Ink and Bone(25)

Finley had been dreaming about Eloise, who in the dream was eating a pie with a fork, straight from the pan, digging into its middle, leaving a gaping hole that resembled nothing so much as gore spilling from a wound. She didn’t seem to be enjoying the pie at all, her expression grim, her posture hunched.

“Grandma?” asked Finley uncertainly in her dream. “Is that good?”

Instead of answering, Eloise stood and knocked the pie to the floor. Then the old woman dropped to her knees, somehow managing to get the cherry filling on her clothes and in her hair as she struggled to clean it up.

“Grandma,” Finley asked, alarmed. “What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to fix the mess I’ve made.”

“Let me help you,” said Finley. She attended a Montessori school, where Finley’s teachers had taught her well how to clean up a mess, demanded that she was responsible for herself. So, she knew what to do. She looked around for a cloth, but there wasn’t one.

“You can’t help me, sweetie,” Eloise said. “You’re far too young.”

“I’m not,” said Finley, a little miffed. “I’m a big girl.”

Finley woke from her dream to see Patience sitting by her bed. Abigail could never be trusted. Sarah seemed unknowable. But Patience almost—almost—seemed like a friend.

“Your grandmother is just like us,” she said. “She sees what other people don’t see. Knows what other people don’t know.”

“That’s not true,” Finley said. It couldn’t be true, could it? Surely her mother would have told her.

“She has a lot to teach you later,” Patience went on. “But tonight she fell and hit her head, and she’s very alone.”

Finley woke her mother that night and demanded that they call Eloise; she’d cried and raged until Amanda finally had no choice.

While Finley talked to Eloise on the phone, Amanda lay on the bed and openly wept. And that was the first time Finley ever felt free to talk about her dreams, the people who came to see her, the things she saw. Eloise listened, and understood, and didn’t have a total freak-out like Amanda did when the topic came up. And it was such a relief to let it out, to not hide it.

“Try not to pay too much attention to the dreams just yet, okay,” Eloise had said when Finley was done. She sounded sad, but strong and sure. “They’re not bad or wrong. Just try to ignore them for now. You can’t do anything for anyone until you’re older.”

Finley didn’t talk about The Three Sisters that night. She wouldn’t share that with Eloise until many years later.

“Why didn’t you tell me about Grandma?” Finley asked her mother when the call was over.

“Because I didn’t want this for you,” Amanda said helplessly. “This is my worst nightmare.”

Amanda was in despair, and watching her, Finley felt the first dark flower of rage bloom. She saw too young how powerless her mother was, how inadequate, how weak. Abigail, of course, couldn’t have been more pleased with all the drama this event caused.

“She can’t keep you from this,” Abigail said from the corner of the room. “No one can.”

The second time had been much worse. Finley had been seven years old. Her parents were in a screaming match upstairs, while Finley watched cartoons.

Finley barely heard them; this was happening all the time. Phil and Amanda were either screaming their heads off at each other or making big displays of love and affection, supposedly because her mother had read that it was okay to fight in front of your kids if you showed them when you made up, too. It just made them seem crazy to Finley, and their behavior was very confusing, so she tended to just block them out altogether when things got heated.

It was a particularly bad argument, because Finley had to turn up the television to hear her show better.

Irresponsible. Never here. We’re drowning, Philip.

Overreacting. Controlling bitch. Get off my goddamn back.

It was Abigail she saw first—wild auburn hair, deep-set dark eyes, wide mouth. Then Patience, who stood quietly by the window, almost disappearing into the light. She looked outside at the milky, rainy sky that was the same color as her skin. Sarah sat on the hearth smiling, full of mischief. Abigail was the most powerful, and Patience was the sweetest. Sarah was the easiest to be around because she never asked anything of Finley.

They hate each other, Abigail said without saying.

“I know,” said Finley. She did know that. Her parents might have loved each other once, but no more. It was clear; their terrible energy together was a noxious gas in the house making them all sick.

Make them shut up, said Abigail.

Finley looked at her, finally turning away from her cartoon—what had it been? The X-Men. Finley had always been obsessed with superheroes—cartoons, comics, and movies. She loved the idea of the ordinary person turned into something extraordinary by fateful accident or terrible design. Secret identities, crime fighting, supervillains all in the brightest colors and most outrageous costumes. Way cooler than anything her friends were into—My Little Pony, American Girl dolls—yuck.

Finley’s eyes fell on her father’s cigarette lighter, which he left around everywhere, even as he tried to pretend he’d quit smoking at Finley’s behest. She wasn’t fooled, of course, because he always smelled of cigarettes beneath an obnoxious layer of Stimorol gum and Acqua Di Gio.