I should have written this sooner. When we spoke on the phone, after your accident, I was too relieved that you’d walked away from the crash to process the rest of your news. I can’t delay any longer, though. My fear is that my own prejudices may have affected you too much and cost you happiness.
When I told you about your mother being a witch, there was no exaggeration in my words. Her connection with nature went beyond a love of it and what she and her kin could do… things I can’t begin to describe to you. In the beginning, I loved her in spite of it. I couldn’t help but love Deirdre. She radiated with a force that brought smiles to everyone around her. Eventually, over time, I grew afraid of her and what I could never understand. At the time, I convinced myself her influence would contaminate you and your sisters. I know better now. My greatest regret in life was leaving your mother and my three daughters behind in Ireland. The barter for my pride became a false economy which no longer exists in my middle age. I loved her for who she was, not what she could do. I still love her and always will.
When Colleen laid her hands on you, she did so out of love. Think about those words, Noah. Decide what they mean to you, if anything.
I love you, son. I have always and always will. I only want what is best for you.
Love,
Dad
VIII
DECEMBER 1975
Colleen dropped the satchel to her elbow, sagging not with the weight of her textbooks but from the thought of returning to New Orleans for Christmas, alone.
For weeks she’d considered telling her family she’d remain in Scotland again this year. She had all the right excuses loaded: she needed to study, she’d volunteered to help in the library during the holiday season. One was true. The other could be.
Staying behind would mean submitting to not one, but two holiday hurts. Losing Noah (now something she accepted as fact rather than fleeting anger on his part), and her grief from Madeline’s untimely death, must be felt. At home, she could experience them surrounded by the comfort of loved ones who needed her succor as much as she did theirs.
Later that night, while packing a bag, Noah’s words burned her soul. Witch. You’re a witch, Colleen, just like my mother? Thank you for saving my life, but now I need you out of it.
Noah’s gaze traveled up and down the long mahogany tables of the library, devoid of the hubbub of students and scholars researching for classes or preparing theses. He had his own work to do, but his sojourn was steeped in escape.
With his flatmate already gone for the holiday, Noah’s thoughts wandered to the plane ticket still sitting in his bureau drawer next to the last letter from his father. To acknowledge them would be to admit everything he’d believed about his mother—who she was, what she had done—was a lie. Nothing in the world could have caused him to turn his back on Colleen, other than this horrible realization he’d somehow repeated history and followed in his father’s footsteps. He’d fallen in love with someone involved in terrible things.
Except… his father’s words had softened his childhood belief system. At the time, I convinced myself her influence would contaminate you and your sisters. I know better now. My greatest regret in life was leaving your mother and my three daughters behind in Ireland.
Noah resisted the temptation to drown his sorrows at the pub because he had far more productive distractions.
Instinct brought Colleen to the library. The taxi, loaded with her bags, awaited outside. Her flight left in two hours. She couldn’t step on the plane without this closure, though. The end seemed too ambiguous and one-sided. She had her own words to say.
He was there, of course, sitting at the same table he’d occupied when she stumbled in on him last Christmas.
Noah didn’t look up until she was standing in front of him. He’d heard her enter, naturally, and had known immediately it was her but didn’t need the vision to confirm something now ingrained.
“Don’t say anything,” Colleen said. “You already spoke your piece, and I deserve the right to say mine, even if it is five months later.”
Noah nodded. He slipped a hand under the table, to hide the sudden onset of trembles.
“Yes, Noah Jameson, I’m a witch. I don’t boil toads or make love potions for bored women, but I do heal. Yours isn’t the first life I’ve saved, and it won’t be the last. I won’t apologize for saving you, or for being who I am. You’re the one who told me I never should. It was a lesson I needed to learn, even if you didn’t really mean the words.”
He cringed but remained silent.
“I don’t know anything about your mother, or what she could do or has done, but I’ll bet she loved you with all her heart. You know I could have let you die out there, and you’d have gone from this world believing I was exactly who you wanted me to be. But if you’d died, Noah, I’d have been lost along with you. I’d do what I did again because I’d rather live in a world where you were alive and full of loathing for me than one where you no longer existed.”
Noah clutched both hands tightly under the table, dizzy with the surge of his heartbeat, sending a rush of blood straight to his head. He didn’t know if she was done and looking for a response, but his tongue was thick and heavy, and he couldn’t have found words in any case.
Colleen slipped her hand into her tan jacket. When she opened it, the dried heather band sat on her palm. She extended her fingers and it fell onto the table in a gentle tumble. “I hope one day you find the world to be as neatly tied as you desire it to be,” she said, pausing only briefly to regard him one last time before slipping away.
IX
DECEMBER 1975
Christmas at Ophélie, the stately plantation which had been in her family more than a century, held a magic all its own. The staircases spiraled with lighted holly, and the entire property smelled of warm gingerbread. In the study, the tree reached as tall as the high tray ceiling, presents overflowing nearly into the hall.
Since their father had died, the plantation now belonged to Charles. As the heir, he was beholden to host and continue family traditions. Charles was newly married to Cordelia, the young daughter of a German textile merchant. She’d given birth to their first son, Nicolas, earlier in the month. Augustus had also married, in haste, to a Russian immigrant named Ekatherina. Their daughter, Anasofiya, was due any day.
While Colleen was away, her younger sister Maureen had also, clandestinely, started her own family. She’d carried on an affair with a much older man, and when she ended up pregnant, their brothers Charles and Augustus had forced the man to do the right thing and marry her. In contrast to Charles, who beamed at his newborn son, Maureen gazed at her daughter, Olivia, with acute remorse.
Which of the two will be my fate? Colleen wondered, watching her siblings and thinking of her own child growing within her.
She lay awake Christmas Eve night pondering this when her younger sister, Evangeline, slipped into the bed beside her. “You know you can’t keep things from me,” she implored.
Colleen curled against Evangeline’s chest. “How am I going to raise a child while in medical school?”
“You aren’t thinking… you know Mama would raise it before…”
“Evie, of course not. Lives are a gift in our family, we both know this,” Colleen whispered, careful not to let her voice carry across their childhood home. “Mama raised seven of us. I wouldn’t ask it of her again. She should enjoy her years as a grandmother, not be burdened by them.”
Evangeline stroked her hair. “Maybe I could move to Scotland and help you.”
“What about MIT?”
“What of it? I don’t think the school is going anywhere.”
“Stop,” Colleen pleaded, turning her face away as the tears streamed down her cheek and onto her pillow. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore tonight. Let’s get through tomorrow.”
“It’s going to be okay,” Evie assured her, followed by a soft yawn. “I promise.”
Upstairs, the elder Colleen Deschanel
lay awake, thinking of the vow she’d made the day before. Thinking of her daughter, on the floor beneath her, with a prayer she’d done the right thing.
In one hand, Noah clasped his father’s letter, filled with words he’d considered and re-considered, accepted and rebuked, for months.
In the other, the band of heather Colleen had returned to him.
Noah closed his eyes, took one deep, shuddering breath, and dozed off, dreaming of Christmas.
X
DECEMBER 1975
When Colleen awoke Christmas morning, Evangeline had already slipped away, likely to her own room to catch some extra sleep before their mother called for them.
The drone of voices carried upstairs. She rose to gather her bearings and find her robe before a wave of nausea stole over her, and she stepped swiftly into the adjoining bathroom.
In the mirror, a stranger gazed back. Dark crescents took up residence under her eyes, framed by swollen cheeks and a soul-deep tiredness. Twenty-six weeks with child and she’d managed to keep this secret through evasiveness and chunky sweaters.
Who had she become? A woman who’d given her heart alongside her reason, setting everything she had ever admired about herself aside. Who was she, if not the sensible one? Only a third child, but nevertheless looked upon as the next leader of the family.
Colleen turned on the faucet, impatient and not waiting for the water to warm. She splashed the cold water on her face, relaxing as the shock settled over her.
When she opened her robe, observing the swell of her belly, she knew the time had come for honesty. Inside, her daughter grew, only several months from emerging into the world. Amelia. Don’t listen to my heartache, my dearest. You’re a part of me. I would give up everything for you.
Closing her robe, Colleen went to join the family and share her news.
Noah stood at the bottom of the stairs.
At the sight of her belly protruding from the thin robe, he forgot every word he’d planned during the long flight to New Orleans. Everything in his mind went blank, and he nearly dropped the gift in his hands. His knees turned to jelly.
Behind him, his father laid an encouraging hand on his shoulder. Colleen, the elder, rested hers on the other.
“What…” Colleen’s words also failed her. She gripped the banister, afraid of losing her footing, equally unable to look away. “Noah.”
“I was wrong.” Noah fumbled. “So very wrong, Colleen. I was afraid.”
Colleen focused on one step at a time while she descended toward him. “Not as afraid as I was when I saw you dying.”
Noah found his strength and rushed to assist her down the stairs. To his great relief, she didn’t shrink away, leaning into him for support. “I owe you a great debt and should have thanked you. Instead, I hurt you, and I’m so sorry for it. I don’t care about the things you can do. They don’t matter.”
“They do matter,” Colleen insisted, slipping her arm through this and straightening up with pride. “My abilities are as much a part of me as anything.”
Noah knelt in front of her when they reached the bottom step. He couldn’t stop the tears. “Then teach me. I want to spend the rest of my life learning every detail about you.” He extended a tentative hand toward her abdomen. She helped him, pressing it against her twitching belly.
“Her name is Amelia,” Colleen answered with a voice that choked. “After my grandmother. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No,” Noah whispered, shaking his head. “Amelia is a beautiful name.”
“You can name the next one,” Colleen said, reaching down to clasp his hands in hers.
“We can. Together,” Noah replied, staring up at her with a joy that outweighed any fear he’d ever known.
Colleen’s mother and sisters had decorated the study, including the tall tree, with wreaths and bows of heather. In the absence of her father, Charles gave her away. Augustus presided over the ceremony. Noah had brought his priest to bless the union.
The bride’s mother and three sisters glowed in their purple gowns. The only one missing was Madeline.
“The end is our beginning,” Noah vowed, slipping the ring he’d made from the old dried heather dipped in rose gold, over her finger.
Colleen tearfully repeated the words as Noah’s father handed her his own ring to give to Noah.
“You’re family now,” Augustus said, announcing their unification. “Glory and all. Scars and all.”
When the wedding party scattered to begin the Christmas celebrations, Noah whispered to his new wife, “Your scars are my scars.”
“This is the beginning of something even bigger than we could have ever imagined,” she rejoined, resting her face against the warmth of his chest. She chose not to add that Elizabeth, her seer sister, had told her nothing could ever tear her and Noah asunder again. The beauty of experiencing this would be a far greater gift.
Noah kissed the top of his bride’s head, dreaming of cold nights on Skye and the promise of tomorrow. “Merry Christmas, my love.”
The Ephemeral was initially envisioned for a multi-author anthology of stories set in the Portland, Oregon. Although I write about New Orleans, and the city is most dear to me above all cities, I was born and raised in this uppermost west corner of the United States, and it has been home to me for much of my life. The opportunity to bring the Crimson & Clover world to my neck of the woods was an enticing one, and thus this story was born.
In writing this story, as often happens, an entire world opened up. There’s little I can say here without spoiling the story, but if you turn the last page wondering, Will there be more? The answer is: Quite possibly.
For the Crimson & Clover genealogy fans keeping score, Autumn Sullivan is the daughter of Olivia Sullivan and granddaughter of Jerome Sullivan. Jerome was the brother of Colin Sullivan Sr., grandfather of Oz Sullivan. This makes Autumn and Oz second cousins, though Oz is ten years older.
I hope you enjoy this Crimson & Clover Lagniappe.
For my Pacific Northwest readers
I
The flood of sensations following a car accident could serve well as a metaphor for my life in general.
There exists nothing, that I’m aware of, as shrill and blinding at once as crunching metal the moment your car plows into the end of something it wasn’t meant to hit. If you’ve been in an accident, though, you know. We’re all part of a secret club, of sorts, those who have done something awful in a moment of weakness but have no power to take it back.
There are plenty of other elements at work: the fear, the panic, the oh hell moment when you play out how the next few minutes will go, never mind the next few months as you deal with hospital bills, repairs, claims, and inevitable insurance hikes. A chronic over-thinker like me will go through all these things a hundred times over. I will assess and re-assess the seconds leading up to the accident as if I could change the past with enough harnessed brain power.
But none of that matters in the moments after the sound dies down and it’s only you mustering the courage and fortitude to get out of the car and deal with the person whose day you just ruined.
The defining moment. The crash. The aftermath.
Yes. My life.
This wasn’t my first accident. I’d been in one just days after getting my driver’s license, not the best timing if you’re living under your mother’s roof and driving her brand new Mercedes. Also not awesome if the person you smash into is having a terrible day to begin with and you’ve now gifted them with an outlet for their frustration.
That one was my fault. So was the accident a year later, when I hit a patch of ice and slammed my mom’s car (not the same one as before; she had to replace that one, thanks to my skilled driving, and would replace the replacement soon thereafter) into a tree. I was okay. The car was not. No screaming businessman flailing his umbrella at me that time, though.
Now here I was, several years removed from both accidents and miles from the protection of home, and I had hit a man
riding his bicycle.
Yes, a bicycle.
My knee-jerk defense was that he’d materialized from thin air. He certainly hadn’t been there when I started the turn, right?
Of course, he had to be. My negligence had no valid excuse.
Around me, downtown traffic continued, cars and cyclists whizzing by, continuing on their routes. Not a one stopped to help. Even more bizarre, no rubberneckers to be spotted.
With a tentative draw of breath, I slid one leg out of the car and then the other. Ahead of me, squatting on the curb, was a man. He held one hand over his eyes as he observed the hunk of metal that used to be his bike.
Would he take my head off like the man five years ago? I’d deserve it. I was distracted, thinking about finals, only blocks from my apartment in the Pearl District. Never mind that he seemed to come out of nowhere; the insurance adjuster had heard that one a thousand times.
Some people say most accidents happen close to home. So far, I’m three for three on this one.
More important than all of it: Was he okay?
The rest happened as if flipping through scenes on a slide viewer. He was kneeling and then he was rushing over, his body language somewhere between massive annoyance and full-on rage. Next he was in front of me, tucking a card into his front pocket as if protecting it from the same lowlife who’d nearly taken his life. An insurance card? Do cyclists carry insurance?
“Are you all right?” I started to ask but was cut off.
“So, what happened?” the man demanded. A lack of pleasantries off the bat wasn’t a good sign.
Lagniappes Collection II Page 11