The Unquiet

  We were still in our rebellious phase then, still new to this world, still defying Madame. “It’ll be our little secret,” Edith said, squeezing my hand. “And anyway, it’ll probably go away one day.”

  By the time we became the obedient children Madame wanted, we’d also become scared. Of her. Of what she would do to me if she knew. Once we weren’t friends anymore, I spent my time at the cottages frightened of what Alex, Gray, or Edith might decide to say about me to Madame.

  But they never said a word.

  “You still dream, don’t you?” Edith asks me again later when I am leaving for home.

  I shrug noncommittally.

  She pulls me into a hug.

  “Good,” she says with a smile. “It’s official then. You’re the most normal one of us all. Welcome to the group.”

  Chapter 24

  Sometimes I’m good. I bake bread just the way Gigi likes it. She smiles at me to show me that she approves, but most afternoons I am too busy looking down to notice. I bite my bottom lip, put all my concentration into it. I knead the dough until my palms hurt, until my fingers are two steps away from becoming bloodied. I tell myself that the bread will be just right because of how much conscientious effort I put into it. And then afterward I come away and realize how small that was, how unremarkable, and how by evening it will already be gone.

  Da leaves for the orchards before any of us are awake today. He only ever does this when he is sad about Gigi, and most days I don’t blame him.

  I help Gigi into the bath and wash her back like I do every day. The very first time I did it, about six months ago, she cried. She said she was sorry, and I said it was okay, so many times that I started to cry myself. She said that she wished her disease would take her quickly. “Death is not,” she whispered, “the worst thing in the world. It’s the slow progression of it, the drawing out, that hurts. You’re still here, but you’re missing out on everything already, cooking the way you used to, baking peach cobblers, sewing new dresses for your grandchildren. Suddenly fingers don’t work right, eyes don’t see, breathing becomes nearly impossible. The death is simple, but the dying part is like a volcano, simmering quietly underneath the surface for years.” She cries still sometimes. I’ve never told Da.

  Today I tie my hair out of my face and put on the radio, to a channel that plays music all the time. I remember that just a year ago, Gigi was this small, bubbly woman saying “Don’t slouch like that, Lira” and “Don’t eat that.” And “This is how you make apricot jam” and “Goodness, child, do you intend to brush your hair today? You look like a rascal. Tell her, Thomas.” Everyone in town knows who Gigi is, tales of her baked goods and her jams spreading like wildfire every summer, people pushing wheelbarrows of the stuff away some hot Sunday afternoons. But nobody knows about this part yet, about what has happened, about the last six months. That’s the way Da prefers it, I think, but also Gigi. “Not everything needs to happen in front of the window,” she says.

  Downstairs Cecily and her friend, Mathieu, are playing with our neighbor’s children, Freddie and Rachel. Their mother has dropped them off at our house to be baby-sat while she is in the city. Gigi has that reputation of eleventh-hour kindness, but I answered the door because Aunt Imogen and her suitcases left yesterday. “Gigi’s actually in the bath at the moment,” I said.

  “Oh,” our neighbor said, holding on to her hat, fighting the wind. “I hope she doesn’t mind two more.”

  No one notices that Gigi rarely goes out anymore. Nobody knows how bad things are. And that is how my grandmother likes it.

  It makes me feel better.

  In a way, every one of us, in every world, is a liar. It is what we are built on.

  Now Gigi touches my cheek when her coughing fit has subsided. “You’re beautiful, you know,” she whispers, and her eyes are glassy. “As beautiful as my Rosie ever was.”

  I grit my teeth because I hate it when she talks like this. When her touch is full of sentimentality and her voice is weak. It means she thinks she’s closer to the end than ever. It means she thinks that she will finally leave us, end this burden that she has become. Every day with Gigi is full of sentimentalities now. No more of that toughness, of that meanness I could handle so much better. Still, I try. “You’re the one who said that beauty is not the most important thing in the world,” I mutter.

  “No, it is not. But when one has it, it is useful.”

  She holds my chin, and I see my eyes reflected in hers. Pale gray as hers. “Beautiful or not, don’t ever waste who you are, Lira,” she whispers fiercely. “Promise me.” And then just as quickly the moment is lost as her wheezing resumes. I can see her fighting for it, that moment, but I don’t help her find it again. I can’t. When a loud crash reverberates in the walls, I run downstairs, soapsuds still on my arms. I find Cecily sitting at the piano, pressing the same key over and over again, eyebrows furrowed, as if she were concentrating. I know better. Mostly because her friend, Mathieu, has picked up a book and is pretending to read it. Upside down. Rachel and Freddie sit next to him, trying to look innocent.

  “What did you break?” I ask.

  “We didn’t break nothing, honest,” Mathieu says, eyes wide as coins.

  I frown. “Cecily, you’re supposed to be the responsible one. You’re supposed to be the good example.”

  My sister shrugs. Her tone is solemn. “I don’t know why. He’s the one who’s older. He’s the one who broke the vase. He’s the guest, and he’s behaving pretty badly. When I behave badly, I get punished.”

  Mathieu gapes at her. “But you told me . . . but you said . . .”

  “Don’t be stupid, Mathieu,” Cecily says, rolling her eyes.

  The room is silent for a long moment before chaos erupts and they both are suddenly gone, out of the house. I do not know who chases whom, but I hear them both screaming, making deals about who can fight whom, who is wrong and who is right, who should live and who should die. Mathieu tells Cecily that everyone at school thinks she’s strange because she’s always talking about the trees and all the things Da does to keep them alive, that she should be grateful he even bothers with her. And then they’re running again because Cecily says she will break his ears off and he’s laughing at her. Rachel and Freddie chase after them, making a game of it.

  I go back upstairs. I help Gigi with her dress, with her makeup, and then she insists she sit outside today, underneath the shade of a tree, breathing in the fresh air. She knits her sweater while I lie on a mat, reading a book, pretending that I am not fascinated by the game that Cecily, Mathieu, Rachel, and Freddie are playing. Pretending that I am not quietly laughing at their jokes, as if I were still a child myself. Fifteen suddenly feels very old. This is how the summer passes away, the same as every other summer and yet different.

  Tonight is one of those summer nights when Da does not turn up for dinner. Cecily, Gigi, and I sit around the table and pretend that there isn’t an empty chair. “He’s not in the orchards, is he?” Cecily sighs. “He’s gone to that place again.”

  “Of course he’s in the orchards,” I say automatically.

  “Time to brush your teeth,” Gigi says at exactly the same time. And then, as soon as Cecily is upstairs, she throws me the truck keys. She does not meet my eyes when she says, “Go bring your grandfather home, Lirael.”

  These are the blue moon days.

  I have never told her where I find him. Have never mentioned the pub or the men he drinks with. Have never said anything about how I rarely have to help him into the car because he’s hardly ever drunk. I don’t know whether he walks or finds someone to give him a ride. Each time I come he looks deep into my eyes, waiting to hear the news: Is she dead yet? As if some unspoken force whispered in his ear suddenly this morning: “Today is your wife’s last day. Run, hide.” I don’t know what sort of answer he wants, the good or the bad kind, but he always breathes a sigh of relief.

  I do not make him come with me immediately. I find my own booth in
the pub and pull out my sketchbook. I am not sure whether this is something I would have liked without the original Lira’s liking it first. I just know that it has become a part of me. Sometimes my fingers itch to draw something I do not recognize until it is finished. Today, though, all I want to capture is the way the people in the pub sit, relaxed and laughing, without a care in the world. This feeling of freedom, of choice. That is what I draw.

  “That’s not how I look,” Gary, the bartender, says. He taps my grandfather on the shoulder. “Thomas, you ought to get this girl a proper drawing job in the city. She’d make you a fortune.”

  “Thanks, Gary,” I say, smiling at the bartender. He’s good at being kind.

  But my grandfather ignores me and I him until he is ready to go. And then we climb into the truck in perfect silence. Except it’s not perfect because my mind is spinning with words the dead Lirael would have wanted to say. Words like, It doesn’t count, your telling me that family is important if you run from yours the first moment you become afraid. And, Wait until she’s dead before you fall apart; why can’t you do that? That’s the worst one. The thing I can never say. I rarely ever see my—her—grandfather so small, and as we drive back home, he begins to force his shoulders back up, clear his throat as if he has forgotten where he is, but it’s almost always too late. He lights a cigarette and smokes it in silence. As we drive back home, he’ll usually point at the orchards and say, “That’s going to be yours one day,” as if I have forgotten.

  Tonight I don’t answer. Gigi is waiting for him in the kitchen when we arrive, and I know to go upstairs immediately. “Thomas,” she says softly. All the lights are out, but she looks tough in candlelight. Tougher than I’ve seen her look in months; I almost believe that a miracle has happened. That she is well again, but she doesn’t move from the chair she is sitting patiently in, and I know it’s not because she doesn’t want to. I can’t help stopping at the top of the stairs, can’t help pressing my body against the wall and listening. I do not know what Da says. Probably something like “If we had more money for doctors . . . if I had done better . . .” his voice cracking, weak.

  Because Gigi snorts. I hear her say, “You dumb, dumb man. You think it’s your money and your medicines I want on the last days of my life? You think they’re the most important thing in the world? When I was without those things, was I dead? Have we ever been unhappy?”

  I sit down with my back against the wall. I listen to them cry. For practice, I tell myself, it’s all for practice.

  Just before dawn every morning, I sneak out of the house. I practice throwing my knives at the tree trunks in the orchards. I pretend an invisible Ezra is sparring with me, and I break his bones with my hands. I disassemble my guns, clean them, and reassemble them again.

  I take my pills, and then I train for about an hour. Then I go home, climb back into my bed.

  There isn’t anything that I am not ready for.

  Chapter 25

  The birds poke incessantly at the ripe apricots through the tree nets. The really dedicated ones manage to eat a few, but for the most part they are unsuccessful. It is that time of the year when everything is out in full force, from birds to worms to mischief-seeking squirrels. The fruit pickers are here, too: little boys sent from our neighbors for the few coins they will earn while their brothers are in the city. They come after school and climb the trees and crowd the ladders with small arms and full baskets. Lately they come also for Da’s stories, the things he says about when he was a little boy, adventure stories involving ships and wicked pirates that almost certainly could never have happened. But the little boys don’t notice. Even the ones who are too young to help, who listen from the base of the trees, stomping fallen fruit with their boots. “Tell us the one about the swordfight,” they yell up, and Da begins his story.

  “Well, once upon a time . . .”

  “God, if I have to hear that story again,” Philip says, climbing down his ladder with a basket of fruits. We are working on the same tree.

  “We can’t both go,” I tell him solemnly. “And you’re the one who has to stick around. You’re taller.”

  He laughs. “See you later, Lira.” He loads up the truck with the baskets, and then he drives to the city to see how much he can sell at the fresh food market. There are also orders to be filled locally, houses to make calls on. Mrs. Eckles wanted two boxes of peaches; Mr. Danon wanted four. Normally I go with him, but I am renetting the trees to keep the birds away. When the day is over, Da drives us home with several boxes of fruit.

  My bones are so tired they hurt. I am shrugging out of my clothes and halfway up the stairs when I realize that we have company. That the voices speaking in the living room belong to Gigi and someone else. Someone who cannot be here. In my shock I forget all about my half-buttoned clothes. I enter the room just as Julia stands, shy smile on her face. She looks relieved to see me, but when my mouth falls open and stays that way, her smile fades. She shuffles her feet and says, “Um, hi.”

  “Why are you being rude?” Gigi chastises me after too long a moment. “Your friend has been waiting hours to see you.”

  I say nothing. Sometimes, when I am extremely tired, I see things, shadows in the corners of my eye, tricks of light that turn into a girl or boy shape, that laugh and play hide-and-seek on the walls. But Julia’s shadow does not fade away. The look of irritation on Gigi’s face does not dissolve, and so I have to face the truth: there is another sleeper in this house. Another person like me, and that makes me more uneasy than I can say.

  My friend, I think.

  Hours, I think.

  It occurs to me to be embarrassed, especially when Da enters the house and begins making a fool of me. “You say you are Lira’s friend?” he asks, for the second time in the span of a minute, and when Julia nods, his face breaks out into a smile.

  “We don’t get to see too many of her friends,” Gigi explains, making things worse.

  “Lira works too hard,” Da says. “Doesn’t do much of the things a girl her age should be doing.”

  Julia laughs. There is sympathy all over her face when she finally turns to look at me. I understand that the expression on her face is saying, “I have come to save you from these crazy people.” “That’s actually why I’m here,” she tells my grandparents. “I was wondering whether Lira might be interested in coming on a hiking trip with my family tomorrow. Just for the weekend.”

  “A hiking trip?” Da says, pretending to think about it. He actually looks like he wants to come, too. To make sure I go, to make sure it happens. He doesn’t bother to ask me before offering his consent.

  “But I haven’t finished the netting,” I remind him.

  “Philip will do it.”

  I finally have the calm of mind to scowl at him like I should.

  Julia can never be my friend, not in public. She cannot be some random girl I met in the city; it’s too dangerous. Someone would recognize us together, but in front of my grandparents we pretend that is exactly what we’re going to do. Walk around in public together like normal teenagers. Her “family” is everyone at the farmhouse. This invitation is from them, too, not just her. Still, I find use of my legs only when it’s time to escort her outside. We both pretend not to notice the way Da moves to the window and gently opens it. “Lighten up,” Julia says. “If I’d known you’d look like that—”

  “You wouldn’t have come?” I ask.

  “I would have brought a camera,” she says.

  “Is this really possible?” I ask. “A whole weekend?” It’s one thing to disappear for a night without our handlers finding out. Two seems impossible.

  “Gray and Robbie are taking care of it,” Julia says.

  I want to ask about this secret protection Edith refused to tell me about, but Julia shakes her head in warning. I remember that Da is listening.

  “Don’t worry, Lira.” Julia hugs me. “Dress warm, and come prepared to do crazy things.” She lowers her voice so Da won’t hear a
nd pulls me away from the window. “We’re making a list,” she says, “of all the things that people our age do that seem to make them the happiest. I’ve been investigating, and after it’s finished, we’ll do everything on the list. We have been planning this weekend for ages.”

  She hesitates, glances back at my house. “You trust us, right? I mean, you trust me? You know that I am your friend? I know we were never close, but . . . well, I hope you don’t hate me.”

  She’s talking about the way I just reacted.

  “I’m glad you came,” I say, and wave when she drives away.

  I am lying.

  “Don’t you want to know where I met her?” I ask Da at the dinner table.

  “A friend, Lira,” he says, ignoring my question.

  “Maybe she can finally talk some sense into you and change those clothes you insist on wearing,” Gigi says.

  I don’t ask: “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

  “She’s probably going to be a terrible influence on me,” I warn instead.

  Gigi beams at Da. Cecily is the one who asks the question I know they are thinking: “So, when can she come for dinner?”

  I roll my eyes at how normal we are being.

  I ride my bike into the city early the following day because Edith and Julia want to go to a movie together before we go hiking. It is not about what we see but the act of doing it. This is the first thing on our list. The cinema is small and musty, and the film we’ve chosen interests no one. At first we are disappointed by the emptiness of the room, but then we begin to see the bright side. We yell things at the characters from the front row and predict how the movie will end.

  The movie does not match our mood at all. It is a quiet, somber film, but for once we can’t afford to be those things, not today. We whisper-shout out our opinions during the really poignant moments of the film. “Okay, I know they’re about to kiss and everything,” Edith says, “but I really think she should think about dating his brother for a minute.”