Stephen

by Amy Cross

  She hesitated for a moment.

  “The only flaw,” she continued finally, “was...”

  I waited for her to finish, but now she was simply staring at the child. I glanced in that direction, and then I felt a flash of horror as I saw that another maggot was now crawling out of Stephen's right ear.

  I turned back to Mrs. Brooks and found that she was still staring blank-eyed at the child.

  “Shall I...”

  My voice trailed off, before I finally reached out and picked up the tweezers. Feeling rather uncertain, and worried that I might somehow do the wrong thing, I nevertheless moved the tweezers toward Stephen's ear and prepared to remove the maggot. At the same time, I could not help wondering what Mrs. Brooks was seeing as she watched me, and whether this might be the moment at which her illusions would be irreversibly shattered. My hand was shaking slightly, but I knew that I had to do something, so I began to close the tweezers' tip around the maggot.

  Suddenly Mrs. Brooks let out a gasp. This was enough for me to flinch slightly, and to bump the maggot instead of squeezing, and I watched in horror as the creature rolled back into Stephen's ear. I immediately leaned closer, hoping that I might still be able to get the maggot out, but instead I saw the cursed thing wriggled back into the boy's ear canal, quickly disappearing from sight. I waited a moment, in case it might return, but deep down I knew that I was too late.

  I moved the tweezers away, and then I turned to find that Mrs. Brooks was still staring at the child with wide-eyed shock. She appeared frozen, as if she could not understand what had just happened.

  Leaning back, I set the tweezers on the table and hesitated, trying desperately to think of something that I might say. For a moment, however, we two women sat in silence, and I began to worry that perhaps Mrs. Brooks' mind had broken in some manner. After all, I had been supposing that she would suddenly break free of her delusions, but now I was starting to fear that the process would be slower and more difficult. More painful for her. Indeed, for the first time I actually began to worry that she might suffer some kind of emotional collapse.

  Then again, I still believed what Doctor Brooks had told me about this being a perfectly normal process. I trusted Doctor Brooks – he was an educated man and a doctor, so my trust was blind and absolute – and so I told myself that everything would be okay. It was my job to assist Mrs. Brooks, and that was my intention. And I told myself that I must put aside all other matters – including questions concerning my predecessor Hannah – so that I could focus fully on the task at hand.

  “Oh, he looks so divine,” Mrs. Brooks said finally, and some semblance of her smile returned. Though not, I felt, the whole smile. “My darling Stephen. He's so beautiful.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “I'm busy,” Doctor Brooks said firmly, not even looking up from his papers. “I don't have time right now, Ms. Seaton.”

  “It's important,” I replied, keeping my voice low as I stepped into his study. “Please, I must tell you something.”

  Sighing, he set his pen down. “What?”

  “I believe Stephen is...”

  I hesitated as I realized that I was not quite sure where to begin. I had left Mrs. Brooks upstairs in the nursery with Stephen, and I had hurried down to inform her husband of the latest developments, but it was difficult to find the correct words. Now that I was in the study, I felt as if I could not possibly put these things into words, yet I knew that I had no choice. For a moment my attention was drawn to the riding crop on the wall, but then I stepped closer to the desk and forced myself to get the words out:

  “Stephen is rotting.”

  “Of course he is,” Doctor Brooks replied. “He's dead.”

  “What I mean,” I continued, “is that the process is accelerating, and I believe your wife has begun to notice. It's becoming harder and harder to ignore.”

  I waited, but I could see the concern in his expression. He had, I supposed, been expecting such a moment to come.

  “There are flies in the nursery,” I told him, “and several...”

  I took a deep breath. The sense of nausea, which had been so strong in my belly during my first days at Grangehurst, was now returning.

  “Several maggots have been seen,” I continued finally. “Your wife's demeanor has changed a little too. I think she still sees Stephen as alive, but she is starting to notice more and more things that indicate the contrary. And the smell... I am afraid that the smell is becoming stronger by the day, by the hour even. I feel certain that soon it will be impossible for anyone to maintain that the child is alive. Even Mrs. Brooks will have to admit the truth.”

  Again I waited, but it was evident that this news troubled Doctor Brooks. I confess that I was glad of this, since it meant that he would not – as I had feared – wave me away and tell me to stop bothering him.

  “Well,” he said cautiously, “perhaps that is a good thing. Perhaps she will begin to be eased out of her present condition.”

  “I think she is very troubled.”

  “Is she with him now?”

  I nodded. “She is.”

  “And does she still perceive him to be alive?”

  “She does.”

  “Then nothing has changed.”

  “There has been a change. I can see it in her. I think today, or tomorrow, she might see the truth.”

  “So be it.”

  “I do not know what to do,” I continued, stepping closer to the desk. “Please, Doctor Brooks, I fear that I am ill-equipped to handle this situation. I am committed to helping your wife, yet I worry that I lack the necessary experience.”

  “You will do your best,” he replied, “and I am sure that will be more than good enough. I thought you to be a little weak and naive when you first came here, Ms. Seaton, but my confidence in you has grown. I believe you are the best person to look after my wife as she emerges from her period of mourning.”

  “I am not -”

  “It is precisely your lack of expectations,” he added, “that makes you so suitable.”

  “But what do I say to her?” I asked, struggling to keep from panicking. “It is as if she hovers between one state and the next, always on the verge of seeing the truth but never quite breaking through. I am not a doctor, I do not know what I can do to help her. You are a doctor, so surely you have been around such cases before, have you not?”

  “Keep me informed about her condition,” he explained, “and make sure you are with her as much as possible. This is all perfectly normal, Ms. Seaton, and everything so far has been in line with my expectations. If this is your first time helping somebody through the grieving process, it must all seem rather strange, but I can assure you that this entire situation is entirely normal.”

  I still remember the nauseating lurch in my stomach, and the growing feeling that the situation could not possibly be normal. I was still not confident enough to state these concerns, however, so I merely nodded and turned to leave the room. At the last moment, however, I saw that the photograph from the bookshelf was now resting on Doctor Brooks' desk, partially covered by some of his papers. I stared for a moment at the image of Hannah Treadwell, before Doctor Brooks carefully slid a sheet of paper across the picture.

  “That will be all,” he said firmly.

  “Of course,” I muttered, turning and hurrying out of the room.

  Once I was in the hallway, I stopped and tried to regather my thoughts. Looking back now, I feel desperately sorry for that poor, frightened young woman who was struggling to make sense of madness. My reactions to the situation were perfectly normal, yet I was doing everything in my power to ignore those reactions and to instead twist myself around so that I might see the situation from Doctor Brooks' point of view. I was almost shaking apart with fear and panic, but somehow I managed to get myself in order and keep my hands from trembling.

  I suppose, then, that I should give myself a little more credit. I had moments of strength, and they were becoming more freq
uent. Unfortunately, they were being directed toward the wrong targets.

  Making my way up the stairs, I tried to come up with some fresh strategy. I perceived that events were moving at a more rapid pace, and that Mrs. Brooks might very well make a breakthrough before the day was out. By the time I reached the landing, I had come to an understanding that there were no plans I could make that would be able to cover all eventualities. I would instead have to remain on my toes and come up with solutions as the needs arose. I remember feeling that this did not at all play to my strengths, but I reminded myself that my focus at all times should be on the need to help and protect Mrs. Brooks. So long as I focused on that end, I thought, everything would be alright.

  In fact, as I headed back toward the nursery, I was actually starting to feel a little confident.

  Lord give me strength, I thought to myself, and I was comforted by the belief that the Lord had indeed sent me a miracle when he sent Jim to me in the alley. That, I told myself, meant that the Lord was on my side.

  And then, as soon as I reached the doorway, I stopped and saw that Mrs. Brooks was on her knees in the middle of the room. She had her back to me, but I could tell she was working on something, and a moment later I heard a faint squelching sound. Then, before I could ask if she was alright, I saw several maggots wriggling on the floorboards next to her legs.

  “Mrs. Brooks?” I said cautiously, my voice absolutely filled with fear. “Are you... Is anything the matter?”

  “Everything is fine,” she replied calmly. “I'm just helping Stephen a little.”

  I waited, but from where I was standing it was not possible to see exactly what she was doing. I could still see the maggots, however, and a moment later she reached over and flicked several more of the creatures onto the bare floorboards.

  I swallowed hard, fighting harder than ever against the sense of nausea.

  “That's right,” she muttered, her voice barely loud enough to be heard. “Not many more now. I think I can see them all.”

  I so desperately wanted to leave the room, but I reminded myself that it was my Christian duty to help this woman in her hour of need. And that hour, I felt certain, had surely arrived.

  “Mrs. Brooks?” I said again. “What are you doing?”

  She mumbled something under her breath, but I could not be sure whether she was speaking to me, or to Stephen, or to herself. Or even, perhaps, to somebody else entirely.

  On the curtain, there were now half a dozen flies.

  “Mrs. Brooks?” I whispered.

  Finally, realizing that this might be her hour of need, and that I could not in good conscience turn away, I began to step up behind her. I felt a great and crippling sense of fear as I approached, but somehow I forced myself to keep going until I made my way around to her side. At that point, however, I saw the most awful sight, something that has stayed with me ever since:

  Stephen was on the floor, but his belly had been split wide open and his mother was scooping wriggling maggots out of his abdomen.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “I think I'm tickling him,” Mrs. Brooks said as she scooped more maggots from Stephen's body and wiped them into the floor. “Don't you hear him laughing? He has such a delightful laugh.”

  Too horrified to know what to say, I could only watch as she slipped her fingers back into the child and began to take yet more of the wretched creatures. She had already removed so many, leaving just a few dozen left in Stephen's innards, but the smell was awful and the sight of the maggots made me feel extremely nauseous. It was all I could do to remember my Christian duty and keep from running screaming from the room. At the same time, I could not help staring at Stephen's poor body, in particular at the rib fragments that poked out from his putrid flesh.

  “There we go,” Mrs. Brooks whispered, taking out more maggots and dropping them onto the floor, where they immediately began wriggling back toward the child. “Not much longer now.”

  Grabbing a folded cloth from the table, I set it over the removed maggots and pressed down hard, making sure to squash them all so that they could not get back to Stephen. As I did so, my stomach began to heave and I start retching, although I just about manage to keep from vomiting.

  “What are you doing that for, silly?” Mrs. Brooks asked, glancing down at the cloth before hesitating as if she was having trouble understanding what she saw. She was sweating a great deal, and I could see the fear in her eyes. In that moment, I was certain that she was out of her mind.

  After a moment, wondering whether I might be able to help by showing her the truth, I lifted the cloth to reveal the hundreds of crushed maggots.

  “Oh, I must get on,” she said immediately, smiling as she looked back down at Stephen. She was busy trying to catch the last remaining maggots, a process that was getting more and more difficult as they began to disappear deeper into the child's corpse. “Tickling is all well and good, but sometimes I must be strict with him.”

  “What do you see?” I asked, unable to help myself.

  She hesitated, but I could tell that she had heard me.

  “What do you see, Mrs. Brooks?” I continued, supposing that I could not stop now. More than anything, I wanted to help her over this last hurdle, so that she could recognize the truth and move on to the next, more healthy stage of her grief. “Please, I should like to know. What do you see before you at this moment?”

  “What do I see?” she asked uncertainly. “Well... I've never heard such a queer question in all my life. I see Stephen, of course.”

  “And what is he doing?”

  Again she hesitated, although her bottom lip was quivering slightly as if she was on the verge of speaking.

  “I'm tickling him,” she continued finally. “I don't mean to, but I have to while I...”

  I waited.

  Nearby, several of the flies were buzzing near the curtain. They were trying, no doubt, to find a way out through the window.

  “While you what?” I asked again, keeping my eyes fixed on Mrs. Brooks. In truth, I was starting to believe that at any moment she would realize the truth. “What exactly do you think you're doing right now?”

  “I'm looking after Stephen,” she stammered. “I'm taking care of him, I'm... making him better.”

  “But -”

  “I'm helping him.”

  “And how exactly are you doing that?”

  “I'm cleaning him.”

  “And how are you doing that?”

  I waited, but she did not answer.

  “Just tell me what you see,” I continued. “Please.”

  She stared at the last few maggots, and then slowly she picked them out of him one by one. As she did so, her fingers pushed against his rotten organs, causing a squelching sound. There was something so very tender about the way she worked on Stephen, as if she was genuinely worried about hurting him, but there were tears in her eyes and she looked as if she was on the verge of breaking into the most terrible sobbing fit. Indeed, the tears had begun to drip down onto the floorboards. For the next few minutes, she worked carefully and at her own pace, until no more maggots could be seen.

  Nearby, however, more flies had started buzzing around the room.

  “He needed to be cleaned,” she whispered after a moment. “He must have been so uncomfortable. Now I just have to put him back to how he was.”

  She began to pull his torn belly back together, although as she did so she succeeded only in ripping away more of his flesh. Her fingers dug into the child's wretched meat, shredding his skin before stopping suddenly as if she was struggling to understand what she saw. I still felt that she was going to accept the truth at any moment, but then slowly she reached her hands beneath the child and began to lift him up, before getting unsteadily to her feet.

  “Where are you going?” I asked. “Mrs. Brooks, what are you doing?”

  “I have to make him better,” she replied, as she walked over to the wicker chair next to the window.

  “Mrs.
Brooks, what exactly do you see when you look at Stephen?”

  I waited for an answer. When none was forthcoming, I began to think that perhaps I should go and fetch her husband, but then I watched as she slowly sat in the chair and rested Stephen on her lap. Then she reached over to the sewing kit on the table and, with trembling hands, began to take a needle and thread from the box.

  “Mrs. Brooks,” I said cautiously, standing and stepping over to her, “I don't think you can do that. Maybe it's time to -”

  “I can do what I want,” she replied, starting to sound a little agitated now as she slipped one end of the thread through the eye of the needle. “He's my child, or had you forgotten? You are merely the governess. You are merely the new governess. You might be better than the last, but that doesn't give you the right to tell me how I shall raise my child. Now kindly remember your place and be told!”

  I watched with a growing sense of horror as she unspooled some more thread. I felt as if she was on the very farthest edge of sanity, as if she could fall either way, and I wanted to gently tip her back toward a way of seeing things as they really were. After a moment, it occurred to me that perhaps I could help by speaking a little more of the real world, of the things that surrounded her. I would help her take the one final step that was needed before she could accept the truth. And in order to do that, I would have to ask her something that I had so far not asked.

  “Can you tell me something?” I said cautiously, stepping closer as she prepared to start sewing Stephen's belly shut. “Who was Hannah, Mrs. Brooks? Who was Hannah Treadwell and what did she do to Stephen? Was it her? Did she hurt him?”

  “Don't say that name,” Mrs. Brooks said firmly, as she slid the needle's sharp point into Stephen's belly. “Never say that name,” she continued, sounding a little breathless now. “Not in this house. Not anywhere. Not ever.”