The Weight of Blood (54)

It took several seconds for it all to register.

Mama believed in Satan?

“No,” Maddy gasped, slapping the pictures back, trying to iron them with the heel of her hand and erase them from her memory. She stumbled out of the closet, slamming the door behind her.

She couldn’t believe it. She wouldn’t believe it. Her power was a gift, not something evil. Her mama was beautiful and pure and loved her. It said so in the book she left. Well, in so many words. She grabbed the journal once more and sat on the bed.

The darkness inside your blood will wring you dry. But lessons are built in struggle.

Reading through her mother’s thoughts felt like swimming through molasses toward memories deeply implanted. Maddy wondered if her mother had cooed these words while Maddy floated inside her belly.

You were born on a cusp, the smirk of the stars. This gives you great power. You are more than just a Cancer, more than just a Gemini. You are a combined force, made with the type of magic no one could steal even if they tried. You, my moon child, shine brightest in the darkness. Laugh at their feeble attempts to put out your light. Let your moon draw the oceans close so that they may bow to you.

But what did all this mean? Cancer? Gemini? Moons? Oceans? Her thoughts exploded, collided, and intertwined as she turned each page, trying to understand the riddles. Were these the words of a madwoman? A Satan worshipper? Had Maddy inherited her mother’s madness? Was that same madness making her fall for a boy she could never have? It didn’t feel like madness; it felt holy and inescapable. But what would Kenny think if he knew about her gift? She couldn’t bear to imagine it.

As she neared the end of the journal, she felt no closer to her mother, only more confused. Had her mother known about all those violent protests? Had she participated in any?

Why didn’t she kill them all? the voice hissed. She should’ve killed them all!

“Don’t say that,” Maddy whimpered to the air, and turned a page.

The stars within you will guide, sustain, and nourish you. There is power in knowing oneself. 7:38 a.m. 6/23.

Maddy sat up bone straight. June twenty-third . . . her birthday.

When you feel the need to run without ceasing, I will be where the low country meets the sea. Until then, I will fly to you, whenever I can.

How could her mother write Maddy’s birthday in a book tied to the bottom of her bed if she’d died giving birth to her?

Unless her mother hadn’t really died. If not, then what happened to her? Where was she?

Maddy closed the book. She thumped down the stairs in a daze, staring at Papa’s locked office door.

Everything she’d thought she knew no longer made sense, yet she had unwavering certainty that her mother would never have abandoned her, would have fought for her. If her mother was alive and still around . . . Maddy’s life would have been so different. She would’ve been protected from Papa, from the kids at school, she wouldn’t have been so alone, she would’ve known real love. The thought of the potential existence she’d missed out on, a dream deferred . . . took her breath away. Something must have happened to her mother. But what?

She found Papa on his knees in the living room, among the tapes, movie posters, and candles, praying. For days, Papa hadn’t spoken to Maddy. Hadn’t even looked at her. The lunch she’d prepared, egg salad on Wonder bread with a thermos of Campbell’s tomato soup—his favorite—sat untouched.

She didn’t want to tell him about the journal. Not yet. But she had questions only he had the answers for.

“Papa, you need to talk to me.”

Papa mumbled his prayers at the ceiling, a picture of Jesus looking down on him.

“I’m not evil. And I’m not trying to hurt you by going to prom. I want to obey. But . . . I also want to start living a normal life now.”

He hummed, rocking back and forth.

“It’s just that, Papa, everyone knows about me now. So we don’t have to hide anymore. We can be like regular people. I want to be a regular person. We have to start trying to be like everybody else.”

Papa stopped his muttering to glare up at her.

“Why would I want to be like everyone else?” he spat.

For a change, she could almost appreciate his stance. Almost.

“Get out of my house, witch,” he hissed, seething.

“Papa,” she gasped.

He grunted, rising to his feet, his knees cracking, and it occurred to her how old he seemed. As if the last few days had aged him.

“You are no daughter of mine!” he shouted, spit flying out of his mouth. “Mine was good and pure, and you don’t belong here! If you don’t get out, I will drag you out!”

Maddy stared up at him, heartbroken. Where would she go if Papa threw her out? Where could she go? She had no family she knew of, or friends. Home was the only world she’d ever known. She hadn’t changed all that much and was still very much his daughter.

But then she thought of her mother’s journal and realized . . . Papa had lied to her. About everything. He’d said she died in childbirth, that Maddy had killed her coming out of her womb. The guilt ate at her self-preservation, made her eager to please him, begging for his love. And she hated him for it.

Nails biting into her palms, she sighed. “That’s not going to happen,” she said, her voice sharp and calm. “I’m your child. There’s a lot I could say about you if you kick me out. Is that what you want?”