"And when did you sample the bottom of a parrot's cage, Dr. Finn?" he asked his image in the mirror in a bad Groucho imitation.
There was a faint noise from the bedroom, and Finn backed rapidly out of the small bathroom to check on his patient. Clara had shifted onto her side, her cheek pillowed on a hand. It was really sweet. Finn noticed her hair was matted. Crossing to the dressing table he picked up her hairbrush, and returning to the bed, smoothed out the worst of the snarls. He then leaned down like a bowing circus horse, and softly kissed her on the cheek. It was taking advantage. He hoped God and his conscience wouldn't mind too much, but she just looked so sweet.
"Sleep tight, sweetheart. I'll check in on you later."
He left for early morning rounds at the clinic.
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
The ringing phone woke her. She kept the damp cloth pressed to her forehead and wished the sound would stop. Eventually it did.
Bradley Finn's voice floated in from the other room. A warm feeling she didn't want to examine too closely filled her; she waited for him to appear at the bedroom door. But a beep told her he wasn't there. He was leaving a message on her phone.
She remembered now: he'd stayed and cared for her all night.
Her headache was gone, though she still felt groggy. She stretched, sat up and yawned, scratching her head.
The LEDs of her bedside clock announced that it was past ten. With a groan, she threw off the covers and stumbled into the Bathroom to take a hot shower. She was supposed to have checked the latest test cultures last night. And now she had to get downtown to the clinic. She was late.
The steam and soap cleared her senses, and she remembered what had triggered the migraine. The night before, that visit to see that couple: Perry, and the joker woman who had hidden from them.
Perry had reacted so oddly to Clara's name. The china was the same as Grandmaman Moresworth's heirloom design. And she'd seen the face of the snake woman in the photo on the mantle, and then caught a glimpse of the joker herself.
It was the lamia from her dreams. And the creature wore the face of her mother, who had died when Clara was five.
Only she hadn't died. At that instant in the hallway as they were leaving, the memory had surfaced from where she'd buried it when she was five.
Maman had turned into a snake. A joker. And then she'd gone away.
Clara recalled Papa holding her, Clara, and she was hitting him, screaming, trying to run after her transformed mother, who slithered away down the hall.
That's not your Maman. Maman is dead. Maman is dead.
He'd lied to her. Her mother had been alive all these years. A joker, living not five miles from her. All these years, he - and she, Maman - had conspired to keep the truth from her.
And who else knew? Papa's long-time lover Chloe must know. And Pan? Her grandparents Moresworth? How many others were in on this lie?
She could understand why Papa would do such a thing. He hated the wild card, and a joker wife would have ruined his ambitions. He'd want to keep a joker wife as far from his life - and Clara's - as possible. But Maman ... how could she have agreed to abandon her own child? To pretend she was dead, to hide - not to give her own child the knowledge of what had happened, and the right to make her own peace with it?
She pressed her forehead against the cool tiles. A tear fell. Another. The tears mingled with the heated water from the shower, drenching Clara in grief. She backed into a corner of the shower and clutched her sponge. Water sluiced over her, and sobs ripped their way out of her chest, and the water carried them away.
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
The grief left her exhausted. She wrapped herself in her huge terry cloth robe and called in sick to the clinic. Ignoring a number of other phone calls, including one from Pan, she rummaged through boxes she had in storage. She found one of her old dolls - the china doll her mother had given her - and her scrapbook, which held memorabilia from her early childhood: photographs of her and her parents when they were young, pressed leaves and flowers, a crayon drawing.
These, and the framed picture of her mother from before Clara was born, she took into the living room, where she curled up on the sofa with some tea, poached eggs, and whole wheat toast. The next few hours she spent reminiscing, touching old memories, crying some more. Then she slept for a while.
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
Clara didn't remember their address - and she didn't want to have to explain to Bradley - but she remembered what block the apartment was on, and wandered around till she saw a doorway she recognized.
"I'd like to speak to Joan van Renssaeler," she said into the intercom, when an unrecognizable voice answered. Her voice was steady and calm. She'd had a lifetime to learn to mask her feelings.
Silence greeted her. Her heart was beating so hard it filled her ears with a great roaring. She rang the bell again.
Perry came out to the front door. He opened it only a crack, blocking it with his body. "I'm sorry, I wish I could help you, but there's been some mistake."
But his eyes held sadness and knowledge.
She shook her head. "No. There's no mistake. I'm Clara van Renssaeler and I want to see my mother."
His pupils dilated. With a sigh and a nod, he let her in. Clara's heart felt packed in ice. She followed him down the hall to the apartment.
He made her wait outside. She heard voices rising and falling, as with the previous night, and then a long silence.
I'll stay here till you admit me, she thought. I won't go away. She folded her arms and leaned on the wall by the door.
Then the door opened a crack, and a face with scales like jewels appeared.
That was her mother's face; those were her mother's eyes.
All the way down from the upper East Side, in the taxi, she'd rehearsed what she would say. Rejection or denial was possible. She was prepared - armed with facts, clear memories, reasons.
But the suave, controlled professional wasn't with her; only the five-year-old child.
"Maman?" she said.
The joker woman covered her mouth with a gasp. "Oh, Clara. Can you ever forgive me?"
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
Inside the too-warm apartment, Joan showed Clara her own scrapbook - a more worn version of Clara's - and other memorabilia: photographs, figurines, trinkets. Many, many pictures of Clara as a little girl, in frilly dresses and ribbons. Some shots of her were more recent - a photo or two from her girlhood that Brandon must have given her; several candid shots: two from her years at Rutgers, one at a park a few years ago with a man she'd been dating. And she didn't remember them being taken.
Meanwhile, Joan talked. And Clara wandered around behind her, nodding, dabbing at the sweat that gathered on her upper lip, looking at this snake-woman who had - inconceivably - birthed and raised her, at all the familiar-strange objects. She felt as if her feet and hands were a mile away. Joan's voice flowed over her like water: she didn't hear a word of it.
Then Perry entered with a silver tray loaded with three or four kinds of tea, milk, lemon wedges, finger sandwiches, currant scones, jam and clotted cream. He set the tray on the coffee table with a sharp glance at Joan and Clara, and then left, closing the door. Clara felt relief, and gratitude. Sensitive man. She unbuttoned the top two buttons on her blouse and rolled up her sleeves.
Joan fussed over the tea in a manner so familiar and soothing to Clara that it alarmed her. Clara sat with her hands in her lap. She took the cup Joan pressed on her.
Joan folded herself up onto the couch next to her, coil by coil, and reached for her own cup.
How beautiful she is, Clara thought, watching light reflect off her scales as she sipped her Earl Grey. What an exotic creature. Colors shifted along her coils, her torso and arms and breasts, her face. Like moonlight caught in a waterfall. A cameo pendent, her only garment, dangled between her scaled breasts.
Joker. What a wrong-headed name.
"Why did you leave me?"
The question came out wi
thout her even knowing she was thinking it.
Joan gave her a look of surprise and she realized she'd interrupted her in mid-sentence. With a sigh, Joan set her teacup down. She started to reply, but Clara couldn't hold the words in any longer. She sprang to her feet and the words tumbled out, fully formed.
"I thought you were dead, all these years, and you knew the whole time. Five miles away. Five miles! And never once did you even try to reach me."
Joan raised a hand. Her scales had gone a muddy gray, a dirty white. "Darling, I - "
Clara spoke over her. "Why, why didn't you stay? Or at least contact me? Let me know you were alive?" She grabbed a framed, recent picture of herself - it hadn't been on the mantle the night before - and shook it at Joan. "How dare you have pictures and knowledge of me, without my knowing of you? It's a cheat! Don't you know that it killed me when you left?"
She hurled the picture to the floor and ground her boot heel into the glass, glaring at Joan. Then she bent her face into her palms and cried.
Hands landed on her shoulders; she opened her eyes. Her mother's altered face was only inches from hers; those cat-green eyes Clara remembered studied her; all the color had drained from her scales; they'd gone white and clear as gypsum sand.
"How I've hurt you." Joan's voice was soft. "I can never undo the harm I did, can I? Never give you back those lost years."
"No," Clara said She wiped at her eyes. "No, you can't."
Joan enfolded her in a careful hug that included a half-loop of snake flesh - and to her shock Clara didn't feel the desire to recoil. "Dear Clara. You deserved so much better than you got."
Can I forgive so easily? For all that pain?
No, she thought. I can't. She pulled back. Joan released her and handed her a lace kerchief, with the monogram JvR She entreated Clara to sit.
"It's understandable that you should hold a lot of anger toward me. You may never be able to forgive me. I simply want you to understand that my leaving had nothing to do with you. It was me. All me."
Clara's voice was flat. "Does it matter any more?"
"Would you be here if it didn't?"
Clara stared at her and said nothing. Joan sighed and took a sip of tea. Clara caught a glimpse of the fangs, the altered tongue. More than anything else, that made her realize just how physically altered her mother was. How much of the woman she'd been remained?
"I wasn't a nice person, you know. Not at all. I spread nasty rumors about my friends behind their backs; I made a specialty of subtly mocking Brandon, tearing down his self-esteem. What people wore was more important to me than what was in their minds or hearts. All I cared about was money and social position. I was shallow, bigoted and predatory." She gave Clara an owlish look that reminded Clara of herself. "The only thing good about me was you. You were the only one in my life who mattered to me more than myself.
"When this happened to me" - she gestured at herself, at the loose coils of snake flesh draped all over the couch - "it was as if now the outside matched the inside. This change made me realize just how much of a predator I was." She hesitated. "I don't know how much you remember of what happened after I changed."
"Enough." Very little, in fact; Clara only remembered the scene in the hallway.
"Do you remember what happened to Frou Frou?"
"Frou Frou?"
"We had a Lhasa apso named Frou Frou. I'd had him since I was a girl. You adored him. He attacked me, that morning after the change, and I bit him. He died of the venom. Later, I - I ate him."
Clara grimaced. "You ate him?"
"I was starving from the change. And, well, my body is truly more a snake's than a human's now, dear. I eat live or freshly killed whole animals."
Clara frowned. "I remember - something, I think."
Joan nodded. "You didn't see me eat him, but you saw me bite him. And you were quite the little warrior; you gave me a punch or two in the nose."
"I did?" Clara tried to picture it - a tiny girl pitting herself against this huge snake creature. It didn't seem likely.
"Mmmm. And, Clara," tears filled the woman's eyes, "I came far too close to striking out at you as I had Frou Frou. It terrified me. To harm you, or through neglect let you come to harm, was my single worst nightmare."
"Are you trying to say you left to protect me?"
Joan winced at Clara's tone. "I know I failed you. You can't know how many times I've wished I had made a different choice. But you see, I'd had no experience with courage or self-restraint. And I didn't know then what I'd become. I didn't trust myself not to harm you. So - " she spread her arms in a helpless gesture. "I left Brandon to care for you. Much as we despised each other, I knew he adored you, and would take care of you. But God how I've wished I had made another choice."
It was Joan's turn to break down and cry. Clara extended her kerchief and Joan took it.
After a long moment, in which they both sat without speaking or looking at each other, Clara said, "This is an awful lot to absorb."
Joan laughed shakily, dabbing at her eyes. "Oh, my dear, it most certainly is."
Clara stood and picked up her purse. She hesitated feeling awkward. "I appreciate your agreeing to see me."
Joan gave her a smile of great sadness. "I hope to see you again. You are always welcome here. Always."
"Thank you."
"And Clara - I want you to know that I love you. I'm very proud of the woman you've become."
Clara gave her a little, bleak smile. "But you don't know what I've become."
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
The flat nasal blat of an endlessly ringing phone. Five rings, and the answering machine finally cut in again. "Hello, you've reached 993-2323, leave a message." No warmth, quick, level, professional. Like the first impression of Clara. Finn knew the nuances of the voice now. How her eyes could warm, smile and sparkle. The annoying bleat of the message signal.
"Hi, it's me. Either you're feeling better and you're not home, or you've died. You better not have died. I'll bring Chinese - no MSG - around six. Okay? If it's not okay, call. Otherwise, I'm descending."
Finn hung up the phone. Felt giddy. Felt silly. Felt sixteen again. You're weird, he thought, most people don't find vomit a turn on. But it wasn't that. It was the fact she had trusted him. Allowed him to see her at her most vulnerable. Clung to him when sickness washed over her. Then the cynical, armored side marched in, and wondered if he was overreacting to the night. Had she really known it was him caring for her? If she hadn't been quite so sick she would probably have preferred a different nurse. One of her own kind.
There was a knock. "Come in," Finn bellowed.
Cody entered, settled on the sofa, lit a cigarette. "You look like I feel."
"Well, you may be drawing an erroneous conclusion. 'Cause while I may look like shit, I feet great."
"Happy mind. Tired body."
"Yeah," Finn agreed.
"I didn't see you at the block party," Cody said.
"What time did you arrive?"
"Chris and I wandered over around seven."
"Clara and I had moved along by then."
Cody cocked an eyebrow at him. "And how 'far along' did you move?"
Finn felt himself blush. "Well, not that damn far. She got a headache."
Cody gave him one of her ironic looks, and he groaned with embarrassment. "Not that kind of a headache. I mean serious migraine. I took her home. I stayed."
"The things you men will do to get laid."
Finn swallowed his anger. It bothered him to have Cody reducing what he felt to mere sex. But his tone was light when he said, "Hey, in my case that's a lot. It don't happen enough for me to get blase."
Cody stood, stretched, closed her eyes briefly. "Be careful, Bradley. I'm fond of you."
"Cody, what's wrong?"
She kept her back to him. Waved a hand helplessly in the air. "My kid wants to go to school at Harvard. Wants me to get a 'real' job. Something that won't embarrass him, hurt his chances to ge
t into one of these Ivy League shit holes. When did my kid grow up and become a bigot?"
Finn came around behind her. Laid a hand on her shoulder. "He'll outgrow it. We always do."
"Not when the whole world makes it acceptable, preferable to tolerance." She turned back to face him. "So, when I see you falling for a nat, I worry."
"Thanks, Cody, but I'm not expecting anything."
She smiled sadly, brushed his cheek with the back of her hand. "Yes you are, that's why I love you. You never stop wanting and hoping and believing." She leaned in, kissed him softly on the lips, and left.
Left Finn confused and breathless and more than a little sad.
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
She got home at five twenty. Bradley had left another message on the machine, threatening to show up with Chinese food. But there was still enough time to call and tell him not to come. If she called right now. She orbited the phone, picked it up, put it back down.
She picked up her ancient, broken china doll, dropped onto the couch, tucked a leg under herself, and cradled it in her hands. The eyes opened and closed, click, click, as she rocked it back and forth. Bradley's face lingered in her mind like a touch.
He hardly knew her. She'd taken the position he'd so coveted - and then been barely this side of unpleasant with him for weeks. And yet, all last night, he'd stayed with her. Wiped her brow, cleaned up her messes, helped her to the restroom, held her hand. He'd been a perfect gentleman. And he hadn't abandoned her to her pain.
And he was a true philanthropist. He used his own power to buoy up those around him, not to trample them underfoot. She'd watched him with the patients and staff at the clinic: a word or look from him smoothed troubles like balm. And she'd seen the looks on those teenagers' faces when he'd spoken at the high school. He'd given them hope. At the spring festival, people's spirits were lifted by the celebration he'd organized, and by his presence.
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