Brigitte's Cross (The Olivia Chronicles)

by Angelic Rodgers

  As he watched Vivienne come up the walk toward the house, he thought of how much she looked like Rosalie. They had created two gorgeous children together, but try as he might he could only see Rosalie in his children’s faces; it was as if she could have had them without him. In many ways, she had. He opened the door just as she was about to knock, and they gave each other a polite hug as Vivienne came into the room.

  “So good to see you, Vivi. I’ve made some tea for us. Come on in.” Vivienne kicked off her shoes by the front door and hung up her jacket. She knew Delia well enough to know that she preferred people not walk on her white carpet with shoes on.

  The house was in Metarie. The Bellots moved there shortly after Rosalie’s suicide, trying to find a new start. Delia had taken it as an opportunity to have the sort of suburban life she’d always wanted, and Vivienne suspected that it was in part her rejection of the social and cultural order of New Orleans proper that led to the move. Out here, Delia could be assured that her husband would not find himself in another relationship like the one he had with Rosalie. Out here, the Bellots were surrounded by far more conservative folks who didn’t know your business.

  Vivienne’s first thought about the house when she’d visited a few years ago was that it was a place her mother would have hated. There was no history here; the house was a duplicate of others in the subdivision and it lacked warmth, all the way from its synthetic carpet fibers to the recessed lighting in the ceiling that Delia had insisted was the new thing. The window shades were always drawn and everything just felt artificial. She wondered how her father stood it.

  They sat at the small table in the kitchen, him pouring tea for the two of them into delicate china cups perched on saucers. He’d set out some cookies and little tea cakes as well, and she felt ten years old again, going to tea with her mother and father at the Windsor Court hotel on Mother’s Day. It was one of the few outings that she and Christophe went on with her father during her mother’s lifetime.

  “I debated whether to come today, Auguste; thank you for agreeing to meet with me. I feel rather silly about why I’m here.”

  He patted her on the wrist. “Sweetheart, any time I can be here for you, you know I am happy. It was great hearing from you that you wanted to see me. I saw you and Christophe with your grandmother at Mass on the anniversary. If it were not for her, I would have invited you both out for dinner.”

  “I know; that’s part of what makes this so hard. I want to ask some questions about my mother and Marie.” She blew on the tea and took a sip, stalling a bit before continuing. “Mother left me a letter.”

  She reached into her bag and gently took out the letter, which she had folded carefully and put in a small journal that she carried with her all the time. She unfolded it and passed it to him. She could see his adoration of her mother in how gingerly he picked it up and brought it toward his nose, searching for the faintest scent of her perfume. He read slowly, and Vivienne sat quietly, waiting for him to finish. When he looked up, she asked, simply, “Is this true?”

  “Vivi, I have always been a skeptic about things regarding Voodoo. I believe that it is a legitimate religion, and I’m proud that it is part of our heritage.”

  “So, you are saying it’s not true?”

  He hesitated. “No, I’m not saying it isn’t. What I can tell you is that your mother was very scared of Marie and that she warned me many times that she would not be here for very long. That’s one reason why we never married. She was so adamant that she would not have me be a widower.” He cleared his throat, in an effort to hold back the tears. One snuck out and he wiped it from his cheek.

  “I am a skeptic about many things, but I know for certain that your mother truly believed that Marie would be the end of her. She spent a great deal of time making gris-gris of protection for me because she was worried something awful would happen to me if she didn’t.”

  Vivienne nodded. “Do you still have those things? You didn’t throw any of that out did you?”

  In response, he got up from the table and disappeared for a few moments. When he came back, he was carrying an intricately carved wooden box. As he set it on the table next to her teacup, in her mind’s eye, she saw an identical one that still stood on her mother’s altar in what was now Christophe’s place. She knew the box on the altar contained her mother’s tools, pens she used for writing and drawing, sewing needles and small notions, ink, extra candles.

  “She brought this to me shortly before she hung herself. I keep all of my things from her in that box.”

  Vivienne took a deep breath and pushed up on the lip, opening the hinged lid. Inside, she first saw a simple red flannel gris-gris bag on top. Even after all of the years that had passed, she could still detect a faint trace of incense mixed with the camphor in the bag. She carefully peeked inside and could see the dried High John the Conqueror root and the paper talisman her mother had drawn. Setting it aside, she saw that there were other things in the box. Tied with a ribbon were the letters her father had written her mother over the years, as well as those she’d written back to him. Leafing through the envelopes, she could tell he’d lovingly put them in order. She wondered how often he read through them.

  “You are welcome to read those, but I think it might serve as embarrassing to us both. I should have known she was leaving when she returned my letters.”

  Vivienne set those aside, smiling. “I think I’ll leave your love letters alone. There are some things we probably don’t want to know about our parents.” He looked relieved. “Besides, she did you a favor. There’s powerful magic that can be done with these if they were to fall into the wrong hands. She knew well that if grandmother found these she would use them against you.”

  “Oh, so you believe she’s dangerous.”

  She nodded. “I do, but what I have to find out is if she is dangerous to me. In your case, I think that the time for you to worry about grandmother doing anything to harm you has passed. She’d have no advantage in doing something to you.” She tapped the gris-gris bag. “Just in case, hang on to this, though.”

  She turned back to the box. Under the letters was her mother’s ring that Auguste had given her. He wore a matching one even now on his right hand. They were simple bands of silver. She noticed that her mother’s ring looked newly polished. At the very bottom of the box was a journal much like the small notebook Vivienne carried with her at all times.

  “Have you read this?” Flipping it open, she could see that it was written in her mother’s hand, but in French.

  “No. I don’t read anything but English, I’m afraid. Can you read it?”

  She nodded, already engrossed with the first entry. “Yes. I hate to ask, but may I hold on to this awhile? It may help me.”

  He nodded, refilling their tea cups. “Of course. Take your time with it; I have her letters.”

  They spent another hour or so catching up, making small talk. Vivienne fidgeted a little, wanting to run home and read the journal, but she also felt she owed Auguste some quality time. When the teapot had run dry and their cups were empty, the cookies eaten, she made her exit, promising to tell Christophe to call their father, as it had been far too long.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Vivienne had some clients of her own to see immediately after seeing her father, but she was anxious to read the journal. The journal was small. The pages were thin and unlined by anything other than her mother’s tight script. She was grateful that she had studied so much French. It helped, of course, with her research trips to Haiti and in reading a lot of the more obscure texts in her field.

  She kept the journal in her bag and carried it with her as she visited clients. She didn’t want to chance leaving it out of her sight. Once she was home, she locked the door and poured herself a glass of wine and began to read.

  Today, I met Auguste. I know he is the man who will be the father of my children, if I am to have any. He was coming out of the cigar shop on Decatur, just as I walked by, and
he stepped right in my path. I had no choice but to bump into him, and as I did, it was as if my skin had been lit on fire where we made contact. He apologized and we went for a coffee. He wears a wedding band, but he is looking for something. I can see it in his eyes. A man in love with his wife cannot possibly look so in love with a stranger as he looked in love with me today as we sat and had coffee together.

  She enjoyed reading about their meeting; it was a story Rosalie had shared with her children when they were old enough to ask why their father didn’t live with them and never entered their grandmother’s house or their mother’s carriage house. She knew her mother loved Auguste, and it was sweet and tender to read about the start of their romance. The entries showed that it wasn’t until Rosalie was pregnant with Vivienne that anything seemed out of the ordinary at home.

  I fear telling Maman that I am pregnant. Soon, she will be able to tell, so I must face it. She’s already commented on my face looking fuller, and it is only a matter of time. She has begun to take a special interest in all that I do and the clients I see. Not since my initiation has she been so attentive. She scares me sometimes, she looks at me so; her eyes flash and she looks hungry in a way that is unsettling. She has suggested that we start to work together; I don’t want to deal with her clients, so many old crones who want gris-gris and charms to ensure they will have grandchildren or to entice a younger lover to them. I do not mind healing work or blessings, but I also like working with my clients best. They do not question how I work, nor does she stand over me when I do my own work for clients. I so hope that the child is a boy. To be born female in this family is such a burden.

  Rosalie had been correct; her mother saw her condition and called her daughter out.

  I feared she would be angry, that she would call me names and say I’m stupid. Her reaction to my confession that I am pregnant was that she was happy I was finally growing up and moving on with my life as an adult. She did demand to know who the father was, but was not concerned with marriage. Sometimes she does surprise me. She continues to badger me to accompany her to see clients. Now she says that my pregnancy will serve as a reminder that our line will continue on; she says I am radiant and would put clients at ease.

  Later, Vivienne saw how her mother fought for her to have opportunities:

  Little Vivi is so smart and so observant for her age. I want little Vivi to have the world. Maman doesn’t want her sent away to school, but I can’t help but feeling that she’s in danger if she stays here. I want her to be well-educated, not only in the ways of Voodoo but in the ways of the world. I want her to learn.

  The journal was a beautiful memoir and keepsake. She knew she should share it with Christophe. Among the short entries of her daily life were also reminders of important dates (special anniversary dates with August, Vivienne’s birthday and Christophe’s, along with notes about their births, and an occasional drawing of a Vévé, probably as practice. Also included were notes regarding special rituals and blessings she’d performed. As she read, she felt an unevenness of the pages, and she realized that some pages were sticking out a little further than the rest. She flipped to that section in the back, and found that her mother had copied what appeared to be a grand ritual on separate paper.

  After reading a bit of it, she flipped to the pages in the section it fell out of. She was looking for any context, any clue as to where the ritual came from. It was an elaborate one and unlike anything she’d ever seen. She finally found the entry that seemed to indicate what she had and where it came from:

  I finally saw her secrets. She has always been protective of her sacred things and space, but as I have been working with her more closely, I noticed a box that I have never seen open. She never removes it from the altar, nor does she ever open it. I told her that Christophe was sick today, and that I would stay with the little ones while she went to her clients. I waited until she’d been gone a half an hour or so, and I went to her room. In the box, I found a sheaf of papers yellowed with age. I ran to fetch some paper and wrote down the ritual. It goes beyond my worst fears of what she’s capable of, and I know of no way to stop her.

  Vivienne read through the ritual notes and felt ill. Either her mother was a very imaginative person, or the things she said in the letter she’d left were true. She also knew why her mother pushed so hard for her to study and to travel and learn a variety of Voodoo practices from around the world. If what her mother wrote was true, she needed to use all of her knowledge and resources to ensure her grandmother didn’t get a chance to perform the ritual.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Christophe was outside of The Ruby when his sister called him.

  “Hey, Vi. What’s going on?”

  She hesitated before saying anything; he could sense she was upset. “Are you busy right now? I was hoping you could come over and talk.” He’d been checking up on Liz for Olivia, and she seemed fine. He told his sister he’d be over in a half hour or so.

  When he got to her small house, he could smell the incense outside before he even tapped on the door. It smelled reminiscent of Rosalie’s protection blend, but there was something in it that he couldn’t pin down that made it Vivienne’s own. He barely made contact between his knuckles and the door when he heard the locks shoot back and she opened the door.

  He’d never really seen his sister practice her craft as a Mambo. He’d been to ritual gatherings with her intermittently over the years that spanned their childhood and he’d always been too distracted by the other girls who weren’t his sister as they danced. There had been, too, the constant sense that he had to not misbehave or show disrespect of any kind, as his mother and grandmother were held in such high regard. So, to him, his sister was merely Vivi. Or that’s how he’d seen her up until the moment she pulled back the door.

  Her eyes flashed and she seemed to vibrate with the high level of energy she was putting out. She radiated power, and he could see she’d been working at her small altar and there were also papers strewn across the coffee table. She was dressed in all white, her many braids wound into a high bun, making her seem taller. She was an imposing figure, and for a brief second, he felt like he was looking at Rosalie. Before she stopped fighting, his mother had that same energy and distracted look. She didn’t say anything to him; she simply grabbed him by the wrist, pulling him in and shutting and locking the door behind him.

  “You know I didn’t bring her with me, right?” He grinned. “I take it that you’re so wound up because you finally realize you need my help because Maman was not crazy.”

  She nodded. “I went to dad, Chris. You need to call him, by the way, but that’s not why I asked you over.” She pointed to the scattered pages on the floor. “You don’t read French, do you?”

  He shook his head. “I can speak it enough to make do in certain social situations, but no, I don’t read it. It was never important for me to learn to read it, as everyone seemed to think that I didn’t deserve to study to become a Houngan.”

  Vivienne wanted to object, but stopped herself. She’d been gone for much of his development, away at schools where her grandmother couldn’t control her or limit her learning. She realized that much of what she thought she knew about her brother was probably just assumption.

  He didn’t dwell on it. “I didn’t know Auguste read French either, but I know so little about him, thanks to grandmother.” He walked into the kitchen, looking for something to drink. He came back with two rocks glasses with dark rum in them. He handed one to his sister. “Sit and tell me what’s going on, Vi.”

  She shook her head. “I won’t tell you every detail.” She sat down and took a sip of the rum. It was smooth with notes of molasses, and even though it was far from the hot peppered rum Liz downed while she was possessed it made her think of Brigitte and of the crossroads that marked the meeting of the worlds of the living and the dead, and the intersection between her mother and herself. “But I will read you some passages from her journal.” She gathered the separate
pages together and he saw a small book underneath. She handed him the journal.

  Even though he could only catch the meaning of a word or two, he felt a powerful tug as he flipped through the pages, his fingers on the same paper his mother touched so many times. He had a visceral reaction to seeing her handwriting that surprised him and also made him angry. Surely if she had such powers that years later just holding her journal was like getting some sort of electric shock, surely she could have worked out a different solution than the one she did.

  He handed the journal back to Vivienne and waited as she picked out the passages that showed her concern for both children and that focused on their mother’s fear of Marie. She told him, too, of Auguste’s sweetness, how he had held on to Rosalie’s love letters, and how he wanted very much to have a relationship with them as adults. Christophe shrugged. “Maybe if he had convinced his wife to love me as her own I could have been someone’s son, rather than everyone’s errand boy.”

  “I’m sorry, Chris. I didn’t really see everything that was going on before. I’m sure that being basically forgotten while Maman and grandmother were battling it out couldn’t have been fun. I wish I had been here for you.” She rubbed his back. “I’m here for you now.”

  He looked like a petulant child as he shrugged and shook his head. “I’m ok, really. We’re all grown up now.” He paused for a bit. “So what’s the part you won’t tell me?”

  She pointed to the gathered up pages. “What’s in those pages. That’s a description of the grand ritual. Maman found it among grandmother’s things when we were still small. If everything is true in those pages, I have a lot of work to do to protect myself. I don’t want you getting caught up in the middle of it, Christophe. We both need to pretend that you don’t know about this and that we’ve not been talking about it. I can stay out of her way easily enough, as I’ve got work to keep me busy and can stall until I have a plan and feel like I know how to stop her.”