by Cate Tiernan
Very slowly I poked my head around the corner. I saw well in the dark, of course, and so I could clearly make out the gloved hand snaking through the broken pane on the door, reaching for the deadbolt.
Sudden fury lit my blood with adrenaline. How dare they? How dare someone come here to hurt me or to rob this house? I sprang forward on bare feet, the bat raised high, then slammed it against the hand as hard as I could. Shockingly, I heard their bones breaking, followed by a horrified scream of pain, then the welcome sounds of police sirens. I raised the bat again as the hand was dragged out of the broken pane, and then footsteps ran through the garage and out the side door.
Quickly I punched the garage door opener, and it started to rise just as patrol cars swung into the driveway. Running out to meet them, I shouted, “He got out through the back! He’s in the backyard!”
Two officers ran toward the back, and another one pulled out a clipboard to take my statement. I showed her the broken glass, and saw that it was dripping with blood.
“I hit their hand with my bat,” I explained. “I guess it got shoved down on the broken glass.”
The officer looked at the blood running down the door and said, “They’ll be lucky if it didn’t almost cut their hand off. Can you describe the intruder?”
“Well, it was a person,” I said without thinking. It had been a hand and not a paw that I’d smashed.
“Yes, honey,” said the policewoman. “I figured it probably wasn’t a bear. Do you need to sit down?”
An hour later, the cops hadn’t caught the guy, I’d given them as much information as I could (“black glove”), and the curious and alarmed neighbors had all made sure I was okay and then gone home.
Before they left, the police made sure the kitchen door could still lock, and even found a small piece of wood to cover the broken pane in the door.
“Will you be all right here?” one of them asked. “Do you want a ride to a friend’s house?”
Jennifer’s parents would take me in with no question, I knew, but I shook my head. “I’m okay. Thanks for coming so fast.”
There was no way I could sleep after that. I stayed alert, bat in hand, and listened to every sound from every corner of the house. Why hadn’t I thought of that before, that of course my parents’ attacker had seen me? Maybe because I’d been a complete raving basket case. Like it or not, I was a haguara, and the attacker knew it. And had come to kill me tonight.
Good thing I was leaving town.
• • •
When the sun came up, I felt gritty-eyed and wrung out, but still determined to head to New Orleans. I waited till a semidecent hour, then talked to my neighbors on both sides, asking them to call the cops if they saw anyone at my house, telling them I’d be home in just a few days, and giving them my cell-phone number.
Finally, feeling as if I were about to drive off the edge of the earth, I grabbed the suitcases I’d packed, put everything else I might need into a couple of laundry baskets, and loaded the car up. With my baseball bat on the front seat beside me, I started the engine, then turned it off again. Back in the house, I ran down the hallway to my parents’ room, where I yanked off the bedspread and grabbed the top sheet from their bed. I bundled the sheet up, carried it to the car, and threw it in the backseat. Then, very carefully, as if I had just started driving, I backed Mami’s green Honda out of the driveway.
• • •
I’d totally underestimated how not eating solid food for a month could deplete my energy and ability to think clearly. Not to mention the break-in last night, and staying awake till dawn. It was a twelve-hour drive from Sugar Beach on the western coast of Florida, to New Orleans, but by four o’clock in the afternoon I could barely see straight. I checked into a Holiday Inn and cried until I fell asleep. Crying was still a normal state for me, like breathing.
Once again my brain kept me awake most of the night—I would sleep, dream, wake up, cry, then repeat the pattern. The next morning I finally woke, feeling more tired than when I had gone to bed. I showered to clear my head and get the crying grit out of my eyes, and filled the car with gas. Then I headed west again to New Orleans and, I hoped, the answers to some questions.
The drive up through Florida, then quickly through Alabama and Mississippi and into Louisiana, was not the most interesting drive in the world. It wasn’t ugly, but the land was flat. The trees were mostly pines. No hills, no mountains in the distance, no Blue Ridge Parkway vistas. And the farther away from home I got, the more twitchy I became. I was really tempted to turn around, drive back home, and curl up in my bed. Except the house was violated now, my safety there compromised. Maybe it had been a random break-in. After all, why would my parents’ attacker wait a month to come after me? Unless it had taken that long to figure out where I lived. Which meant they had known that my parents were haguari, but nothing more, like their names or address. I was so sick of thinking about it.
This trip to New Orleans was the best thing I could do right now. Before last night, I’d felt my parents’ presence in our house, smelled their scents, felt the dimming reverberations of their voices. When I was at home I could picture them in every room, in every lighting, doing all the things that had made up the hammock-cocoon of my life.
But everything at home that reminded me of them also reminded me of my searing grief. The more I wallowed in my grief, the worse I felt. I needed to take a break from it. Plus, last night’s break-in had shattered that cocoon and taken away my memories’ almost magical power to keep me connected to my parents. Now I was out here on the road and so much more alone. Not only was my anchor up, but it had run out on its chain and was lost in the sea forever.
I pressed down on the gas and kept going.
In the afternoon I crossed the Mississippi River. It was wide, greenish-brown, and had tankers docked along both banks. Getting off the bridge was confusing, and I got a little rattled, especially when someone honked at me, but I found the right exit, and my GPS program took me to the address I’d gotten from the envelope. I’d tried calling again this morning, with no better luck than before.
Esplanade Avenue bordered the French Quarter. I drove along the French Market to Esplanade, which was wide, with huge live oak trees that met overhead. The median was planted with big, familiar shrubs: azaleas, oleanders, camellias. Parked cars lined both sides of the street, and I drove slowly, looking for a place to stop.
Then I was there. A wrought-iron fence lined with tall, thick shrubs enclosed the yard, broken by a clear space behind an ornate iron gate. I parked and peered through my car window, able to catch only a glimpse of the house. What am I doing here? I wondered even as I got out of my car. An old, uneven brick walkway, splotched with moss, led to the house, which I now saw was enormous. Hesitantly I pushed the gate open and stood looking at where my aunt might live.
Both the covered front porch and a second-floor balcony ran right across the whole width of the house. French windows nine feet high stood in pairs on either side of the double front door, which was wooden and pointed in the middle like a church window. A thick mass of confederate jasmine covered half the porch railing and climbed to the second floor. It had rained this morning, and between the heat and the humidity, the air was scented so heavily it was almost cloying.
Slowly, unable to imagine how this was going to play out, I climbed the wide marble steps and rang the doorbell. I had rehearsed my speech all the way from Florida. Hi, my name is Vivi Neves. I think I’m your niece. . . . I have bad news. . . .
There was no answer. I was both relieved and disappointed. Well, I could wait. After coming this far, I couldn’t stand to leave, even for a while. The thought of getting in my car again made me feel desolate, and I had absolutely no plan B. At the bottom of the porch steps I paused, seeing the narrow brick path that ran around the house. It felt nosy and presumptuous, but I followed it into the side yard. The fence and tall shrubs separated this yard from the side street, and I walked past the overgrown garden beds a
nd across the grass so I could see the entire house at once.
The architecture was so typical that it looked like it belonged in a movie set in New Orleans. Tall, beautiful, a bit ramshackle, the house had once been painted lavender, but bare stucco now dotted the walls like a disease, and the dark green shutters were peeling. Lacy black wrought iron defined balconies and porches, but some of it was rusty, and I saw places where pieces had broken off.
The yard showed the same signs of neglect—bushes were overgrown and shapeless; the raggedy lawn was sprinkled with weeds and dead tree branches. More weeds choked the formal garden beds, as if they were trying to strangle the old roses and hydrangeas, the plumbagos and daylilies.
My gods, it was hot. The air was thick and damp. Lush, oversized plants were everywhere, as if nature were determined to reclaim what had once been swamp. It was so similar to home.
What was I doing here? I was stalking a stranger who I thought might be my mother’s long-lost sister. There was no reason to think she would want to see me. Or that she still lived here. Or that she was even still alive.
All of a sudden I felt awash in despair, and I sat down abruptly beneath an enormous magnolia tree. I thought of the long, long drive back home, and how home reminded me only of anguish, nightmarish pain, and now fear and vulnerability. Once again I started to cry. I was so tired. I was hot and uncertain and lost. I didn’t know what to do with myself.
Physical and emotional exhaustion overcame me, and I must have fallen asleep, siting there on the bony roots of the tree. Waking from scary, disjointed dreams that left me heavy-limbed and upset, I found myself on the ground, in the darkness, in a strange yard. For a second it was like being in the woods, in the Everglades, and my muscles instantly tensed.
What time was it? I started to get up, and then I heard it: a very low growl that turned my blood to ice in my veins. It was soft, like a motorboat engine seconds before it explodes with power. Just like that day with Mami and Papi.
I froze, my breath snagging in my throat. Lit with instant adrenaline, I stayed very still and scanned the yard. Was this it? Had last night’s attacker followed me? Was it my turn to die?
The growling continued, and with horror I realized it was above me. Cold sweat beaded on my forehead and my back where my shirt was already sticking to me. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t swallow. Slowly I looked up into the magnolia branches, and there it was: a jaguar. Its golden coat, broken by black rosettes, stood out against the dark brown bark. Its eyes were yellow, cold, and fixed on me in a predator’s hungry gaze. Did it have a smashed paw? A deep slice in its palm?
My hands curled in the dirt as I edged up to a sitting position. I didn’t know how to change into my jaguar form on purpose—I had refused to learn. I couldn’t put two thoughts together. I’d come all this way just to die, and without understanding why. Like my parents.
I tried to say, “What do you want?” but my words were soundless puffs of air.
The jaguar gave a louder growl, showing long, knifelike fangs. I was lightheaded, about to faint. Unable to move, hopeless at defending myself—for me, fainting would be a blessing. My eyes were drawn to the powerful tail that lashed back and forth, thunking against the tree trunk.
And then . . . it gave a fierce, sickening roar, and leaped at me.
CHAPTER FOUR
MY EYES SHUT AS I waited to feel viselike jaws closing around my skull. Seconds passed. Finally I slit one eye to see the jaguar crouched in front of me, snarling, its tail whipping left and right. It was going to toy with me, play with me before I died. All four of its paws seemed fine, not broken or cut, I noticed a bit hysterically. Was it a jaguar jaguar or a haguari? Was there a way to tell? I knew so little about it. Surely it was a haguari.
I felt lost in its yellow eyes and couldn’t pull my gaze away, even as my brain registered the quiet opening of a door and then a shadowy figure moving toward us. I tried to shriek “Run!” but it came out as a near-silent squeak. The figure came closer. Surely the jaguar would pounce on me the instant I looked away, but I held my breath and slid my glance past it to see a young, dark-haired woman walking closer. I stared at her, hoping she knew this animal, hoping I wasn’t luring her to her death.
The jaguar thumped its tail against her legs as she strode past it. “Stop it,” she said firmly, shooting it a disapproving look. It snarled at her, opening its jaws and displaying deadly fangs that glowed in the darkness. She pulled back her foot and kicked its flank, her colorful striped espadrille barely making a sound against the heavy muscle. “Stop it! Go inside!”
Yellow eyes narrowed. She sighed and shook her head, then looked at me, her face kind. “Are you lost?”
I slowly pointed one finger at the huge cat.
“Don’t mind him,” she said, crouching down to my level. “He’s being a butt.”
The jaguar’s mouth opened, and a slow, deep rumble came from its chest. If the young woman hadn’t been there, so unconcerned, I would have peed myself.
I swallowed, trying to lubricate a throat gone dry with fear. Finally I managed, “I’m looking for Donella Garrison. Or Donella Féliznundo.” Which had been my mother’s name before she got married.
The young woman blinked at me, and oddly, the jaguar did too. They exchanged a look like people do, and then the jaguar turned abruptly and loped through the shadows back to the house. I saw its large form slink up some concrete stairs and through an open doorway.
I let out a deep breath, not aware I’d been holding it. The amber light of a streetlamp cast patched shadows on the woman’s face, which was now regarding me more coldly.
“What do you want with her?” Her voice was unfriendly.
Swallowing again, I sat up a little straighter. I was really hungry, really thirsty, and really tired. If she left me, I would probably just lie down again and sleep under this tree for a week. “I think’s she my aunt. My mother’s sister.”
Someone else came out of the house: a guy, wearing beat-up jeans low on his hips and a plaid short-sleeved shirt, unbuttoned. His hair was dark red, long, and messy. He came and stood silently next to the girl, his arms crossed over his chest.
“I’m Vivi Neves,” I told them. “My mother was Aracita Féliznundo before she got married, and she had, I think, two sisters: Juliana and Donella. I’m looking for Donella. I think her married name was Garrison. Do you know her? Does she live here? Did she used to live here, maybe?”
“Your mother is Aracita? Donella’s sister?” the guy asked, looking at me intently.
“Yes,” I said. “Do you know her? Donella?”
“Huh. Maybe you should come inside,” said the young woman, standing up.
I didn’t even feel like I could stand, but I managed to get to my feet without toppling over.
“Donella was my mother,” the guy said slowly, looking at me. “I’m Matéo Garrison. But my mother’s sisters are dead.”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. Donella was his mother? Was his mother. Was she dead also? “Juliana is alive. My mother was alive . . . till May.”
This guy would be my . . . cousin. A cousin I never knew I had, never spent summers with, never saw in family albums. What had happened between my mother and her sister?
The guy frowned. “Aly’s right—you should probably come in.”
I didn’t know what else to do. I hadn’t planned for anything after this. Steadying myself, I followed Matéo and Aly through the overgrown grass to four cement steps leading to the side door, which had once been painted white. A large piece of glass barely held in place with chipped putty made up the top half of the door, and the bottom half had decorative molding.
I heard voices as I climbed the steps; the door led into an enormous kitchen that seemed to be full of people. Smells of cooking food made my nose twitch, and I couldn’t remember the last time I had eaten. Some cold cereal at the Holiday Inn this morning?
The room quieted as people registered that I was there. A quick glance showed that
everyone seemed around the same age—early twenties. No one was old enough to be my aunt or uncle.
Matéo said, “Come on this way,” and walked through the kitchen to a hallway beyond. The girl, Aly, and I followed him. I was wiped out, strung out, and still freaked about the jaguar . . . who must have been my haguaro cousin. Walking through a crowd of strangers, all of whom were looking at me, didn’t calm me down.
The three of us went down a dark, wide hallway toward the front of the house. Right before we got to the beautiful gothic front doors, Matéo took a left into a lovely formal parlor with old-fashioned furniture.
“You want to sit down?” he said, gesturing to a deep blue velvet couch with an ornate wooden back. I sat down on it, hardly able to believe that I was here, that I had found an aunt I had never known about. “What was your name again?”
“Vivi Neves. Viviana.”
“You said your mother is my mother’s sister?”
“Yeah.”
Matéo turned and went to a wall covered with all sorts of framed photographs. He took one down and brought it to me.
It was a copy of the photo I’d seen in the bag in my dad’s safe.
“Who are these people?” he asked, setting the frame on the table and sitting down.
“This is my tia Juliana, my mother, Aracita, and then Donella. This was taken in Brazil.”
Matéo nodded as if I’d passed a test. And he’d just passed my test too—if he had this photo, he truly must be part of my family.
“I never knew Donella existed,” I said again. “Is she . . .”
“My parents died a year and a half ago,” said Matéo.
“Oh, no,” I said, feeling myself deflate even further. I’d never known that Donella existed, but finding out that I’d come all this way for nothing was almost unbearably disappointing. “I’m really sorry.” Matéo and I simply looked at each other. I began to see a family resemblance in the line of his jaw, the slant of his dark eyes. Despite his tan, unfreckled skin, his hair was a very dark red, and I guessed that was the Garrison part.