by D. M. Pratt
Philip’s room was peaceful and warm. Streams of soft yellow light reached through the window, flickering from harsh to soft, illuminating the chiffon curtains as they danced on the warm breeze that slipped in to fill the room. His nursery was the color of a summer sky with voluminous ivory clouds painted on the walls and ceiling. The color deepened into a periwinkle as it reached the bassinette and the clouds faded, allowing a tiny constellation of stars to splatter across the ceiling above her baby’s head. Eve tip-toed closer and looked down at her son with his black satin curls. He looked up at her. His eyes were the darkest brown she’d ever seen, the color of pure, bittersweet, dark chocolate found in the best Swiss candy. Sometimes, in low light, she would gaze into Philip’s eyes and feel as if she were drowning in two dark, shimmering pools of liquid velvet. His eyes seemed to pierce her soul. He knows I am losing my mind, she thought. His knowing stare held her. No matter how hard she tried, she was unable to look away. Again, she felt a rush of fear as she fell into her son’s eyes. He knew and then he would gurgle and smile and reach for her finger or pull her hair and the icy feeling of fear melted away and Eve fell in love all over again. Philip smiled up at her and Eve reached into his crib and gathered him up into her arms.
After her strength returned, she and Philip would walk in the gardens and orchards surrounding their mansion, breathing the soft air of spring, then summer, and now the chill of fall. The unseasonably frosty nights had destroyed any fruit still left on the trees and turned the leaves from light green to a dark emerald and jade forest. It wouldn’t be long before the deciduous trees, the sycamore and elm, did their dance of color and turned to shades of gold, orange and burgundy, before dropping to the ground so she and Philip could play, roll around, and throw them into the cloudy blue sky and laugh as they watched leaves drift, caught on the swirl of an autumn breeze.
Noticing the changes in weather reminded Eve of the many arguments she and her journalist friends had had about global warming. Eve suddenly realized she had not had a single thought about her career as a journalist since her prince charming had awakened her from her sleep. She felt a traitor to her feminist side and for a long moment she missed her job and Southern Style Magazine. Eve pushed the thoughts from her head. I’ll think about that tomorrow, she shrugged. Eve started to laugh out loud when she realized she was emulating a very famous southern belle. The Gregoire mansion could never be her Tara. She was not a southern belle, nor would she ever be. It went against her northern nature and for that, she was actually grateful.
Eve wiped away her tears, smiled and kissed Philip’s head. “Your mommy is a very silly mommy,” she whispered.
Chapter Three
Eve’s best friend Cora Bouvier had given birth to a beautiful baby girl she named Delia, short for Delia Jacqueline Bouvier. The fact that Beau was the father and about to marry Eve was, in true southern tradition, not discussed. Most days Cora and Delia would come to the estate, Cora to help with the decorating and Delia to play with Philip. The children were young, but both had a keen and urgent awareness of one another that Eve could not help but feel seemed well beyond their age. When Eve would sit in the tree swing on the back lawn while Delia and Philip explored the warm sun to play with an array of toys scattered around them on soft blankets, she would find herself gazing at Delia’s head of dark black curls and look into her eyes, which were the exact same sky blue as Beau’s. She would shake the thoughts of how Delia looked more like Beau than Philip. She wanted to feel betrayed, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t. Cora was her best friend in ways Eve could never explain and that she and Beau sought refuge in each other’s arms the night her doctor told them Eve would probably never wake from her coma was somehow forgivable. It was, according to both, only one night. And what if she had died? What then of her soul mate, her son and her best friend? Mostly, Beau and Cora having loved each other was a good feeling. Mostly.
Now and again though, something about this awkward gothic romance novel—absurd and melodramatic—reality involving her husband-to-be and father to her best friend’s child upset her stomach and made her head spin. Because she loved them both, Eve asked them to search their hearts, to make sure their love and their life together wasn’t what was supposed to be. They’d had months to get to know each other and she’d had only one dance. Eve felt she had a mysterious déjà vu with Beau, while Beau and Cora had actual time on their side. Eve wanted to say she would step aside. She wanted to say she understood their bizarre circumstances were unprecedented and who was she to stand in the way of their love. But she couldn’t force the words past her lips. Both Beau and Cora had insisted that their coming together was because they both loved her so much. When faced with the idea they were losing her, they had comforted each other once and from that union, Delia was conceived and born.
Eve saw the sincerity in their eyes and believed their words, which gave her some peace. Yet, it was hard to see them when they looked at each other or hugged hello or good-bye, laughed or shared their little girl as she played with her half brother … how could she not wonder about what feelings still lingered in Beau or in Cora? Even more unnerving was the feeling Eve experienced when she looked into Delia’s eyes; some unexplainable connection that made her want to cry. Hormones, Eve thought, fucking hormones. Then she would push the fears away, give Delia a hug and set her down to play on the blanket, happy to watch as she crawled to grab Philip’s hair and make him giggle with delight. Hormones she’d remind herself again and again, but months had passed and that excuse was wearing thin.
Mornings would come, nights would go and her world was by all who looked in, perfect—and it was, except for those raw snippets of demon-filled nightmares that as of recently had found their way into bizarre daydreams carrying with them shadowy details that repeated in the terrifying nightmares she’d fought so hard to hold at bay. For months she had been winning the battle on her own, refusing to take the narcoleptic medication that would have prevented her from breast feeding Philip. Her therapist, Dr. Honoré, suggested she face her dreams head on. She’d offered hypnotherapy, but Beau insisted Eve not even consider such an idea.
“No drugs and no hypnosis,” he all but pleaded.
Dr. Honoré smiled pleasantly and told her the offer stood if Eve ever wanted to reconsider. In some hidden recess of her mind Eve knew she needed to face the demons in her dreams especially if they meant she might be going insane. That possibility frightened her; a need no less powerful than the need of an alcoholic to taste that next drink was her hunger to understand. Dr. Honoré said the day would come and when it did, understanding it could free her. Her fear was that understanding too much might push her over the edge from which she might not easily be able return. It turned out today was that day.
Eve stood impatiently in the main kitchen, the smell of fresh paint and wood oil polish filtering in from the main house. The combination suddenly made her feel dizzy. The room shifted, moving around her like the horizon on a ship at sea. She laid her hand on the cool granite counter and reached for her glass of water, dabbing a bit on her neck as she watched the installation of their cumbersomely large, brand new Traulsen freezer and fridge, a monstrous, yet beautiful pair of monolithic, stainless steel boxes, the fridge with glass doors and industrial shelves. The freezer was simply a wall of stainless steel. The workmen finally finished hooking up the ventilation system and filter, connected the electrical plugs, and fired up the motor of the mechanical beast. The motors added a low hum to the room making their presence known to all who entered.
Job done, the three burly men turned to face her. Each man was tall, well-built and fit, each smelling of sweet spice and tart musk, each sweating rivulets through the dirt that stained their faces and very muscular arms. Their similar skin coloring and the shape of their eyes and noses made Eve guess they were brothers or cousins. First and second cousins had been marrying each other for generations in Louisiana so the possibility of a little inbreeding played itself out in th
eir features. Skeeter, the youngest of the three men, couldn’t take his eyes off Eve, especially her full, ripe breasts. He’d had an erection bulging beneath his jeans since she walked into the room. Eve politely ignored it and his lascivious stares. She gave them water, signed the paperwork, tipped them generously and started to say good-by as they stepped out onto the back sun porch. The other brother walked away, but Skeeter turned.
“Thank you, gentleman. You have a great day and …” Eve started.
Skeeter interrupted her, “Uhm … Ma’am,” he started to say.
It was that Southern term, Ma’am, that made her feel older than she was.
“… well, I just want you to know, if you ever need some help with anything at all, you can call me direct. It would be a real pleasure to help someone as lovely as yourself … well … do anything.”
“Well, thank you,” Eve said, pretending she didn’t remember his name. “You just call me… I’m Skeeter and I’ll come right over and … fix you up. You know?”
He smiled with a horny eagerness that almost made her burst out laughing. Eve couldn’t help but notice how young he was … sixteen or seventeen at best. And the already extremely large bulge rising in his pants said everything his words and eyes did not.
“I do understand, Skeeter. I’ll remember your kind offer if I ever need anything fixed,” she said, smiled graciously and closed the back door, making sure she turned the lock hard enough to be heard.
Finally they were gone. Still woozy, Eve walked back inside and crossing the kitchen, found herself staring curiously into the fridge’s empty shelves. Have to keep that organized, bummer, she thought. That’s when she noticed her reflection in its thick green glass doors staring back at her. She look tired, more tired than she remembered ever looking before. Eve pushed loose strands of hair back from her face and tucked them into her rope of honey hair. She touched the dark rings that hung like little grey ghosts beneath her eyes and sighed.
“Cora, how can you always look so damn perfect,” she mumbled to herself.
Just as she was about to walk away, her image shifted, wavering like heat rising from a street on a hot summer day. It faded, blending into … into… Cora standing on the stairs in her house in New Orleans; no… not standing… running, panicked, terrified, racing through the upper hallway of her house. Cora, her eyes wide with terror, tore down the curved stairway that anchored the house. The fear etched across her face intensified as she glanced back at what was chasing her. Eve stepped closer to the glass as if to look deeper into this other world. A shadow, large, dark and foreboding, pushed out of the darkness that cloaked the upper floor. It leaped on top of Cora, wrapping around her, dragging her into its folds of blackness. A huge hand with long, sharp fingernails jutted out, tearing the stairwell wall fabric with the preciseness of five, perfectly formed razors wielded with superhuman strength. Eve watched as it tore at Cora’s body, her arms, her neck, her face. Blood gushed from Cora as she screamed and fought for her life.
Eve struggled to pull herself out of the daydream. Was it a wish? A prophesy? A memory? Was this real? No. Impossible! Had it been real Cora would have been left horribly scarred.
“Miss Eve, are you alright?” a young woman’s voice said, piercing through Eve’s vision, startling her. Eve screamed, knocking her glass to the floor with a crash.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to give you such a start but …” the voice stopped. “Oh, my, Miss Eve, you should sit down.”
Eve gasped, feeling the girl’s hands guide her to one of the oak Windsor chairs that circled the kitchen table.
“Let me get you some water.”
Eve looked at her savior, but a dizzying haze covered the details of her features. She turned back to look at the fridge. It too was now a haze of grey. When she looked back again she saw Aria reaching for a glass and pouring water from a pitcher that sat on the counter.
Aria was the young nurse from the hospital. Eve had known her mother, but for the life of her Eve couldn’t remember why or from where—just only that she had. The young girl handed Eve the water. Her smooth features and long tight curls were braided into two braids that hung down to her shoulders, making her look even younger than she was. Aria could see Eve’s hands were trembling as she handed her the glass. Eve drank, taking long, deep swallows, feeling the cool liquid wash down her throat and soothe her body. When she stopped, she gasped and caught her breath, forcing herself to slow down. She held on to the wooden arm of the chair with one hand until the trembling slowly subsided.
“Better?” Aria asked.
Eve wanted to say, yes, and shake away the images she had just witnessed, yet she also wanted to remember every detail. This was the most complete version of the terrifying fragmented visions that kept plaguing her thoughts day and night since awaking from her coma. Again, she turned back for one last look. There it was, a glimpse, wavering in the glass, of the shadow’s hand cutting through the air and ripping into Cora’s face. Eve squeezed her eyes shut and drank another series of long sips. She sat back and steadied herself against the smooth wood of the oak table. Aria looked from Eve to the massive refrigerator.
“My, my, it’s pretty gigantic for a fridge, but if you don’t like it, I say send it right back,” Aria offered, her Louisiana accent thick and slow, as she continued her study of the Traulsen that seemed to be the focus of Eve’s tormented expression.
“It’s fine,” Eve said.
Eve touched her own neck and thought of the small scar on Cora’s chin and neck. She’d seen it. Of that she was sure. When she first awoke in the hospital she had noticed the wisp of a scar crawling out from under Cora’s chin; a jagged piece of some forgotten past, but she couldn’t remember if Cora ever mentioned where it had come from. It battered Eve’s memory. Desperately, she tried to blend the visual of the terrifying images that skittered across her refrigerator with a piece of a memory. A time and place that didn’t fit anything she could remember doing. Eve struggled to focus on the truth of what happened to her when she hit her head. Getting knocked out wasn’t what came to mind. She woke in the garden alone, she thought. But how? When? How could she determine the correct answers when she didn’t even know which questions to ask? She’d tried more than once to talk to Cora about her visions, but Cora said she had no idea what Eve could possibly be talking about, waved her hand as if to brush away an unwanted fly, abruptly ending every such conversation. Beau responded to Eve’s questions in essentially the same way. Eventually, Eve stopped asking questions and focused on her ridiculously perfect world of pre-matrimonial and motherhood bliss and prayed she wasn’t losing her mind.
“Miss Eve? We better be getting back to Philip. He’ll be waking up any minute,” Aria said. “He’ll be hungry. That boy of yours is always hungry.”
“Philip?” Eve asked.
Aria smiled. “Yes, Philip. Remember? Your rambunctious son, who you hired me to nanny? Good thing you did ‘cause that little boy is a demon of energy. I’ve never seen anything like him in my life. And growin’ like a weed, that handsome little one.”
Eve watched as Aria spoke while busily grabbing a bottle of chilled breast milk Eve had pumped from the second fridge in the pantry. Suddenly, Eve felt a rush of moisture release from her aching breasts. When she reached up and touched her blouse, it was soaked with mother’s milk. Aria saw and handed her a kitchen towel.
“Guess nature calls and you’re on duty,” she said with a smile. “Unless you’re not feelin’ up to it? You have two bottles stored and I could get the pump for you now.”
Eve shook her head as she stood, straightening her wobbly legs under her.
“I’m fine, Aria,” Eve said. “You put him down in the nursery?”
“No Ma’am, he’s in the garden house with Miss Cora and little Delia.”
Suddenly she could hear her son’s cry from the backyard, distant, but strong.
“Will you get a bath ready for him?” Eve said.
“I’ll have
it ready by the time you’re done with the feeding,” Aria said.
Eve looked one more time at the refrigerator. She wiped her bodice with the kitchen towel, crossed the kitchen and exited out the back door.
Stone steps led from the back sun porch to the patio. The still flowing milk from her breasts, trailed down her stomach, staining the soft green cotton fabric of her dress as she walked. Still carrying the towel, she wiped again. Eve smiled as she looked in the direction of her son’s screaming. His cry demanded she hurry to fill his empty belly before she spilled all of his lunch from her breasts. There was a real messiness to motherhood. Yet her aversion to pumping, which made her feel like a cow, was clearly superseded by the pleasure she took in giving her son nourishment and life.
Eve stopped. A chill ran up her spine the moment she felt someone’s eyes on her. She turned and saw him: the slightly rumpled, but very handsome Detective from the New Orleans police force with the sad, worried eyes. Detective Macklin Blanchard had been trying to build a rape case against her soon-to-be husband. After all, he’d reminded her more than once, she had been a guest at a party who ended up raped and pregnant. All the evidence made a compelling case: young woman taken into the bushes, knocked into unconsciousness and found to be pregnant. There had been a rape kit taken at the hospital without her request and, well, there had been Philip. She had no boyfriend and admitted to surrendering to Beau’s seduction willingly. When Eve woke from her coma, Beau fought hard to keep Detective Blanchard away from her. She and the detective had spoken and, to the detective’s frustration, Eve had refused to press charges. The impending wedding muddied the waters even more.