There must be a way. There must.
I just don't have a lot of time.
* * *
I can't do any of them. It's impossible.
Am I already crazy? Did I imagine all of this? I don't think so. But how would I know? Don't all crazy people think they're sane?
CHAPTER 29
Lucy's gaze had caught and held on a single word toward the end of one of the sections of pages. Fenella.
Your ancestress Fenella.
She swallowed hard. For a second her mind whirled and she could almost see Gray Spencer again—the possessed expression in his eyes. And she could hear the strange stream of incomprehensible words he'd said. He had said this same word, the name Fenella.
She held her elbows tightly to her sides. Then she forced herself to keep reading. When she finished, she looked at Zach. She had told him about her experience with Gray, and her conviction that, on prom night, he had not been Gray, not exactly. She had told him about being called Fenella.
What would he make of what he had read? She watched him carefully until he looked up.
Meanwhile, Zach had finished reading Miranda's pages with a feeling of deep unease. Yes, he thought, this woman was crazy long before Lucy was born. Had to be! And it didn't matter that Soledad and Leo said different, said that Miranda had been fine before Lucy was born. Here was proof. Miranda had simply hidden her loosening grip from Soledad and Leo as her pregnancy progressed. She'd confined her ranting to her diary.
Still. That business about having a daughter, and then going crazy … given that Lucy was now pregnant with her own baby … well. It might frighten Lucy. Even level-headed Lucy. Zach wouldn't blame her if it did. Because there were some—he groped for the right word—coincidences.
In fact, he was fairly freaked out by the coincidences. He remembered very clearly the story Lucy had told him about prom night.
Also, there was Miranda's description of the night Lucy was conceived … the party … the older, beautiful man … that part, just by itself, was very disturbing.
He sneaked a look at Lucy, who had also finished reading. She was biting her lip. She said quietly, "I'm going to read it again now. But I want to read at my own pace and not have to wait for you. Okay?"
"All right," Zach said. And then: "But you want me here, right?"
"Yes." It was only a whisper, but it was clear.
"I won't go far," Zach said. "Just over here."
"Okay."
He sat down at the desk. From there he could watch Lucy as she bent over the pages. She began reading again, slowly, seeming to pause here and there. Often, she would go back a page or two and reread something.
While he watched her, Zach thought about the "Elfin Knight" bit, and Miranda's conviction that she had met a magical, evil being.
At college, he knew a group of kids who were obsessed with Tolkien and the whole Lord of the Rings bit. They went around dressed in vaguely medieval garments and greeted each other with names like "Lady Anwariel" and "Lord Hadreth." They read books on how to speak and write Elvish. They went to conventions. They played elaborate online and in-person games set in Middle Earth. And they talked about elves like they were real, just as Miranda did in her diary.
Now, Zach himself couldn't imagine flourishing a sword in public and yelling things like, "While I yet breathe, Minas Tirith will never fall!" But he had nothing against anybody who wanted to. Plus, those kids always looked like they were having fun.
What if, Zach figured, Miranda was like these Tolkien people he knew. So, when she talked about the Elfin Knight, she was really talking about, maybe, some guy in a costume or whatever. Maybe it was somebody playing a prank on her. A nasty prank.
And yeah, it could also be that Miranda had already been a little nutty at that point, like Lucy thought, so the line between the fantasy and reality had blurred. And she'd made up a story around it all, and around her pregnancy.
Maybe it just felt better to Miranda to write that she had been betrayed by an evil elf than to write that she had had an ordinary disappointment with some regular guy. Maybe it helped her cope, to believe that.
He even found himself wondering if it was possible that Miranda, like Lucy, had been raped rather than seduced. If that had been the case, perhaps she'd have needed, emotionally, to replace the ugly truth with an inventive story, one she could live with while she wandered the streets of Boston, alone and friendless and afraid.
Lucy could face her own truth because she had friends and family. But Miranda might have needed a fantasy. A delusion could be a kind of mercy.
He had almost talked himself into believing all of this when he remembered the cover letter that Miranda had written to Lucy, and what he himself had said about it. How rational it seemed. How well-written and clear it was. And how loving.
And it was a strange coincidence that Lucy was pregnant at the same age Miranda had been. And could it be true about Deirdre?
Then, of course, there was Lucy's story about prom night. And Fenella.
What would it mean if Lucy—or if he—chose to believe that Miranda was not crazy?
* * *
At last Lucy looked up from her second, in-depth reading of the pages from Miranda's diary.
She looked over at Zach. The information she had read had seemed to slide into her consciousness like an oddly shaped puzzle piece. Miranda's song was playing now, In her inner ear. The ballad. "Scarborough Fair." "The Elfin Knight." She could hear Leo's voice, hear him as he patiently taught her the song, years and years ago. She could hear him say it had been a gift to her from Miranda.
She thought: Miranda was afraid to tell Leo and Soledad the whole story. She thought they'd think she was crazy. But she could teach Leo the ballad, and she did. And told him to teach it to me.
It all made sense. Crazy sense, maybe, but sense.
Fenella. In the end, that was the thing that most convinced Lucy. Fenella.
Your ancestress Fenella.
"Stop looking at me that way," Lucy said to Zach. "The thing is, the thing you have to remember, is that I'm very rational. It's my personality; it's always been my personality. Mrs. Foster in the third grade even said it—she told Soledad that it might show a lack of imagination."
At this point Lucy became aware that it might be a good idea for her to stop for breath. But having the idea seemed to mean nothing. It was as if a talking machine had taken control of her.
"That's how it is and that's how it's going to be," she said. "I am who I am. Right? And you, Zach, you're very rational too. We're all rational here in this house. Except Soledad, sometimes. And Miranda, of course. Miranda's bats. The question is, was she always?"
"Luce—"
"Listen, Zach, I totally understand why you think I might be terribly, terribly upset. But I'm not. Not at all. You're not thinking about who I am. I expected crazy stuff. I told you that up front. It's really wacky, though, isn't it? Don't you think that? I mean, you couldn't make it up. She isn't just bats, my mom, she's bats in an imaginative way." She watched Zach carefully. "Miranda's not like me at all, Mrs. Foster would say. And the other thing is that her story, even though it's insane, has its own internal logic. You have to notice that, and you have to give her credit for it. Don't you?"
"Right," said Zach. "So, that's what you think? She's insane and we should burn it all and forget it?"
There was silence. Then Lucy finally took a deep breath. Maybe Zach would think she too was crazy to believe this.
But she did.
Lucy leaned forward. "No. Zach? I told you this once already. About that night with Gray.
"It wasn't Gray raping me. I know that sounds like something as crazy as what Miranda would say. But it wasn't him. There was someone else inside him. Someone else's—I don't know what other word to use, okay? Someone else's spirit. Someone … someone who was amused, Zach. And whoever that person was, he said things Gray wouldn't say. Used a language I never heard before."
Zach was si
lent. He was thinking again about the part of the diary where Miranda described the night of Lucy's conception, and the way the man she called the Elfin Knight had manipulated it, and her.
Evil, Miranda had said. And then, she said, he had laughed.
"You don't really suppose …" His voice trailed off.
Lucy wrapped her hands around her elbows. Her forearms protected her stomach. Then she picked up the pages, riffled through them, and pointed.
Your ancestress Fenella.
"Fenella is an unusual name, Zach. But I heard Gray—or whoever it was—say it that night."
Zach said, "You're sure?"
"Yes," said Lucy steadily. "I am. And now I want to show all of this to Soledad and Leo."
"Let's go," said Zach.
CHAPTER 30
Soledad read Miranda's diary, along with the letter and torn-out pages, after Leo. She let her husband go first because she was afraid. She had never before been afraid to learn something. "Information is our friend," she had often declared. "When you have knowledge, your choices will be better."
Before Lucy and Zach came to her and Leo to hand the diary and the supplementary pages over—before she saw the anxiety in their eyes—Soledad had been eager to read it. Though she would never have stooped to pushing Lucy in any way, she had wanted the diary ever since she learned it existed. She had yearned for it, as if reading it would give her Miranda back.
She'd been having a vivid, repetitive dream about Miranda and the diary. In every one of the dreams, Miranda was with Soledad in the family room, on the sofa. They sat facing each other while Miranda read aloud to Soledad from the diary, occasionally looking up to explain things. The Miranda of the dream was the Miranda of today, not of yesterday; she looked thin and tired, and her face and hands bore clear marks of her hardscrabble life. But she was fully returned to herself; her manner bespoke maturity and wisdom and even laughter. And, in the dream, Miranda was back to stay. She had a life to build, and was eager to do it. She was a member of their family. It was a dream from which Soledad awoke filled with joy.
But, one time, the dream had transformed into a kind of nightmare. Miranda's mouth as she read aloud had gotten larger and larger, the words coming from it taking on a physical form as a vicious wind that whipped through the room. The wind grabbed the Markowitzes' belongings one by one and smashed them to the floor. Then, as the wind twisted itself into a tornado, the dream-Miranda leaped to her feet and howled—not in rage, but in anguish.
Soledad thought of the dream as her husband held out the diary, and the set of torn-out pages, to her. She did not reach immediately to take them. She examined Leo instead and saw how the lines across his forehead and alongside his mouth were deep and grooved.
"Family meeting," Leo said. "As soon as you've finished reading this."
He was still holding out the diary. Finally Soledad took it, even though she had an impulse to hurl it as far away from her as she could.
"I have an errand to run," Leo said. "Back in an hour." He started to turn away. But then he paused, and looked over his shoulder at her. Their eyes met, and Soledad realized her husband had been crying.
He saw that she knew. He came back and took her gently in his arms. He kissed the top of her head, and she understood something else too. It was that, before this moment, she had not ever really known fear. She had only thought she had.
Soledad didn't remember having moved her arms, but they were around him. And his were now tight around her.
"Sit down now, sweetheart, and start reading," he said. It was an order, but she did't mind.
"Yes. I will," she said. "And you drive safely." It too was an order.
"Yes," said Leo.
It was another few seconds before they let go of each other.
Soledad sat down to read. She did it steadily, taking in information, trying not to react but only to absorb, kept calm sometimes only by the knowledge that Lucy was safe upstairs. After an hour and three-quarters, she set down the diary on the coffee table. She leaned back on the sofa and closed her eyes as a memory, which had been nearly forgotten since the day it happened, caught her in the throat.
Miranda, heavily pregnant, sitting right on this sofa, watching Soledad knit. Asking question after question.
And Soledad replying.
Yes, some clothing can be made without seams. Absolutely. This sweater I'm knitting right now, for example. You just have to work the pattern in the round on circular needles. Like Icelandic sweaters. Oh, and mittens are usually worked in the round too.
Right, you do have to use needles.
Any way to make something without needles? Oh, yes. You can weave a fabric; you don't have to knit it. Cottons, silks, linens—those are examples of woven fabrics. They're made on looms.
Oh, I see what you're asking. Yes, the fabric itself can be made without needles, but then, if you want to make clothing with it, like a shirt, you have to cut out the pieces from the fabric and you sew them together. With your needle, of course. Actually, with your sewing machine. Yes, that has a needle. I can show you on mine.
Well, let me think. Seamless garments. Isn't a sari just a length of fabric that's draped around a woman? So that's one example. Or hey, togas! Or a poncho. You just cut a hole in the fabric and stick your head through.
A shirt? Oh, no. For a shirt, there would have to be seams.
I didn't know you had any interest in knitting, Miranda. I can easily teach you to do it. Or to sew, if you want. We can make some things for the baby. You might really enjoy it. I do. I love it. Doing something with your hands—it's so soothing. It feels so—Miranda? Miranda, what's wrong? Oh, honey. Here you're encouraging me to blab on and on about my own interests while you're feeling so awful…
CHAPTER 31
The family meeting began with a great deal of silence and many sidelong, nervous glances. Most of these were directed at Lucy.
Lucy was filled with a strange calm, but everybody else (except Pierre) was off-kilter. When Pierre nudged his empty dog dish toward Leo, Leo kicked it back into its spot using uncharacteristic force. Soledad had a hand in her hair and was twisting and pulling. And, just before the meeting, Zach had shaved, but handled the razor so badly that he nicked himself three times.
One by one, Lucy met their eyes as she walked into the kitchen. She had changed into a cropped tank top and Bermuda shorts, but had had to leave the top button of the shorts undone because they no longer quite fit. Lucy knew that nobody could miss that she was pregnant and flaunting it, which she had never done before. She saw Soledad glance at her clothes—at that open top button. But she didn't say anything, so Lucy didn't have to explain why she had dressed this way. It was somehow all about the words that were pulsing within her. They were the same words, she now understood, that had pulsed in her mother eighteen years ago.
My daughter. My daughter. My daughter.
Leo had efficiently scrambled eggs with tomatoes and chives. But Lucy was the only one to lift a fork. She ate every bite of her eggs along with half of Zach's. She drank her skim milk and ate tomato slices. Zach and Leo and Soledad watched.
When Lucy finished eating, she looked up. "My daughter needs to be fed," she said quietly, "whether I'm in the mood or not. You know, it's so strange. I know we have a lot to talk about, and I appreciate Dad calling this meeting. But in a way, there's nothing to talk about. I'm having a daughter, and that's sort of that."
Daughter. Lucy flushed, just a little, as she said it aloud for the first time. As she heard the sureness in her voice. She knew they knew she didn't know the baby's sex for sure. She knew they knew that her saying this meant that she had decided to believe Miranda, to some extent at least.
It was quiet enough to hear Pierre breathing under the kitchen table, where he had lain down with his front paws possessively positioned on Lucy's feet. In that silence, Soledad took her own plate of eggs and leaned down to slip it under the table for Pierre.
Leo said carefully, "Lucy, are you
saying you believe Miranda's story? Do you believe you're having a girl because of that daughter-after-daughter-after-daughter thing she wrote?"
Lucy noticed that Zach, who was sitting next to her, had shifted so that he could see her expression clearly.
She leaned her chin on her hand. "Well, I now believe I'm having a girl. I can't explain how I know it, but I do. And somehow it came to me while I was reading what Miranda wrote about being pregnant with me. Where she wrote my daughter. As I read that, suddenly I knew too. I'm going to have a little girl." She shrugged. "Look. I'm not saying I couldn't be wrong. But it feels like I'm right. It's a girl."
Across the table, Soledad drew in her breath sharply.
The furrow on Leo's brow deepened. "A little girl would be wonderful, of course. If that's the case. But what I was really getting at by my question is whether you think … that is, if you're at all thinking that, well. Well—that is—"
Zach cut in. "Luce, do you believe there's some curse on you? Do you think you're cursed to have a daughter at eighteen, and then go nuts, like Miranda? And like, apparently, your grandmother Deirdre?"
Silence.
"Yes or no," Zach said.
Lucy looked right back at Zach. "You already know I think it's totally not rational."
"Forget rational. Give me your gut reaction. Yes or no?"
"Yes," said Lucy instantly, reflexively, loudly.
Even Pierre was quiet now.
"That just popped out," Lucy added slowly. "That yes." She said it again, deliberately, slowly, as if tasting the word. "Yes." This time, the conviction with which she said the word was even clearer.
Then Lucy laughed. She had not meant to, but the laugh came out. "All right. That's that. I'm doomed. And pretty soon, you'll probably start saying I was crazy all along. Just take care of my daughter too, will you? But lock her up once she's seventeen. Please." She paused, appalled. "Oh my God. I can't believe I just said that."