Unthinkable

by Nancy Werlin

  “You don’t call her Mother.” Fenella kept looking at the photograph. Zach’s arms were confident and possessive around Lucy and his attention was wholly on her and the baby, while Lucy watched her mother with soft eyes. For her part, Miranda looked straight out of the picture as if she could see Fenella looking in at her, sometime in the future.

  “No, I don’t,” Lucy said. “Soledad is my mom. Miranda doesn’t mind. She picked Soledad and Leo for me.”

  Soledad said, “We’re both of us your mothers.” She added to Fenella, “There’s no such thing as too many mothers, especially when there’s a baby to take care of.”

  Lucy laughed. “There’s no such thing as too many grandmothers, either. Dawn has four! Miranda and Soledad, and then Zach’s mom—she lives in Arizona. And there’s Dawn’s biological grandmother too. Her name is Brenda Spencer. She takes care of Dawn at least two days a week.”

  “Dawn has five grandmothers, with Fenella here.”

  Fenella stiffened.

  Soledad was shaking her head in bemusement. “Not that anybody would ever believe it, to look at Fenella.”

  “It makes me feel like Dawn is really safe,” said Lucy. “So many people to take care of her and love her.”

  The word safe had had the impact of a rock pitched at the side of Fenella’s head. She felt the cat insinuate himself, rubbing against her ankles.

  She put the photograph down and picked up a small one of Zach and Lucy standing in the living room, facing each other, holding hands. They were wearing formal clothes—Lucy in white—and they looked both terrified and transcendent. The dog Pierre stood beside them, with a ribbon around his neck. He was snarling toward someone. That person was not in the picture, but Fenella knew it must be Padraig.

  She put the photograph back down. “Your wedding took place here in this house?”

  “Yes.” A smile curved Lucy’s mouth. “We crammed in more people than I could ever have imagined. I thought Mom and Dad had lost it.” She pointed at a different photo. “Here I am with my friend Sarah. She was my maid of honor. In the background, you can see how crowded it was.”

  Fenella looked carefully at the crowd, but Padraig wasn’t in this photograph either. She wondered whether Lucy fully appreciated what a narrow escape she had had, or if the safety and ordinariness of her current life had blotted away the reality of the past.

  “We can show you the complete set of wedding pictures, if you want,” Soledad offered. “There’s video too.”

  Fenella reached for more photos and listened as they were explained. A solemn young Soledad and Leo standing on the front porch of the house, after they had bought it. A three-year-old Lucy in a high chair with applesauce smeared all over her mouth, looking startlingly like her daughter. Leo with Lucy, aged six, mounted on his shoulders. Soledad crushing a teenaged Lucy in her arms. A twelve-year-old Zach spraying the ten-year-old Lucy with water from a garden hose. A close-up of Leo playing guitar and singing, on Lucy’s wedding day. Dawn and Miranda on the floor of the living room, building a decidedly unstable structure out of wooden blocks.

  The cat had butted his head insistently against her ankles. Pick me up. She’d stooped for him, and he had craned his neck and looked at the pictures too.

  What did it mean to destroy safety? How should Fenella know? She had not felt safe in four hundred years.

  The night ticked inexorably away. Fenella watched the cat sleep.

  She was still thinking about safety as the gray light of early morning filtered into the room and, softly, the door opened. She looked up.

  It was Miranda, standing in the doorway holding a suitcase.

  Chapter 11

  Fenella stared at Miranda and Miranda stared back.

  Miranda looked every one of her thirty-eight years and then some. Like her daughter, she’d cut off her previously long brown hair, but in contrast to Lucy’s glossy cap, Miranda’s hair was so short that it clung tightly to her head and was decidedly more gray than brown. The gray was in keeping with her face. Miranda had been exposed to all weathers during the years she’d done her best to watch over Lucy and the Markowitzes from afar, and her skin had suffered from it, with lines permanently engraved around her eyes and mouth. She was as bony and skinny as ever too. In fact, Miranda looked older than her curvy friend Soledad, who was actually the elder by more than ten years.

  Unconsciously, Fenella’s hand went to her own smooth cheek. She was the one who ought to be a bent-over crone.

  She wished she were. Better to have your experience written plainly on your face and body, so there would be no mistakes. So that certain unexpected temptations—such as appreciation of Walker Dobrez, the apprentice animal doctor—would not happen.

  Ryland opened his eyes. She’s home early.

  He jumped lightly down to the floor and vaulted onto Fenella’s bed instead of Miranda’s. The gesture of courtesy surprised Fenella; then she remembered Ryland’s intention of being adored by everyone. But Miranda did not appear to have noticed the cat. She was still frozen in the doorway in complete shock.

  Fenella got up, the too-long legs of the borrowed pajama pants falling in folds over her feet. She took an uncertain step. “Hello, Miranda. It’s really me.”

  A knot of disappointment was fast forming in Fenella’s throat. Was Miranda not happy to see her? They had been friends and allies and family, in Faerie. It had not been the close friendship Fenella had with Minnie, because Miranda had left to watch her daughter from afar whenever she was permitted—and that was often, for Padraig had not found Miranda much to his taste. But still, the friendship between Miranda and Fenella had been real and true. When Miranda was freed, Fenella had kissed her brow.

  “I will be so peaceful in death,” Fenella had told her. “I will always remember and love you,” Miranda had said.

  “Live your life,” Fenella had responded. “Go to Lucy. Be happy, Miranda.”

  They had cried together, for joy, before parting for what they believed to be forever.

  Miranda said, “You’re not dead?”

  “No. It’s something to do with the initial spell Ryland cast. I’m free,” she lied. “I get to go on with my life, like you.”

  When Miranda said nothing, and her face stayed stiff, Fenella made a helpless gesture. “I’m sorry to intrude on your life here. I suppose you don’t want a reminder of the past.”

  Don’t apologize, said the cat tartly. You have every right to be here.

  I do not, thought Fenella.

  Miranda dropped her heavy suitcase and wrapped her bony arms around herself. “What aren’t you telling me, Fenella? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing! I was released from Faerie. I got here yesterday. Where else would I go?” She heard the defensiveness in her own voice. “They—your Lucy, and everybody—have been so kind to me.”

  Fenella waited tensely as Miranda moved to the second bed and eased herself down to sit on the edge. She looked as if, with a moment’s warning, she might run.

  “Fenella?” Miranda said at last. “I can smell Faerie on you, and it—it makes me feel queasy.”

  Fenella was shocked. “You can?”

  “Yes.”

  “I—I don’t know what to say. I bathed with hot water last evening in that shower thing. There was lavender soap.”

  “It’s not a bad smell,” Miranda said uncertainly. “It’s woody, like trees. Maybe like willow, and something else. It’s not unpleasant. It’s just there. I could never mistake it for anything else.” Miranda inhaled again, more fully. Her gaze swiveled to the white cat, lounging on the bed opposite. She stared at him incredulously. “You brought a cat?”

  Fenella waited in dread for Miranda to say she could smell enchantment on the cat too.

  Ryland stood. He stretched. He stared limpidly into Miranda’s eyes and waved his beautiful tail. Then he nimbly leaped across the gap between the beds to land beside Miranda. He butted his head against her arm, glanced up coquettishly, and then settled himself
boldly right on her lap.

  Mouth curving with surprising sweetness, Miranda petted Ryland, at first cautiously, and then, as he responded, more fully. “You’re a pretty one, aren’t you?” she said. “Do you want your belly rubbed? Do you?”

  Shamelessly, Ryland rolled over and presented his belly, and when Miranda rubbed it, he purred like the engine of Walker’s truck.

  All of her nerves were in an uproar, but now that she’s touched me, she’s calmed down. He sounded grumpy. I have some ordinary cat magic. Maybe it will help. But remind me: How did I get into this again?

  Fenella couldn’t reply, of course. She watched Miranda with the cat, and the cat with Miranda. Sitting down again on her own bed, she drew her legs under herself. She remembered Lucy saying that she worried about Miranda. She realized: Miranda already doesn’t feel safe, even surrounded by people who love her.

  Safety.

  But she couldn’t undermine Miranda more. Could she?

  After a while, Miranda smiled apologetically across at Fenella. “I’m sorry. It was scary there, for a minute, seeing you. I got cold shakes. I think I had a flashback. I hope you know, Fenella, I’m glad to see you. I’m glad you’re okay. You’re not dead! You’re free, like me? Tell me everything.”

  Fenella opened her mouth, but Miranda’s attention had already splintered back to Ryland. “Where did you get this little fellow?” She listened while Fenella told her the false story about being given him on the street, and then she nodded. “No wonder you couldn’t resist him. So soft. So friendly.” Miranda slipped her fingers deep into his fur. “Look at that adorable heart on his chest. You said his name was Ryland? It suits him.”

  She went on talking about the cat, seemingly unable to stop long enough to let Fenella answer the questions she’d been asked. Fenella was relieved; she didn’t want to answer. But at the first opportunity, Fenella said, “What about you, Miranda? How has it been for you in your new life?”

  Miranda lowered her face. She stroked the cat some more. “Such a mix,” she said at last. “It’s a dream come true in so many ways. My dear friends, Soledad and Leo. My daughter and granddaughter and son-in-law. This home to live in. I used to dream about this house, back in Faerie. Well, you know. I lived here before, when I was pregnant with Lucy. It’s always been my ideal of home.”

  “I know.”

  “I see my Lucy every day. He’s good to her, that boy she married. And she’s good to him. They have a hard road in some ways, being so young with a child to care for, and needing to figure out how to earn money and be adults in the world. But they have so much help. They’re doing well. I’m proud of them. Do you have a comb for this cat?”

  Fenella fetched a comb, which had been provided by Walker. She reseated herself and watched as Miranda pulled the comb through the cat’s thick fur. The cat lay supine on her lap, his eyes slit with voluptuous pleasure.

  She digs in just enough. Ahhhhh.

  Miranda kept her face averted from Fenella. “I adore Dawn. Sometimes when I’m taking care of her, though, I pretend she’s Lucy and I’m eighteen again.”

  Fenella winced.

  “Is that horrible? I pretend that none of it ever happened. Soledad says it’s normal to have those thoughts, and maybe it is. But I don’t know if it’s good. I hate it when I come out of the dream. I wish I could appreciate the present. But I’m always on alert. I always expect something terrible to happen.” Miranda paused. “I guess that’s why I’m—I mean, why I was—so scared to see you again, Fenella. I’m sorry.” She inhaled. “I don’t smell anything now. I must have imagined it. I do that sometimes.”

  Guilt stabbed at Fenella. But she had choices and she wouldn’t hurt Miranda. She would be careful, and thoughtful, about what she chose to do. She would be.

  Nobody would be hurt unnecessarily. She swore it.

  “I understand,” she said.

  “Thanks.” Miranda pulled a vast quantity of cat hair out of the comb and formed it into a ball that she set aside. The cat rolled over obligingly, and she started combing him on the other side.

  “Then there’s the whole enormous business of making a new life. I want to contribute, and not live off others. But I’m not doing so well with that. Some days, I don’t even want to leave this house. Soledad says it’s early yet. I know I’m useful at home, helping with Dawn.”

  “Are you . . .” Fenella paused delicately as an unexpected question arose in her mind. “In this new life, is there a human lover for you, perhaps? Or do you think there might be, someday?”

  Don’t ask her hurtful questions! Ryland’s anger came at Fenella like a blast. I’ve only just got her calmed down!

  Fenella blinked, surprised.

  But Miranda answered, simply and immediately, as if she had dealt with this question before and it contained no pain.

  “Oh, Fenella. No. I can’t imagine that. It would be enough for me to manage a job of some kind.” She tilted her head at Fenella. “Let me ask you the same thing. Would you want a real lover?”

  “I had a real lover once,” Fenella said sharply. “Robert.”

  “I mean now. Can you imagine being with someone new, someone that you choose freely?”

  Walker Dobrez’s shy sideways glance drifted into Fenella’s memory. She spoke quickly. “No. Never. That part of me is dead.”

  Miranda nodded. “Exactly. Dead.”

  “Yes,” said Fenella.

  “It’s too bad, though, don’t you think? Lucy says it’s like Padraig keeps on winning.”

  “What?” said Fenella. “No, he doesn’t. Why would she think our not falling in love again means that?”

  “People always think their own way is the right way,” said Miranda. “And that’s what Lucy did. She says it’s the way to go on with your own life. Loving.”

  “It’s not the only way.”

  “I agree. Especially as I don’t think it’s possible for me. What’s your way going to be, then, Fenella? Now that you’re here? What will you do with your life?”

  I’m going to die, Fenella thought. She said, “I don’t know.”

  Miranda nodded. “Me neither.” She bent to comb the cat some more.

  Chapter 12

  In the days that followed, Fenella tried to settle into her pretend life with the Markowitz-Greenfield-Scarborough clan. But all the while she was watching and thinking.

  At first the household seemed like it was made of pure chaos. There was all manner of movement and noise: phones trilling; doors opening and closing; computers beeping; floors creaking. Neighbors and friends frequently stopped by without warning; suddenly you would hear a strange voice call out, “Hello? Is anybody home?” and then another person would be there amongst them all, and this stranger too would be talking.

  Always the talking, the exhausting talking. Nobody was ever quiet for long in this house.

  In the middle of it all was the child. Dawn waved her hands and made burbling and cooing sounds. She cried and she laughed. She was into one thing and then into another. Even though she was really getting too big for it, everybody was always picking her up—usually a split second after she toddled into something she should not.

  Everything revolved around the child. Where she was and what was she doing. Who could be with her, and when. What she was supposed to do, where she was supposed to be, and with whom. Fenella wondered if it would be better or worse when the child finally decided to start talking.

  In any event, Fenella hoped that in the rush of things, nobody noticed how she kept herself as far away from Dawn as possible.

  Threaded in among the constant household noise was music. Much of it had to do with Leo and his musician friends, but not all. Leo was teaching Zach to play the banjo, and Lucy tended to break randomly into song, including silly songs that she made up spontaneously. Miranda and Soledad sang too, more conventionally, in the evenings when the men played instruments. The two older women had strong alto voices that contrasted with Lucy’s pretty soprano, and the
three could harmonize so angelically that, if you had a heart, the sound would have broken it.

  There was also mechanical music that came out of the little personal devices that everyone carried around. This modern recorded music was strange to Fenella; fast, with insistent rhythms and lyrics and sometimes sections that were spoken or shouted instead of sung. It could be compelling. One morning Fenella stood frozen in the kitchen listening to a recording by a musician named Solange. Fenella could understand only a word here and there— rage, fire, and a chorus that accused someone of “just waiting.” Fenella wasn’t sure what it was all about, and yet, when the song ended, the music had wrung tears from her.

  After that, Fenella hardened her heart against music. Music was something the fey used. Indeed, Padraig had used music against her, weaving it into the original curse. Music was her enemy now, she felt instinctively. Even at its angriest, music created rather than destroyed. Music was the enemy of destruction. Music was the enemy of death.

  Eventually, the family’s seemingly chaotic movements resolved into patterns. On weekdays, Soledad went to her job at the hospital. Miranda remained home and took care of Dawn. Leo, Zach, and Lucy had complicated, ever-changing schedules consisting variously of gigs, classes, and employment that earned money. Zach got these schedules from the others on Sundays and posted everything for the week on the refrigerator. Even the child had appointments: She went to daycare two weekday mornings a week and was collected from there by her paternal biological grandmother, Brenda Spencer. There was also a weekly rotation of responsibility for shopping, cleaning, laundry, and cooking.

  Fenella sometimes found herself in the kitchen looking at the complicated weekly plan with its neat little squares of assignments. Did the plan make everybody feel safe? If so, was there a piece in this pattern that she could simply remove, the way you might pull out one of Dawn’s toy blocks and topple down an entire structure?