Spectacle(62)

Maman entered the room and sat on the corner of the bed. “I prayed for myself, too.”

“So that you know how to handle your demon child? Or mad daughter? Or science experiment freak? It must be one of those.”

“Stop it. You’re in your bedroom, not on stage.” Maman’s tone had an edge to it for the first time since she’d begun talking. She exhaled into a weary, troubled sigh. “Please tell me what’s been happening. All of it. I will listen without getting upset. I promise.”

Nathalie propped herself up straighter. “Non.”

“Ma bichette.” Maman drew closer, placing her hand on top of Nathalie’s. “Please.”

Stanley jumped off the bed. “Giving us privacy, are you?” Nathalie watched him leave the room. She paused, staring at the empty doorway for a moment, before facing Maman.

“It started a little more than three weeks ago.”

Nathalie described the visions and the memory loss. She didn’t mention the hypnosis or the fight with Simone, and she left out anything having to do with the Dark Artist’s threats. Sharing this secret with Maman was challenging enough; she didn’t need to throw that onto the pile. As for her choice to stop eliciting the visions, she explained it as something she didn’t want to torment herself with any longer. Maman understood.

When Nathalie was finished, Maman stood up. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were one of Dr. Henard’s patients.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to say.”

“I don’t understand any of it. This has never happened to anyone before, not that I know of, but maybe something else brought this on.” Maman traced her scars several times before continuing. “I received a transfusion, too, Nathalie.”

“What? You have magical powers?”

“No, I don’t. It—it didn’t work on me. A handful of people tried the experiment and failed to acquire any special ability. I was one of them. No one other than your father knows that.”

She felt as though instead of speaking those words, Maman had punched her in the stomach with them. Was that the reason? If both of her parents had gotten a transfusion, then maybe whatever didn’t work on her mother was passed on to Nathalie.

Yet there was no way they could ever know, was there?

Perhaps I inherited the magic she was supposed to acquire. “What happened?”

“Your father and I met shortly after he and Brigitte received transfusions,” said Maman, her voice almost apologetic. “It was a different time. You don’t understand. This was a promising new discovery, a chance at something incredible. Superhuman.”

Nathalie shook her head. “You didn’t think there would be risks. You trusted that something so inconceivable was real without consequences.”

“Yes, we did,” said Maman, and her voice was more sure than it had been so far. “We did believe it. The proof was there at first, and magic was a new, enticing discovery. With the exception of the very religious and very old-fashioned, most everyone in Paris thought this was the next big step for the human race. It’s hard to comprehend that now, but for a time, Dr. Henard was praised for his work. He tried to be a good man, I think.” The last few words caught in Maman’s throat, and she paused.

Nathalie folded her arms. If I had been alive at that time, would I have tried it?

“I was enamored with the gifts Papa and Brigitte had,” said Maman, a sentimental shine in her hazel eyes. “I wanted that, too. When I got the transfusion and it didn’t take, I was devastated. Hundreds had been successful, and fewer than twenty hadn’t. I pitied myself for being unlucky. And I was jealous, very jealous, of your father and Tante. I felt inferior to them and almost ended the relationship with Augustin because I didn’t think myself worthy.”

Nathalie loosened her folded arms and put her hands over her heart. She beckoned Maman to continue.

“Not long after that, the stories started cropping up. We thought the problems were anomalies, just like I was among the few anomalies in the experiments.” Maman fussed with her hat. She pinched the silk flowers and tugged at the fabric. “We were safe for a while, until your father’s symptoms emerged. Then Brigitte’s behavior started to change little by little.”

“Like what?” Nathalie asked. “What did you notice first?”

Maman placed the hat beside her. “She began having trouble distinguishing between reality and dreams, what had happened and what was going to happen. When she started taking matters into her own hands, violently at that…”

Nathalie knew the rest. From Mme. Plouffe’s to the asylum. She wondered how many other women at Saint-Mathurin had been among Henard’s patients.

“What about Papa?” Nathalie asked in a whisper, stroking her bed linens.

Will he go mad?

Will I?

“He uses his power to tend to sailors who have fallen ill in a subtle way, such that people often don’t know he’s healed them.”

My goodness. Such humility. She loved Papa more than ever.

“Whatever they have,” Maman continued with a sigh, “he takes into himself—just a small part. A broken leg, his leg will be sore. Whooping cough, he’ll develop a cough. Never deadly, thank the Lord. Henard’s patients suffer, but they don’t die from their symptoms. Even so, he has to restrict how often he heals or he’d be constantly sick, and he cannot heal himself.”