Birds in a cage, p.29
Birds in a Cage, page 29
Now, all she wanted was home.
***
It wasn’t a dying dream.
After they left the police station in black Plymouths, it was dark outside, an orchestra of crickets trumpeting them home. The night fanfare reminded Marcy of when she was young and would fall asleep in Papa’s arms at the park. She allowed herself a smile, the first after Calla and Liz’s deaths. Marcy was with Georgina being driven home by Hugo, and Maman and André were in another police auto behind them. Marcy had wanted Maman’s steady presence, but she thought leaving Georgina with André would be uncomfortable. Tears almost spilled over, but she composed herself.
While sitting in a chair with Hugo asking if she needed to go to the hospital. After what she had endured, her inability to act—the catatonia that was an old friend—was as valid a response as any. Speaking required will, and it’d been sapped from her. Maman, Georgina, André, and the officers glanced at her with grief and concern. She almost expected someone to buy a bouquet for her funeral. André spoke of two women, Carmilla and Liz, and how they died, how Liz had defended them. Georgina looked to Marcy for answers, but Marcy could only swallow. If not for Hugo’s presence they would have been there forever.
The officers present seemed most baffled about the idea that a woman would have the physical strength to kill anyone. How small their worlds were. Marcy envied them. André said he and Marcy had found the killer and, in self-defense, lit them on fire. Being a former state servant afforded André less scrutiny; executions were quieter than they’d been when Papa was working. The move to make all executions private made the public less opposed to the deaths; it seemed the deaths were better when they were unseen.
She nodded along at times, tongue swollen. Her cousin was sharp-lipped whenever someone spoke to Marcy, and Marcy partly resented it, that clear display of masculinity. All the same, it was good to have someone else, along with Maman and Georgina, carrying the moment.
But they were no longer in the small, bare station room, shifting in the stiff, uncomfortable chairs. They were home. As they all crossed the threshold, Maman squeezed her right hand, Georgina her left.
I can’t give up. I can’t give the monsters my voice. I already didn’t let them have my blood. My soul. She couldn’t travel to the other land, however the hell she managed that, see the cosmos, and return just to close her loved ones out.
Marcy made her way to the washroom, and it felt like a wake. The others shuffled about and whispered in the living room. She removed her shoes, shirt, and trousers, still black with Liz and Carmilla. She resolved to hide them at the bottom of her wardrobe for the rest of time, or burn them. Maman, Papa, André, all four of them had had blood on their hands now, and she didn’t know how to feel amid the relief and horror.
A soft knock on the door. Marcy lifted a hand out of the water and tapped the wall. Maman entered with a nightgown under one arm. She set the gown on the counter and moved to leave, holding her hand out and moving her fingers and wrists like they ached.
Marcy massaged her throat, inhaled deeply, and opened her mouth.
“Maman?” she croaked.
Maman’s head snapped up, her mouth open long before speaking. “Yes?” She started. “Good God, what happened to your neck?”
“I was bitten. I’ll be fine. What’s wrong? What were you thinking about?”
“You need to—”
“I’ve cleaned it. I’ll be fine.” Before the last word, Maman handed her a washcloth and bottle of disinfectant. Marcy sighed, but applied it without protest with a wince. It stung.
“What was I thinking about?” Maman looked flustered. “It’s a little absurd and—not prudent now.” At Marcy’s tacit insistence, she said, “Do you still blame yourself for your papa’s death? Do you still think it’s wrong, what he does?”
Indeed, Marcy hadn’t expected that. “Why do you ask?”
Maman rubbed her chin with her knuckles. “It was on my mind after our spat, before you—left.”
A long silence followed, only the sound of water dripping off Marcy’s fingers, the bath settling black around her. “I don’t know. I wish I let him talk more before—I always asked myself why I drove him when I hated what he did, but I already knew the answer. To keep him safe, but I must’ve somehow thought that wasn’t enough. And I failed.” She closed her eyes, partly to avoid Maman, partly to dam five years’ worth of tears.
Maman sucked in her bottom lip, composing herself. “Because you were there, he died knowing he was loved. He didn’t die alone, and what more can one ask for?”
Marcy was still, thoughts too loud to put into words. She changed the subject, fearing she would make her mother cry. Again. “Do you want to know more about what happened tonight?”
“Of course, but you can determine if you’re ready.”
Marcy wrung her hands, a knobby cradle. “I had two lovers, and they were both immortal somehow, like Rais, and I—this is an incredibly long story.” Marcy pulled the plug, letting the water drain.
Looking withered, Maman offered a wan, ghostly smile. “We’ll have time. I think. Now, you need to recover.”
“Is recovery for something so chronic possible? Maman, I hear and see things other people don’t, like Jehanne’s soul in my palm.” She swallowed and looked down at her knuckles, little islands in the diminishing soap water. “The killer—as I said, she’s like Rais, not human. Before she died, she told me most of what I see is because of my own head, not her. I think I hoped it was all her fault, but then I think of things I’ve seen since before I was about fourteen, or thirteen, and I think about Grandpapa. And I know better.”
When Marcy stood, she was offered a towel and nightgown. “You just saved your cousin and countless women. As I’ve said, you aren’t wrong, only different, and how could you not be? You were born in circumstances few could dream of. I thought I’d never have a child again, and there you were, a rose rooted to the earth when I thought all my sorrows would blow you away.”
After she dried herself and pulled the gown over her head, Marcy thought of the time she last burrowed under her sheets, and the warmth of her palm calmed her enough to sleep on the darkest nights. She didn’t feel grounded; she felt like quicksand waiting to suck in everyone around her. Her voice was strained under the weight of memories. “I know I’ve been scattered. I’m sorry I’m so broken.” She needed help, and yet the hospital would only silence her or make her worse. It was the path of pins or needles.
Maman brushed the hair from Marcy’s forehead. “You’ve always been whole to me, ma petite héroïne.”
“I’m sorry I’ve kept you here.”
“You’ve never been a burden.”
“I could’ve been helping more, especially with the war. There was that infirmary for the rebels . . .”
Maman gave a wry smile. “Poupée, who do you think helped make and operate it? Where did you think I went during the day?”
Marcy gawked. “Did you—did you collaborate with the doctors at the hospital? Did you know . . .” Maman had acted as if she hadn’t known Liz.
Maman didn’t meet her eyes. “A few, I suppose. I wasn’t always present.”
Marcy had many questions, recalled Maman's odd look when Liz came to the house. But she was too tired. Maman could have her secrets, for now. She was in awe of her mother, performing such a dangerous task, and it made her sad to think Maman would die and only be known not for what she did, but for marrying an executioner.
“Can I go with you to Papa’s grave?” blurted Marcy.
Maman held her hand, rubbing a thumb along the side of hers. “You don’t need to. I never meant to shame you.”
Marcy waited for the words to bubble up. “I want to.”
Maman’s smile wobbled. “I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you.” Maman shuddered, losing the battle to fend off tears. Marcy rubbed her back. “Now, I think—you really should eat something. You’re flushed.”
“The doctor who helped me with my anemia, Liz, she was one of my lovers in Paris.”
“Liz, one of the women André mentioned.” Maman blinked slowly. “She was Dr. Horváth?”
“I shot her, and she took this bullet out of her flesh like she was digging a seashell out of sand. And the flesh healed.”
Maman asked, “Why didn’t you tell me you knew her?”
Didn’t I? “I forgot I didn’t.” Tears pricked her eyes, tears that had stayed hidden for several years. “I should’ve told you everything.”
Maman looked wary. “You shot someone?” And she died in that terrible place, in my lap. Marcy knew, in time, she’d reveal everything. How were Papa, Henri, and André able to face death so often not just as a witness, but an instigator? Detachment? Habit?
“I have a question for you, while I’m attempting to be more honest.”
Maman said dryly, as she did, “I’m attempting to listen to your honesty.”
“Do you think it odd I love André’s former wife?”
She expected Maman to start in surprise; she didn’t. In fact, her expression moved not an inch. “I was hoping you’d come to terms with your attraction.” Marcy was aghast. “No, it’s difficult for me to find anything strange anymore.”
They moved to Marcy’s bedroom. André nodded to them from the couch. In Marcy’s room, Georgina was there at the edge of the bed. Marcy sat next to her, and Maman to Marcy’s left.
Guilt wormed its way into her lungs. She had killed the women Calla hadn’t already ended.
Marcy broke the silence, though it was barely more than a whisper. “Why must we go through every possible torment before we find peace?”
Maman stared at her for a long moment, pupils contracting.
Georgina went to stand.
“Please stay,” Marcy said. Her partner eased down again. “Is this—God’s grace? Because it doesn’t feel like it.”
Both her palms burned. She rubbed her fingers along the river of skin in her right one. She pondered whether it was best to tell Maman about seeing almost everyone she’d lost as the years went by.
Maman said, “I don’t know why there’s suffering. I wish I could’ve spared you from it, and yet, it feels as if I planted my sorrows in you before you were born.” Like she had said about feeling like she’d blow Marcy away. Marcy realized her mother’s worst fear was that her daughter would become her, but she couldn’t fathom being half as brave as Maman.
It felt like an hour had passed with only rhythmic breathing. Marcy rubbed her aching nose. Her sinuses throbbed from the effort to maintain composure.
Marcy murmured, “When the killer held me down, and I saw this small little house by the sea. I met Juliette and Roger. I saw Papa again.” Georgina’s stare was unwavering.
Maman’s face fell, stricken. She said, “How were they?”
Marcy licked her lips, unsure how to proceed. She scratched her elbow, searched her skin for answers, for the smell of tobacco, roses, and baby talc. “They were happy.”
Maman wiped at her cheeks, but it was futile. She began to sob. “That’s—all that matters.”
They all held one another, Marcy shaking between them. André, who she neglected to see in the doorway, rushed and embraced the three of them, bending as far as he could manage. All their temples met, and their shoulders bobbed as one sea.
For the first time in years, Marcy wept.
EPILOGUE
Weeks after the Allies’ liberation of France, Marcy wasn’t cured, but she went outside more. The blustery autumn and the yellow-orange beauty of the trees emboldened her. When she wept for Jehanne or Papa or, God help her, Elizabeth and Carmilla, someone would wrap their arm around her shoulder and they stayed like that, accepting the burning tide. Some days, time lapsed, and she wouldn’t remember getting dressed or walking to the rose garden, and though she’d like to say it never frightened her, Maman and Georgina helped ground her every day.
She was never able to grasp the full implications of many immortal beings stalking the woods, nor what the gods Carmilla spoke of were, but she was trying to heal, and pondering too long threatened to pull her under. Ignorance worked in her favor; she already struggled enough with sleep.
Every day, she found Papa in the clouds, birdsong, and roses—the ones she tended herself, the ones that mirrored those on that alien shore she visited while blood left her. When her grip on life around her faded, Marcy looked at photos and mirrors to ensure she still had a face. She dreamed of Liz melting into her and feared Georgina would do the same when they kissed. Her right palm itched, and she wondered if Papa crawled under the lines when she visited him, or if it was Liz telling her to not be afraid. Because of the readjustments to the rigmarole of life, Marcy and Georgina hadn’t been intimate, but they went to cafés together and one evening, as promised, they had a dinner of lamb and apricots.
Then, one night, Georgina came to her in a sheer nightgown, one that augmented her hips. She slid on Marcy’s bed, so their arms touched.
Marcy had been rolling a bullet with brown, dried residue between her fingers, but she quickly pocketed it.
Georgina gave her an envelope.
“A love letter? You’re too sweet.”
“We’ve received a letter. It’s even addressed to the three of us, how odd.”
As much as she loved Guylaine from past visits, Marcy hoped André hadn’t impregnated another woman. “From?” When she looked to Georgina, she didn’t have set expectations, but she didn’t quite realize how much the gown revealed till she took a single, long look.
“Mina Harker.”
Harker. Stymying her swelling curiosity, Marcy saved a hand. “Leave it for now.” When she returned from their planned seaside trip, she resolved to read the letter, or burn it. It’d depend on her mood. For now, she was done with her lust for adventure. Any remaining embers had died with Calla and Liz. “But that’s not why you’re here.”
Georgina set the letter on the nightstand. “You’re becoming as observant as me.”
“I resent that.”
Georgina caressed her wrist. “I’d like your patient tutelage.”
“For what?” Marcy teased, lowering her voice. It was her turn once again to be coy because, even with the gentleness of their skin-on-skin, Georgina’s eyes darkened with lust. For the first time in a long while, need stirred in Marcy, need not thorny with shame.
Her partner drew her into a kiss that tasted of honey and chamomile. The first time they could rejoice together without hurry or fear.
“I’d love to,” was all Marcy replied.
Georgina unbuttoned her sheer dress and pushed some fabric aside, baring one shoulder.
Marcy’s movements were stilted when she settled her hands on her partner’s shoulders; she was still becoming accustomed to the feeling of her voice in her throat, keeping the revelations she had a distant figment till she was ready. Which she would be, one day. All she needed now was this doting normalcy when a defiant part of her urged her to scream or fade away. Lifting one hand away, Marcy turned the nightside lamp on because she wanted to see all of Georgina, confirm she was real.
Georgina’s brow furrowed. “Are you sure you’re comfortable with this?”
Marcy smoothed her thumb over Georgina’s temple. “Yes, though I’ll let you know if we need to pause. For now, I’d like to hear some new music from you.”
“I may not give you the best performance, dearest.” Georgina thumbed the top button of Marcy’s gown. “Remember, I’ve never done anything like this with a woman. I once considered this logistically and physically impossible.” When Marcy said nothing, she asked, “What’s on your mind, love?”
Marcy murmured, hands tender on Georgina’s neck. “The two women I loved first are dead, and any of Calla’s initiates—dead too. What does it say about me that I found love there?” The side of her neck throbbed, though it had long healed, leaving a crested scar.
Georgina touched her cheek, tilting Marcy’s gaze up to hers. “I think it shows, with Liz, someone tormented found hope with you. She found and reclaimed a part of herself that might’ve been dead even before she first passed away.”
“Is it terrible I miss parts of her? Of them?”
“I think it shows you have strength, a different sort of strength than perhaps your maman or me.” Her expression posed a question, and Marcy could already guess what it was. Marcy had not been ready to speak much about what happened beyond a skeletal report. “Why did your lover—the especially homicidal one—come back after this long?”
“She said so much, it was difficult to keep up, but I think she was lonely.” Loneliness, rage, grief. It seemed that was all immortals had in all their lives. You can be immortal by selling your soul to someone, even the Devil, or through black magic. Are there any good ways to backhand the Lord? Jehanne and Rais. Devotion twisted beyond its limits, love shattered by bitterness.
