Girl One(118)

Bellanger’s house loomed out of the shadows. As I walked past those darkened windows, I could almost feel his presence right behind them, my whole body on high alert. I could only hope he was asleep. Dead to the world, complacent in his belief that he had us trapped. Fiona was in there somewhere too, swaddled by pills. My stomach cramped. She seemed so incredibly alone.

The chapel was different. It looked smaller now, as if Bellanger’s presence inside the space had made it physically larger. I tried the door; unlocked. I slipped inside. Most of the candlelight was extinguished now, only one votive candle standing alone at the far end of the space, sending its bright, tattered shadow up the wall and against the ceiling.

There was one other person in the chapel, leaning his back against the wall, half drowsing. A young man, face shadowed from the candlelight. Like Mathias, he wore a gun slung over his chest. I approached the young man without hesitation. Like I belonged here. The guard barely had time to react—he scrambled upright, glancing around like he expected to see somebody with me. His face stuttered into confusion when he realized I was alone.

“I’m here to see Margaret Morrow,” I said.

His eyes darted to the door next to the altar. “You’re not—did he send you? Nobody’s supposed to talk to her until—” He stopped, his mouth tightening. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Unlock that door,” I said, soft yet authoritative. Instantly he turned, fumbling in his pockets for a key ring. He was young, barely my age. Rabbit-like features and dark hair. I wondered why he was here, in a makeshift chapel in the middle of the desert, giving up sleep to watch over a prisoner. Was he drawn to the mythology surrounding Fiona? Or the promise and authority surrounding Bellanger?

Cate and Isabelle must’ve already reached the shed. Its secret stockpile of guns and ammunition, a dormant explosion that could be nudged along by the single swipe of a match. “Tell me if you have the key to unlock the main gate,” I said.

“Yes,” he said. “I have it.”

“Then you’re going to wait here,” I said. “Wait here, until I’m ready for you. Stay quiet.” I walked into the darkness that held my mother.



* * *



“Mom?” The air in this little room was warm and sour, twice as thick as normal air. No windows.

“Mom?” I called again. By now I’d arrived at so many doorsteps, crossed endless county lines, always half believing my mother would be waiting on the other side. I’d been chasing the scraps of her left behind on notebook pages, on answering machines, trapped in other people’s memories. I stood inside this sweltering space. A small room near the back of the chapel, the door to the side of the altar that I’d barely noticed before. My hand shaking, I held up the votive candle I’d stolen from the altar, the glass burning my palm. The guttering flame revealed piles of boxes, blankets, dust-frosted and haphazard. Maybe she wasn’t here either. Maybe Isabelle had been imagining things. My mother was gone, and I had to get out of here—

From the back of the room, she rose. Margaret Morrow. Mother One. My mother. The last time I’d seen her, she’d stood on our porch and waved goodbye, both of us awkward and uncertain as I stepped into Bellanger’s future. She was different now. In the dreamlike lighting, I could see that her face was older, hollowed and thin, her hair threaded with gray at the temples. Her lower face was distorted: I realized that she’d been gagged, a dark cloth tied tight around her mouth. I set the candle down, trembling too hard to trust myself with it.

She began moving toward me, uneven. Her hands were tied too. I hurried toward her, reached behind her to grapple with the knots. My own hands trembled so hard I could barely work the knots loose, but then they gave. I pulled away the gag, and something in my chest unclenched too. My mother drew a deep, trembling breath. “Josephine,” she said. Her voice. My voice. “My baby.”

I pulled her into a tight embrace, and we stood there, the same exact height, our heads nestled onto each other’s shoulders, our bodies shaking as she cried. I swallowed back my tears; I couldn’t stop smiling. My gratitude was fierce and huge and it filled every part of me. Our identical heartbeats were pressed together. As I’d gotten older, my mother and I had become more and more distant. By the time I’d left for Chicago, we’d rationed our physical contact to a quick peck on the cheek or a functional, fleeting touch to catch each other’s attention. This felt like making up for lost time.

Of the nine women who’d given birth at the Homestead, only three were still alive now, my mother among them. I wanted to drink her in. It was the first time I’d met Margaret Morrow as she really was.

“You’re a fucking idiot, Josephine.” My mother pulled back too soon. She grabbed my face in both her hands and shook me. Her tearstained face was terrified. “You shouldn’t be here. You have to get out now.”



* * *



My mother’s fierceness scared me. The sheer desperation on her face. “I was hoping—I was praying every day—that he wouldn’t bring you here,” my mother said. “The things he plans to do to you—”

“But I came here to find you,” I said.

“—And then you show up here by yourself. Just saving him the time.” She glanced toward the door, her face haunted. “Why are you here? He refused to let me talk to you. Did he change his mind, or…?”