Once again I found it and asked the maid. She took it from my hands and made it disappear.
The last time I found it, I brought it to my mother. She accepted it as a suggestion and swallowed it down, losing herself in a slender jungle of pain and rupture. For the first time in ages, she held my eyes defiantly in her own and bade me to bear witness. “It is appropriate that you deliver me unto my death,” she said. She believed this was my curse, one she could no longer bear: to push people to their ends.
I should have called someone. I should have told her that that wasn’t what I’d meant, but I could see, before the act was even complete, that everything would be easier from then on. Her resolve and fury evidenced themselves. I had given her the tool for an intention she’d been thumbing the edge of for a long while.
Atropa belladonna. Atropa, from the name of the third Fate, Atropos, who cuts the thread of life. Bella donna: beautiful woman. Mother previously used the serum to dilate her pupils, to make her eyes appear more seductive. Father used it to treat his weak stomach. One substance, both to heal and poison.
Mother stayed close, twisting on her feather bed as a storm ate away at the north-facing shore. Trees tipped into the lake. Blissful digressions yarned from her mouth. Father joined me in her room and we wound tightly around the moment. He never asked why I didn’t gather him sooner so we might have helped her survive. Her face clouded with an ultimate doubt. He held her hand as she gave way.
“It’s not enough to believe we’re haunted, though, is it?” James asks.
I agree it is not. I refuse.
We give up, ready to return home, when we’re jolted by the pound of marching-band music from downstairs.
James looks at me, panicked. “Could he have come home?” His thumb vibrates against the page of the book.
I’m so sure it’s not that, I squeeze his shoulder. “I bet that old turntable stopped spinning weeks ago and just kicked on again.” I lead the way down to the living room and pause at the bottom of the stairs. I see a thick wool sleeve resting on the armrest of the wing chair facing the fireplace.
“What?” James pushes past to pull the needle off the record and I look away, hoping what I saw will be gone when I turn back. “That’s a good sign we should go, right? You ready?”
I cast my glance up the stairwell, then into the kitchen—pretending to take it all in one last time—finally returning my sight to the arm of the chair, and the fingers resting on the handhold. James stands a few feet in front of it. If Rolf is sitting there, there’s no way James could miss him, but James’s face shows only fatigue.
“I might make one more sweep of the place. Make sure everything is in order.”
“Do you want me to stay?” James asks.
“No, you go ahead.” I try, with all my might, to keep my eyes on James.
He kisses me on his way to the back door. “Don’t stay long.” He gives my hand a squeeze. He shuts the door behind him, and I hear a rasp, not unlike that breath that formed above us the night my parents stayed over. I walk toward the chair and see that the little finger of the hand is missing. I pause and push ahead.
I can’t call seeing Rolf’s face a surprise. We lock eyes, as we have so many times before through the windows, but this time I don’t look away. I don’t try to touch him. Neither answer would satisfy me.
I think hard about what I could possibly say. Are you real? What happened? Do you need help? Have you done this to us? No threats or statements shape themselves in my mind. I form only questions. I speak none of them.
He doesn’t tell me to go. I don’t stay.
90
ON THE BATHROOM mirror: a face drawn in lipstick. I wipe it off and don’t mention it to Julie.
A plumber visits and can’t find a reason for the mold.
A new bruise clenches Julie’s ankle.
We bring in a contractor to give us an estimate on replacing the kitchen cabinets.
We look up tax credits for putting in new windows, ones that don’t stretch the view outside into strange shapes and will keep the energy inside instead of allowing it to slip away.
My parents finally visit, for what will be the first and last time. My mother beams. My father’s normally shadowy features gather up the light. They compliment every detail of the house. They wonder aloud why we would want to sell it.
“It’s not for us,” Julie says. “Something smaller, more manageable.”
“This is a good house for children, though,” my mother says.
Julie and I shrug. We avoid arguments. We invite them to sit down. We pour them water from distilled jugs we bought at the grocery store. The renovation excuses us from allowing them to stay here in the house with us. We say the water is turned off. We hope they don’t test the faucet.
My mother looks out the window. “That old man next door will be sad to see you go. I’m sure he was glad to have someone to call on if he needed to.”
I try to remember if we’d mentioned him to her or if we’d kept him a secret. I walk over to the window. I follow her gaze.
“Oh, there he goes,” she says. She turns back to the living room. I cast a look at Julie. She shuts her eyes gently.
We don’t comment on the noise that hums under our small talk.
We prepare ourselves to leave. We experience our fear privately. When I see an errant shadow, I tell myself it’s nothing. When I notice a row of photos turned facedown on the shelf, I right them.
91
BACK AT WORK, my coworkers behave politely. They ask me how I’m feeling. I know they’ve been told I had an infection, but I note the questions in their eyes, wondering about details, trying to discern some other issue.
By the time I had recovered my senses, the flowers they’d sent to the hospital had died, but James saved every enclosure card. I wrote thank-you notes for these gestures and for the people kind enough to cover my work while I was out of the office. A prototype of the product I was spearheading has been fast-tracked, already moved into compliance review. Usually I’d be angry they’d gone on without me. I’d scour their specifications for miscalculations. This time, though, I commend people on pushing ahead.
I check my bank account online to see if a payment for a medical bill has cleared and see some withdrawals for small amounts from our shared account. James has not yet found a job. I tell myself the ATM visits are for incidentals and nothing more, until he can build up his own account again. I take my chances.
Connie treats me to lunch. “Beer? Wine?”
“I think I’ll stick with water today,” I say. “Sorry to disappoint.”