Page 66 of Lotus

My brother takes the hint and turns to leave, his footsteps creaking down the hallway. His ‘see you later’fades out as he disappears into the living room.

Before I slip into my running clothes, I pull the folder out from the drawer, flipping through the loose sketches until I land on the one of a woman being held captive by the Faceless Man. My index finger traces over her outline, etched in pencil and colorful shading, and I smile at this updated version of her character.

The Queen of the Lotus is no longer a little girl with pigtails, clutching a tattered teddy bear to her overalls. She’s a full grown woman with wild sun-kissed hair, black spectacles, and aNirvanat-shirt tied at her hip with a rubber band. Her eyes are shaded in the bluest colored pencil I could find, and her nose is small, her lips plump, her frame slim, yet busty. Her humor shines through in her dialogue, along with an assortment of curse words and witty retorts.

She is fierce.

She is goofy.

She is beautiful.

She is Syd.

There is a raccoon.

I watch as it scurries from a neighbor’s yard to mine, then veers behind the house while I try to catch my breath after a five-mile run. My brows knit together, perspiration lining my hairline, when I notice the animal stumble into the backyard with a limp.

Then my eyes trail to the blood spatter left behind, little red droplets seeping into the gravel driveway.

Oh, no. The animal is injured.

Without thinking it through, I follow the creature, jogging swiftly into my backyard as worry courses through me. I see the raccoon collapse beside a Cypress tree just as I begin to slow my steps and approach with caution. As I close in, the animal’s head tilts up towards me, our eyes locking from a few feet away.

It’s young, likely still a kit. Those dark eyes feel familiar, and yet, it’s a preposterous notion to think this is the same raccoon I encountered upon my escape. There are tens of thousands of these mammals in the county alone. It’s nonsensical.

But I can’t help but feel a draw—an odd connection, an overwhelming desire to help.

I’m no doctor, but I’ve read countless books on the matter.

Crouching down, I observe the animal for signs of distress beyond the flesh wound. Raccoons are nocturnal, so the fact that it is active during daylight hours could potentially be a sign of rabies or disease.

I don’t come to that conclusion, though, and take my chances by moving forward, slow and kind. “Hello, friend. My name is Oliver.”

My voice remains low. Soft and inviting. This wild animal should be running afraid, or even attacking me under stress, but it just lies there, its tiny claws scratching at the dirt.

“I’m here to help you.” I inch closer on my knees, pressing my luck. “Have we met before?”

I’m aware I’m being foolish—asking questions to a wild mammal, as if it might respond. But I’m nearly certain I see an answer in its ebony eyes. It’s possible I’ve imagined the brief flash of recognition, the flicker of invitation to continue my efforts, however, I’m willing to take my chances. I’m going to help this raccoon.

Contemplating my options, I decide I’ll need gloves and a towel to safely capture the creature. While my instincts tell me it won’t hurt me, I can’t be sure, and safety comes first. “Stay right here, little one. I’ll be right back.”

A few minutes later, I’ve returned with Gabe’s winter gloves and a bath towel I swiped from the linen closet. The raccoon hasn’t relocated, causing me to believe it was awaiting my return. Silly, perhaps, but it has wise eyes. This animal trusts me; I’m certain of it.

Inching closer, I continue to speak in a placated tone, cursing the bulky gloves on my hands. I’d prefer for the raccoon to smell my scent, but I can’t risk a bite or a scratch. “I’m going to fix you, little raccoon. You’re going to be just fine.” Leaning in, I watch as the animal flinches, just slightly, before splaying its hands and feet to the earth as it anticipates contact.

In one fell swoop, I collect the animal in the alabaster towel, only its head peeking out as I hold it to my chest. Its breaths are quick and heavy, a combination of nerves and the injury. With one arm around the raccoon, my left hand reaches out to stroke its head, the silky fur tickling my fingers. “You’ll be all right. I’ll help you.”

I’m positive the animal’s breaths begin to soften from my touch.

Carrying the raccoon inside, I make my way into my bedroom and close the door, eager to assess the wound. Only, I’ve hardly settled in before my door barges open and Sydney barrels inside like a tempest.

“Oliver?”

The raccoon struggles against me as I turn to Sydney and order, “Shut the door. Hurry.”

My tone of voice seems to startle her, and she hesitates for a moment before doing what I asked. “Sorry… I was on my way over and saw you carrying something in a towel. Do you want me to call someone? Is it an animal?”

“A raccoon, yes. It’s hurt.”

---