She got up and walked over to the coat closet, where for no reason she could think of she took out her old black leather jacket. She held it up in front of her, amazed that it hadn’t just crumbled after so many years on the hanger. She put it on, laughing to herself at how much it weighed. She was about to take it off when she shrugged and snatched her keys from the table.
Down in the street she walked quickly, with her hands pushed into her pockets. She felt much too old to go walking around in black leather. After a while she found herself at the old bridge crossing the narrow river between the two boroughs. She hesitated, then strode onto the footpath. Halfway across she stopped and leaned over the railing. Below her, the river moved sluggishly, smeared with oil and chemicals. She could see no sign of anything alive down there. Nothing moved along the bank, and even the scraggly bushes looked lifeless and broken, surrounded by bricks and scrap metal and old beer cans. Go home, she told herself. Go home and go to sleep.
But how could she sleep in such an empty world? How did she sleep, or eat, or do anything before she met Jaqe? Before Kate was born? How could she go back to that?
She began to cry, and searched in her pocket for a tissue. But instead of soft scrunched paper she found something small and hard. She took it out and stared at it. Kate’s whistle. It sparkled so sharply in the sun that Laurie wondered if Kate had polished it just before her death. Laurie held it for a moment, then blew into the delicate mouthpiece. A birdlike trill floated in front of her. She blew it once more, trying to imagine Kate with birds around her.
From a few feet away on the bridge a voice came. Though Laurie had not heard it in thirty years, and had tried to forget it ever existed, she knew it from the first syllable. “Hello, Laurie,” Mother Night said.
Laurie’s first thought was to run. Her body stiffened, even lurched sideways, but then she sagged, and let her breath out. Where? Where could she run that Mother Night couldn’t get there ahead of her? Hadn’t she learned that lesson thirty years ago? And besides, there was nothing to run to. Nothing left.
So she stood there, silently. But when Mother Night reached out to touch her, Laurie jumped back. “You do not need to fear me,” Mother Night said. “I have not come to take you. This is not your time.”
Now Laurie turned to look at her. Mother Night wore a long patchwork velvet dress and a multilayered hat, with each layer a little smaller than the one below. “Goddamn you,” Laurie said. Then louder: “Goddamn you! It wasn’t Kate’s time either. And Jaqe. And Jaqe. It wasn’t Jaqe’s time thirty fucking years ago!”
“You are wrong. I know your anger. Believe me, I know it better than anyone. But I do not control these things. I do not control nearly as much as you and Kate have thought.”
Deep inside Laurie, lights were flashing and a voice was shouting, Don’t get her angry. You know who she is. But Laurie no longer cared. “Don’t tell me your goddamn lies,” she said. “You control everything.”
“No.” Mother Night turned away a moment, glancing at the water. When she looked back at Laurie her face had softened. She said, “Kate says that I have hurt you. That I came between you and her.”
For a moment, wonder pushed aside Laurie’s rage. “You talk to her?”
“Of course. She is my goddaughter, after all.”
“And Jaqe? Do you talk to Jaqe?”
“Jaqe is with me always.”
All of Laurie’s anger came rushing back. “She should be with me! What right did you have to just take her like that? So she could be with you always. You didn’t need her. I did.” Mother Night said nothing. “And Kate. Kate needed me, not you. You took her from me all her life.”
Mother Night shook her head. “No. Possibly I tried to do too much with Kate. As I told her, I have not had a godchild in many years. If so, I apologize to you, Laurie. And perhaps I inhabited her childhood more widely than I should have. But if I ever sought to take her from you, or replace you in any way, then I most certainly failed.
“Please listen to me, Laurie. I know that you believe that you failed your daughter. But I tell you this, and I tell it to you because it is the truth: despite your fears and confusions, you were as fine a mother as any child has ever had.”
For a long time, Laurie just stood there, facing the old woman, not sure whether to thank her or scream at her. Finally she said, “You should never have done it. I don’t care whether it worked or not. You should never even have tried. To separate us like that. Do you understand?”
Mother Night bowed her head, very slightly. “Yes. I am sorry.”
Another pause, and then Laurie said, “Will you tell her—tell them—that I love them? Very, very much?”
“Yes. I promise you.”
Once again, Mother Night glanced at the water, and this time Laurie turned and looked over the bridge railing. Something was moving down there—A turtle? A large turtle was slowly paddling through the greasy water. Despite everything, Laurie stared at it in amazement. The lines etched into its shell seemed to form patterns, some kind of design she couldn’t quite make out…
She jerked her head around. Mother Night was gone. “No!” Laurie shouted. She turned all about, searching up and down the bridge. “Come back here! I’m not done.” The bridge stayed empty.
“Damn!” Laurie shouted, and hit her fist against her leg. She began to cry, wildly, holding on tightly to the bridge railing, as if the force of her tears might lift her over the side. There was so much more she wanted to say, so many messages she wanted to give them.
She had no idea how much time had passed, but the wild sobbing had dwindled to a stream of tears as steady as the river when she felt a tug on the sleeve of her jacket. Laurie jumped, only to feel foolish when she turned and saw a little girl, about five years old, looking up at her. The girl wore yellow overalls and a blue T-shirt, and her blond hair looked freshly combed. She was holding up a red cotton scarf. “Here,” the child said. “Do you want to use this? You can blow your nose.”
Laurie smiled and dug into her pockets until she found a couple of tissues. “It’s okay,” she said. “Thanks.” When she’d cleaned up her face as best as she could, she asked, “Where did you come from?”
The girl tilted her head. “Over there,” she said vaguely.
“Are you lost?”
“I don’t think so.”
Laurie crouched down. “Where’s your mommy?”
“She’s gone,” the child said, and Laurie wondered if the girl’s mother had run away or died or simply left for the day. Whatever had happened, the girl didn’t seem bothered by it. Not nearly as bothered as Laurie, who found herself furious that such a young child could be wandering around by herself for whatever reason.
“I’m hungry,” the girl said. “Can you give me something to eat?”
Laurie stood up. “I’ll tell you what. How about I get you some food somewhere, and then we figure out where you belong?”
“Okay.” She took Laurie’s hand and they began walking off the bridge. “You’re nice,” she said.
“Thank you.”
As they reached the land, the girl looked up at Laurie. She said, “Can we all live happily ever after now?”
Laurie laughed. “Sure,” she said. “That sounds like a great idea.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
RACHEL POLLACK is the author of four previous novels and numerous short stories and comic books. Her novel Unquenchable Fire received the Arthur C. Clarke Award in 1988, and her most recent novel, Temporary Agency, was a finalist for the 1994 Nebula Award. She is also an international authority on the tarot and the creator of the Shining Woman Tarot. She was born in Brooklyn, New York, and grew up in Poughkeepsie. She lived in England and the Netherlands through the 1970s and 1980s before moving to the Hudson Valley, in New York State. She is currently at work on a variety of projects.
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