “the sex act.”

“You hear her?” I ask Laura in a raspy voice.

She nods and seems placated. I watch her eyes shift away from me and up toward Lana.

I grab a deep breath and try to focus my attention on the floor. It’s stone, colored dark orange and gray. Were the stones at The House gray and orange?

I think they were.

Fuck.

Just stop thinking, Leah!

I refuse to look at the wall or floor from this point forward, but instead keep my eyes locked on Lana’s shoulders. When I find my gaze wandering to the club guy’s muscular back, I take that as a good sign that my PTSD-fueled panic is blowing over, and relax a fraction.

It’s probably all inside my head.

Okay, maybe not all—there are some definite similarities, like that David statue—but probably mostly.

When I get home, I need to book a special appointment with Cynthia immediately.

I curl my hands into loose fists to mask some residual shaking as I listen to Laura talk about the agony of her “two-week wait.” She’s trying to conceive for the seventh month in a row and beginning to feel pessimistic.