“Don’t you know?” Christian asked. When Edmond didn’t respond, his face crumbled, and his hand, the one that often spoke for him, started to pound at his chest, as if to beat whatever was inside him into submission.
It was intolerable, what Christian was doing, and Edmond found himself storming across the room, unable to bear it, yet also drawn to it. He dropped to his knees. “For their sake?” he asked, trembling with anger and fear and anticipation. “They did this to you? Tormented the kindest man I’ve ever known so badly he finds himself completely unable to speak?” He seized Christian’s hand before he could harm himself further, squeezing. “It’s not sin, what’s inside you,” he said. “I promise you it’s not.”
And having said that, Edmond kissed him.
It was a chaste thing, though earnest, for all that it was impulsive, and Edmond expected resistance. When there wasn’t any, he closed his eyes and pulled back a hair’s breadth, feeling strangely vulnerable as he asked again, “What is it tied to, Christian, that thing inside you?”
And he waited an agonizing wait until he felt a faint stirring and heard…
“You.”
CHAPTER
FORTY-SIX
Where the Door Is Concerned
SIX MONTHS LATER
Annie slid a pen under the scarf wrapped around the top of her head, scratching at her scalp as she stared at the door her father had made and she’d acquired a century later. It had become something of a bad habit since losing her hair. The bone-marrow transplant had been a breeze, and her grandmother had pulled through like a trouper, but the chemotherapy accompanying it had left Annie with a spate of skin rashes, mouth ulcers, and…a bald head.
The night Annie’s hair fell out was something of an emotional roller- coaster ride, and her memories were still partitioned into two spheres— those of her loss itself and those of how very special Christian really was. She’d been taking a bath in her eagle- claw tub, her head half submerged, when she’d opened her eyes to find a clump of hair floating across her field of view.
Christian had come flying into the bathroom at her scream and had found her sitting up in the tub, sobbing, with strands of hair draped over both her hands like ribbons. He’d thrown both arms around her as she’d completely lost herself in self- pity, assuring her it was just temporary. When she’d gotten hold of herself, he had her lean back so he could gently sponge away the remainder, collecting it all in a plastic bag.
It was what he’d done next, however, that made it all bearable—almost. He’d told her to close her eyes and disappeared downstairs. She wasn’t at all happy with his brief absence— vulnerability was a new experience for her—but he’d returned quickly and, after ensuring her eyes were still shut, had begun to brush the top of her head with the tenderest strokes.The sensation was so soothing that she’d simply given in and quietly let him apply his “therapy,” as he’d called it.
She had no idea how long he was at it—at least an hour—before he’d ran to her vanity, smiling self-consciously when he returned. He’d held up a mirror for her inspection. “You always wanted to go blond, and I thought…” He’d let the remaining words drift away and waited for her response. She’d gasped at her reflection and had broken into further tears, not because of her loss, but for what he’d done. Christian had painted the most beautiful golden curls all over her head to replace the hair she’d lost.
“I can wash it off. I can wash it off right now,” he’d said, panicking at her reaction.
Had anyone else done it, she would have been horrified, but it was the perfect expression of who Christian was that he’d planned for this moment, thinking of how to spare her pain. So she’d done the only thing she could, putting her hand over his mouth to cry and cry and laugh and swear she loved them before crying some more.
When she was all played out, he’d pulled a gift-wrapped box from underneath the tub, explaining that it was a gift from everyone—him, Edmond, and Elsbeth (who was recovering in her cabin under Edmond’s watchful eye). Inside were a good dozen of the most extraordinary silk Chanel scarves she’d ever seen. He’d had her pick one, and then, having assured himself that his artwork was dry, had wrapped it around her head in a retro style taught to him by Mrs. Weatherall.
His artwork had faded over the next few weeks and her hair was growing in nicely, but it itched like the devil all the time.
Annie withdrew from the memory, and her eyes returned to the door. They fixed on the bloodstain she’d put in the top left-hand corner before her first foray into the past, trying to decide whether or not to share her suspicions with her grandmother. She couldn’t even bring herself to tell Christian that she knew Mr. Culler had been murdered well before Elsbeth confirmed it. That when she couldn’t decide how or where to banish him, couldn’t think beyond her outrage in that critical moment he was lying unconscious on the floor outside her solarium, the door seemed to take matters into its own hands, showing her an image of her father exacting revenge. It was a ruthless image, and she’d accepted it greedily in that moment, knowing it would come to pass.
In the quiet days that followed, as she slowly put her life back together, Annie pretended that it had all been the workings of her overactive imagination and that she didn’t really know she’d sent Mr. Culler to his death. But the minute she opened the letter from Elsbeth and saw the article, she knew what it would contain. So, Mr. Culler’s demise remained a mystery that only she, her father, and the door knew the answer to.
Yes, she thought, the door. There was more to it than the magic of time travel. It weighed on her mind, and she began to suspect, as her father did before her, that it was inhabited by an intelligence.
And what were the implications of her suspicions? She couldn’t accept that it was evil, because that would require her to destroy it. The door had brought her precious cargo in the form of her grandmother. And in many ways, it had fostered an extraordinary family—her, Elsbeth, Christian, Edmond, and Cap’n—misfits one and all, alienated by society and perfectly suited for each other’s company. Certainly, something capable of creating such beauty couldn’t be evil. And, after all, Mr. Culler’s death was justifiable.
Not comfortable with her conclusions and not wanting to frighten anyone, Annie decided to keep her speculations to herself. She was preparing to write Love, Annie at the bottom of the letter she’d been writing when she heard the sigh of a door hinge and the murmur of voices in the kitchen, signaling that the boys had just come in from the back. Edmond had been whipping the rose garden into shape all week. He’d recruited Christian to help, and it had worked out well enough, though Edmond refused to allow him near anything that conducted electricity or had sharp edges. Knowing Christian as she did, Annie applauded Edmond’s good horse sense.
“Take off your shoes,” she yelled.
She’d scribbled her name and folded the note into thirds when a hand rested on her shoulder. “Give me a second,” she said and reached up to pat it, even as she felt the light pressure of a kiss atop the scarf on her head.
Her smile faded. Whether by instinct or intuition, she couldn’t tell, but she was infallibly certain that the hand belonged to neither Christian nor Edmond. And she was equally certain to whom it did. But it’s not possible, she thought, the shock jump-starting her heart to thump in its chest cavity. And, just as quickly as that thought passed through her mind, she realized that the door made anything possible. She held her breath as a cheek brushed against hers, not daring to move.
“You’ll find me not so easily dispatched this time, Miss Aster.”
The voice, hauntingly familiar, spurred Annie into motion. She sprang from her chair, pivoted, and launched herself at her uninvited guest even as he said, “Why, you don’t look at all happy to see me, Ann—”
Her name was cut short by a grunt as the two landed in a mound of flailing limbs that led inevitably to Annie’s arms being pinned above her head. She had little time to recall the irony of the last occasion in which she’d
found herself in that position before a pair of lips crushed hers. She struggled, to be sure, but the nature and duration of her struggle was altogether different this time. It was brief and ended with her returning the kiss with a passion that would do credit to all Catholic schoolgirls everywhere. But as their tangled bodies uncoiled and an elegant hand reached for the scarf, she recoiled.
“Don’t,” she said, shaking her head.
Nathaniel brushed his lips across her nose before resting them on a brow and, ignoring her plea, drew the scarf away. He rested on his elbow to take her in, his eyes swelling in a manner that very nearly broke Annie’s heart.
“It’ll grow back in,” she said.
He put his hand over hers as she struggled to replace the scarf. “You mistake me, madam.” He tossed the scarf aside and gently fingered an angel-fine strand of hair. “I didn’t think it possible, but somehow you are even more beautiful than I remembered.”
As Annie pulled him to her, and they reacquainted themselves with certain laws of attraction wholly unrelated to physics, Christian peered into the living room from the kitchen. Satisfied, he disappeared.
Elsbeth doffed her nightgown and replaced it with her frock.
Grabbing her spectacles, she wandered to the stove to boil some milk. She opened the cupboard and reached between a sack of flour and a tin of lard to retrieve something that had no business being there. Chuckling indulgently, she squeezed some of its contents into the pan, watching as the goop spluttered and bubbled out.
Making a mental note to have Edmond pick up some more chocolate syrup, she poured herself a steaming cup of cocoa and headed to the mailbox with a familiar pop and snap. She stared about at the austere landscape and took a sip before lifting the lid to the box to withdraw a letter. It had become part of her daily routine. Shuffling back to her rocker, she began to read.
December 7, 1995
Dear Nana:
I had the strangest dream last night in which I awoke to find a woman sitting in my dressing chair, watching me. She was petite and beautiful, wore a period piece that turned me to pudding with envy, and smelled heavenly, though I couldn’t put my finger on the fragrance. I was completely at ease. We sat on the floor like two little girls to play chess, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, with a set made from the most ridiculous pieces imaginable. The pawns were toads, the king a crow, and the queen—that fabulous queen—a brightly colored totem pole.
She talked and talked as we played, saying how proud she was of me, that she admired my strength, but that it was time for me to give up my “silly, self-imposed isolation,” as she put it, and not waste the family of remarkable misfits that had been given me.
When I woke this morning, it was to that last thought and the almost overpowering fragrance of honeysuckle. Then, suddenly I remembered something. That scent has been following me everywhere since the surgery. I woke to it when I was in the recovery room—I don’t know how I could have forgotten that. I’ve also caught a whiff of it from time to time in my quieter moments, while reading a book or flipping through channels. Isn’t that odd?
I’ve given it some thought. It’s my mother, isn’t it? You wrote that she loved honeysuckle, chess, and crows.
I’ll do as she said. And she’s right, you know. We are misfits, one and all, thrown off by society for our perceived slights— eccentricity, age, addiction, orphanhood, and well, I’ve already discussed Christian’s perceived slights with you, though Edmond seems to have cured them quite nicely.
For starters, I’ve invited my neighbor over for tea—the one who bought the house three doors down. Christian, no doubt, will like her instantly.
Before I forget to mention it, the auction of the bearer bonds turned into a bloody field day. I can’t even process what it all means. The investment division at the bank is seeing to the transfer and investment of the funds.
It goes without saying that Doctor Gow is pitching a fit over our plans, insisting I haven’t convalesced long enough, but he relented under pressure. Paris for the holidays—imagine that. I’ve already had some dresses made in your size.
Love,
Annie
P.S. I burned the cookies again. Edmond had the cheek to say they were an improvement over the prior batch.
P.P.S. See if you can coax Bristle through the door. This house needs a cat.
Elsbeth put the letter down and chuckled. “Well, I’ll be damned,” she said. Finishing off the cocoa, she disappeared into the bedroom, banging about and making a terrible ruckus. Moments later, she placed a cigar box on the table and sat down. Inside, nestled between shotgun shells and fishing wire, was an assortment of knickknacks.
One in particular caught her eye. She held up a bracelet made of twine, remembering that long-ago night when Tom had given it to her. He’d sat her on the swing under the oak at her parents’ house, pulling out two pieces of twine—one red, one white—and had begun wrapping them around each other, tying seven knots along their length. With each knot, he’d made her a promise, ending with a pledge at the seventh to replace it with a proper wedding ring when he was able. He’d tied it around her wrist, and they were married within a fortnight. Three years later, he’d given her a simple silver band—the one she still wore. It dawned on her suddenly that Tom had kept every promise, including “until death do us part.”
She laid the bracelet aside and retrieved another trinket from the box. Tom had carved this one for Beth Anne. It was an odd little thing, painted in clashing bright colors and looking more like one of those Tootsie Rolls Amos sold at the Hay and Feed than a chess piece. It was Beth Anne’s favorite. The white queen—the totem pole. She wrapped it in a piece of newsprint, tied the bracelet around it, and wrote a quick note.
Annie—
I think your mother would want you to have this.
Nana
“Nana?”
“Hmmm?”
“You’re hogging the popcorn, the afghan, and the couch.”
“Sorry, baby girl.” Elsbeth started to move her feet out of the way, but Annie lifted them onto her lap instead. Better situated, Elsbeth wiggled the bunny slippers she’d taken to wearing 24-7, while pointing to the television set as closing credits scrolled across the screen. “What was name of this show, again?”
“The Golden Girls.”
“That’s it.” Elsbeth crammed a handful of popcorn in her mouth and said between chews, “Sophia rules, but I have a hankering to powder Blanche’s bottom.”
“Rules?” Annie palmed her forehead, immediately aware of the dreadful slang’s point of origin. “Edmond,” she said, shaking her head at the obvious. Theme music filled the room as she watched scene after scene in which Bea Arthur displayed an incredible range of expressions that comingled exasperation and disbelief in varying ratios, most of which were aimed at Rose, all the while trying to figure out what had gotten her grandmother’s goat. Elsbeth was being positively fidgety. Annie had a sneaking suspicion why, but wanted to hear it confirmed.
“What’s wrong, Nana?” she said finally. “What’s got you so touchy?”
Elsbeth tucked the afghan around her sides, the corners of her lips slouching for a second before she asked, “What’s today’s date, again?”
“That’s the third time you’ve asked. It’s the ninth. What’s going on?”
Elsbeth pulled the afghan up to her chin. “The Great Caruso debuted at the Met yesterday,” she said. And while her comment was almost wistful, she still managed to glance at her granddaughter with perhaps a wee bit of petulance.
Feigning boredom, though the tic in her cheek nearly gave her away, Annie paused the video and reached between the sofa cushions to pull out a pair of tickets that she dropped into grandmother’s lap. “Happy birthday.”
Elsbeth peered at them, uncertain how to handle the turn of events. Feeling slightly embarrassed, yet annoyed that Annie had drawn out the suspense, she finally sat up and held them at arm’s length, staring over her spectacles. “But
…” she said, glancing at Annie, then back to the tickets. “But we’re too late. It’s over. The canary sang and flew the coop.”
Annie grabbed a handful of popcorn before gesturing toward the kitchen with her thumb where a very peculiar door stood and said, “You’re kidding, right?”
Reading Group Guide
1. If you had Annie’s time portal, when and where would you go?
2. Who is your favorite character in the novel? Why?
3. Imagery adds depth to the written word in literature. There are several repeating images in The Lemoncholy Life of Annie Aster, one of which is that of a crow. What do you think the crow might represent? Did you notice any other significant images? What might they mean?
4. Roses, particularly, have been a bonanza for symbologists throughout history. What do roses represent to you? What do you think the roses that appear behind Annie’s house represent?
5. Déjà vu is defined as the illusion of having previously experienced something. Christian fears that he may have met Edmond before but doesn’t remember. In the end, did he experience déjà vu, or was it more complicated than that?
6. As a society, we are undeniably judgmental about drug abuse. Did your impression of Edmond change when you became aware that he struggled with drug addiction? Why or why not? Do you think drug addiction is a disease or a choice?
7. Cap’n was shocked by how the world treated her when she lost her family and home. Fabian said that homelessness and poverty made her invisible to the world, because otherwise people would have to “face their own pettiness.” Do you think that is a fair comment?
8. “I’m not proud of what I done, but pride ain’t really something I can afford.” Cap’n says this after admitting to Annie that she steals, and her point is clear. While she is mindful that theft is wrong, she’s not going to suffer too many scruples about it when her survival is at stake. What is the measure of this sin (stealing) when it is held up against survival? Whose sin is greater, Cap’n’s for stealing, or society’s for creating the circumstances that forced her to steal?
The Lemoncholy Life of Annie Aster Page 33
