In the Shadow of Blackbirds(68)

I raced off to my bedroom, where I pulled my diagram of Stephen’s last months out of the drawer beneath Uncle Wilfred’s compass. With careful strokes to avoid messing up my work with inkblots, I crossed off information that no longer seemed accurate and added new discoveries.





June 29



Stephen’s last letter, written from France.





Sometime between June 29 and October 1



Stephen sent home.



Taken to East Coast hospital?





Sometime between summer and October 19



Stephen loses his life.



(Grant just mentioned executions of soldiers suffering psychological trauma. Did that happen to Stephen?)





Saturday, October 19



Restless sounds heard above Julius’s studio during my sitting.



Julius says that may have been Stephen’s ghost.



MRS. EMBERS COMES DOWNSTAIRS, LOOKING

LIKE SOMEONE HAS JUST HURT HER.



STEPHEN IN CORONADO AND STILL ALIVE AS OF



MY 10:00 A.M. PHOTOGRAPHY APPOINTMENT!





Monday, October 21



We pick up my photograph in Coronado; the picture includes Stephen’s “spirit.”



Julius tells us Stephen died a hero’s death.



MRS. EMBERS SCREAMS STEPHEN’S NAME UPSTAIRS.



(DID SHE JUST FIND HIM DEAD??)




I returned to my aunt with my notes. “See? I think he died somewhere between October nineteenth and twenty-first—somewhere between my Saturday morning sitting and the Monday morning we picked up the photograph.”

Her eyes scanned the paper forced into her lap, and her lips whitened. She shook her head. “What are you implying?”

“Remember the state Julius was in when we picked up my photograph early that morning? He seemed dazed and upset, and I asked you if he was on opium. Then their mother screamed Stephen’s name upstairs, and she hasn’t been seen again.”

“Julius … he’s not a murderer. He can’t be. He wouldn’t kill his brother or his mother.” She shoved the paper off her lap. “He even cried at Stephen’s funeral—remember?”

“Were they tears of sorrow or guilt?”

“Why would he risk finding his brother’s spirit at a séance if there was a chance Stephen would call him a murderer?”

“But Stephen doesn’t know who killed him.” I picked up my diagram from the floor. “The war and reality seem to have blurred together into a jumbled mess in his head. All he talks about are bird creatures attacking him.”

“Don’t talk to me about birds, Mary Shelley,” she warned with a stony glare.

“I need to go to his house.”

“No!” She grabbed my arm. “Even if I get the flu and drop dead, promise me you won’t ever go over to Julius’s. Promise you won’t let him pour his honey into your ears.”

“You’re not going to drop dead from the flu, Aunt Eva.”

“Promise me.”

I squished my lips together. “I don’t think I can promise that. Julius is probably one of the only people who knows what really happened to Stephen.”

Lines of concern wrinkled her forehead, making her look older. “But while you’re helping Stephen, who’s going to help you? Why don’t you ever think about saving yourself?”

“My mother saved other people. I thought you wanted me to be like her.”

“Your mother was a trained physician. You’re a sixteen-year-old girl.” She pointed to the window. “Listen to the world out there. Do you hear all the sirens? It’s not safe to go anywhere. You stay inside this house.”

“Then Stephen will be staying inside with me. I’ve got to find out how he died.”

“No, you don’t.” She erupted into another mess of soggy tears. “You don’t need to do anything but listen to me for once in your life. Take all his belongings out of your room, throw them into the backyard—”

“No!”

“I feel like the only adult left in this world right now, and I don’t know what else to do. Please just stay in this house and rid yourself of anything that has to do with that boy.” She began to sob so hard that her face turned a disconcerting shade of purple.

I rubbed my face and steadied my breath. “All right. I’ll stay inside for now to make you happy. Please stop crying so much. You’re going to make yourself sick.” I dropped my arms to my sides and watched her wipe her eyes and leaking nose with a handkerchief pulled from beneath her covers. “If we’re not going anywhere, can I please make us a breakfast that doesn’t involve onions?”

She hiccupped. “Take a bath first. You look and smell awful. Unless you think that boy will show up in the tub with you—”

“He’s not going to show up in the tub, for pity’s sake.” My skin sizzled with a blush. “You stay here and calm down, and I’ll go get washed up. Everything will be fine.”

?????



AUNT EVA’S FEAR OF STEPHEN SHOWING UP IN MY BATH got me thinking.