The Weight of Blood (24)

Alone with her thoughts, her heart hammered. She sat at her vanity, trying to put the pieces together. Or at least the pieces she could wrap her mind around. In the deepest parts of her, she had always known that something dark lay inside her, feral and dangerous. Something feverish and desperate to show itself.

She could move things with her mind. But . . . how?

Maddy couldn’t tell Papa. She knew how he would react—throw her out of the house for being in bed with the devil, for being a witch. Her gut told her she wasn’t any of those things, but it would take a miracle to convince him of that. Besides, she liked having something just to herself, something life changing, her own little secret. A gift from God, maybe. He had seen her struggle—with Papa and the kids at school—and decided to bestow upon her a great mercy, a gift to help protect herself. If only she really knew how to use it.

But God makes no mistakes.

Maddy picked up her silver paddle brush. Forty strokes every night kept the naps away, Papa always said. She counted, pretending not to notice the eyes boring down at her, watching. Plastered around the oval mirror were pictures of Audrey Hepburn, Marilyn Monroe, Grace Kelly, Jane Fonda, the girls from The Brady Bunch, Shirley Temple, Jacqueline Kennedy . . . image after image of all the women she would never be. They all gawked, laughing and taunting in their silence, judgment sewn into their polished smiles. Papa liked to add new photos to his work of art. He often stepped back, admiring the women as if they were cut from the sun. But not her, never ever her!

Maddy’s eye twitched, and the brush slipped out of her hand. Frustrated, she bent to grab it.

The vanity jerked and skated across the floor, crashing into the far wall.

For a silent minute, she couldn’t move.

“Madison?” Papa called from downstairs. “What was that noise?”

Maddy wobbled back against the bed, gripping the aging quilt.

“Uh . . . nothing, Papa.”

She knew better than to lie, and it wouldn’t be long before Papa would come up to check. She had to put it back.

You could move it, she thought, just like the table in the store.

Maddy bit her lip, the idea terrifying but no more terrifying than her father finding her room out of order. He liked everything to be in its place, neat and tidy. Even a chair not pushed under the table would land her in the closet. She rolled her shoulders back with a deep breath. Wiggling her fingers, she focused on the vanity.

Move, she thought. Nothing.

Bearing down, she pushed her brain to concentrate. Her muscles hummed. She could feel every single item in the attic. From the bed to the hangers in her closet, invisible threads tugged softly at her skin. She focused on the vanity, and it felt no heavier than a paperweight. Her eyes narrowed.

Move.

The vanity shook, then lifted off the floor.

A thrill coursed through her veins. She flicked her fingers, and it glided through the air, landing back in its original spot. She gasped, her smile giddy.

Maddy spun around, gleeful. What else could she move? The lamp, her books, the nightstand? She glanced down at her bed.

Could she really?

She climbed in the middle of the bed and felt for the threads that had tugged at her before.

Move.

The bed lifted off the floor with a creak, slowly rising. The bed was heavier than the vanity, forcing her to concentrate harder. Hands trembling, she wasn’t sure how high she’d risen until the top of her head hit the ceiling. Something dropped, slapping the floor, and she peered down. An unfamiliar leather journal wrapped in cord lay under the bed.

What’s that?

“Madison?” Papa’s footsteps hit the stairs.

Maddy blinked hard, losing focus. The bed dropped like a stack of bricks back down to the floor.

“Madison!” he shouted, his step moving faster.

Maddy hopped off the bed and grabbed the journal. She stuffed it under her pillow just as he opened the door.

“What’s going on?” he barked, scanning the room.

Maddy, kneeling by her bed, hands clasped in prayer, glanced up. “Nothing, Papa.”

“What was that noise?”

“I dropped my Bible . . . and it knocked over a glass of water. I cleaned it up.”

Papa stood in the doorway, eyes narrowed, inspecting the room for five long silent seconds. He gripped the frame and shut off the light, leaving only the bedside lamp on.

“Go to sleep. I don’t want to hear another sound.”

“Yes, Papa. Just finishing my prayers.”

He nodded and slammed the door. Maddy grabbed the notebook. The cord seemed shriveled and stiff. It must have been tied to the slats under the bed, she thought. She unraveled it and flipped the book open. The pages were weatherworn, crinkled as if they’d been wet, then dried on a radiator. She turned a page and read the first line:

You, my child, were created in a hurricane, leaving destruction in your wake. You, as they say, are a storm with skin. Death and rebirth will follow you everywhere. How can one man who knows nothing of the weight of blood tame you? For wherever you go, there you are.

Maddy stared at the elegant cursive handwriting, overwhelmed as the letters blended, and said a word she had never uttered until that very moment.

“Mama?”





Part Two





Five


MADDY DID IT

EPISODE 4