This Monstrous Thing(67)
“On a dreary night in November,” I said, the first line of the resurrection scene in Frankenstein.
She winced, like it was a jab. “But then my husband found it. I couldn’t tell him it was real, so I said I’d made it up. They were all writing horror stories while we were here, and I told him that was mine. And he liked it so much he wanted me to write more. If I had said no, I’d have had to tell him why, so I kept writing. And it felt so good. It was like I was finally making peace with what we had done.”
“So you should have burned it.”
“I couldn’t have done that. I’m its creator, same as you’re Oliver’s.”
I hated that word, creator. I wanted to spit and stomp on it. I hadn’t made Oliver. He’d done that himself.
“Then Percy showed it to his publisher,” Mary continued, “and they wanted to print it and I didn’t know what I was supposed to do. So I hid you as best as I could.” She looked over at me. “I wrote it because I couldn’t keep it inside of me. You were always so good at that, but that was never who I was. I needed some way to work out how the rules of God and man and creation changed after you brought your brother back from the dead.” She pulled her legs up next to her on the stoop as a group of carolers shuffled past us, singing softly. “Do you know the story of Prometheus?” she asked. I shook my head. “It’s from Greek mythology. He’s a Titan who makes mankind from clay. It’s a creation myth, a way to explain the creation of man.”
“I know what a creation myth is,” I snapped.
“Then you understand that Frankenstein is mine. My creation myth, for men made of metal and gears. The only way I knew to explain what happened. It’s not your story, though,” she added. “It started that way, but I didn’t know what happened after I left Geneva. It’s all made up.”
“It doesn’t matter that it isn’t true, Mary, because it’s us. It’s me and it’s Oliver—that’s where it started, and people will recognize that. They already have.”
She tucked her chin into her collar and said nothing.
“Are you in it?” I asked. “I thought maybe you were Victor Frankenstein’s wife, but I don’t think so anymore.”
“I think I was Henry at first. The observer. The best friend. The least clever out of everyone.” She smeared a patch of snow with the toe of her boot. “I don’t know. Perhaps I’m the monster. Perhaps we all are.”
I closed my eyes, trying to convince myself that speaking to Mary was poison flowing from my veins, but it was still poison, and it still burned. “Do you think I’m horrid?” I asked.
“What?”
“Victor Frankenstein is horrid. He’s arrogant and he’s cowardly and he puts his own cleverness ahead of anything else. Do you truly think that’s the way I am?”
She didn’t say anything for a moment, and her silence made my heart sink. “The night it happened,” she said slowly, “you weren’t yourself. You were so fixated on bringing Oliver back because you knew you could. You kept saying that to me, I know I can do it. You didn’t care about creation or morality or any of that. And that frightened me, because it was like I didn’t know who you were. That night, I thought I’d lost both.” She held her breath for a moment, then asked, “Do you know where Oliver is?”
I couldn’t say anything, so I just nodded.
“And you’re going to tell the police.”
She sounded so sure of it that I looked up. “You think I should?”
“Don’t you?”
“He’s my brother, Mary.”
“You really think he’s still your brother? That man who stabbed you, who killed Geisler and tormented me for days? I knew Oliver, and that creature isn’t him.” Her voice pitched, and she put a finger to her lips for a moment before she finished. “He never came back, Alasdair. We both know it.”
Something inside me splintered when she said that, and I pressed the heel of my hand against my eyes. I felt her fingers run a whispered track along my spine. “You need to tell the police where he is,” she said. “You can save yourself and your father. If you see Oliver again, he’ll kill you.”
“Well, he’ll have to get in line, since Jiroux seems quite keen on it as well.” I stood up and brushed my unslung hand off on my trousers. “I’ve got to find Oliver. I have to be certain I know what the right thing is before I do anything.”
Mary stood too, shaking out her skirts. “I can’t talk you out of it?”
“No.”
“Then come see me after, so I know you’re all right. I’m at the villa in Cologny again.”
“I can’t leave the city.”
“Then I’ll meet you somewhere. We’ll find you a room for the night. The Christmas market—meet me there.” She reached out for my hand again, and this time I didn’t pull away. “Please be careful,” she said, and when her fingers pulsed, mine responded with a spark.
We parted on the corner. Mary started back the way we’d come, into the sunset, and I went in the opposite direction, toward the Cogworks and the only place I could think to look for Oliver. If he wasn’t there, I didn’t know what I’d do.