It’s got to be a fish . . . or a frog.
I back up a step, because I’m lying to myself. Whatever is causing the water to churn is too big to be either. I read once that rats are good swimmers. With their aquatic ability and flexible bodies, they can make their way up from city sewers into toilets. I ease back another two steps, my pride the only anchor keeping me from bounding away in fear.
“Hey kitty . . .” I gulp. “Did you trap a rat in there?” Diable’s eyes stay pinned on the eddying currents, leaving my words to hang in midair, taunting my raging imagination.
I’m not a skittish girl. Last summer, I was the one who took the biology class pet home. No one else volunteered to take care of our Mexican red-knee tarantula for three months. But Sister Scarlett and I got along famously. Especially at feeding time. For some reason, I was intrigued by the way she trapped her prey against the wall of the terrarium, by the way she danced around the hopping cricket until it was so entranced with terror and fascination, it froze in place and practically begged for her to eat it.
That was before Ben.
Nausea sweeps through me at the thought. After our encounter, I realized why I was enchanted by the spider’s feeding rituals, that there was something in my gypsy blood—something tainted and wrong . . . just like Grandma said.
The water in the baptismal surges again. If it is a rat, it’s the biggest one I’ve ever seen. The bulge pressing up from underneath is now the size of a basketball.
I try to adjust my light, but my trembling fingers knock the neck off-kilter so the beam shifts to my toes. Before I can fix it, a wave rises, sloshing water across me, the cat, and the floor.
Feathers and wings emerge in sync with a cavalcade of lightning. A long, graceful neck unfurls into the most beautiful swan I’ve ever seen—as red, bright, and vivid as the blood seeping from the roses earlier.
Thunder rolls, and Diable lunges at the bird. He loses balance, plopping into the water belly first.
The swan releases a trumpeting croak then flaps its wings. I dodge its webbed feet as it swoops over my head on a gust before landing safely in the shadows at the back of the chapel, out of sight. The bird grows silent, to the point I wonder if it’s still there.
Yowling and sputtering, Diable snatches my attention. His battle against the water has propelled him into the middle of the baptismal. I try to reach him, but even when my thighs hit the basin’s edge, my arms aren’t long enough.
My throat lumps. I hesitate, telling myself this isn’t like the time when I was little and my Les Enfants Perdus fairy tale book fell into the river . . . the water isn’t deep enough to cover my head. My grandma’s not seated on the dock beside me, waiting to push me over the edge and trap me under a crate when I try to retrieve the one thing left of Daddy.
In my book light’s beam, I watch the cat’s head disappear.
Fingers digging into the bricks, I pull up onto the edge and balance my right hip there. I lean sideways, anchoring myself with my legs bent over the outside lip, and dunk my arm in. After stirring the cold water around, I snag the flailing ball of fur by his collar.
“You know, a dishrag would have the decency to lie still,” I scold him as he fights against me until chilly water coats both my arms. My book light falls off during our wrestling match, submerging in a shimmery trail.
Our surroundings grow dim again, broken by sporadic slashes of lightning. I tug the cat close enough to the edge so he can climb out. Startled by a clap of thunder, his front paws latch onto my knee with razor-sharp barbs. Yelping, I writhe to free myself. We break apart, him tumbling to safety and me teetering headfirst into the water, swallowed up by frigid, liquid shadows.
I capsize, unable to right my body, clawing my ponytail loose in the struggle. The book light descends below in slow motion—like a hazy yellow star orbiting farther and farther off in the distance—illuminating the bubbles and swirling currents caused by my violent entry. The depths seem to be unending.
My body seizes in fear, as brittle and dysfunctional as a cricket’s empty exoskeleton after being drained by a hungry spider. My deadweight limbs drag me down, suspended in a web of dread, and it all comes rushing back . . . the squeeze of my lungs begging me to breathe, the tear of my fingernails against splintering wood, the swirl of my hair tangling around my neck.
Grandma, why?