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I force my tired legs to take the stairs two at a time. When I get to the top of the landing, I stop, hand gripping the railing for support. Her door is closed, and maybe if I leave it closed it will keep all the bad things away, keep her safe. But whatever has my mother in its clutches is already here, and no amount of childish superstition will protect her. With a deep breath and a silent prayer, I slowly open the door and slip inside.
The embers of a dying fire cast the room in dim light, and before I go to her—or perhaps because I wish to postpone it just a little longer—I slowly take up the poker and cajole the lazy flames until they crackle and dance. I stare at the flickering pattern, mesmerized as my face prickles with heat. When my eyes start to water I finally turn away.
The bed swallows her up, she’s so shrunken and fragile. When I take her hand in mine I can feel each bone, and the light, fluttery pulse of her heart. She looks like a paper doll, crumpled and used up.
For all that I tried to protect her, save her, it’s been for nothing. First it was the rumors that shook her faith in her family, then it was Emeline’s death that cracked her heart open. When I tried to take my own life it shattered the tender filaments that remained. Mother has been in a long, slow decline since then. It’s all my fault. I should have tried harder.
“Lydia,” she says, her voice so breathy and faint that I think I must have imagined it. “You came.”
A chair is already by the bed, draped in a quilt, probably used by Catherine or Father as they kept vigil over the last few days. I lower myself down, still in my heavy wool traveling cloak. “Of course I did, as soon as I heard. Is...is there anything you need?”
She closes her eyes and gives an almost imperceptible shake of her head. “Ada and Catherine are taking good care of me.”
There’s something about a sickroom, a stillness, an absence of time, as if all the forces of nature bow their heads and hold their breath. No movement, no sound, the problems and troubles of the world all impossibly far away. Just a sick woman, fragile as a leaf, clinging to life.
“Oh, Mother,” I say, unable to keep the sob in my throat from bubbling up. “I’m so sorry. I haven’t been a good daughter. I’ve been a child, fighting with Catherine and spending too much time in my books instead of helping you around the house. If...if you... I’ll never forgive myself,” I blubber. Even now I can’t help acting like a child, forcing my poor sick mother to comfort me when she should be resting.
“Lydia, listen to me.” The weight of her voice slows my tears. “I’m the one who is sorry.”
“Mother, you’re perfect. You have nothing to be sorry for.”
She’s struggling to sit up, grasping at my arm to brace herself. Gently, I remove her hand and try to make her lie back down. Despite her frantic movements and the urgency of her words, her dark eyes are sharp and lucid. “I have to tell you something.”
I hastily wipe away the last of my tears. “Please, try to rest. You can tell me as many things as you want later, once you’re better, but now you need to rest.”
“There won’t be a later. I need to tell you now.”
My heart wrenches, but she looks so desperate that I have no choice but to nod and let her speak.
Relief settles over her waxy features and she closes her eyes. Her dry tongue flickers over her lips in a vain attempt to wet them. I reach for the pitcher of water beside the bed and she takes a grateful sip before she goes on.
“I let you go through life, never knowing what you really are. I thought I could make it go away, that if you didn’t know, maybe it would just disappear, and that by doing so I would protect you from the world. But instead I’m afraid it only caused you pain and confusion. I thought we could come here...” She lifts her hand and gives a weak wave around the room. “That this place could be a new start for all of us. But instead...”
I suck in my breath. The slumbering thing inside of me stirs again, Cyrus’s and Catherine’s words echo in my head. I’m afraid that I know what she’s going to say even before she says it. My fingers curl around the arms of the chair.
“Instead it seems to have awoken it. It runs in the women of our family—my family. Even then, only some of us seem to carry it. My mother was one. I know the signs. I suspected it when you were very little, but it wasn’t until that day that I knew for sure.”
I don’t need to ask her what day she’s talking about.
The room spins. I take a deep, trembling breath and fight the growing wave of nausea in my stomach. My ears are ringing, Mother’s words faraway.
“When Catherine was born I wondered if she would have it, but it didn’t come down through her. It’s been hard for her, I think. She knew that you were different and she wanted to be like you.” She gives a wistful sigh. “I hope you two will find a way to be friends in the future.”
I don’t say anything because I don’t want to crush Mother’s hopes on that front. I swallow. “Does that mean that you are?”
She gives a little shake of her head. “It didn’t come down to me. Sometimes I wish it had so that I could have better guided you.”
“And...Emeline?”
Mother closes her eyes, her lids as translucent and papery as the skin of an onion. Her answer comes out on the back of her breath. “Yes.”
I should be as shocked at this revelation as I was at my own, but Emeline was always special, I knew that. The aching loss of her death folds itself around me all over again. Here is a journey we should have taken together, learning what we were, united in our secret. Instead I must feel my way forward in the dark with neither my mother nor my dearest sister.
“That night when the doors slammed...that was the first time I realized she might carry it too. You would have been too young to remember, but you used to do similar things when you were little. Whenever you got angry I had to whisk you away somewhere just in case something happened. Windows would fly open, candles would gutter and go out. One time a plate even flew up into the air.”
“I...I don’t remember any of that,” I say in amazement. “But why only when I’m angry?” Surely I’m not such a dark creature as that? Is there nothing in me but anger and destruction?
“No, not only when you were angry. There were other times too, though not as often. Little things, like when your father brought home that cat. You were so happy, dancing about like a pixie child. When I looked at the ground, little flowers had sprung up in your wake. You didn’t notice, and I daresay no one else did either. Perhaps it was those quieter moments that were more often overlooked.” She reaches for my hand. “There is not one drop of evil in you, Lydia. Please do not think that.”