Page 19

When I have recovered enough to think more clearly, I take a walk through the gardens. Fortunately for the Lacroixs, other than the group of young people who attempted to scale the fence but left when they saw me and Philippa, no one else uses their yard for trysts or drug and alcohol abuse. There are a few pieces of trash that I assume were thrown over the fence, but nothing that can’t easily be cleaned in an afternoon.

Well, I need something to occupy myself, and Philippa isn’t here. I return to the house for a garbage bag and a pair of rubber gloves, then start cleaning.

Beyond the property, the city looks like it’s been through a war. Garbage lies thick on the ground, and even at this late hour, there are people lying in yards or staggering down the street. I see police lights on the next street over as the officers attempt to help those most deeply affected by the party, so I assume they’ll make their way here soon enough.

My heartbeat slowly calms as I clear that trash. By the time I finish, I’m more rational. There are millions of blonde, blue-eyed women in the world. Jacques’s “curse” is a parlor trick, nothing more. As for the things I’ve experienced, well, Dr. Yarrow isn’t here now, so I can admit that they were likely hallucinations I conjured up. When I studied psychology, I heard that there are occasions when people afflicted by similar maladies can experience complementary hallucinations, so perhaps that’s what’s happening here. The Lacroixs believe in this curse hogwash, and I’m operating on superstition to look for my sister.

That's what it is. I read that stupid playbill and allowed myself to come here to New Orleans based on nothing more than a triggered memory of my sister playing saxophone. I left myself vulnerable, and all of my old fears latched onto the fear and grief with which this family struggles. It's brought all of my old symptoms back with a vengeance.

I need to leave here. It's cold of me to say that, but it's true. This place isn't good for me, and as much as I hate leaving the children behind, I won't help them if I lose control of my own faculties.

I’ll let Etienne know tonight. I’ll alert Dr. Yarrow too. Maybe he can visit them more often. Or, if he thinks it best, he can remove the children or coerce Etienne into doing it.

I toss the trash into the large garbage can on the side of the house, then head inside and upstairs to shower. When I’m finished, I’ll talk to the children. I won’t tell them I’m leaving yet, not until I talk to the adults, but I’ll give them some advice to keep when I leave.

I don’t remember until I’m lathering myself that I showered only a few hours ago. Well, whatever. I’ll be even cleaner. I just need to get this stench off of me. All of it. It’s…

“It’s too much,” I say aloud.

And for reasons only God knows, that sentence is enough to trigger another memory.

“It’s too much,” Annie says, setting the saxophone down and plopping onto the bed. “I can’t do it, Mary. My lungs aren’t big enough.”

“You forget I live with you,” I remind her. “I’ve heard you scream loudly enough to wake the dead. Your lungs are fine. It’s your work ethic that’s inadequate.”

She cocks her head. “Do you think someone could scream loudly enough to wake the dead?”

“No. I’m not getting into one of your metaphysical conversations right now. Practice.”

She grins mischievously at me. “I will if you will.”

“I don’t have ambitions to be a successful musician,” I counter.

“Neither do I. I’m doing this for myself.”

“Then practice for yourself.”

“But what if I’m not enjoying myself anymore?”

“Then give up. Never work for the things you want. When the going gets tough, throw your hands in the air and say, ‘Oh well, at least I sort of tried for a little while.’”

She giggles, and I roll my eyes, but also laugh with her.

“You make me laugh, Mary. You’re always so certain that you’re right.”

I stop laughing. “Well, I am. This time, I am.”

“Of course you are.”

“How could I be wrong about encouraging you to practice?”

“Okay.”

I frown. “You know what? Do whatever you want. I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.”

“Like what, Mary?” she asks innocently.

I turn to reply, but when I see the look in her face, I don’t. She looks innocently at me, but there’s hate in her expression. Maybe hate is too strong a term, but I can tell in her eyes that she wants to anger me. She’s being difficult on purpose because she resents me for holding her accountable for her own decisions. If only she knew how much like Mother she looked right now.

I smile. “You know what? You’re right. I lapsed in my musical studies years ago. I shouldn’t taunt you. If this isn’t something that fulfills you, then you should give it up, just like I did.”

She blinks, and her smile fades. I feel a leap of joy when I see the frustration that flickers across her eyes. I’ve won.

Without another word, she picks up her saxophone and begins to play. The improvement is immediate. Where before she struggled to keep her breath and her fingers moved stiffly over the valves, she now sways as though the music is a living thing moving through her and not from her. Her fingers dance, and her eyes blaze with fire.

She meets my eyes, and the hate in hers fills me with glee. Go ahead and hate me, but I won. I made you do what you needed to do even though you didn’t want to. You can hate me, but I’m right, and you know it.

I gasp and shut the water off. I haven’t gone into a fugue, but the effect of that memory is the same as if I had. I replay it in my mind, but it’s just as clear the second time as it is the first time.

I wasn't frightened of her hate. I enjoyed it. I wasn't disturbed by her disdain of me, I reveled in it. I manipulated her into practicing saxophone, knowing that she couldn't stand to be compared to me. I knew that she had to beat me, and I used that knowledge to beat her.

Spelling all that out makes it sound utterly childish, and of course, it was. But then, we were children. She was seventeen, and I was eighteen.

Still, it shakes me that I was so cruel. Had things turned out differently for me and Annie, I might be able to dismiss it as childhood pettiness, but it was only a few years after that Annie left my life for good. I spent most of the years after believing that she was hurt or killed. Then, when I learned that she had instead left by choice, I assumed it was hatred for our mother.

The more I remember, though, the more I wonder how much of her hatred was for me.

I am numb as I towel off and dress. I feel adrift, as though life is happening to me, and I can't control any of it. Was all of this suffering fated? Has my past informed my future and prevented me from any agency? And if so, what is the purpose? What realization must I come to in order to reconcile what I feel should be the truth with what is actually the truth? And what is actually the truth?

This is when Sean would tell me that I must just accept things as they are, including the fact that I may never know the truth.

But I can’t . I can’t just now know. It’s not fair.

I sit on the edge of my bed, bury my head in my hands and cry. I’m sure I would look pathetic to anyone who walked in and saw me like this, but I can’t help myself. It really isn’t fair. Whatever pain I caused Annie, we could have worked through it together. Instead, she walked out of my life and derailed me. Because of her, I changed my career. Because of her, I lived friendless and alone until very recently. Because of her, I have nightmares and worse. Because of her, I can’t allow for secrets to continue but must expose them no matter how much pain it causes me to expose them. And now, all I want is to know what happened to my sister and why she felt she had to abandon me.

I am ruined. And it’s not fair.

The smell of smoke pulls me from my pity party. I frown and wonder if perhaps it is a lingering odor from last night’s festivities. Something in the back of my mind tells me that’s not the case.

I put on my slippers and leave the room. As soon as I enter the hallway, the smell strengthens, and an alarm sounds in my head. I run downstairs, and once more, my greatest fear is realized when I see smoke coming from the parlor.

A silhouette catches my eye. Amelia is in the living room on her knees, weeping in front of a fire that is rapidly consuming Marcel’s piano.

“Oh, God!” I cry out. I rush toward her and half-drag, half-carry her from the room. “Etienne!”

“I had to,” Amelia weeps. “I had to, or it was going to kill all of us.”

“Hush,” I command firmly. “Etienne!”

Footsteps rush down the stairs, and a moment later, he cries, “Oh my God !”

He rushes toward the piano, tearing his shirt off and beating at the flame with it. I stare at the blaze in shock, but behind the shock is a kernel of hope that Amelia will have succeeded, that with the piano, the cursed music will have also burned.

It is not to be. After thirty seconds or so of watching the fire slowly spread across the instrument, Henri brushes past me, holding a fire extinguisher. “Stand aside, Mr. Lacroix!” he calls.

Etienne backs quickly away, and Henri blankets the fire in foam. The blaze is quickly extinguished, leaving only haze behind.

“Open the kitchen windows,” Etienne commands.

Henri moves to obey while Etienne opens the windows facing the yard. A draft blows through the house, and the smoke begins to clear.

Josephine arrives a moment later. When she sees the piano, she releases a scream like a tea kettle boiling.

“I had to,” Amelia weeps. “I had to stop it before it…”

Her voice trails off. Her eyes grow wide, and her mouth pops open. “No,” she whispers. “No, no, no !”

I follow her eyes, and a shiver runs through me when I see the sheet music, untouched and unburnt, lying atop the otherwise completely charred music stand above the keyboard.

The grandfather clock chimes the hour. To my ears, it sounds like monstrous laughter.