I wiped at the angry tears welling and clouding my vision. Why do this? Hurt Sabrina and write me a goddamned check? He really was inhuman.
Sabrina finally stirred. She sat up and began snacking, bags full of junk food in her lap. She was paler than I’d ever seen her. If I’d known how to drive, I would have offered. But she insisted she was fine and crawled into the driver’s seat, the bandage visible at her throat. She looked guilty. I knew it wasn’t her fault, she’d been manipulated. By both of us.
“I don’t know what happened, Jane,” she said, so defeated that my heart ached.
“It’s fine, really.”
“No, it’s not. I don’t understand why I would do that with your . . . Hugh. It’s so fucked up.”
I couldn’t look at her, not wanting her to know the truth, instead staring at the envelope in my hands. A braver person would tear the financial documents up and toss it out the window. I jammed it into my pocket, instead.
“He was proving a point, Sabrina.”
“I don’t understand. What point?” she whispered.
“That he could do whatever he wanted to you. That’s what I learned the other night. We can control people, make them do things for us. For all we know, I’m pulling the same puppet strings with you, only I didn’t know.”
“That’s crazy, Jane.” She swallowed audibly, grimacing in pain.
“Is it? That’s why this has to stop. I don’t want to manipulate you. I’m not my father.” And I wanted that to be true. I remembered the sensation of cutting the connection with Renee the night before, and wondered if I could do the same thing to Sabrina. Though my heart protested even at the thought of it. I understood a little more about Hugh at that moment. It was a lot easier to distance yourself when you felt so little.
Sabrina started to answer but I shut her down. I needed the silence to think. She was too tired and upset to fight me about it and stayed quiet. I directed her to drive to the gallery first. She gawked at me like I’d gone crazy, but I told her she’d be safe in the car.
The gallery was different by day—abandoned-looking, the windows dark and reflective. There were no footprints in the morning snow on the sidewalk in front of the door. I jumped out of the car and walked with determination up to the front door.
Trying the handle, I thought it would be locked, but it opened with ease. Natsuki’s paintings were still up on all the walls. I stopped and stared at The Dowry again, the complicated relationship between the white of the surface and the violence of the red all the more haunting now, knowing the “dowry” had been her blood. I wonder how many dowries my father had collected in his life.
My steps echoed in the open space. I was tempted to call out. The lights were off and it was cold, but it felt like someone was there. Before I could say anything, a feminine voice called out from the back, where my father’s office was.
“Just a minute . . .” Natsuki. My potential stepmother. She came out a moment later, wearing a black shirt-dress, cinched with a thin white belt. She wore the same red heels and her hair was twisted up into a messy white-blonde knot, held together with gleaming black chopsticks. She wore no makeup and glasses with large oversized frames. I noticed her hands were stained with paint, and a bite was visible in the crook of her arm.
“Ah, the prodigal child returns. . . .” She said this flippantly, almost jealously. I clenched my jaw, fighting a brief but violent urge. She was like Sabrina, like my mother, like Renee the waitress. If I really wanted to stick it to Hugh, I could strip her down and rip out her throat, leave her sitting in the gallery with a note saying “Lesson Learned.” But there was no point—he wouldn’t care. Natsuki crossed her arms, watching me as the silence stretched.
I cleared my throat. “So, he told you.”
That same perfectly shaped eyebrow raised and she smiled. “Darling, he didn’t need to. You look exactly like him.”
“Apparently so. Is he here? I need to talk to him.” I looked past her impatiently. She shook her head.
“No, last I heard he was going to see you and then to a meeting. He’ll be back in a few hours, though. Could it wait?”
“No. I really have to get on the road. Just tell him . . .” I held the envelope in my hand, tempted to hand it back and say, “Tell him thanks but no thanks.” But I thought of my mother living someplace warm and safe, where she would get three meals and a soft bed. I clutched the envelope tight. The money was too important to us to give back just out of pride.
“Just thank him for his generosity, and for everything.” I went to the door. Something stopped me. The curious part of me, the part who that had never met another willing donor before. It forced me to turn back to her.
“Can I ask you something? It’s personal.”
Natsuki nodded.
“You know what my father is, what I am, and what he does to you?” My eyes shot to her arm, and she nodded. “Okay, well, does that frighten you? Does it make you wonder how long you have? How long before you’re bedridden, how long before you’re little more than a husk? Before you’re nothing at all?”
She smiled tightly. “It doesn’t bother me, because your father and I love each other. He needs me, Jane. And besides, he would never really hurt me. Our relationship isn’t like that.” She spoke as if she was reading it off the wall behind me.
“It’s happened before, you know. Many times before, even with my mother.”
She continued to smile, unfazed. “It’s different with us.”
I could feel his influence in her words. The confidence was hers, but the blank, diluted stare as she spoke was all his. She was a pawn, another in the scores of people who had loved Hugh McGarrett and paid for it with everything. There was no point in talking to her further, she was doomed like all the others. I thanked her for her time, closing the door behind me as I left.
When I got back in the car, Sabrina asked: “Did you talk to him?”
“No. Let’s get on the road. Can you drive?”
“I can manage. We just need to take it easy. Are you okay?”
I nodded, astounded Sabrina could be so calm. She’d been molested and mind-fucked by my father, and here she sat, concerned for me. What did we do to these people?
“I just want to go home and make sure my mother’s all right.” I was agitated, wanting nothing more than the open road and the city at our backs. I took her hand tenderly, forcing her eyes to mine.
“We should talk about what happened in the apartment,” said Sabrina.
“No more questions. Let’s just be quiet and go. Now.” I squeezed her hand and I pushed, hard, harder than at the restaurant, harder than that first night when I didn’t know what I was doing. I pushed her to listen to me, to comply, to just do whatever I fucking said.
Her brows furrowed for a moment before smoothing out. She smiled, glassy-eyed, and nodded obediently.
Something twisted so deep inside me it nearly snapped, and a whispery voice said I might not be as cruel, but I was just like Hugh. I was creating my own world where making people bend to me was normal.
I watched her placid face as Sabrina drove. It was rush hour and the snowstorms had left the roads in bad condition. I kept worrying if it was safe. She gnawed her lip, eyes locked to the taillights in front of her, focused.
She was much thinner than when we first met, her skin sallow, hair dull. She’d lost so much blood over the past few days. My eyes went to the gauze at her throat, a small bloom of blood had seeped through. He’d coerced her just to prove his point. They would do anything for us, including die. We were programmed to be their muses, and they were programmed to die for us. And if I could see Sabrina as just another one, then maybe I wouldn’t feel so conflicted about what I had to do to survive. I knew that in his inhuman way, Hugh was trying to help and protect me.
Didn’t make it feel any better.
An agonizing hour later, we got out of New York City’s limits and into Connecticut, inching north with agonizing slowness along the narrow roads
and bridges. We eventually spilled out onto the emptier freeways. It was a relief when the car’s speedometer finally crept up to sixty-five. The snow continued to fall, and Sabrina remained silent as the miles flew past.
Evening came, and we stopped at a rest stop for food and fuel. We stood in the long line of commuters, all looking harried and frozen. Sabrina swayed on her feet, her skin waxen under the harsh fluorescents.
This is the price for my love, I thought bitterly.
The wall menus showcased nothing that was remotely appetizing to me. I stared at a large man in front of me, hypnotized by the flannel pattern of his shirt and the sweat stains encircling his old baseball cap. Finally, it was my turn, and the woman behind the counter was made visibly uncomfortable by me. I ordered a yogurt and a coffee. She slid me my change and receipt with relief.
We sat at a plastic booth in the corner. I watched Sabrina pick at her fries, her lank black braids swaying. “How are you feeling?” I asked.
“Terrible. I am so, so sorry about your dad.” Sabrina whispered, her voice shaking. “I don’t know what happened. It was like one second we were talking and he’s telling me how much he appreciates that I’m there for you, and that I’m so important, and the next . . .” Fat tears ran down her cheeks, and she mopped them up with the sleeve of her sweatshirt.
“It’s not your fault, Sabrina. He can influence people, mess with their minds and he was . . . proving a point.” I felt dead as I said this. Our table faced a playground outside. One older employee, on break, smoked out there, moving around to stay warm.
“You said that before. What point?” Sabrina asked.
I laughed. It was an ugly sound. I couldn’t look at her. “Basically that you’re disposable, that you love me because you’re programmed to. That you could easily enough love him, or anyone . . . like us. We’re your muses. He was proving that what you and I have is nothing special and I shouldn’t feel bad about eventually killing you.”
She scowled, her face folding in on itself. Tears plopped into her sad value meal. “I don’t want that to be true, Jane. I don’t believe him.”
I handed her a napkin and sipped my coffee, needing to occupy my hands. “I do believe him, Sabrina. I’ve spent the weekend trying to find a way to keep you in my life. To prove to myself that I’m not compelling you to love me somehow. But I can’t.”
“What does that mean?” She looked afraid.
“I don’t know. It means let’s just get on the road and go home. I need to see my mom, and we need some space to think about things. I’ll be fine for a few days. Hell, maybe some hunger and discomfort will let me see things clearer.” I tried to smile supportively and pat her hand. It felt fake, even to me.
The rest of the ride passed in near silence, but it was a tired, lonely silence this time. The silence when there was nothing left to say. We were just circling the same issues over and over anyway. I even allowed myself to doze, but the dreams were strange and upsetting, so I forced myself awake. The snow finally let up, and the sunset was a brilliant show of pinks and purples. The sky turned clear and starry as we drove, and I marveled at its remote beauty.
After many more hours and a few more rest stops that all looked exactly alike, eventually the sights became more familiar, and soon enough we arrived at my old gate. It had only been three days, but it felt like an absolute lifetime had passed. It was the same old pink house, only now covered in thick snow. I wasn’t the same person that had gingerly gotten in this car just a few days ago, who was afraid of roads she didn’t know.
I took Sabrina’s hand as she slowed in front of the driveway. Her lip was already trembling. She knew what was coming.
“You are an amazing person, and you will have an amazing life. I refuse to take that away from you, because I really do love you. And because of that, I don’t want to see you again.”
And then I kissed her, pushing, pushing, all the pain, all the hunger, all the sadness, into my command. I cut the tether with everything I had. I willed her to go and leave me.
And she did.
PART III: Memento Mori
And some, they said, had touched her side,
Before she fled us there;
And some had taken her to bride;
And some lain down for her and died;
Who had not touched her hair,
Ran to and fro and cursed and cried
And sought her everywhere.
—Conrad Aiken, “The Vampire”
XXXV.
The gate wouldn’t budge. The snow had piled up since we’d been gone. It was deep and heavy enough that I couldn’t move the gate more than the foot we’d left it open. So I had to toss my bag over the top and wriggle through the gap. Once on the other side, I turned to watch Sabrina’s taillights fading into the night.
I willed myself not to cry. I probably didn’t have any tears left, anyway. The wind was sharp and cold, and at that moment, a great gust hit me, a few leaves skittered loudly over the crisp frozen snow. The icy flakes stung my exposed face and hands.
I began the long, arduous trudge to the house. The driveway was completely covered. The heavy snow had forced down the weeds and the brambles that had been taking over the property for nearly two decades. And beneath that snow, cities of insects slept in their nests, animals hid snuggled into their dens and warrens. All dreaming of spring. The serene white spread out, undisturbed, glistening in the moonlight. It was easily two feet deep, and by the time I reached the sunken porch, my thighs and lungs burned from wading through it. My boots were soaked through and my toes were numb. I stamped my feet and shook off my clothes as best I could. The house was dark inside. I opened the old door with hands numbed into claws.
The lights were out and it was darker inside than out. At least outside, the stars and moon had reflected off all the whiteness. In here the air was cold and musty, the shadows deep and treacherous with debris. I could see my breath in the air. I let my bag drop at the base of the stairs, slipping off my wet shoes and socks and putting my old sneakers on my bare feet. The floor was too cold to go without them. I called out to my mother and fumbled a bit, finally hitting the dusty foyer light. The darkness scampered away, hiding behind stacks of canvases and old boxes. One of the bulbs flickered and dimmed, and the shadows slithered back out, regaining ground. The orange light, artificial and sickly, illuminated the peeling wallpaper and stained floors.
I first checked the front parlor. It was empty. I went to the sunken club chair, discolored where my mother’s head and hands had lain for a decade. The blankets I’d tucked her in were pooled on the floor beside half-eaten bread scraps. The stove was cold and looked like it hadn’t been used in at least a day. I filled it with wood and got the fire going.
My teeth chattered as I went to the kitchen. It hadn’t changed much since I’d left it three days ago. It was all so still and dusty, I could have been gone for years. Like the sitting room, there was a strange feeling of vacancy. There were no new crumbs or dishes in the sink, and the table was bare. I tested the taps and was surprised and relieved to see the pipes hadn’t frozen. To be safe, I left the faucet running at a slow trickle.
Tommy, my cat, burst from under the table, rubbing frantically against my legs. There was no food or water left in his bowls. I rubbed his head, welcoming his purring attention, and fed him. Once he was happily crunching, I stared up at the main stairs and exhaled, a tremor of fear running through me. I knew I was dawdling.
Up the stairs I called out again, feeling afraid now. I reached the top and walked to my mother’s room. The door was ajar, but it was dark inside. The air, while cold, was heavy with the smell of urine and sickness. It was strong enough that I covered my mouth as I stepped into the room. I whispered her name, my hands shaking as I went to the lamp. I tried to swallow the scream that had lodged in my throat but I couldn’t. My senses practically throbbed as I tried to reach out, to see an outline in the bed, to hear her breathing, any sign she was here.
“Mom?
” I said louder, but there was still no answer. My fingertips found the lamp’s knob and turned it. The room was suddenly cast in dim, pinkish light. It was all exactly as I’d left it. The blankets, the curtains, the ornate bed. The paintings, photos and books cluttering the corner, all where they’d been left three days ago.
I approached the bed, holding my breath.
XXXVI.
My mother wasn’t there. The blankets were rumpled and unmade, but no one was beneath them. I called out, frantic, and searched the house, room by room. She was nowhere to be found. Outside, the snow lay untouched outside each door, except for my single path from the gate. Whimpering, I settled on the floor in the center of the living room. My house was completely still, my breath the only thing to keep me company. I looked at the phone, even debated calling the police, but it all felt so futile.
Somehow, miraculously, my mother had left. She’d regained enough mobility and had left. It was the only explanation. I was devastated. I never thought that even if she could leave, that she would. I wished she’d left a note, at least, or that there were some clothes taken from her closet. Some sign that she didn’t wander out into the cold to die.
Because that was what it meant wasn’t it?
My body crawled with dread at the thought. Where else could she have gone? No car, no friends, the snowstorm, freezing conditions. I moaned, fists pressed to my eyes until I saw starbursts. That made my choice a lot easier, I supposed. Fewer loose ends.
I crawled on my hands and knees to the phone, debating calling the police for a brief moment, before pulling it out of the wall and gathering the now full, happy Tommy to me. Sitting on the floor, I snuggled him, staring up at the ceiling. I remembered finding him as a kitten in the back field when I was just a little girl. Small furry ball of orange, and while he’d been somewhat feral, eventually, with some effort, I got him to come to me. My mother let me keep him with the promise that I would take care of him, a promise I had kept. For almost ten years. He purred and I wept, squeezing him tightly, grateful for the warmth.
Parasite Life Page 24