Mansions

by Whitney Bianca

  She's just as ethereal as she always was.

  “You scared me,” I say, even though my voice still shakes and my heart is still pounding. The panic fades to a dull, muted roar. I have her, I tell myself. I have her and now everything will be fine. Except it's not. She's cold and she's not moving. I press my forehead to hers trying to calm myself down. I press my hand to her chest, right above her heart. It's still beating, but it's faint. Her chest rises and falls only slightly. Her breathing is shallow but I can feel it against my lips. At least I think I can.

  One hand is cradled in her lap. Something rests in her palm, something shiny. I open her fingers lightly, surprised by what I see. It's a pair of my cufflinks. I recognize them immediately. They've been missing for months. She's had them this whole time, I realize. I don't know what it means. I want to ask her but I can't, so I put them in my pocket for later. I loop her arms around my neck. She doesn't open her eyes as I pick her up and carry her away from the tree. She doesn't open her eyes until we're in the car, speeding away from the looming dark house. She's bundled under my jacket and she doesn't say anything, just looks at me. I reach over and grab her hand, tightly, warming it in my own.

  “I'll take care of you,” is all I say.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  A stack of bills easily buys Adrienne a private room in an empty wing at the nearest hospital. My poor girl is dehydrated, anemic, in withdrawal from the morphine, and hypothermic. She won't speak to me; she's being stubborn. In fact, she gets so agitated when I enter the room that I've been forced to stand in the hallway and watch the doctors and nurses fret over her from afar. They give me curious looks, of course. It's not everyday a girl like Adrienne is carried into the ER. Her legs have been cared for well, though. They've healed nicely, so the doctor tells me. The specialist I paid to take care of her in the early days of her injuries was a good one, the best that hush money could buy. The rest of her is a train wreck, however. She lived at Hamina Manor for all of a month and her health has taken a nosedive in that time.

  If Irina were still alive, I would break her neck.

  It's not Irina's fault, though. It's not Bryan's fault, either. It's my fault.

  The doctor exits her room and moves to meet me in the hallway, sliding his hands into the pocket of his white coat. “I've listened to her lungs and I think she may have pneumonia. We'll do an X-ray to be sure,” he nods, not meeting my eyes. He's a young doctor, younger than I would prefer, but he seems to know what he's doing. That will have to be enough for me. At this hour, this far upstate and this short notice, I don't have many options. But they're used to discretion here. Money talks more than anything else, as always. History runs deep upstate, as does my family name. “A stronger woman her age would have a fairly easy recovery. But because of her condition, it could be quite serious,” the doctor continues, finally lifting his eyes to catch mine. “She'll need care.”

  “How long until she can be moved?” I ask, glancing around him toward her door. I tighten my hand around the cufflinks in my pocket. Their sharp edges stab into my skin.

  “A few days, maybe less,” he says. “Maybe more if the pneumonia gets worse.”

  She's sedated when I finally am allowed to see her. I pull a chair alongside her bed and sit with her. Eventually, I fall asleep too, even though I try to stay awake. When I open my eyes, she's staring at me and the effect nearly stops my heart. She's dirty and pale and her eyes are sunken in her skull, but she looks perfect to me.

  “Irina died,” is the first thing she whispers.

  “I know,” I say. I bring my hand to cup her cheek because I can't resist. Her skin feels like paper. Dry, crisp, smooth paper. I give her some water and we sit in silence for awhile. I don't want to force her to talk. I just want her to rest.

  “The pharaohs, ” she says suddenly and I furrow my brow in confusion. “They're mummies now.” She licks her cracked lips. “They were kings. But now they rot behind glass cases. All alone for thousands of years.” She rolls her eyes to the ceiling. I know she's trying to tell me something, but I have no idea what it is.

  “Rest now, ma petite,” I say. “Everything will be better when you wake up.”

  “You're lying,” she accuses. She closes her eyes, though, and with her eyes off of me, I can finally force a breath into my chest. I remember how, when she first came to me, I refused to let her go but, at the same time, kept her at arm's length. I tried to control myself around her, tried to prevent myself from getting too close. I was selfish. People have suffered so that I could keep her all to myself. People have died. And I'd do it all again to have her. I don't even question it – I wouldn't hesitate. She'll live to be an old woman, comfortable and taken care of by my money. From this day forward, her life will never be risked again. I'll make sure sure of it.

  I know now what I have to do.

  *****

  “The suit is at the dry cleaners,” Bryan's text says. It's our code. It means that Hamina Manor has been cleaned of all traces of Adrienne and Irina. Irina's body has been disposed of. There's nothing incriminating left. It's as if the events of the past few days never happened.

  Except Adrienne is still sick.

  When the doctor returns to Adrienne's side, I take the elevator down to the lobby and have a smoke around the side of the building, shivering in the morning air as the nicotine hits my blood stream. The sun hasn't risen and I've barely slept at all, but my mind suddenly feels clear; I finally feel like I can think. I finally feel like I can breathe.

  I text him the name of the hospital.

  I don't have to wait long. His black car pulls up in the roundabout in front of the hospital in less than twenty minutes. He's in a new suit but that's the only change from yesterday. I light another cigarette as he walks around the side of the building to meet me. We don't mince words; we never have. I don't have to say thank you. It's a given. “I need you to go to the city,” I say, blowing smoke between us. He stares at me, waiting for further instruction. Maybe he knows what's coming, but he gives no indication. He keeps his hands at his sides, his stance stiff. “I want you to bring Jessica here,” I continue, watching his body language. At the mention of her name, I can see the tendons in his neck tighten. But he doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to. He nods and turns to go.

  “Did you find him yet?” I call after him. The missing man has not escaped my memory. Although it's not fully his responsibility, he'll still pay for his disloyalty and what happened to Irina. But mostly, he'll pay for Adrienne, because someone has to.

  “I will,” he says. And I believe him.

  A few hours pass where I can have Adrienne all to myself for the last time. I soak them up, soak up the last few minutes when she'll be my secret. I know this has to be done, but it's still difficult for me. I don't like sharing my things. However, I've accepted that this is the only way – that I have to share her in order to keep her. She has no idea the gift I'm about to give her. This gift actually means something, more than all the clothes and jewelry and anything else I could give her. This is what she really wants. This is what will make her whole again. So I give it to her.

  I give her Jessica.

  When the elevator opens and Jessica follows Bryan into the hallway, I steel myself. As Jessica hurries toward me, I let it go. I let go of it all.

  For Adrienne, because she's the only person I care about. The only person I've ever cared about. And because I don't want to think about death and dying and doom and gloom any more. I want life to get back to normal - as normal as it can be with Adrienne, anyway. Adrienne will fight me tooth and nail for the normalcy I crave. She'll hate everything about my life but she'll get used to it and slowly but surely, it'll become our life.

  “When is she?” Jessica chants as she reaches me. “Where is she?” I nod toward the door and she makes a pathetic little whining noise. I can't resist turning my eyes to watch her as she sees Adrienne for the first time in almost a year. This is not the Adrienne she remembers. Her eyes wide
n and her mouth goes slack. At that moment, she looks every day of her age. I wonder how many days the grief has shaved off the end of her life. I've probably lost years, myself.

  “She's waiting for you,” I say because it's time. Without another word she goes into Adrienne's room. She closes the door hard softly behind her and I don't stop her. It's so difficult to let her go in there alone. It's almost impossible, but I know this moment is not about me. As I watch Jessica step into the room, I try to ignore the fear.

  Dorian Armstrong doesn't fear anything.

  I feel a smile cross my lips about how ironic that statement is now. There once was a time when I cared about nothing and had nothing to lose. As I stare into the hospital room at the two women inside, I realize that's no longer the case. As Jessica caresses Adrienne's cheek, I feel a tightness in my chest. I press my hand against the door frame when my knees buckle. I don't fall, but only because I feel an arm slide around my waist. Bryan is there, as strong and sturdy as ever. They don't notice anyone but themselves for a long time, as Jessica runs her hands all over Adrienne's face and hair, like she's trying to make sure she's real.

  Eventually they remember I'm there and both turn to look at me, their eyes round and their faces pale in the harsh fluorescent lighting. Seeing them together feels different than I thought it would. It feels like the burden is finally gone. In fact, I've never felt so much relief in my life. I almost gag on it. It spreads out from my chest and down my arms and into my hands and my legs and feet.

  Is this what love feels like, I wonder.

  Perhaps.

  EPILOGUE

  “A gift,” Dorian says, setting the brightly wrapped package down on the table. He spoils me incessantly, even though I've begged him to stop. I can never repay him and I don't like being in his debt. But then again, I suppose this is what being married to Dorian Armstrong will be all about. I suppose I can't pretend to be completely unhappy about the arrangement either, but he is still so infuriating.

  He doesn't give me much of a choice, after all.

  I lose my balance and grab ahold of the bars on either side of me before I fall. The canary yellow diamond engagement ring on my left hand winks at me as the sunlight catches it. I'm dripping with sweat and I want to quit, but I can't. He's behind me in the blink of an eye. He snakes his strong arms around my waist, helping me stay upright. He presses his nose to the base of my neck and my aching, traitorous muscles relax into him.

  The legs he's given me are a combination of metal and plastic. They're fitted to me perfectly. He assures me they're the best money can buy and I believe him. If I think too much about it, though, it creeps me out. My real legs are gone, ghosts, but they've been recreated from manmade materials and it feels unnatural. I stand as tall as I used to and it feels weird to be standing, especially when I can't feel my feet on the ground. It's all so foreign and strange.

  But I'm determined.

  I lift my right thigh and take a shaky step forward. My new leg creaks as the mechanical knee hinges. I clench my hands on the rails as a sharp pain shoots through to my hip. Every step feels like a stabbing shock, but eventually, I'll get used to the feeling. I'll learn the nuances of the pain and how to use it to keep myself upright. I'll use the nerves at the end of my stumps to walk just like I used to use my feet. He's confident in me, too. He wants this for me, for his own reasons.

  He wants me to take the place of his dead wife.

  He wants me to live in his new penthouse in Manhattan. He wants me to be at his side when he goes to fundraisers and society functions. He wants me to be the one across from him at dinner, smiling benignly as he jams his hand between my thighs under the table. He wants me to sleep next to him every night. His plan is to have me miraculously come back from the dead and return to life not as Adrienne Hamina, but as Adrienne Armstrong.

  He still hasn't learned how to be free.

  I agreed to marry him and I think I may love him, but I plan on making his life hell. I'm going to upend his perfectly ordered existence in every way possible. He doesn't know it yet, but he will, soon enough.

  I roll my head back to rest on his shoulder and he tightens his arms around me. I can see the cufflinks, the cufflinks I kept from him for all those months, glimmering at his wrists. His big fancy watch presses into my stomach. He's wearing too much cologne and it pisses me off. I prefer the natural scent of his skin. I can't wait to rub my pussy all over his face and make him smell like me, like us. I'll make him dirty again, soon enough. For now, I don't fight him. I close my eyes and let him prop me up because he likes it when I lean on him. I like it, too.

  “One more step,” he whispers in my ear. He drags his hand up my damp tank top to my breast. I don't wear a bra, because he wants my tits accessible to him. He pinches my nipple through the thin fabric, his touch promising all of the dirty things he's going to do to me later. My physical trainer, Ryan, stands a few feet away, in full view of our affection. His cheeks redden and he glances downward.

  “It's about time to stop for the day,” Ryan says, after clearing his throat. He's a former Olympic athlete who's been tasked with making me whole again. I have faith in him and in myself. He's a good guy, the best money can buy, after all.

  “No,” I say, even though I'm already melting into Dorian and wanting him to lay me down and take off the torture devices currently attached to my legs. I want him to run his magic hands and his magic tongue all over my throbbing legs and make them feels better. But I can wait. “I can do more.”

  “You up to it?” Ryan asks.

  “She's up to it,” Dorian says, brushing his lips across my earlobe. Then he lets me go and leaves me on my own. My skin tingles with the aftershocks of his attention and I crave more. He strolls over to the armchair across the room and smoothly sits down. He runs his eyes calmly up my length, from my plastic toes to my face. I can see right through his cool demeanor.

  I grit my teeth and force myself to take another step. My arms are strong and I keep myself steady, but every muscle is straining. As I slowly inch my way toward Dorian, his gaze fastens on my new legs and I wonder what disgusting, deviant ideas are running through his vile mind. I can't wait to find out what he has in store for me. Then he flicks his eyes up to meet mine and it's like I can read his mind. As I reach the end of the track, my breath heaving and sweat running down my face, I know we're both thinking the exact same thing.

  “She's done for the day,” he says, his voice not leaving any room for debate. I breathe a sigh of relief, even though I think I have more in me. He holds out a hand for me, like he can sense that I can make it to him. I pull away from the bar and then Ryan is there at my side. Dorian's face hardens as Ryan slides his hand around my waist and guides me. We move slowly, both of our muscles straining as we fight to keep me upright. It hurts but I don't stop. I don't stop until I reach him. I throw out a hand for him and he catches it and pulls me into his lap. He doesn't seem to care about how sweaty I am against his clean clothes and that pleases me. It means he's here to stay and doesn't have any other plans for the evening. “That's all.” He waves Ryan away, his eyes scouring my face like he has to see if everything is still in the right place.

  “Thank you,” I say to Ryan as he gathers his things and leaves quietly. When the door shuts behind him, Dorian sits back in the chair, relaxing his posture. I feel his muscles loosen under me and I can't help but curl into him, settling my head on his shoulder. My heart is still pounding and my legs are throbbing. My palms are numb and my fingers are pins and needles from gripping the bar. I feel shitty and in need of a shower, but it feels nice to lay on his lap like this, with my new legs hanging over the arm of the chair.

  “I'm very pleased with your progress,” he says, brushing a stray curl off my cheek.

  “Better than crawling?” I ask.

  “I like it when you crawl,” he says, a real smile sliding over his face. “But yes, better than crawling.” When he smiles like this, his teeth flash and his eyes crinkle and h
e looks so handsome it's almost painful. He has a light dusting of five o'clock shadow over his cheeks. His face looks fuller now, less gaunt than it did when I was laid up in the hospital. He looks almost... happy. If the devil can be truly happy. He drops his hand to my new knee. I feel the reverberation but not the touch of his hand on my skin. I watch his thumb stroking the molded plastic but I can't feel it. “I've invited Jessica to dinner this weekend,” he says nonchalantly, taking me off guard. My heart starts to pound again.

  “Did she accept?” I ask, even though I know the answer.

  “Of course,” he says, reaching over lazily and grabbing the box off the table beside us. “Open your present.” He plops it on my lap. The paper is almost too pretty to rip. It's a smooth green and white printed paper, tied with a big silver satin bow. He's trying to keep me on my proverbial toes, and it's working. Either that, or he's trying to make me happy. I can't tell which it is. I pull at the bow, slowly, watching as it comes undone. I don't tear into the paper; instead I pop the tape at the seams so it comes off in one piece. “Do you like it?” he asks, his voice low and deep in his chest. I stare down at the box, unable to speak for a few moments.

  “A camera,” I whisper, running my fingers across the glossy picture on the packaging. It's top of the line, newer and fancier than my war-beaten and bruised old camera was. It's pricey but far from the most expensive thing he's ever given me. However, it is the most beautiful. By far.