Marci sat down next to me—not just sat, but snuggled, pressing her thigh against mine, her side to my side, pulling up my arm so she could rest her shoulder in the crook of it and her head on my chest. “I missed you,” she murmured.
“I missed you too,” I said. I could feel the warmth of her body on mine, acutely aware of the exact location of every part: her left hand on my leg, just inside the knee, her right arm on my wrist, the perfect curve of her hip pressing close to my leg. She turned her head, and her breast brushed my chest, her mouth was just inches from mine.
She leaned in closer and her lips brushed my chin.
Brooke’s lips.
I pulled my head back, turning away from her. “We can’t do this.”
“I haven’t kissed you in two years—”
“It’s not your body,” I said. My arms were shaking and I balled my hands into fists to try to steady them. “It’s not right.”
She let out a breath, long and slow and sad. “Did you…? I guess it makes sense that you moved on after two years, right? You and Brooke, now, I guess?”
“It’s not like that.”
“Somebody else?”
“It’s not your body,” I said. “It’s you inside of it, maybe, but it’s Brooke. If I kiss you I’d be kissing Brooke.”
“And you’ve never kissed her?”
“Of course I’ve never kissed her,” I said, “She’s a … I don’t know. Can’t you see?”
“You’re right,” she said, pulling away from my side. “You’re right, it’s like … date rape or something. It’s like she’s unconscious and we’re using her body.”
“Yeah.”
She pulled her knees up to her chin, wrapping her arms around them. “Well this sucks.”
“I know.”
“I’ve been waiting two years, and now you’re here, but…”
“But you’re not,” I said gently. “Not really.”
“This is stupid,” she said. “This is stupid and it sucks and I hate it. I can’t even … this isn’t even my body, these aren’t even my legs or my arms.” She let go of her knees, swinging her arms wide, like she’d touched something that repulsed her. She stared at her knees for a minute and then stood up, shaking her hands back and forth in a blur. “How do I even walk around like this? How do I even live?”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know, and it’s not—” She pressed her hand into her face, then pulled them quickly away. She was crying. “It’s not your fault,” said Marci. She was silent for a long time, and I hugged myself to stay warm. “How do you sleep, doing all of this? Knowing what you know?”
I shrugged and looked up at the narrow band of stars between the shed and the fence. “Most of the time I don’t.”
7
Dillon seemed larger during the day, probably because the light helped fill in the background, adding barns and hills to the middle distance, making the whole thing seem less isolated. The people helped as well. It wasn’t exactly a bustling city, but there were cars on the roads, and people at the stores and churches. I realized that it must be Sunday and wondered if Brooke would insist on going to church, like she sometimes did. As we walked down the only major road in town, looking at the one stoplight far in the distance, we passed a church with a slowly filling parking lot. Brooke didn’t say a thing and I realized she must be somebody else right now.
“Who are you?” I asked.
Brooke raised her eyebrow. “You mean, like, philosophically?”
“I mean, are you Brooke or … Lucinda, or whoever?”
A look of hurt flashed across her face, followed almost immediately by a sinking dejection; she looked down, her shoulders drooped, and she took a slow breath. “Sorry, I should have realized that would be a common question. But it’s still me, it’s still Marci.”
I felt relief and despair and confusion, all at once, and tried to hide my grimace. “You’ve never been one person that long. Not since Fort Bruce, I mean.”
“Dr. Trujillo helped keep her grounded,” said Marci, then stopped in place for a moment, frowning. “Who’s Dr. Trujillo?”
“He was our therapist in Fort Bruce,” I said. “Looks like you’re sharing memories, like we wondered last night.”
I didn’t know how to react to the idea that Marci was here long term. It had been hard enough to come to grips with her sudden appearance, and eventually I’d just given up and focused on solvable problems instead: how to get into the theater, how to get rid of the boys, where to find a new place, what to eat. When Marci had finally gone to sleep I’d laid awake for hours, clenching my fists and trying to sort through the situation, but nothing made sense. I didn’t know what I wanted or how to get it; things had been so much easier when all I’d had to do was plan the next kill. Death was so much easier than life. It made me feel weak to prefer the easy one. I couldn’t even light a fire to ease my tension because I didn’t want those boys or the cops or the gardener to come looking for us. Now it was morning, and I’d hoped the problem of Marci’s presence had solved itself, but here she was, and I was at war with myself. I couldn’t live with her but I never wanted her to leave.