“My mother,” I burst out. Alex turns then, looking startled. I’m as surprised as he is. I didn’t even know I was going to say the words until I said them. “I don’t want to be like her. Don’t you understand? I saw what it did to her, I saw how she was. . . . It killed her, Alex. She left me, left my sister, left it all. All for this thing, this thing inside of her. I won’t be like her.” I’ve never really spoken about this, and I’m surprised by how difficult it is. Now I have to turn away, feeling sick and ashamed that the tears have started again.
“Because she wasn’t cured?” Alex asks softly.
For a moment I can’t speak, and I just let myself cry, silently now, hoping he can’t tell. When I have control of my voice, I say, “It’s not just that.”
Then all of it comes rushing out, the details, things I’ve never shared with anyone before: “She was so different from everybody else. I knew that—that she was different, that we were different—but it wasn’t scary at first. It just felt like our little, delicious secret. Mine, and hers, and Rachel’s, too, like we were in a cocoon. It was . . . It was amazing. We kept all the curtains drawn so no one could see in. We used to play this game where she would hide in the hallway and we would try to run past her and she would leap out and grab us—playing goblin, she called it. It always ended in a tickle war. She was always laughing. We were all always laughing. Then every so often when we got too loud, she would clap her hands over our mouths and get all tense for a second, listening. I guess she was listening for the neighbors, to make sure none of them were alarmed. But no one ever came.
“Sometimes she would make us blueberry pancakes for dinner, as a treat. She picked the blueberries herself. And she was always singing. She had a beautiful voice, just gorgeous, like honey—”
My voice cracks, but I can’t stop now. The words are pouring, tumbling out. “She used to dance, too. I told you that. When I was little I would stand with my feet on top of hers. She would wrap her arms around me and we would move slowly around the room while she counted out the beat, tried to teach me about rhythm. I was terrible at it, clumsy, but she always told me I was beautiful.” Tears make the floorboards blur beneath my feet.
“It wasn’t all good, not all the time. Sometimes I would get up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom and I’d hear her crying. She always tried to muffle it by turning into her pillow, but I knew. It was terrifying when she cried. I’d never seen a grown-up cry before, you know? And the way she did it, the wailing . . . like some kind of animal. And there were days she didn’t get out of bed at all. She called those her black days.”
Alex moves closer to me. I’m shaking so badly I can hardly stand. My whole body feels like it’s trying to expel something, cough something up from deep in my chest. “I used to pray that God would cure her of the black days. That he would keep her—keep her safe for me. I wanted us to stay together. Sometimes it seemed like the praying worked. It was good most of the time. It was more than good.” I can barely bring myself to say these words. I have to force them out in a low whisper. “Don’t you get it? She left all that. She gave it up—for, for that thing. Love. Amor deliria nervosa—whatever you want to call it. She gave me up.”
“I’m sorry, Lena,” Alex whispers, behind me. This time he does reach out. He starts drawing long, slow circles on my back. I lean into him.
But I’m not done yet. I swipe at the tears furiously, take a big breath. “Everyone thinks she killed herself because she couldn’t stand to have the procedure again. They were still trying to cure her, you know. It would have been her fourth time. After her second procedure they refused to put her under—they thought the anesthesia was interfering with the way the cure was taking. They cut into her brain, Alex, and she was awake.”
I feel his hand stiffen temporarily, and I know he’s just as angry as I am. Then the circles start up again.
“But I know that’s not really why.” I shake my head. “My mom was brave. She wasn’t afraid of pain. That was the whole problem, really. She wasn’t afraid. She didn’t want to be cured; she didn’t want to stop loving my dad. I remember she told me that once, just before she died. ‘They’re trying to take him from me,’ she said. She was smiling so sadly. ‘They’re trying to take him, but they can’t.’ She used to wear one of his pins around her neck, on a chain. She kept it hidden most of the time, but that night she had it out and was staring at it. It was this strange, long, silver dagger-thing, with two bright jewels in the hilt, like eyes. My dad used to wear it on his sleeve. After he died she wore it every day, never took it off even to bathe. . . .”
I suddenly realize that Alex has removed his hand and taken two steps away from me. I turn around and he’s staring at me, white faced and shocked, as though he’s just seen a ghost.
“What?” I wonder if it’s possible I’ve offended him in some way. Something about the way he’s staring makes fear start beating at my chest, a frantic flutter. “Did I say something wrong?”
He shakes his head, an almost imperceptible motion. The rest of his body stays as straight and tense as a wire stretched between two posts. “How big was it? The pin, I mean.” His voice sounds strangely high-pitched.