Spectacle(61)

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Maman, moving so close she was practically under Nathalie’s chin. “You don’t know how Tante was ridiculed and how your father was mocked when Dr. Henard went from hero to fool. Yes, I kept it from you, and I’m not sorry that I did.”

Nathalie’s face erupted with heat. “Maybe you should be. Because Papa passed it on to me.”

“What?”

“I have visions, Maman.” Nathalie spat the words as if they were sour milk. “At the morgue. Every time the Dark Artist has a victim on display, I touch the viewing pane and I see the murder scene.”

“You’re lying.” Maman took a step back.

“Now I’m lying? No, I’m not. I see the cuts he makes in their faces, Maman. I see the blade sink into their flesh, I see the girls scream until they die, I see the blood pour out of them. I see it as if I’m killing them with my own hands.”

SLAP.

Maman, quick as a wasp. Maman, who hadn’t struck her in the face. Ever.

Nathalie looked away as her hand went to her cheek, cradling the sting. Hot tears trickled over her fingers before she could stop them.

She pulled her hand away, eyes no longer tearing up, and wheeled to face Maman.

The fury she expected to see wasn’t there. Instead her mother’s face reflected fear. Terror, even.

Maman retreated, her back to the stove.

“Why are you backing away?”

Her mother stuck out her chin. “You’re not acting like yourself.”

“Neither are you!”

Maman clutched her apron. “Something is wrong with you. You’re either making this up or you have magical powers you have no right possessing. You and Simone, always exploring something. Her mother has mentioned tarot cards. You … are you two involved in something? The occult?”

Nathalie narrowed her eyes to slits. “I am not dignifying that absurdity with an answer.”

“I ask because this is not possible,” said Maman, more to herself than Nathalie. “No one has ever … unless you’re mad.”

“That’s your answer? Slap me and then go stand by a pot of strawberries?” Nathalie flailed. “You can’t run away from this, Maman! I’m not crazy. I do have powers. Being scared of me is about the cruelest response you could have. Merci for your understanding. And then you wonder why I don’t tell you anything.”

“Perhaps it’s better that way for both of us.”

Nathalie turned on her heel and headed to the apartment door. “Oh,” she called, her hand on the doorknob, “and you’ll be happy to know that I’m never going to touch the morgue glass again. Maybe that will ease your fears.”

“What do you mean, never again? Why?”

Nathalie stormed out of the apartment without answering. She stalked down the hall toward the door that led to the roof and felt for the key above the threshold.

Where is it? Did someone take it?

She looked back toward the apartment, dreading the thought of going back in. Then she spotted the key on the floor, in the corner. She opened the door, locked it behind her, and climbed the stairs. She sprawled on the flat roof and lay there thinking and crying, and at one point contemplated the idea of throwing herself off. It wasn’t a serious thought; when she ran through the scenario, her imagination halted as soon as she pictured walking up to the edge.

The sky went from blue to yellowish blue on the horizon to brilliant orange. Darkness trickled in, and at some point, she noticed stars. Eventually she drifted off to sleep and awoke with a start.

Thunder.

She went downstairs to the warmth of the bed, Stanley curled up beside her. The thunderstorm came through, louder and more powerful than any other this summer, or so it seemed.





27


When Nathalie woke up in the morning, there was a note from Maman on the kitchen table.

At Mass. Will return before noon.

Nathalie crumpled the paper and threw it on the floor. Mass? They went to church for holidays and funerals. Otherwise Maman never went to Mass, only to prayer services at Notre-Dame from time to time.

Maman had never slapped her in the face before, either.

After a quick breakfast, Nathalie returned to her bed. She wrote in her journal.

Waiting.

Wondering.

A short while later she heard the key turn in the apartment door lock.

Her heart thumped. She listened as Maman opened the door and cleared her throat. Next she heard paper crinkling; Maman must have picked up the note. Every mundane sound rustled with suspense, each one a ghost of uncomfortable possibilities, startling her, then skulking into the shadows.

As if she could avoid conversation with Maman forever.

In the next moment she heard Maman’s footfall draw closer. Nathalie’s heart pumped faster and she leaned over the side of the bed, sliding the journal underneath.

Maman cleared her throat again, this time at the bedroom doorway. She took off her white-flowered hat. “May I come in?”

Nathalie shrugged.

“I went to Mass today.”

“I saw the note.”

“I prayed for you,” Maman said, her voice neither soft nor sharp.

“In case I’m some kind of monster? Maybe I need an exorcism.” Nathalie made the sign of the cross in the air, then let her arm drop to the bed, dead weight.