Godmother: a novel

by Carolyn Turgeon

  I looked down at my wrinkled, ragged hands. I was so old. Once I had been one of the most stunning creatures in the world.

  It had been three hundred years in human time. Cinderella and the prince had been dead for centuries.

  I shifted. Where they met skin and bone, my wings ached.

  It was seven A.M. I needed to get to work. I knew that George would be sick with worry. My answering machine had been blinking when I got home. I had heard the phone during the night.

  George. Despite everything, a shiver of pleasure sparked through me, a glimmer of hope. I would be redeemed. I knew it. Today I would call Veronica and let her know that everything was set. And then I could go back.

  I sat up. My wings didn't hurt so badly, I decided.

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  Suddenly I was filled with energy. It had just been too early, I thought. I couldn't fly before sending them to the ball. I was a fairy godmother! That was who I was. It didn't matter that my wings didn't work and that my hands were covered in wrinkles. Nothing mattered but getting her to the ball.

  If only I had understood that back then.

  I washed as well as I could, careful not to hurt my wings further. The banging on my door started as soon as I stepped out of the bath.

  I wrapped a towel around me and crept into the bedroom. It was already eight-thirty I had no time for visitors. Quietly, I dried myself off, then slipped into a skirt and blouse.

  Just then I heard the front door clicking open, the little bell I'd strung to the top of it tinkling against the wood. I froze.

  "Ms. Lillian? I'm coming in."

  Leo. A moment later I could hear him moving around the front room.

  I thought back, to all those other moments when people had crept up on me in the dark, rifled through my things, noticed the occasional feather drifting through the birdless air. All the times that people had changed, one second open and normal, the next their faces clenched like fists. I knew that look, the faces people made when they pointed and called me "witch" or "devil." It had been many years now, but I knew it. You could almost forget, sometimes, how much threat there was, past the locked door.

  I pushed into the main room. "What are you doing?" I asked. "How did you get in?"

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  He raised up his hands and just stared at me. "I'm sorry," he said. "I came by to talk to you, is all. I've left you messages, notices. I can't seem to reach you."

  "But how did you get in?" I said, hearing my voice rise.

  He held up a rusted key. "I've been going through my grandfather's things," he said. "Mainly, I just wanted to see if this still worked. I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."

  I stared back at him, my heart beating wildly.

  "I just ... I really need to talk with you. It's urgent. I brought a notice here to leave for you. I wanted to make sure you got it, that you were okay."

  "I'm fine," I said. "I'm very busy, that's all. I don't appreciate your coming in this way."

  "I'm so sorry," he repeated. "Here, I'll just leave this." He placed an official-looking document on my table. I refused to look at it. "I do need to talk to you. And again, I am sorry to have barged in like this. The thing is, I've sold this building. The new owners are planning to turn it into offices. So you will need to move. I feel terrible. I know you've been here a long time."

  "I can't just move," I said. "You can't do that."

  "Actually ..." he said, coughing, not quite meeting my eye, "you don't actually have a lease anymore. I found an original agreement that hasn't been valid in at least three decades. And even with a lease ... Well, even with a lease, buildings get sold. I feel terrible. I know how close you and my grandmother were. I'm offering a nice deal for all the current tenants, which will help you get settled somewhere else."

  I was sick. He didn't seem to know where to look. I just stood there. Where could I go? How could he do this?

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  "Like I said, we are offering a very generous buyout. Just read the papers."

  In a few more days, it will not matter, I thought. My mind latched on to the ball, clung to it. They would be coming back for me by then, once I'd set things right. None of this mattered.

  "I'll read them," I said.

  "Okay." He stepped back. Awkward and sheepish. "Again, I apologize."

  "Fine," I said. "Now I have to get to work, if you don't mind."

  "Yes, of course," he said. But he was hesitating.

  "Is there something else?" My mind flashed to the bathtub, the feathers that would be floating in it, the same feathers that would be scattered across my bed, through my room. I couldn't remember the last time someone else had been in the apartment. I should be more careful, I thought.

  "I--" He stopped himself. "Well, I've got a bunch of photos. My grandfather had just boxes and boxes of stuff. I found some old photos of you, even."

  I shook my head, confused.

  "You were something," he said. And then, embarrassed, "I mean, you were really beautiful. No disrespect intended." He coughed again. "Anyway. I thought you might want some of them. You and your ... family."

  "I think you're mistaken," I said. "They're not mine."

  "Well," he said, looking at me strangely, "I mean, I saw the other stuff. I just ... Well, I can come back with them. If you change your mind."

  "I really am late for work," I said.

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  "Yes, okay," he said, turning to the door. Then, as he was leaving, he looked back at me. "I'm just really sorry I guess I never quite realized, and ... You're a strong lady."

  The moment he was gone, I locked the door and pulled my living-room chair over, shoving it under the knob. I stood for a moment, realizing how loudly my heart was pounding. It throbbed in my forehead and ears, up and down my legs and arms. His words had disoriented me. A sick feeling crept over me, one I could not explain. An image of shattered glass entering my body.

  There was nowhere for me to go. The ball, the gala at the Pierre, was in less than a week. I knew that it would change everything, but still I felt a terrible, gaping fear. What if I had misunderstood everything? And there were feathers everywhere. I thought of the bathwater, the feathers floating on top of it and sticking to the tiles. Evidence.

  The feathers gave me a purpose. It seemed imperative suddenly that I get rid of every shred of evidence. The last thing I needed was to be found out when I was so close to leaving this world forever.

  I pulled a cardboard box from my supply closet and went to the bath. The tub had partly drained, but the surface of the water was covered in long, gleaming white feathers. I reached down and swept my palms across them. They were softer than fur, whiter than snow. Even floating on the water, they curled and stretched like living things. Sad, separated out, but still vital, perfect.

  I released the drain in the tub and began scooping up the feathers, letting the water run off them. I dumped clumps of wet feathers into the box. Wisps of them stuck to my palms and wrists and fingers, but I kept scooping and dumping until

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  the tub was empty and only a few soft white strands clung to the sides. After, I wiped the tub down, careful to pick out the feather remnants from the sponge and add them to the box.

  I walked through the rooms, stopping at my bed. I raked through the bedsheets to pick out all the other feathers that had accumulated. When I was done, I walked into the main space with the feather-filled box--they were all dry by now, magically, shimmering and glacial--and, again looking around to make sure I was alone, removed the iron cover from the right-hand front burner and lit a fire. The blue flame flared up and turned yellow.

  One by one I dropped the feathers into it. Despite myself, despite the fact that I had performed this ritual for years, my heart ached as I watched the feathers flare up. The fire took hold of them, turned them white hot, made them burn so bright I had to cover my eyes. And then, two seconds later, gone, without a trace. Just a faint smell of vanilla and smoke. It took me fifteen minutes to get
through the box. Then I lit a match and wiped it against the sides, letting all the bits and pieces flare up and disappear.

  It was already 9:30 A.M. I locked the door behind me and headed to work.

  GEORGE WAS waiting for me when I arrived.

  "Lil!" he said. "What the hell happened? I've called and called. I went by your apartment. Are you okay?"

  "I'm fine," I said. "I just ate something bad. I was ill. I'm so sorry I reacted that way and made you worry."

  "Lil, you went crazy! Are you kidding?"

  "I don't know what came over me. Really."

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  I had a hard time meeting his eye. He knew. He had to know. There had been so many feathers, they had blown all over him.

  "Are you sure?" he asked more quietly. "I've been worried about you lately. You seem to get distracted so easily. And just ... I worry about you." I glanced up at him, saw his face knotted with worry. I couldn't help but notice how handsome he looked, with his flushed cheeks and dark eyes. He and Veronica would be so handsome together.

  I mustered all my concentration, to look as sweet and innocuous as possible. "George," I said slowly, "I didn't feel well and maybe overreacted a bit. It can be scary, getting old. You lose control of your body in ways you never thought you would. It can be very difficult."

  I knew I had succeeded in making him uncomfortable. The specters of age and decay always did that to the young.

  "Yes," he said, looking away. "I'm just sorry I couldn't be more help to you. Maybe I overreacted, too. I don't know."

  "It's fine," I said, touching his arm. "I appreciate how concerned you were. And for inviting me. I hope I didn't embarrass you too much. Your friends seemed lovely."

  "I am not embarrassed, Lil," he said. "You are a dear friend. Don't think I don't appreciate what you're doing for me, too."

  "That's right," I said. "And when you meet your date and have the best night of your life, you'll be in my debt eternally."

  He laughed. "Let's get this place open," he said. "There are millions of aimless book lovers wandering around out there needing a fix."

  "Yes, sir," I said.

  He had no idea, I realized. All those feathers, his palm on

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  wing and barb, and he had no idea. It was astonishing. Maybe in New York nothing could surprise anyone anymore.

  I unlocked the front door and switched the Closed sign to Open.

  I CALLED Veronica just after lunch.

  "Okay, my friend," I said. "I think someone needs a proper ball gown. An ice blue silk, maybe?"

  "And what is it that you are suggesting?"

  "Aren't you some kind of gifted seamstress?" I asked. "Or is that just a rumor?"

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  Chapter Twelve

  HER HAIR FELL INTO HER FACE AND OVER HER shoulders, glittering in the fading light, shifting from white to cream to a pale gold. Her feet were bare, delicate. I watched the silk of her dress rubbing into the grass, the wrinkles creasing it, the straps slipping over her smooth shoulders. She was a mess. Tears fell down her reddening face. The glitter I had spread over her, the kohl around her eyes, her red lips--it was all rubbing off, streaking her face in lines.

  I looked away. Then back again.

  She hunched down on her elbows, her legs crossed, her hands buried in her hair.

  "I'm sorry," she wailed, wiping her face even as more tears streamed down it. Next to her the shoes lay in the grass. The sun hit them as it sank and turned them briefly to flame, then back again. Behind, the horses flared up, growing impatient, their muscles rippling under their smooth black coats.

  I knew I should be fixing it all: the horses, who threatened to bolt away at any moment; the coach that was losing

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  its luster every minute that went by; her. But it was so beautiful, all of it, the mess of the human world. I couldn't understand the feelings moving through me. How full I felt.

  For a second the world stood still and I could see my future--her future--stretching in front of us, wide open, like fate didn't matter, like anything at all could happen and the future was a giant wave carrying us both forward.

  She stretched her arm in the grass and I saw then, just barely, the red line etched across her wrist. A scar.

  "Don't be sorry," I said, but my voice seemed stilted and false. My words hung in the early night air. "What happened to you? Who did this to you?"

  She didn't look up. I wasn't sure if I'd even spoken out loud. I needed to move into her, understand her, fix her, but the feelings moving over me were so new and acute. The hatred and jealousy pierced into and through me, a long line, like silver. At the same time my heart opened to her. I wanted so badly to erase the pain that racked her body. The line across her wrist. She didn't deserve any of it, not these moments, not all the moments she'd been made to suffer.

  And then part of me wanted something else. To bend down into the grass, and feel her silk starlight hair, smell the ash on her, all the days huddled under the chimney with a broom in her hand. I wanted to touch her pale, perfect skin, her fragile wrist, the line snaking and twisting across it, her wound.

  I didn't know what to feel or think. I watched the tears run into the grass and stay there. She dragged the back of her hand across her face and looked up at me.

  "I feel so stupid," she said. "I ruin everything."

  I stood there, hesitating. All the feelings passing through me. I felt as if I could stand there forever, watching her.

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  "Please don't make me go," she whispered.

  Before I knew what I was doing, I dropped down next to her. For the moment, sympathy won out, erased the other emotions seesawing through me. She was supposed to go. It was supposed to be the night of her life.

  "It's your destiny," I said. "Don't you understand? It will be everything you ever wanted."

  She was sobbing now. I didn't know if she could even hear me.

  "It's the ball," I said. "It is all arranged. He will see you and fall in love with you. Do you hear me? You were made for him. It's your destiny."

  "No," she said, into her hands. "I can't go. Look at me. I am not supposed to go to balls." She kicked out her foot, and I watched one of the slippers fall to its side. She pulled the diamonds from her ears and dropped them into the grass. I watched them sink into the ground.

  "Why are you like this?" I whispered. I was truly stunned. The ball, the prince--it was all I had thought about for weeks now. His hands on my waist and his mouth on my neck. The way I had felt whole, fully myself, when I was near him. I thought of the prince from her own dreams, standing in the field, walking toward her. Toward me. I knew he was all she had been thinking of, too.

  She pulled her hands from her face and just looked at me.

  "I know you dream of him," I said. "I've seen what you dream of. And now it's here. This night. It's what you've always wanted."

  "No," she said, staring at me. "I just want to be alone. I want to be someone new."

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  I leaned in and touched her face. A wave of tenderness passed over me. I couldn't tell where I began and she ended. "He will make you into someone new," I said. "He can make you whole. He can make all this disappear. The hole in your gut. This." I picked up her hand, ran my fingers down to the scar on her wrist.

  "HELLO!" VERONICA called out, her knee-high vinyl boots clacking across the wooden floor. She walked up to the counter, smiling. Her features were delicate under her multicolored makeup, and her eyes were like flowers, large and thickly fringed. A dark, glittering blue. I heard George draw in his breath. She looked stunning in her forties-style burgundy dress, her bright orange hair pulled back from her face.

  I thought of Maybeth shrieking, hurling herself into the lake and then up out of it.

  She noticed him then, stopping in her tracks. "You're George," she said. "Aren't you?"

  "Yes?" he said, looking from her to me.

  "I'm Veronica," she said, extending her hand to him, bat
ting her eyes. I couldn't believe it: for a moment, she looked almost bashful. "Your date to the ball."

  "Veronica," he repeated.

  "I recognize you from your photo."

  "I didn't realize ..." George stumbled closer to the counter and bumped into it. When he reached out to shake her hand, she laughed and tilted her wrist, bending it up farther so that he had no choice but to kiss her hand.

  "I showed her the photo of you and your father," I said to

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  him, "back in the office. The Cary Grant one." I smiled, enjoying his embarrassment. "We're actually going shopping so she doesn't show up to the ball in rags."

  "So ... you actually go to balls, then?" she asked. "For fun?"

  He looked horrified. "It's a charity event my parents are involved in. It's not really my ..."

  "I'm kidding," she said. "It sounds nice. The idea is growing on me, I'm not gonna lie." She smiled, her blue eyes glowing, and I could feel him relax beside me.

  "George owns this place," I said. "He's a real book lover."

  "Oh, I am, too," she said. "I read all the time, always have. You know what I studied in school?"

  "What?"

  "Franch litrature," she said, making a silly snooty face.

  "I was a French-lit major, too," George said. "I was obsessed with Mallarmé and Proust." He paused, self-conscious. "I was a bit of a nerd, I suppose."

  "I don't believe it for a second," she said, winking. "I, on the other hand, dropped out. In my senior year. I'm smart like that. And I barely even remember French. Lil showed me a line in one of your books here and had to translate for me. I should never admit all this, should I?"