My left hand tells only the truth, my right only lies. I am right-handed, but honest, which presents difficulties. My grocery list scrambles over the page in awkward letters; my “dear john” notes are crisp across the paper.
My stories—I type them. They are both lies and truth, as all good mythology should be. They are true somewhere, or could be true, or they are part of a deeper version of the truth by which all lives are governed.
Still, they lie. They are not about real people and real things but are ephemeral, as non-existent as the wind and honor and “the greater good.”
My left hand is scarred and scabbed and burnt. I have bitten the nails down to the quick, and there is dirt ingrained in my knuckles. My right hand is beautiful, but its nails are also broken. I break my teeth on the lies and the truth squeaks uncomfortably against my tongue.
Cover my eyes with the left and my mouth with the right. Worse, cover my mouth with both hands and see what I say. Then I spout prophecy in a salamander’s voice, my words twisted until they do not know which path to walk.
(Only a moment ago, I cradled my forehead in both.)
There is a comma in my throat and I sleep in parentheses. All my thoughts are birds and I am afraid; I think I may be going crazy and I want to cast my boyfriend away.
Right hand: I love him.
Left hand: I love him.
What I want to know is a question my oracular appendages cannot answer—am I correct, or am I ungrateful? Will I sever our connection and never find another?
I have held his hand with both my right and my left.
Clasping my hands together, I stare at the empty sky and wish we lived on different moons.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Monday, March 30, 2009
The Glint of Teeth
We beasts,
our claws sunk in flesh,
have stared at the night
and found it lacking.
We see in the dark,
creatures outlined in blood,
the heat of a frightened heart
beating in the woods.
Our fangs rip
into the neck of a young deer.
What are the stars to us;
what is the moon?
We know the secrets of the caves,
the trails in the long grass
where our ancestors
bit and fought and died.
our claws sunk in flesh,
have stared at the night
and found it lacking.
We see in the dark,
creatures outlined in blood,
the heat of a frightened heart
beating in the woods.
Our fangs rip
into the neck of a young deer.
What are the stars to us;
what is the moon?
We know the secrets of the caves,
the trails in the long grass
where our ancestors
bit and fought and died.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
The Wedding Season
I find June cowering
in the corner,
her arms strewn with apple blossoms,
veil torn into shreds that littered
the ground around her,
one heel broken and the other shoe lost.
Her face buried in the bouquet
of roses and baby’s breath,
she shakes with each ring
of the church bell,
her hands wrapped in thorns
and braceleted in blood.
My touch startles her,
her eyes peering out of the petals,
their blue seeping
into her smeared mascara.
“April?”
she murmurs,
her hope dying within a glance of my face.
I saved a pocketful of last year’s leaves,
their brittle forms full of wishes,
and I pull one out to dry her tears.
“I only wanted her to stay,”
she says.
The flowers fall from her grip
and the wind blows them to pieces.
“She promised,”
says June, voice cracked.
“And when has April ever kept one of those?”
I ask her, and answer for her:
“Not even once. “
His face ringed in His eternal light,
the minister approaches.
We each take one of her arms
and hoist her to her feet,
coaxing her out of the remaining shoe.
With a kiss on our foreheads,
He bids us love and luck.
June and I stumble out of the church.
She wails when we step into the fresh air,
face crumpling.
I sigh. This will be my life
for a good while.
“You should just be grateful
that she left before it was too late.”
My hand near her face is dripping,
and I wince.
“We’ll talk about this later.”
I wonder where April is hiding.
After this mess,
I wouldn’t be surprised
if we missed her for a few turns.
No matter.
March and May can make up the difference.
Whimpers set my teeth on edge
while still wringing out pity.
“Oh, June.”
I stroke her hair.
“It gets better. You’ll see.”
The sun goes behind a cloud.
The trees disappear in shadows.
We fall into my car.
June slips into sleep,
and I drive us home
down a barren road.
in the corner,
her arms strewn with apple blossoms,
veil torn into shreds that littered
the ground around her,
one heel broken and the other shoe lost.
Her face buried in the bouquet
of roses and baby’s breath,
she shakes with each ring
of the church bell,
her hands wrapped in thorns
and braceleted in blood.
My touch startles her,
her eyes peering out of the petals,
their blue seeping
into her smeared mascara.
“April?”
she murmurs,
her hope dying within a glance of my face.
I saved a pocketful of last year’s leaves,
their brittle forms full of wishes,
and I pull one out to dry her tears.
“I only wanted her to stay,”
she says.
The flowers fall from her grip
and the wind blows them to pieces.
“She promised,”
says June, voice cracked.
“And when has April ever kept one of those?”
I ask her, and answer for her:
“Not even once. “
His face ringed in His eternal light,
the minister approaches.
We each take one of her arms
and hoist her to her feet,
coaxing her out of the remaining shoe.
With a kiss on our foreheads,
He bids us love and luck.
June and I stumble out of the church.
She wails when we step into the fresh air,
face crumpling.
I sigh. This will be my life
for a good while.
“You should just be grateful
that she left before it was too late.”
My hand near her face is dripping,
and I wince.
“We’ll talk about this later.”
I wonder where April is hiding.
After this mess,
I wouldn’t be surprised
if we missed her for a few turns.
No matter.
March and May can make up the difference.
Whimpers set my teeth on edge
while still wringing out pity.
“Oh, June.”
I stroke her hair.
“It gets better. You’ll see.”
The sun goes behind a cloud.
The trees disappear in shadows.
We fall into my car.
June slips into sleep,
and I drive us home
down a barren road.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Feverish
There are empty bottles all over my bedroom, but that is okay, because they are tea and juice and water bottles. I have promised not to eat after dinner, but the rule is that I can have liquids, so I guzzle drinks and go through a pack of gum every night.
I have saved the bottles instead of throwing them away because I want to recycle them, because I want to be environmentally conscious. My recycle bin is full, and I should empty it, sorting white paper and mixed fiber and glasses, bottles, and cans into those bright blue containers. I think they chose bright blue because blue is such a reassuring color, it says “I are doing the right thing,” but because it is bright, I can feel as if I am cool as well. Bright blue is energetic, dynamic, but still secure, like the girl who pierced her eyebrows and is taking business classes, just in case.
I should empty it, but I am so busy, and so tired.
There are empty bottles all over my bedroom. Some of them are Gatorade and ginger ale, because those are the sort of things that you drink when you are throwing up constantly. You have to keep fluids in you so you don’t dehydrate. I know all about that sort of thing—I’m going to be a doctor. Then I will never get sick.
I have saved the bottles because I think that I will do something artistic with them later, like stringing them all onto a bottle tree. This is from a book that I read once, and I don’t remember anything besides the bottle tree and something about a trailer park. Flashes of memory like that are coming faster tonight than usual, and it is starting to bother me. A girl in a sweater. . . an empty chocolate box—though at least I know where that is from. Sometimes I worry that I might be going crazy, and then I wonder if anybody will notice. I talk nonsense most of the time as it is.
I should empty my head, but I am so busy, and so tired. There aren’t even bones in my head now, which is what I like best—now it’s all nerves and vertebral levels and branching nerves and origins and insertions and worse, gravity and relativity and stardust, which I shouldn’t be keeping in most accessible bits of memory, because they’re not helpful.
There are empty bottles sitting in my window, green ones to catch the light. I like glass and wood and things that I can touch. I am a tactile person, for my faults.
I have saved the world many times in my dreams, and destroyed it, too. I wonder how much white liberalism it will take to reclaim the rainforests, and wonder if I’ll ever admit that I am one of the league. And as silly as they (we) can be, aren’t rainforests good? Oxygen is a reformed killer, rust aside, and why do we keep trying to overwhelm it with that active murderer, carbon with its singular “o?” My application demands me to volunteer, to work in a lab, to be one thing and everything, as long as I conform to the form, which is wordplay that is not as clever as I think it is.
I should go to bed. My face is red and white, my fingers are shaking, and I’m starting to think that the cat sitting in my corner might be a hallucination after all. . .
I have saved the bottles instead of throwing them away because I want to recycle them, because I want to be environmentally conscious. My recycle bin is full, and I should empty it, sorting white paper and mixed fiber and glasses, bottles, and cans into those bright blue containers. I think they chose bright blue because blue is such a reassuring color, it says “I are doing the right thing,” but because it is bright, I can feel as if I am cool as well. Bright blue is energetic, dynamic, but still secure, like the girl who pierced her eyebrows and is taking business classes, just in case.
I should empty it, but I am so busy, and so tired.
There are empty bottles all over my bedroom. Some of them are Gatorade and ginger ale, because those are the sort of things that you drink when you are throwing up constantly. You have to keep fluids in you so you don’t dehydrate. I know all about that sort of thing—I’m going to be a doctor. Then I will never get sick.
I have saved the bottles because I think that I will do something artistic with them later, like stringing them all onto a bottle tree. This is from a book that I read once, and I don’t remember anything besides the bottle tree and something about a trailer park. Flashes of memory like that are coming faster tonight than usual, and it is starting to bother me. A girl in a sweater. . . an empty chocolate box—though at least I know where that is from. Sometimes I worry that I might be going crazy, and then I wonder if anybody will notice. I talk nonsense most of the time as it is.
I should empty my head, but I am so busy, and so tired. There aren’t even bones in my head now, which is what I like best—now it’s all nerves and vertebral levels and branching nerves and origins and insertions and worse, gravity and relativity and stardust, which I shouldn’t be keeping in most accessible bits of memory, because they’re not helpful.
There are empty bottles sitting in my window, green ones to catch the light. I like glass and wood and things that I can touch. I am a tactile person, for my faults.
I have saved the world many times in my dreams, and destroyed it, too. I wonder how much white liberalism it will take to reclaim the rainforests, and wonder if I’ll ever admit that I am one of the league. And as silly as they (we) can be, aren’t rainforests good? Oxygen is a reformed killer, rust aside, and why do we keep trying to overwhelm it with that active murderer, carbon with its singular “o?” My application demands me to volunteer, to work in a lab, to be one thing and everything, as long as I conform to the form, which is wordplay that is not as clever as I think it is.
I should go to bed. My face is red and white, my fingers are shaking, and I’m starting to think that the cat sitting in my corner might be a hallucination after all. . .
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Spines and Pages
He cried out and shielded his head against the fluttering mass. They rushed past him, their dark-bright eyes contrasting against their racous plumage. Bookmarks fell out of their flock as they flew out the door.
“What did you do?” he shouted.
I shook my head and leaned against the wall, my strength gone. “I’m sorry.”
“All those first editions, the priceless folios—” He crossed to an empty shelf and slid a finger over it, as if to confirm reality. “How could you transform every single book?”
Staring at my hands, which quivered from the abrupt loss of energy, I winced. “I don’t know what happened. I was reading Wallace Stevens’ ‘Thirteen Ways of Looking—”
“I know the poem,” he snapped. “I told you not to read when you’re lively.”
Slumping to the floor, I rested my face on my knees. “I know. But you won’t let me leave the house in case anyone sees me—I was bored!” I glared at him. “Nobody should have to live like this!”
He flinched. “I don’t do it for my own amusement, you know.”
We looked at each other, and I sighed. “Alright. Where’s the butterfly net?”
This was for a challenge of my own design, where you had to write ABOUT birds, but couldn't use any of the words normally associated with birds--the word itself, wing, beak, feather. It came out fairly well, I think, though it's one of my notorious flash in the middle of action, where the backstory isn't entirely present.
“What did you do?” he shouted.
I shook my head and leaned against the wall, my strength gone. “I’m sorry.”
“All those first editions, the priceless folios—” He crossed to an empty shelf and slid a finger over it, as if to confirm reality. “How could you transform every single book?”
Staring at my hands, which quivered from the abrupt loss of energy, I winced. “I don’t know what happened. I was reading Wallace Stevens’ ‘Thirteen Ways of Looking—”
“I know the poem,” he snapped. “I told you not to read when you’re lively.”
Slumping to the floor, I rested my face on my knees. “I know. But you won’t let me leave the house in case anyone sees me—I was bored!” I glared at him. “Nobody should have to live like this!”
He flinched. “I don’t do it for my own amusement, you know.”
We looked at each other, and I sighed. “Alright. Where’s the butterfly net?”
This was for a challenge of my own design, where you had to write ABOUT birds, but couldn't use any of the words normally associated with birds--the word itself, wing, beak, feather. It came out fairly well, I think, though it's one of my notorious flash in the middle of action, where the backstory isn't entirely present.
The Nursemaids--realization
You know, I don't think I like that poem all that much after all. It's too bombastic. Maybe I could do some chopping. Oh well . . .
*Update: It's a BIT better now. I really shouldn't try writing semi-political things. I am not particularly subtle in those cases.
*Update: It's a BIT better now. I really shouldn't try writing semi-political things. I am not particularly subtle in those cases.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
The Nursemaids
Too many times we have asked for nothing
and gotten a kiss on the cheek—
who spilled these coins
into our hands?
Who walked from east to west
and brought back a treasure-pack
full of candy, and why?
We wanted to rub our faces
into the grit and dust,
but they cleaned the streets;
we overturned stones
and found only flowers.
How often do we have to run out of town,
Our of polished bridges and gleaming signs
Before we stay there?
Our scars were our scars,
but they came in the night and healed them,
smoothed out our wrinkles
and put the sparkle back in our weary eyes.
We forgot to remember our troubles,
the earth rising against a red sky,
gentle metal hands scraping away our millennia
and leaving an ever-renewing today.
We don’t want another lollipop
or a box of watercolors.
Too many lullabies
tear my ears
like so much gunfire.
Rainforest restored,
we are all slipping
into a placid siesta,
our days calm and gentle and dim.
They scrubbed the carbon monoxide out of the air
as easily as they bleached away
war, poverty, starvation, disease—
all those wicked horses
gone from their trails and replaced by rocking-ponies.
and gotten a kiss on the cheek—
who spilled these coins
into our hands?
Who walked from east to west
and brought back a treasure-pack
full of candy, and why?
We wanted to rub our faces
into the grit and dust,
but they cleaned the streets;
we overturned stones
and found only flowers.
How often do we have to run out of town,
Our of polished bridges and gleaming signs
Before we stay there?
Our scars were our scars,
but they came in the night and healed them,
smoothed out our wrinkles
and put the sparkle back in our weary eyes.
We forgot to remember our troubles,
the earth rising against a red sky,
gentle metal hands scraping away our millennia
and leaving an ever-renewing today.
We don’t want another lollipop
or a box of watercolors.
Too many lullabies
tear my ears
like so much gunfire.
Rainforest restored,
we are all slipping
into a placid siesta,
our days calm and gentle and dim.
They scrubbed the carbon monoxide out of the air
as easily as they bleached away
war, poverty, starvation, disease—
all those wicked horses
gone from their trails and replaced by rocking-ponies.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
By the Book
The hooded figures, faces hidden by the shadows of eighty-eight lamps, walked counterclockwise around the prone man staked out on the floor. They chanted in Greek and made arcane gestures toward their captive.
A shorter form, cloaked in purple, stepped into the middle of the circle and stood above the prisoner. A curved, golden knife flashed in gloved hands. “For the crimes you have perpetrated . . . for the unnatural act you have committed . . .”
The man whimpered against the gag in his throat and tried to thrash against his bonds.
“I use this sacred knife to avenge your sin and purge our persons from your evil.”
A plunge, a brief spurt of blood, and it was finished.
Pulling back her hood, the Head Librarian shook her head. “I mean, really! Deliberate mis-shelving? He had to die.”
The Venerable Order of Librarians nodded in agreement.
A shorter form, cloaked in purple, stepped into the middle of the circle and stood above the prisoner. A curved, golden knife flashed in gloved hands. “For the crimes you have perpetrated . . . for the unnatural act you have committed . . .”
The man whimpered against the gag in his throat and tried to thrash against his bonds.
“I use this sacred knife to avenge your sin and purge our persons from your evil.”
A plunge, a brief spurt of blood, and it was finished.
Pulling back her hood, the Head Librarian shook her head. “I mean, really! Deliberate mis-shelving? He had to die.”
The Venerable Order of Librarians nodded in agreement.
Opportunity Bashes in Your Skull
Cast your chance to the wind!
You’ve already got too much luck saved up
from all the opportunities you didn’t take
all those times you refused to stick your neck out
or take one tiptoe onto the tightrope.
You’re bursting with fortune and accidents,
dice glinting in your eyes
and rolling on the back of your tongue.
My God, man,
when are you going to pour your life into your hands?
When will you stop calculating statistics
and leap for the impossible?
Part of the adventure is the bruises,
mistakes made on the wrong path
and written as scars.
Find a way to risk yourself and find yourself!
As giddy laughter bubbles down from your throat,
jump into a cascade of possibilities.
How can you play pretend until you are old,
knitting a life from promises and ragged routines?
Paper can become planes;
Your bones yearn to taste new sky,
the rain of another lifetime on your skin.
My God, man,
too many pennies have fallen into the gutter;
you know better than to keep your fingers
in your pockets.
Scatter stars into the desert
before the sun dares the horizon,
and wonder where you’re going next.
My broken nails and spiderwebbed palms
could fit into your grip, if you want it enough.
Reach out at least once;
you need a story to tell in front of the fire.
There is a sea out there,
fish waiting with mouths full of teeth and pearls,
coral dripping with seaweed,
and I have a boat.
You’ve already got too much luck saved up
from all the opportunities you didn’t take
all those times you refused to stick your neck out
or take one tiptoe onto the tightrope.
You’re bursting with fortune and accidents,
dice glinting in your eyes
and rolling on the back of your tongue.
My God, man,
when are you going to pour your life into your hands?
When will you stop calculating statistics
and leap for the impossible?
Part of the adventure is the bruises,
mistakes made on the wrong path
and written as scars.
Find a way to risk yourself and find yourself!
As giddy laughter bubbles down from your throat,
jump into a cascade of possibilities.
How can you play pretend until you are old,
knitting a life from promises and ragged routines?
Paper can become planes;
Your bones yearn to taste new sky,
the rain of another lifetime on your skin.
My God, man,
too many pennies have fallen into the gutter;
you know better than to keep your fingers
in your pockets.
Scatter stars into the desert
before the sun dares the horizon,
and wonder where you’re going next.
My broken nails and spiderwebbed palms
could fit into your grip, if you want it enough.
Reach out at least once;
you need a story to tell in front of the fire.
There is a sea out there,
fish waiting with mouths full of teeth and pearls,
coral dripping with seaweed,
and I have a boat.
Monday, March 2, 2009
(Untitled)
This just went to a stupid, stupid place, but I love where it started. I'll have to try to chop off the ending and forget it sometime. Still needs a title . . .
My twin sister Hettie and I will only seem attractive to the men who want our fortune. We have come to accept this, and have given up any attempt to pretend otherwise. Now we sit in our rooms all day, writing romance novels, and trying to convince our older sister Geraldine that she is dead without telling her that we killed her.
“Alright, if I am dead,” she says, spinning in her nightgown, “How did I die?”
“You tripped on the stairs and broke your neck,” Hattie mumbles. She is bent over her latest manuscript, editing it. Hettie is a much better writer than I am, but I sometimes sneak in a little hint of bedroom relations, so my novels sell a great deal more. I have never been able to tell how she feels about this. I drum my feet against the clawed feet of my desk, set close to hers. I am not in the mood to write; I have not felt very romantic lately.
Our bedroom once felt like a safe haven, the only place in the world when Hettie and I would not be judged by people. I used to love its overstuffed feeling. The wallpaper is covered in enough flowers for twenty gardens, the rose-colored carpet is several inches thick, and there are three tables, a large cabinet, and quite a few bookcases in the study alone. Our bedroom is equally full, with our over-sized brass four-poster, a clothing cupboard for both of us, and a dressing table with two elegant chairs. We spent many days in here, playing with our dolls and telling each other stories about a world we did not truly understand, a place where all the women were beautiful and pure, all the men noble and handsome, all the romances grand and tragic. Now it feels like a prison. I do not know if Hettie feels the same way; I pray that she does.
“Impossible!” Geraldine declares, startling me out of my melancholy musing. “I have marvelous grace and poise. I could never have tripped, let alone fallen. Miss Danvers always said that I was the best ballet student she’d ever had.” To prove it, she does a grand jeté across the room, failing to notice that she floats through the bedpost as she does so. “There! Could somebody with that much skill ever die by falling down the stairs? Of course not! It is a ludicrous notion.”
Hettie and I look at each other and sigh. Geraldine’s long black hair hides the unnatural position of her bones, so we cannot point that out to her. It seems hopeless. Unless we explain the exact way in which she died, which Hettie has very kindly agreed not to do, she will continue to refuse to believe us and continue to haunt our bedroom.
I have not slept properly since that night.
“Geraldine, if you are alive, why do you not ever leave this room? I am sure all your suitors miss you, and you must miss all your parties.” I find a scrap of scented stationary and move it about on the desk, sending up tendrils of lavender.
She stifles a fake yawn against her palm. “Those dears? Oh, they have become ever such bores, Angelica. I simply find them too tiresome for words anymore. Perhaps in a few months, when I am not suffering from such malaise of spirit.”
Our parents, social butterflies that they were, preferred tutors to governesses, in the opinion that neglected girls should be educated. We are all quite educated in French, the flute, and drawing, though I am tone deaf and Hettie cannot draw a straight line. Geraldine was the only one who had ballet lessons, for obvious reasons. Hettie and I are the more educated, unsurprisingly; as soon as Geraldine was old enough to walk without stumbling, she has been a social creature. Her busy life of dancing, balls, and afternoon garden parties, not to mention a natural disinclination for thought, brought the lessons to a end sooner rather than later.
“I thought some of them were rather nice,” I cannot help but say, though I immediately wish to bite my tongue and pull my words back into my mouth.
Geraldine smiles, exposing the hole where the tooth she knocked out against the landing had been. It is the only thing that cheers me as she coos and flutters her eyelashes. “Is that so, Angelica? Is there anyone in particular of whom you are speaking?” She presses her hand to her chest and strikes a pose. “True, they have become boring to me, but you do not go out in society as much as I do, after all. I am sure you are not accustomed to regular conversation yet, at least that which does not involve Hettie or myself. You have been sadly neglected. If you would like me to fix you up with one of my discarded beaus, I would be happy to do so.”
If I concentrate on my letter opener, I do not have to look at her. Hettie reaches over and places a calming hand on my arm. She smears some ink on me, but I do not mind.
“It would be difficult for you to set anyone up with anyone,” she says, tone thick with mockery, “being as you are dead and they would be unable to see you.”
Geraldine scoffs. “Then how are you able to see me, dearest sisters? Please, I have heard all of your arguments before; my logic will pierce each one.”
“We can see you,” Hettie snaps, “because we—”
I jerk in horror, and she changes her sentence quickly. “—are specially gifted with psychic abilities, of course. God has granted us some recompense for our state of existence.”
“Oh, yes. Your ‘condition.’”
For once, I am gratified to hear the disgust in her voice. If it bothers her, perhaps she will go away and haunt the kitchen, or the attic, or the stairs, anywhere but our bedroom. Since she died, she has been talking incessantly and smearing ectoplasm on our clothes when she tries them on. True, we the only ones who can see it, but ectoplasm has the unpleasant appearance of snail tracks. We tell the washerwoman to wash perfectly clean clothes, and she gives us perplexed looks.
“I honestly do not know how you go on living, so deformed in that manner.” Geraldine shudders theatrically and pats her hair, looking into our only mirror, a tiny brass thing set high on the wall. She then looks over at us. “Sisters, do you ever resent our parents for being cousins? After all, that is probably why you are the way you are. Granted, I have not been cursed in such a way, or in any way, but I have always been lucky.” Rummaging through my cupboard, her hand sinking though the wood, Geraldine tries on my straw hat with the yellow ribbons. I commissioned it when I still hoped that people would learn to love me, or at least tolerate me, and when I thought we might someday spend a vacation at the sea. “Angelica, this hat must look terrible against your sallow complexions. You should really let me have it.”
We glare at her. Hettie and I tend to avoid even thinking about our single-ness, our connected disfiguration that binds our slender waists together, and we do not appreciate her ham-handed references and snide remarks.
“We are not Egyptians, Gerry. You cannot take possessions with you to the afterlife. You. Are. Deceased.” Hettie slams her pen onto her desk. “I cannot edit like this, though it may be due to the publisher tomorrow.”
Geraldine frowns. “Honestly, sisters, you have had your fun, but enough is enough! This little charade of yours has gone on far too long.” Pulling off my hat, she tosses it onto the floor, almost treading on it as she reaches for Hettie’s yellow diamond necklace.
“It is no charade!” Hettie insists, her long face containing even more of an appearance of determination than usual. “It is but the honest truth. Why do you not believe us? You no longer belong on this mortal coil; ascend to the heavens for your eternal reward.” She scowls at her. “And Mother gave me that necklace; put it down.”
“Do not be so fussy,” says Geraldine, holding the necklace against herself and preening. “I will not hurt it.” She sighs and lets the piece slip from her hands onto the bed. “And truly, Hettie, if you are going to be so cruel as to tell me that you wish me dead, I do not think I wish to be around you anymore.” Pressing a hand against her temple, she limps to the door, not noticing that her feet are not quite touching the ground. “Tell the maid to send me some powders to combat this dreadful aching head you have given me. Perhaps she should being some laudanum as well, so that I can sleep when you have put me in such a terrible distress.” Stopping for a moment to see what affect her complaints have had on us, she sniffs to see us rolling our eyes. “You have no compassion for me at all.”
Hettie sighs and looks to heaven for strength. “Geraldine, we will not be saying anything to the maid about you, as she would think us mad for speaking of our dead sister, and we have no compassion for you, because you are a vain, coldhearted person even in death.”
“Ooooh!” Geraldine stamps a foot and huffs away, not bothering to even open the door as she leaves. “I hate you!” she shouts as she leaves, and the room temperature grows noticeably colder. I shiver, and Hettie copies me.
My twin sister Hettie and I will only seem attractive to the men who want our fortune. We have come to accept this, and have given up any attempt to pretend otherwise. Now we sit in our rooms all day, writing romance novels, and trying to convince our older sister Geraldine that she is dead without telling her that we killed her.
“Alright, if I am dead,” she says, spinning in her nightgown, “How did I die?”
“You tripped on the stairs and broke your neck,” Hattie mumbles. She is bent over her latest manuscript, editing it. Hettie is a much better writer than I am, but I sometimes sneak in a little hint of bedroom relations, so my novels sell a great deal more. I have never been able to tell how she feels about this. I drum my feet against the clawed feet of my desk, set close to hers. I am not in the mood to write; I have not felt very romantic lately.
Our bedroom once felt like a safe haven, the only place in the world when Hettie and I would not be judged by people. I used to love its overstuffed feeling. The wallpaper is covered in enough flowers for twenty gardens, the rose-colored carpet is several inches thick, and there are three tables, a large cabinet, and quite a few bookcases in the study alone. Our bedroom is equally full, with our over-sized brass four-poster, a clothing cupboard for both of us, and a dressing table with two elegant chairs. We spent many days in here, playing with our dolls and telling each other stories about a world we did not truly understand, a place where all the women were beautiful and pure, all the men noble and handsome, all the romances grand and tragic. Now it feels like a prison. I do not know if Hettie feels the same way; I pray that she does.
“Impossible!” Geraldine declares, startling me out of my melancholy musing. “I have marvelous grace and poise. I could never have tripped, let alone fallen. Miss Danvers always said that I was the best ballet student she’d ever had.” To prove it, she does a grand jeté across the room, failing to notice that she floats through the bedpost as she does so. “There! Could somebody with that much skill ever die by falling down the stairs? Of course not! It is a ludicrous notion.”
Hettie and I look at each other and sigh. Geraldine’s long black hair hides the unnatural position of her bones, so we cannot point that out to her. It seems hopeless. Unless we explain the exact way in which she died, which Hettie has very kindly agreed not to do, she will continue to refuse to believe us and continue to haunt our bedroom.
I have not slept properly since that night.
“Geraldine, if you are alive, why do you not ever leave this room? I am sure all your suitors miss you, and you must miss all your parties.” I find a scrap of scented stationary and move it about on the desk, sending up tendrils of lavender.
She stifles a fake yawn against her palm. “Those dears? Oh, they have become ever such bores, Angelica. I simply find them too tiresome for words anymore. Perhaps in a few months, when I am not suffering from such malaise of spirit.”
Our parents, social butterflies that they were, preferred tutors to governesses, in the opinion that neglected girls should be educated. We are all quite educated in French, the flute, and drawing, though I am tone deaf and Hettie cannot draw a straight line. Geraldine was the only one who had ballet lessons, for obvious reasons. Hettie and I are the more educated, unsurprisingly; as soon as Geraldine was old enough to walk without stumbling, she has been a social creature. Her busy life of dancing, balls, and afternoon garden parties, not to mention a natural disinclination for thought, brought the lessons to a end sooner rather than later.
“I thought some of them were rather nice,” I cannot help but say, though I immediately wish to bite my tongue and pull my words back into my mouth.
Geraldine smiles, exposing the hole where the tooth she knocked out against the landing had been. It is the only thing that cheers me as she coos and flutters her eyelashes. “Is that so, Angelica? Is there anyone in particular of whom you are speaking?” She presses her hand to her chest and strikes a pose. “True, they have become boring to me, but you do not go out in society as much as I do, after all. I am sure you are not accustomed to regular conversation yet, at least that which does not involve Hettie or myself. You have been sadly neglected. If you would like me to fix you up with one of my discarded beaus, I would be happy to do so.”
If I concentrate on my letter opener, I do not have to look at her. Hettie reaches over and places a calming hand on my arm. She smears some ink on me, but I do not mind.
“It would be difficult for you to set anyone up with anyone,” she says, tone thick with mockery, “being as you are dead and they would be unable to see you.”
Geraldine scoffs. “Then how are you able to see me, dearest sisters? Please, I have heard all of your arguments before; my logic will pierce each one.”
“We can see you,” Hettie snaps, “because we—”
I jerk in horror, and she changes her sentence quickly. “—are specially gifted with psychic abilities, of course. God has granted us some recompense for our state of existence.”
“Oh, yes. Your ‘condition.’”
For once, I am gratified to hear the disgust in her voice. If it bothers her, perhaps she will go away and haunt the kitchen, or the attic, or the stairs, anywhere but our bedroom. Since she died, she has been talking incessantly and smearing ectoplasm on our clothes when she tries them on. True, we the only ones who can see it, but ectoplasm has the unpleasant appearance of snail tracks. We tell the washerwoman to wash perfectly clean clothes, and she gives us perplexed looks.
“I honestly do not know how you go on living, so deformed in that manner.” Geraldine shudders theatrically and pats her hair, looking into our only mirror, a tiny brass thing set high on the wall. She then looks over at us. “Sisters, do you ever resent our parents for being cousins? After all, that is probably why you are the way you are. Granted, I have not been cursed in such a way, or in any way, but I have always been lucky.” Rummaging through my cupboard, her hand sinking though the wood, Geraldine tries on my straw hat with the yellow ribbons. I commissioned it when I still hoped that people would learn to love me, or at least tolerate me, and when I thought we might someday spend a vacation at the sea. “Angelica, this hat must look terrible against your sallow complexions. You should really let me have it.”
We glare at her. Hettie and I tend to avoid even thinking about our single-ness, our connected disfiguration that binds our slender waists together, and we do not appreciate her ham-handed references and snide remarks.
“We are not Egyptians, Gerry. You cannot take possessions with you to the afterlife. You. Are. Deceased.” Hettie slams her pen onto her desk. “I cannot edit like this, though it may be due to the publisher tomorrow.”
Geraldine frowns. “Honestly, sisters, you have had your fun, but enough is enough! This little charade of yours has gone on far too long.” Pulling off my hat, she tosses it onto the floor, almost treading on it as she reaches for Hettie’s yellow diamond necklace.
“It is no charade!” Hettie insists, her long face containing even more of an appearance of determination than usual. “It is but the honest truth. Why do you not believe us? You no longer belong on this mortal coil; ascend to the heavens for your eternal reward.” She scowls at her. “And Mother gave me that necklace; put it down.”
“Do not be so fussy,” says Geraldine, holding the necklace against herself and preening. “I will not hurt it.” She sighs and lets the piece slip from her hands onto the bed. “And truly, Hettie, if you are going to be so cruel as to tell me that you wish me dead, I do not think I wish to be around you anymore.” Pressing a hand against her temple, she limps to the door, not noticing that her feet are not quite touching the ground. “Tell the maid to send me some powders to combat this dreadful aching head you have given me. Perhaps she should being some laudanum as well, so that I can sleep when you have put me in such a terrible distress.” Stopping for a moment to see what affect her complaints have had on us, she sniffs to see us rolling our eyes. “You have no compassion for me at all.”
Hettie sighs and looks to heaven for strength. “Geraldine, we will not be saying anything to the maid about you, as she would think us mad for speaking of our dead sister, and we have no compassion for you, because you are a vain, coldhearted person even in death.”
“Ooooh!” Geraldine stamps a foot and huffs away, not bothering to even open the door as she leaves. “I hate you!” she shouts as she leaves, and the room temperature grows noticeably colder. I shiver, and Hettie copies me.
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