There’s an expression Outside when something unexpected happens. They say “the rug’s been pulled out from under you.” That’s the exact fucking feeling. I can’t even process what I want for breakfast, let alone navigate a whole day, a whole week, a whole lifetime without Rory. I know that I meant to leave, but that was when I knew she’d be here living her life, she and CeCi visiting me all the time. I didn’t mean for everything to end. Now nothing makes sense.
CeCi says she went to see the Godmothers, but they weren’t particularly helpful. She’s angry and wants me to be angry, too—angry at Maro, at Malice, at Rory even. I just can’t. And I don’t feel like trying to feel, either.
William keeps asking me to talk to him. I’m just not sure what to say except for “How can this be happening?” which is getting repetitive, even to me. It’s the only question that matters, and one I don’t know the answer to.
I can’t think. I can’t move. I can’t get out of bed. I’m pretty sure this is all my fault, and I have no idea how to undo it. You know how much Rory and I pushed one another. If I had only known that it wasn’t making us both stronger. I don’t know, Zell. I want to think I’d have done things better. Differently, at least.
Rory wrote in her letter that I should follow through with my plan to go Outside. CeCi and William say I should be ready for when the portal is fixed—but how can I? How can I pretend everything doesn’t look completely different than it did yesterday?
William puts things in trunks, and I take them out. Because of the broken portal, I can’t even write Rachel to tell her what happened. Even if I could, how would I explain why we haven’t been back and that I might need her more than ever now that I can’t have her at all? Thinking about her makes everything even worse. So I try not to. I try to act normal when there is no normal.
Maybe the best I can hope for is some new version of normal. A normal where the hurt doesn’t ever go completely away, but where each day doesn’t stab quite as deeply as the one before.
B
From the Desk of Cecilia Cinder Charming
Crystal Palace
North Road, Grimmland
Dear Zell,
I sent Edmund to Rory’s parents today with some brown sugar and cream scones and some coffee I’d bought for Rory’s next birthday. He said they still haven’t decided whether or not to go back to sleep themselves. They’d like to be there when she wakes up again, but they’re worried that there may not be a next time. And they have lives they’re in the middle of living. Their guilt, their anger, that’s hard to imagine. They see what Henry is, and they know they were blind. They only wanted the best for Rory. We all did.
I understand how conflicted they feel. Sometimes I think it’s the Fates telling me to give everything up. That it’s my fault. Perhaps if I quietly took the throne bedecked in a cape of diamonds, everything would return to its place. If I just tried to want a child because Rory wanted one, things might make sense again. I cringe every time I walk past our faux nursery. And yet, I know none of that would bring her back. It would simply make the remainder of my own life a prolonged tribute instead of a celebration of her memory.
And there’s so much to celebrate. So much to share with one another. Stories untold. Gifts undiscovered. For instance, did you know Rory became infinitely more supportive of my culinary training when she discovered ice cream came in more flavors than vanilla and chocolate? We were Outside after class one day, and we stopped at a place advertising thirty-one flavors. She insisted on counting them, but of course stopped once she found the coffee flavor. I watched her eat a three-scoop cone in the sun without getting a drop of it on her white dress. Afterward she moved in on my ice cream—some sort of dressed-up chocolate—and after I got it all over myself, I let her have the rest.
It’s a silly memory, but it’s one of my favorites, her lecturing me on how queenly queens should practice eating drippy things before trying it in public.
Do you remember at my wedding when she accidentally drank way too much champagne and started hiccupping during her toast? None of us even knew she physically could swear. “And my friends—hic—mean the whole—hic—world to me and so—hic—here’s to you—hic—I . . . damn it—hic—Bianca, stop—hic—you’re making it worse—hic—shit.” I couldn’t stop laughing. Not even later that night when Edmund and I were back home alone trying to do serious things.
When something’s impossibly hard, I hear her voice, that infectious optimism that pervaded everything she said and did. It used to frustrate me sometimes. I used to see it as an inability to confront reality, but I understand now that it was her only way to cope. She thought if she just believed hard enough she could make it so. When she lost that ability, right at the end, it was like she became an altogether different person. Empty. Somebody else’s Rory.
Wouldn’t we be better friends to one another, better lovers, better people if we all believed the best of ourselves, our friends, the future—at least every once in a while?
Love,
CeCi
Important Fucking Correspondence from Snow B. White
Onyx Manor
West Road, Grimmland
Z,
You’ll never guess who slithers into Onyx Manor today. Says she has some things to say to me. I tell my maid to send her away, but Maro goes where Maro wants to go, and so she barges in, stamping her inane clogs up and down my hallway and smoothing down her clinging gown.
I don’t feel like waiting for her to put herself together. “Spit it out or get lost,” I say. “You’re lucky we’ve all been too busy mourning our best friend to have you taken back to jail where you belong.”
She takes about two steps onto the balcony where I’m sitting. “I didn’t mean for this to happen,” she says. She looks wrong somehow, dark bags under her eyes.
“But it did happen, didn’t it? So it doesn’t matter what you meant.” I deeply regret having already broken all the projectiles in my chambers, though I do briefly consider repurposing a newly placed pot of geraniums.
“I just want to explain myself. You owe me that.”
“I don’t owe you shit, you backstabbing tramp.” She winces, and I feel a surge of satisfaction that I’ve wounded her with words. (Screw sticks and stones. Words can hurt if one simply tries hard enough.) I should take the high road or strive for some modicum of tact, but, for the first time in days, I feel something instead of nothing. It’s raw-edged rage and it burns my throat and I’ll take it. “Rory trusted you and you let her. You moved in on her husband right under her nose. How did you think this would all turn out? That she’d just welcome you into her husband’s bed? Where were you born, in a goddamned brothel?”
“I didn’t mean it to happen . . . not at first. It all happened so quickly.” She’s fidgety and paces across the room. “They clearly weren’t happy together.”
“What do you know about it?”
She puts her hand on her hip. “I know more about it than you, Bianca. Actually, I know both sides of the story, and I think if you’d just hear—”
I almost want to laugh. “You are a piece of work, you know that? Do you honestly think I give a flying monkey’s ass what Henry’s side of the story is? Especially now that she’s gone?”
“If I had known that she would, well—” She stops herself from finishing.
“You what? Wouldn’t have slept with her husband? Wouldn’t have threatened her with your pregnancy at my wedding? Wouldn’t have taken away everything she wanted for her own?”
“That’s not fair. It’s not like I set out to do all that. I did want to be a comfort to her. And then later to him. And then, it got complicated.”
“Understatement of the decade. Grimm’s sake, Maro, this isn’t the way you show you care about other people. It’s no wonder you don’t have any friends.”
She begins to twist her hands together, a forced sort
of modesty. “I’ve moved around so much, it’s hard for me to bond with people.”
I’m further annoyed by the fact she hasn’t yet realized I’m immune to her bullshit. “And ex-lovers? Have a lot of those?”
She gives up on the façade. Her face falls, and she looks a good ten years older. “You’ve already called me a whore, why even ask?” Her voice ices over. She’s done being the supplicant. “You’ve made up your mind. Judge and jury. Coming here was a waste of time.”
“I won’t argue with you there.”
“Well, at least I tried.”
I allow myself to smile. “Maro, do you know my very favorite saying of Rory’s? I want you to remember this: ‘The common denominator in all of your failed relationships is you.’ ”
Her breath catches. “I deserve happiness just like all of you.”
“Not at the expense of other people. Figure that the fuck out before you bring that poor kid into the world.”
She places her hands on her stomach. “So you’re never going to forgive me?”
Damn Rory. Damn her forgiveness. I try telling Maro what Rory wrote to us, but at that moment, the words stick in my throat as if they’re made of chalk. The more she talks, the more I hate her. “I don’t want anything more to do with you. You’re a thief, an impostor, and a liar.”
“How did you find out about Swan Lake?”
“Odette and I attended summer camp together. I wrote her about you way back when you first started hanging around. We’d planned to send you back with the constable as soon as he recovered from the oyster debacle. I don’t know what to do with you now.”
“Is it even your call to make?”
I rise from my seat and spread my hands wide. “I’ll ask Odette to send someone to come get you. Should give you a day or two to get your shit together. That’s the best I can do.”
“They’ll send me to prison.” She tosses her sausage curls behind her shoulders. “Besides, I was Albert’s wife! That jewelry was rightfully mine.”
“I don’t care what you did or whether you’re guilty or where they put you once you get back there. I don’t care what happens to you as long as you’re not here.”
“You’re a heartless bitch, Bianca White.”
“Takes one to know one,” I say. “Can you find your way out, or do you need to hump a guard first?”
She turns, shoulders heaving. I don’t feel guilty for hurting her feelings, but I do feel guilty for ignoring Rory’s instructions. “Maro. Wait.”
She stops, but she doesn’t turn.
“It’ll be a long time before I stop holding you responsible for this, whether it’s my place or not.” I take a deep breath. “But you should know that Rory forgave you. And she told us to tell you she did.”
Maro opens her fists and closes them again, and her head dips almost imperceptibly. She’s sobbing loudly when she walks out of my life, for what I fervently hope is forever.
I feel better for having said my piece, lighter for having said Rory’s. When my pulse slows a bit, I put Snoozer on his leash. We walk to the Swinging Vine to see DJ. He puts on Rory’s favorite disco CD, then pours us two giant glasses of champagne and a beer for Snoozer. No one finishes. Rory’s absence is as palpable as the day she left.
I hear you’ll be attending the wake. I know Rory would have been glad.
B
From the Desk of Cecilia Cinder Charming
Crystal Palace
North Road, Grimmland
Dear Zell,
I realize it’s only been a matter of months you’ve been gone, but it feels like a lifetime has passed. Hell, it feels like a lifetime since last week. And in light of everything that’s happened, I hope you’ll understand why your arrival was a bit, well, complicated. For both Bianca and me.
I didn’t pay enough attention. We talk a lot about blindness—my sisters, Jason, even—but I was the blind one this time. I was wrapped up in secrets, even when I was trying to help, and I didn’t see Rory suffering.
Bianca did. And because she did, this entire situation has been particularly hard on her because neither you nor I listened.
Imagine the elation of her wedding and her big plans followed by this total devastation—she had a long way to fall. It’s not that I don’t hurt as much or you don’t hurt as much, it’s just a matter of being broadsided. I doubt anyone was quite as unprepared for Rory’s decision as Bianca.
She also feels a lot of guilt. We all do. While you’re right, in the end it was Rory’s decision—her own fault, even—Bianca’s too raw to hear that right now. She may be for a while.
And, honestly, I don’t know what in the hell you were thinking, offering to take Snoozer.
It’s tantamount to pouring salt in a wound. What do you know about this part of our lives—this part of Rory’s life? You exited stage right and expected us to live on the scraps of paper you deigned to send our direction. And now you come in and try to mop things up?
I’m not making excuses for Bianca, but I am telling you that I think her umbrage is valid. Step back for a moment, Zell. This crisis—losing our friend—this is what it takes for you to be there for us. Not my birthday. Not Bianca’s wedding. Not as Rory begged for your help with Maro. Not even as Bianca prepared to leave the Realm for Outside.
I know you feel some amount of mea culpa, and I’m not trying to throw this back in your face. But for Grimm’s sake, Zell. You’ve made it so much harder than it needed to be. We thought we understood what was important. Bianca feels like she overestimated her importance in your life, and worse than being hurt, she’s embarrassed.
She’ll come around. Her pride always heals quickly. She’s angry because she loves you and she wants you to love her back.
I’m angry because I love you and I want you to trust us. I know you were only trying to tell us that we’d done as much as we could. But when you said we “hadn’t let Rory be her own person,” and that’s part of the reason you didn’t tell us you were leaving, I felt like you’d dismissed our friendship. I hope you didn’t mean that. You couldn’t have. You know full well we didn’t set out to change Rory. We only wanted to protect her.
I’m sorry I made you feel as if you couldn’t trust me, or that I wanted you to be anything other than who you are. I love who you are: yesterday, today, and tomorrow. I hope you love me as I am and as the person I eventually become.
I’m sorry things have been going so badly at the preserve. I’m sorry none of us came out to help you. We had no idea things were falling apart from the tiny bits of your life you shared in your letters. I can understand your need to hold things back. But it isn’t fair for you to turn around and be angry that we aren’t empathetic to your plight when we don’t even understand what your plight is.
I do care, Zell. I wish you could have stayed longer. We both made mistakes. We both failed to tell one another we were hurting. We both let the other believe in some version of us that doesn’t exist. I let you think I couldn’t live without one particular version of you. You let me believe you could live without any version of me. Let’s start over again. Let me know how to help you.
Love,
CeCi
Important Fucking Correspondence from Snow B. White
Onyx Manor
West Road, Grimmland
Z,
I’m sure CeCi has already apologized and explained and placated and smoothed over as is her core competency. I’m not going to pretend that’s my gig.
So, first, I’m going to tell you I love you.
Second, I’m going to ask who the fuck you think you are. Do you even know what Snoozer eats? Do you know which pair of slippers are his favorite to chew on in the morning? What about at night? Are you going to brush his slobbery doggy teeth and wash his muddy paws and take him out to piss at three in the morning? Well, I don’t give a fuck. I love that spo
iled, shedding, farting ball of drool. You can’t have him.
But, third, I shouldn’t have blown up at you at the wake.
Fourth, I really shouldn’t have thrown shrimp at you.
Fifth, and final, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I’m scared to move forward with our lives without her, and I panicked at seeing you, at seeing how different our lives have become.
And Zell, I think you panicked, too. I don’t know all the details of what’s going on with you and Jason, but it certainly isn’t CeCi’s fault. You wanted to be your own person, and you weren’t sure you could do that around us? Well, thanks a lot, Zell.
I know what it’s like to look around and want to cast blame, but you can’t do that here. We love you. We’ve always loved you. And we’re not going to stop loving you just because you’re being a jerk. If that were the case, I would have been cast out of this particular circle of friends a long time ago.
Look, friends influence friends. That’s the whole point. We grow when we listen to each other. We give gifts of ourselves. Sometimes these are intangibles like hope or assertiveness. Sometimes it’s ketchup and house music. At the end of our lives we’re made up of those bits and pieces of the people who came into our lives.
I’m also intimately familiar with trying to save face. When you left, you had to act like you had shit under control. Clearly you didn’t. Your marriage was on the rocks, your finances an afterthought, your children in no way prepared for country life. I get it. It didn’t work like you thought it would. I’m sorry we put you on a pedestal. That’s the only thing we could do, because you blocked us out.
CeCi and you were closest. That was never a secret. So whatever identity crisis you’re in the middle of, you have to fix it and, ideally, let us help. Be honest with us—but especially her. I can see through your bullshit, Zell, and I still love you. But CeCi? She’d believe you if you told her you lit the night sky yourself. So play fair.
Letters to Zell Page 24
