She’d never liked dolls, even as a young girl. At thirteen, she was horrified to have their small, beady eyes staring back at her from the darkness. The world, though, was a series of symbols, assigned to people and ideas, as ways of expression. Dolls were an almost universal symbol for young girls. If Elizabeth was a time traveler—there were some, supposedly, though she’d never met one—she’d go back in time and instead reverse the roles of young men and women. Give boys the dolls, she thought. Let the girls build forts and disappear into their imaginations.
When the last of her dolls was safely ensconced in the strange hell above her bed, Elizabeth went to her vanity and sat at the small, velvet seat and gave an earnest attempt at painting her face. Makeup was another thing she couldn’t find interest in, but as soon as Irish Colleen mentioned she was at the age where she needed to be concerned with such things, Elizabeth, with a sigh, found her way to the drugstore and did as was expected of her.
Of course, she had not a clue how to apply it properly. In a perfect world, she could have asked her three older sisters for help, and maybe even in her imperfect world that would be okay, but she had learned years ago that the closer the contact to someone, the more she saw. The more she saw, the more she ached with the knowledge of an unchangeable future. She’d already seen far too much of Charles’ future.
Her lipstick was all wrong. She smiled, then frowned, searching for the right expression to make it look all right. There wasn’t one. Elizabeth ripped a tissue from the box and pulled it across her mouth with so much force she squealed out loud.
“Lizzy? Everything okay in here?”
“Yes, Mama,” Elizabeth called back as she stared at her deranged face. She was a failed clown. No, a vampire. Yes, a vampire wouldn’t be so bad, really. She grinned, and then immediately wiped the look away. The grin made her look more like The Joker from her Batman comics, and that was definitely not the look she was going for.
“I’ll come drop your laundry by in a minute, if that’s okay.”
If that’s okay… she announced herself for fear of what she might find in her daughter’s room, and Elizabeth wondered what exactly she expected. Dead animals? Ritual sacrifice? Sure, Mom, give me a minute while I hide the carcasses. “Yeah, okay.”
Elizabeth continued working at removing the strange paint, which was annoying but not unbearable. All in all, things had been better at Ophélie. School had been an untenable stress, one she couldn’t do a thing about. Being in close quarters with so many children, day after day, had sent her senses into a macabre overdrive. Death, divorce, abuse, sadness. Always the darkness, never the light. Sharing was never a help to anyone but herself, a form of self-preservation akin to robbing food from your loved ones to avoid starving to death. And, oh, what if she’d shared everything? Every impending divorce, every breakup, every broken bone or fractured heart. She knew so much about her classmates she’d ceased to see them as people and instead viewed them as statistics on a rap sheet. Ashley. Was poor, but recently moved to Second Street in a home her family could only afford because her father stole from his business partner. Mother is having an affair with the accountant. Brother will die of a rare immune disorder in San Francisco in the ’80s.
School after school, this haunted her. And how many years had she begged Irish Colleen to find another way for her to get her education? Putting a soothsayer in a public place every day of their lives was like sticking an empath in with a bunch of mental patients. She could have sped up the process, she supposed, by being honest about how many times a day she fantasized about sliding into the bath and slitting her veins from elbow to wrist, but as with most things, Elizabeth knew honesty did not always get you where you intended.
Here, in her room, she was safe. Even if she was afraid the dolls would one day come to life and murder her in her sleep.
There was only one thing she missed about the city, and school. One person, if she was being specific.
“I’m coming in!” Irish Colleen announced, and then waited a good five seconds before entering.
Elizabeth rolled her eyes, then turned to smile at her mother. “Thanks for washing everything.”
“I could fold them, too.”
Elizabeth tempered her annoyance at the eggshells her mother brought into every room she was in, every time. It only proved Irish Colleen didn’t actually understand her at all. Elizabeth didn’t blame herself for Madeline’s death. It didn’t work that way. She could see things she had no power to prevent. That’s what made the whole thing so horrible. “No, Mama, I can do it.”
Irish Colleen began folding the clothes anyway. “It’s a nice day, outside. Not too hot for a spell. You should go play.”
More things parents said because they should, not because it made sense. Elizabeth had never enjoyed the outdoors. The abundance of life only reminded her of the inevitability of death. Everything died eventually. “I’m fine in here.”
“Oh, how lovely your dolls look! You’re such a good Mama,” Irish Colleen said, and Elizabeth ticked the imaginary box labeled, Convince Mother You are Normal.
“I said I could fold them.”
“Oh, posh,” Irish Colleen said, dismissing the thought. “I was thinking, Elizabeth.”
Not again. “Oh?”
“Huck, Augustus, Colleen, and Evie have their lives and friends outside of Ophélie.” She stacked the folded clothing in neat piles as she worked. “I didn’t consider what it might be like for you and Maureen.” She paused, holding a shirt in the air, thinking. “Not Maureen so much, her friends are… anyhow, if there’s anyone you’d like to invite out here, to play, we can arrange for that.”
“Connor,” Elizabeth blurted out before her mother’s words had even cooled.
“Connor?” Irish Colleen stopped again. “Do I know him?”
“Sullivan.”
“Sullivan... as in the Sullivans?”
“Yes, the Sullivans. Connor is a cousin of Colin and Rory.”
“I see.” She returned to the laundry, but with less fervor. “And Connor is your friend?”
Irish Colleen said the words so casually, as if friends came easily for Elizabeth. As if they ever stayed long.
“He’s my best friend.” Elizabeth swallowed her pride. “My only friend.”
“Well, I suppose we could invite him out every now and then to spend time here,” Irish Colleen said, in the same tone she used when dismissing any idea that she didn’t want to argue about.
“I’m going to marry him someday,” Elizabeth said, completely unsure as to why she said it. And to her mother, of all people, who regarded whimsy the way others regarded a mosquito landing on their arm.
Irish Colleen’s head fell to the side. She chuckled. “Is that right?”
“Yes, that’s right,” Elizabeth said. Her cheeks were on fire. She regretted the words, but there was no going back now.
“That’s sweet, but don’t you think our family is already wrapped up enough with the Sullivans? Charles and Colin are best friends, though it makes no sense to anyone. Colleen and Rory—”
“Aren’t together anymore.”
“For now. Maureen and Chelsea can’t decide if they’re friends or enemies, and the answer apparently depends on the alignment of the planets or something, to hear your sister tell it. And, she doesn’t want me to know this, but I do know Evangeline dated Patrick for a spell last year, and before that, he dated Mad...” The thought trailed off. “What’s next? Augustus and Chelsea?”
“Chelsea is sixteen, Mama. She’s five years younger than Aggie.”
“And I was barely eighteen when I had Charles. Your father was forty-five.”
There was no such thing as an argument that Irish Colleen didn’t win, so Elizabeth didn’t waste her breath explaining how her comparisons were meaningless in context. Logical fallacies were a particular specialty of Colleen Brady. “What do you have against the Sullivans anyway?”
“Nothing,” her mother replied in haste. “They�
�ve been very good to our family.”
What a strange response that was. Very good to our family. “You asked me about friends, Mama. Connor is my friend. I don’t care what his last name is, and neither should you. He isn’t afraid of me like the other kids were.”
Irish Colleen turned to her. “He knows about you?”
Elizabeth nodded. “The Sullivans have their parlor tricks, too, you know.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“Some of them can do stuff, like we can. Slide things across tables. Reads minds.”
Irish Colleen returned to her folding. “That’s ridiculous, Elizabeth. If the Sullivans were like you kids, we would’ve known about it. I can’t believe you told him.”
Elizabeth shrugged. “I’ve told other kids, too, Mama, he’s just the only one who believed me.”
“They’ve been around us so long, it’s no wonder they’ve learned a few things about your father’s side. I just hope they know to mind their business.”
“They’re our attorneys. They know about discretion.”
“Connor isn’t bound by such rules. He’s a kid,” Irish Colleen said, but her shoulders had begun to sag and Elizabeth could see she was tired of arguing.
“If you want me to have friends, you can’t be so picky,” Elizabeth said.
“Fine.” The word came out more as a sigh. “You’re right. Feel free to call him and invite him over, as long as his mother is fine with it.”
She would be. She hardly paid attention to anything her children did. “Okay, I will. Thanks, Mama.”
Irish Colleen put the folded laundry into the appropriate dresser drawers and then slid the laundry basket under her arm. “But please stop talking about who you’re going to marry. When you say things like that, I never know whether you’re being a silly girl or if you’ve seen something.”
Elizabeth grinned and turned away.
Nine
Everyone Just Dies
Charles’ day had been utterly unremarkable, at least in the way all his days were. He’d awoken in the bed of a woman whose name escaped him, with a hangover that could win awards. He’d stumbled home to Ophélie around noon, narrowly avoiding wrecking his precious Trans Am on that unforgiving bend in River Road, right past the turnoff from LA-20, and then slept the night off, waking when the sun began to crest over the western side of the property, reflecting off the water of the Mississippi just over the levee.
His evening was an entirely different matter.
Charles had been thinking of a way to avoid dinner with the family. Irish Colleen was certain to ride his ass for something. It didn’t matter what, she’d either bring something up from a decade ago or start in on something he had nothing to do with, like the war, and he was damn tired of answering to her when this was his house. She may be his mother, but her most important job, the one August had left her with that stood above all others, was to see his oldest son become the heir of the family. Well, Charles was the heir now, a man grown several years, and he shouldn’t have to skulk around his own house, hiding from his mother, from the shame she tried to heap upon his shoulders.
Several phones rang throughout the house in unison. Ophélie was so big that there were phones all over the old plantation, so there was never an excuse for a call to go unanswered. Unless it was up to him, of course. That’s what they had Richard and Condoleezza for, not to mention their cache of staff who were always getting in the way.
The ringing stopped. Charles pulled a pillow from the cold side of his bed and pressed the soft fabric to his face. He was always so hot when he woke up. Evangeline once told him it was because sleep was when the body healed, and he’d done so much damage it had to work extra hard. He wondered if half the shit she said was true. If he hadn’t spent six years in college, and still failed out, he might know the answer.
“Charles!” Colleen’s voice bounced across the oak and cypress, carrying down the hall.
He set the pillow aside and groaned. “What?”
“Phone for you!”
“If it’s another reporter—” he screamed just as Colleen was saying, “it’s Catherine!”
Charles shot up in bed. Cat? He’d seen her twice since her strange visit to Ophélie, both times double dates with Colin. But she’d never said a word about their conversation, and after a while, he’d begun to think he might have hallucinated the whole thing. That made a hell of a lot more sense than Cat driving an hour from New Orleans to espouse his merits as a man.
Colleen thrust his door open. “Hey, did you hear me?”
Charles nodded, only half-aware of her standing there. He looked around… for what? His head screamed. These cursed headaches were worse in the summer, and especially in the bedrooms, which rarely cooled down all the way in the old house.
“Don’t you have a phone in here?”
Yes, that was it! “Yeah… somewhere…”
Colleen huffed and stormed across the room, to his dresser. She pulled out drawer after drawer until she found it. She held the yellow metal over her head like a prize, the long cord dangling.
“Be a doll and plug it in?”
She rolled her eyes, but did as he asked. She held the receiver to her ear and waited, then said, “Cat, you still there? Yeah, I found him. Hang on.” She held it out.
Charles nodded to the door.
“Sure, yeah, you’re welcome.” Colleen went to leave, then turned when she reached the door again. “Don’t tie up the line too long. Elizabeth is waiting for a call.”
Charles shooed her away. “Cat? You there?”
“I’m here.” He could hardly hear her, but there was something in her voice that immediately sent off the alarms in him.
“One second.” He waited until he heard the other receiver click. “Cat? What’s wrong?”
“I just broke up with Olly.” She sobbed on the other end. “He just left.”
“What?” Charles looked around the room, as if it would provide some guidance on what to say other than just single syllable words. “Why?”
“I… tried to talk to him, but he is so hard-headed! When he has his mind set on something being true, you can’t change it.” She blew her nose into something and returned to sobbing.
Charles knew this was an important moment. She’d broken up with Colin and it wasn’t one of her girlfriends she’d called, but him. And she’d said she’d been the one to do it. He started to ask why she was crying if it was her idea to break up, but something inside him cautioned what a bad idea that would be. “Okay, okay. It’s okay.” You can do better than that, you ape. “I’m sorry. Do you wanna talk about it?”
“You know him!” she cried, as if that explained everything. “You know how he can be. How he gets.”
“Yeah, Colin is pretty fucking stubborn,” Charles agreed. “But you’ve been with him a long time, and you knew that. Something must have happened?”
“Oh, it happened all right! I tried to just tell him how I was feeling, but we both know he doesn’t relate to feelings, not when there’s logic on the line.”
“Cat,” Charles said softly. “Start at the beginning.”
“Okay,” she said, sniffling. “You know how he’s starting his law internship in the fall?”
“Yeah.”
“I already don’t see him as much as I want to, and he was reading off his schedule and all the things he’ll be doing, and I realized it wasn’t going to leave much time for us.” She stopped for a moment and he heard her take a drink of something. “That should matter, too, right? Time for us?”
“Yeah, of course it should.” Charles ransacked the drawer for anything to take the edge off the headache. He had to think clearly. This was important… why, he wasn’t sure yet, but it was, and he had to be present. He found some pills, painkillers he’d stolen from his mother when she got her gall bladder out, and popped two.
“He sure didn’t seem to think so. He asked me why that was so important, and I told him, we’ll be hit
ting two years this winter, and I don’t want to spend less time, I want to spend more. He asked me what I thought the whole point of going to law school was, that he was preparing for our future together, and I probably shouldn’t have said this, but I said… well, I said he wasn’t doing that for me, it was for his Sullivan ego.”
“Damn,” Charles said with an exhale. Even he knew you didn’t attack a Sullivan for their pride.
“But then I tried to calm down and try another approach. I told him… I said, if you really feel all these activities and classes are unavoidable, then why don’t we move in together? We spend all our time at either his place or mine anyway. It’s more practical, if nothing else! But it would help us with the time issue, because we’d have mornings and nights, and…” She dissolved into her grief again, and for several moments he listened to her keen and cough.
“Look, Cat… Colin is a complicated—”
“So then he asked me if I didn’t think maybe I was rushing things! Rushing things? Charles, I’ve been with him almost two years. He was the first one of us to mention marriage, and he talks as if that’s still what he wants. But I’m rushing things?”
Colin had much to teach Charles about the world, had he the desire to learn, but this was an area Charles wished his friend would take occasional advice from him on. He had no doubt of Colin’s love for Catherine… he’d never seen him so serious about anything, or anyone, not ever. But Colin’s approach to the world would always be one of logic first, and to him, everything made sense when he could categorize it into neat little boxes.
But a defense of Colin wasn’t why Cat had called him. “Shit, Cat, I’m so sorry.”
“So I told him we were done. I’m not going to throw any more of my life away waiting for someone who might never appreciate me.”
The Seven Boxed Set Page 29
