~17~

Now

October 11, 2010: a toddler, naked. Cause of death: accidental drowning.

October 12, 2010: an old gentleman, wearing a fedora and a plaid shirt. He smelled of peppermint and pipe tobacco. Spoke in Italian, maybe, words unknown. Cause of death: old age.

October 13, 2010: a boy, about eight years old. Threadbare clothing, no shoes, dirty face, dark eyes and skin. "Dum she mee-ae." Cause of death: starvation.

Anna put down the blue pen, remembering the frantic sawing of the boy's hand over his stomach as he desperately tried to clutch at her clothing or pick her pocket. She had no substance at night; his hand passed right through her. He still had pulled her to glimpse his world, a world of great ugly cement apartment buildings, mounds of stinking refuse and lush gardens like jewels tossed over salted earth. She wondered what language he had been speaking, what country he had come from before he died of hunger and neglect.

There was nothing she could give him, no hope or closure. Eventually he moved on, and she remained by the wayside, waiting for the fortune teller to release her at dawn. When she had woken in the shower she had cried a little, and Elsa had kissed away those water-diluted tears.

Her partner was looking out the bedroom window. It was barely beginning to lighten outside. The smell of fresh bread came from down the hall; Anna had remembered to set the bread-maker before dying last night.

The house felt empty with Haley gone, and their lone guest, Olivia, was leaving this morning. Though the artist had never mentioned it, Anna wondered if she had heard the screams of the red nights, four of them in a row before they ceased, melding back into the blue. Anna wished she had more control of her body and her reactions, but if even a soft blue night could make her cry, no wonder the red nights consumed her, chewed her up and spit her out on the floor of the shower stall.

Anna held out her hand; Elsa saw it, gave a low and game smile. She turned to face Anna, backlit by the burgeoning sun, a halo about her frame. Why would she never believe that she was beautiful, scarred and all?

"Shall we have breakfast?" Anna asked, wondering if Elsa would take her hand with her right or her left. Her left was nearer.

It was her right, and Anna wondered if the ancient wounds pained her again, phantom fingers that never released the leather reins. They walked down the hallway in silence, listening to the gentle rumble of the radio coming from the kitchen where Renee would already be preparing Olivia's last breakfast. Elsa was withdrawn into herself this morning, and Anna ached to know why.

Did it have to do with her story, the great block she couldn't seem to break? They had tried all their mechanisms for breaking the writer's block, including plot walks and imaginary interviews and brainstorming, but nothing had worked. Her characters stayed away, and eventually the deadline for the manuscript would come.

Or did it have something to do with Casey, who had phoned yesterday to beg Elsa to come and visit? Kristoff and Renee had previous plans to be out in the city for a doctor's appointment and someone had to stay at the inn. Elsa had asked Anna's permission to go to Bangor for the visit, which surprised and saddened her. Of course she gave it, unneeded as it was, though she felt a tiny pang for not being able to go with her. Their last trip had been a success, hadn't it? They could just lock the inn, right, and everyone go?

Trips, even small ones to Bangor, were potentially dangerous. Once they had gone on vacation, back when the curse was still fresh and bold. Their car tire had blown, and when nine o'clock came, Anna died in the backseat of the car. They hadn't had a cell phone at the time; Elsa couldn't call for help, and when a nice young couple stopped to assist her, a wary Elsa had told them that Anna was only sleeping in the backseat. They had been amazed at how Anna had remained asleep through the jacking and replacing of the tire.

After they left Elsa was still trembling and nervous, so far from civilization, so she drove to a remote and secluded spot, locked the doors and curled around Anna's dead body. She had no way to wake Anna the moment of dawn, no water to bring her to life, so the sun rose on Anna's dead body and Elsa finally got her to their destination. It was a lost day, one of blessedly few, yet it had tainted the entire holiday.

Kristoff and Renee drove away first, with a list of grocery and hardware supplies to get while they were out and about, an unsaid warning to be frugal hovering in the air. Haley was off on assignment, Elsa's characters stayed away, and winter was coming. Times were tough.

Olivia packed up quickly, and Elsa gave her a soft hug before she left. This had been Olivia's eighth visit to their inn. There would be a ninth, and tenth, and Anna wondered if she would still be dying at dusk and waking at dawn the next time that Olivia came to them, slipping through the cracks of the world like the supernatural fish she was, flailing on the hooked fishing line of the fortune teller.

Elsa didn't need to pack as much this time for her short day trip; without Anna there wouldn't be any need for emergency supplies. Cub followed them outside and accepted a pat on the head after Elsa had placed her bag in the trunk. The ancient white Borzoi dog then waited on the threshold for Anna to come back inside, where she would likely retreat to the private common room and a nap on her dog bed.

Anna kissed Elsa softly before she stepped into the car, taking the wheel in her hands. It was in such simple actions that the loss of her two fingers looked the most apparent and horrific. Guests would try not to stare, and very few would ask what had happened. To Anna they were just a part of Elsa's beauty, just like her slowly greying hair, the lines of age around her eyes.

They were just like the nick on her ear. They were evidence.

"Drive carefully," Anna said.

"I will," Elsa promised. "I'll see you tonight." She drove away in a swirl of leaves, and Anna watched until long after the car had disappeared.

Wind struck the chimes as she went back into the house and the sound was somehow jarring and discontent; she shivered as if she were being watched. She paused a moment on the step, looking into the orchards and down the drive, but there was nothing there but falling leaves held captive by the sadistic wind.

Dishes were waiting, along with unmade beds and a car that still needed repair.

Anna trudged back into the house, locking the door behind her. They weren't expecting any guests; if someone would come, they would ring the doorbell. Not liking the quiet, she turned up the radio as loud as she dared, then turned on the taps and was soon swaying to the music and singing out loud. It wasn't often she had the house to herself, and no one was expected.

She turned to gather the dirty serving plate and yelped; the plate fell from her hands to smash on the floor.

Tim was standing in the doorway of the private kitchen where no guests belonged, his eyes dark and frightfully concentrated, wearing a hoodie against the brisk autumn weather, his grey hair cropped close to his scalp. Anna's fright had distilled to sensations alone: of the shock when she had found the picture of Elsa under his pillow the day they cleaned his room, the prickling of her skin as he had driven away in his rental car more than a week ago, a vast roaring now in her head as if all the victims of red were shrieking at her between the molecules of water on her wet hands.

She had locked the door, hadn't she? How had he come into her house? Why had he come into her house?

Or had he already been inside?

He had left, hadn't he, off to peddle his slapdash prose? Back to Virginia, a long way away?

"What are you doing here?" she asked, panic welling up her throat. She forced herself not to assume the worst, and said, "I'm sorry, the inn is closed, you'll have to come back later."

Elsa had told her that she had been uncomfortable around him; they had put him on the very small black list of people they didn't want to have in their inn. Anna had been more than happy to characterize him on that black list after she had found the picture of Elsa under his pillow.

There was a knife block behind her and she knew exactly where the broad butcher knife was kept; she drew as much comfort as she could in that knowledge, even as she told herself again not to jump to conclusions.

His next words altered her world entirely.

"Where is Haley?" he asked, his voice pleasant, urbane, as cultured as she remembered. He had an unremarkable face and posture; he would slide through crowds like a ghost and no one would remember him when he was gone.

What does he want with Haley? With Elsa? With my family?

With me?

"Get out of my house," Anna warned, wishing her voice were as strong as the strong man carnies, but the words left her mouth in a whisper, just like in those childhood nightmares where fright is a gag in your mouth and wet piss is warm and shameful in the sheets until you wake and then it's only cold and hard shame. Panic escalated into cold and hard fear.

His eyes, cold and hard.

He took a step closer, and this time she fumbled for the knife block behind her. At the flurry of her movement, he held his hands up, but still he took another step closer. Anna would have screamed at him to stop inching if her throttled throat would have allowed it. "Don't be foolish," he said, his voice unbearably even, the voice of a sane man trying to soothe an insane one, a tamer to a carnival lion. "I only want to know where Haley is."

Though smooth, his voice was like the grating of glass on glass. She didn't believe him, so she found the knife hilt she was looking for, swung it in front of her body with all the fierce intent she could muster. Terror and fright turned her muscles to water; she wasn't sure if she would be able to stay standing. Her bowels clenched with this fear, and she tightened her thighs and frowned, remembering the wet bed sheets. Anger was starting to come to her rescue.

"Why do you want to know?" she asked, holding that knife in front of her like a shield, not a weapon. She had never been comfortable with weapons, not like Elsa. She cast no reflection on the broad metal, though everything else in the kitchen did, including the sunlight that coruscated and danced along the edge.

It struck her in the eyes and wounded her, becoming Tim's accomplice in crime. Unfaithful knife.

"We're all looking for the same thing, you know," he said, taking another step forward, starting to circle around the kitchen island.

Anna couldn't help herself; she took another step back, her last step, bumping into the kitchen counter where moments ago she had been washing dishes and singing.

Where was Cub? Why hadn't the dog come running at the sound of his hated and smooth voice? Didn't Elsa say that Cub had mistrusted him as well?

A horrifying idea came to her, and she felt the sparkings of faint around her vision. Had he done something to Renee's dog?

"I just want the fortune teller, just like you," he said.

Whatever she had expected him to say, this was not it. Anna's eyes widened, and the knife almost slipped from her still damp grip. Her heart was a cowardly lion in her chest, yowling and untamed. How could he know about the fortune teller, the surprisingly young woman who had worn too much mascara as she dealt them the cards from the Tarot?

Her outcome that night had been the Eight of Swords, meaningful far too soon. It meant confusion, powerless, restriction, shown by a blindfolded woman bound and surrounded with swords.

The picture of Elsa under his pillow, creased and caressed.

Again using a calm and soothing voice, as if he could somehow see that cowardly lion within, he continued, "Just the fortune teller. She owes me."

There was a nanoscale of possibility for truth in this statement. Anna believed that there were others with her inside the fortune teller's artefact, even though she could not see them or talk to them. They were felt only as divine emanations in the night-time, dimly recognized by shadow and ruptured souls alone. How many people had the fortune teller caught and imprisoned in her quest for power and immortality?

Knowledge was a weapon of the unseen world. Her only weapon.

Could Tim possibly be one of them?

Did he have a reflection? Had she ever noticed his reflection?

Yet for all his words, Anna found she didn't believe that this man was one of the other souls captured like fireflies in a jar. She had to believe that she would recognize them if she saw them in life, after spending so many dead hours with them at night.

"I'm sorry, but you'll have to find another way," Anna replied, trying to twist the knife to see if he cast a reflection, wondering if she dared to call Cub to her rescue, wondering what Cub would do if she came.

Wondering if she could come at all.

Anna knew she had to protect Haley, because what Haley was doing was more important than anything else. She wouldn't tell him a word; there was no way he could make her. She held that idea as firmly as the hilt of the knife in her hands.

"Now get out of my house."

He didn't.

Then

Every crop on the farm was tipsy, drunk on attentions from the sun. The spring had been warm and fair and wet; now that it was summer there would be a bumper crop if nothing happened. But acts of nature were par for the course in farming, so as Elsa and Kristoff walked along the narrow aisles of earth between the blueberry plants, Elsa tried not to get her hopes up. There could be frost, there could be hail, there could even be tornadoes.

It had been cheery and sunny for these last few days of July, so their feet kicked up little puffs of dirt as they walked. Hopefully there would be a good harvest, and there would be even more money in the bank.

Money. The world revolved on blood and money.

Their mom had nearly fainted away when she had received the hospital bill; not enough of Elsa's exquisitely long hospital stay had been covered by their HMO, and they hadn't been able to collect insurance on their father's death. The farm had become leprous, shedding acres here and there while praying for a miraculous cure.

So Paddy died, and the Air Force kicked in their death benefits of a hundred thousand dollars, and Elsa knew the ironic agony of getting what she wished for. If this was God's idea of divine assistance to pay off the skyscrapers of debt, of curing this leprosy as His only begotten Son once had, then He might truly be a God of cruelty and not love.

They had hired someone else to repair the fence posts in the marsh. She and Kristoff had taken on the rest of the renovations, fixing up the kitchen and bathroom, propelling the building into the 21st century where it belonged. Even before her accident her family had been quietly preparing to sell off the farm; making it shiny and appealing before putting it on the market seemed a wise investment and it certainly killed a bunch of time.

"How is the new book coming along?" he asked, a long blade of grass in his mouth; something he did because he thought it was funny to look like a hick with the IQ of a red cabbage (green cabbages being incapable of human speech). As fair and Irish as she, he burned easily, so his fair cheeks were already masked by fallen capillaries. Ruddy in the glorious afternoon sunlight, he reminded her in many ways of their father.

Except for the stillness. Though the entire world be a tornado or similar acts of God or nature, Kristoff had learned to be still. Contentment and sense of purpose emanated from him in an easy confidence that she coveted. Their father had never learned it; Elsa was a willing pupil now. Could such a thing be taught by this osmosis, this quiet companionship of siblings?

They had their backs to the marsh, but Elsa still wondered how often he remembered carrying her home in his arms through the bleak midwinter, the frosty wind chuckling in the conspiracy and ice particles shimmering in the air like tiny swords.

"It's coming along very well," she replied, touching the tips of the plants with her right hand. She kept her left in her pocket.

It was just her and Kristoff and the fertile world teeming with birdsong and rich smells, yet the silence was uncomfortable. In the distance she could hear the occasional shriekings of crow; a noise now more distasteful than any in the world. Paddy had sent Snowbelle to the knackers while she languished in the hospital, even though she had desired the horse to be buried on the farm where she had lived. Elsa's Anna-secret wiggled inside her, a conscious and insistent thing, hanging with bat-like tenacity from her heart.

The brave may not live forever, but the timid do not live at all. It was the opening line of The Ledger, her first published book. She wrote those words, but did she believe them? She had noticed right away that Anna was reading her books, but she still hadn't revealed the entirety of that hidden identity to her girlfriend. She didn't share her writing with Anna, not yet. It was too scary.

Nor had she revealed her identity as a girlfriend to her last brother.

Too scary.

He had saved her life that day, the day of frozen mud and poor Snowbelle, but what sort of life would it be?

Forgive yourself, alanna. Always forgive yourself.

Her father, the great and dead hypocrite, had spoken those words. Did she believe them?

The topic she ached to discuss had a high and impenetrable wall that she feared to broach, so she asked instead, "Are you still seeing Renee?"

"Yeah," Kristoff replied, finally spitting out the masticated remains of the blade of grass. He also touched the plants as he continued, "I really like her, but I don't know what she sees in me. I'm just a farmer, and a bad one at that."

They neared the end of the row, and there was an acrid tint of manure in the air. The pig sty was ahead. It could hold thirty pigs, but it only held six right now. Due to Paddy's accident, they could have more, but now they were selling the farm. Would the new owners of these rows of blueberries, of the reed-choked marsh, want to keep the pigpens, or would they be mown down and replaced with something else? The last remaining acres of their land, those leprous survivors, stood fallow and inert, collecting only gophers and tumbleweed.

"Don't put yourself down, Kristoff," Elsa said, looking at him as they turned to go down another row. "You are an amazing guy, and any girl would be lucky to be a part of your life. Besides, she's gorgeous. She could have any guy that she wants, but she chose you instead. That says something, brother."

"Maybe she's blind?" Kristoff joked, blushing and hoping to lessen the seriousness.

"If so, she's awfully talented at putting in an IV," she replied.

He smiled at her, quick and fleeting. He had spent copious amounts of time in the hospital while Elsa was recuperating; time that escalated even more when he discovered that the beautiful brown skinned Fijian nurse was responding to his flirtations. The exotic woman with those delectable eyes had seemed out of place in the hospital; someone like her should have been wearing ball gowns and Jimmy Choos, not scrubs with dancing teddybears on them.

Elsa had watched her brother in growing fascination as the weeks had passed. He overcame his initial shyness and she saw his hopeful infatuation reciprocated by the nurse. This had filled Elsa's ledger with equal amounts of hope and despair. Hope that she deserved the same love, and despair that she would never find the courage to get what she wanted most.

Her first burst of courage, to seek publication for her third written book, had only occurred after her father passed away. How deadly ironic that her second burst of courage would have such similar origins. Would another family member have to die before she learned her lesson?

She hoped not. There were enough of the Kelly clan in heaven already.

She had regained her courage because of Paddy's death. And for the first time, life was as delicious as the food Anna prepared for her. Because of Paddy's death she was able to quit both her jobs and focus on her writing and on her slowly improving health. Anna was bound and determined to put some meat back on Elsa's bones, to cover the waifness of her extended hospitalization. She found she didn't miss the Old Goat Pub, nor the smell of grease on her clothing.

Yet despite the love that raged inside her, Elsa had not been able to speak of her relationship to anyone in her family. Anna had been supportive of her stance, and had reassured her on several occasions that Elsa had nothing to fear. Anna had come out to her parents a week after kissing Elsa in her kitchen, and her parents had been disappointed and remote. Anna didn't care.

Be brave, what's the worst that can happen? Truth is worth losing relationships, isn't it?

Elsa's family, already so fractured, so torn; Elsa was terrified of being the one to rupture it even further. Could Anna ever understand the debt she owed to Kristoff? The frailty of their mother, just a wisp in the wind now, collateral damage to the advancing incurable leprosy of life? The chasm in their house, those echoes of personalities catapulted into the unseen world; Elsa had never been the one to do the breaking because she was Miss Fix-It-or-Hide-It. She felt she owed her family that.

The discovery of her love for Anna had shaken her to the core. She had never really looked at another woman before; Anna was the first woman she had ever loved. But allowing herself to love Anna was the most amazing thing she had ever experienced, because it was more than obvious that Anna loved her back. Even now, here in the rows of blueberry bushes, thinking of Anna brought a warm blush to her insides, made her heart expectant and bright.

Billy Carmichael's muscle car and Sweet Georgia not Brown.

"I want to tell you something," she said suddenly, surprising herself with the words. They had neared the other end of the row, and red-winged blackbirds sang from the plump heads of cattails on the marsh, the earth humming with vibrant life. She couldn't look at him, though; she watched him through the corner of her eye, saw him reach down to tug another blade of grass from its scabbard as he waited for her to continue.

"I'm seeing someone," Elsa continued, breathless now with anticipation and fear.

Be brave.

"Els, that's great!" he said. "I knew something was up with you. Who's the lucky guy?"

"It's Anna," Elsa said softly, finally looking directly at her brother's face. Emotions flitted across it, a brief show of shock that made Elsa's heart quake, yet he quickly composed himself again.

"The girl from the library," he said, carefully neutral. "The one you spend your weekends with. You're going out with the girl from the library?"

Elsa could remember Anna as she looked that very first day in the fall, riffling through the pages of cardstock in the library catalogue, her face glowing and alive. She could remember the taste of lamb and labneh, and cocoa and cream.

"I'm in love with her."

Kristoff stayed quiet for a moment, and the silence was two great fists that were twisting her heart. What did he think of her now? Then he lifted his face, and he smiled. "She makes you happy?"

"Happier than I've ever been, or ever thought I had a right to be."

"Then I'm glad for you." He said it convincingly, and with a smile, so Elsa believed him. Her heart was released from the fists, but it still ached for a moment. Her mouth was dry and felt coated with dust. They resumed their walk, going around the field of blueberries toward the barn. There was always so much to do on the farm, so much that still needed doing before they could put it on the market.

Fans would be running inside the house to cool it, beads of condensation forming on glasses of lemonade. The clever sunlight would seek out every portion of the farm it could and like the Pied Piper of Hamelin it would lead all this glowing plant life to eventual death at someone's dinner table.

Repeated loss had stretched their mother too thin. She would force herself along her tasks, but her heart was already buried along with her husband and son. It was high afternoon now; too hot indoors or out. She would be sitting on the porch swing with a barn kitten on her lap, ice cubes dying in her drink, an unopened book at her side.

Had her mom noticed the change in Elsa's step? Had she recognized that there were finally some figures in the happiness column of Elsa's life to start chipping away at the huge boulder of loss and pain?

Probably not. After all, Elsa reflected her inner happiness, bought at such a price, but her mom was blind to it. Only shadows existed now, and they had no reflection.

Kristoff noticed her looking at the house. "Are you going to tell mom?" he asked.

"I want to," she replied. "I don't know how. I don't want to hurt her, but I don't want to live in secret anymore."

"Remember when we used to go swimming in the mountain lakes as kids?" he asked. Elsa looked at him and nodded, waiting for him to continue. "I was always such a wimp, tiptoeing my way in, and you and Paddy both would charge in as fast as you could. No matter your mode of entry the shock of the cold water was so intense, but eventually you just got numb to it."

Elsa nodded again, thinking she understood now what he was saying.

"She's been in the water a long time, Els. Maybe she's numb."

"What if she's not?" Elsa breathed.

"You're the only person you have to be true to. Stuff like this, I think it's worth the risk." They both looked at the farmhouse with its new paint, and Elsa's left hand ached in the heat. "Tell the truth, Elsa," he said.

He veered away as Elsa approached the porch, off to do those million and two things that needed doing on a leprous farm. Elsa's mom opened her eyes as the porch stairs creaked, and Elsa gingerly sat next to her on the porch swing, turning her body to face her.

"Mom, there's something I want to tell you."

Elsa returned to Anna that night with her bags, heartsick and torn.