Sensing I was watching her, she smiled at me. “So was that the first time you’ve ever been kissed?”
“Oh, Mom!” I laughed. “I love you.” Of all the hundreds of questions that were surely racing through her mind, that was the one that had floated to the top. “Yes, except for when I was in kindergarten and Bobby Walker had his friends hold me down so he could kiss me.”
“Oh yes. I remember. His mother called to complain about you giving him a black eye.”
I chuckled. “He still kind of steers clear of me.”
She reached out her hand. “I wish you weren’t here, Carruthers.”
“Why?” I cried, totally surprised.
“You know why. At least before, you were free.”
“Well, I am here, Mom. And we’re going to see this through.” Then I remembered something. “By the way, the FBI thinks El Cobra will bring Dad and Grandpère here this afternoon, rather than letting them go to Salt Lake by themselves.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
“Yes. They know that, because I speak fluent French, I can understand a lot of their Spanish, so they’re careful what they say in front of me. But this afternoon, I was on the roof. I told them that I wanted to do some suntanning. Anyway, the two men on the beach were talking about Dad and Grandpère. They didn’t realize that the water magnified their voices.”
Suntanning as a cover for eavesdropping? Who but Mom would think of that? She was amazing. The coolest ever. Then I saw the look on her face. “What is it, Mom? What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know what’s going to happen on Tuesday. Remember what Grandpère said about El Cobra being a liar.”
“I do.”
She squeezed my hand tightly, and her lip began to tremble. “I don’t think they plan to free us, Carruthers. Especially not now when so many things have gone wrong. You weren’t here, but El Cobra knows those two men just didn’t walk away in Cathedral Valley. And now he’s lost two more.”
I squeezed her hand back. “We’re not waiting until Tuesday. It’s going to be okay, Mom, I promise.”
“That’s what the dentist always tells you just before he does the root canal.”
I laughed. At least she still had her sense of humor.
“Mom, since we’re trapped here, and you won’t be able to make up some crazy excuse and duck out on me, I have a few questions for you.”
“I beg your pardon,” she retorted. “When have I ever done that?”
“Only every time I ask you questions about our history.”
“Well, you’re certainly right about being trapped here. So fire away.”
“Okay. You once read me the story of my great-great—I don’t know how many greats—grandmother Angelique Chevalier, and what happened to her on her thirteenth birthday.” I hesitated, then went for it. “The other night at the motel, while Rick and Cody were swimming, I got on the motel’s computer and Googled a perpetual calendar.”
“I think I know where you’re going with this.”
“Her birthday was October 13, 1871. That was a Friday. She lost both her mother and her father on a Friday the thirteenth. And that’s not all. Grandpère gave me a bunch of papers, stuff from his mother.”
“Yes, I know. I’m the one who suggested he include his mother’s history.”
“You were?” Would the surprises never stop coming? I went on. “Anyway, the day the pilot was shot down over the château was Friday, August eleventh. And two days later—the day the Gestapo came and arrested Grandpère’s father—was the thirteenth of August.” I stopped, hoping she would respond. She didn’t, so I made my point. “And that was her birthday. Do either of those two events have anything to do with your feelings about Friday the thirteenth?”
She didn’t answer for almost a minute. I could see there was a faraway look in her eyes. When she came back to me, she said, “I would like to hold off answering that question for now. What else do you want to know?”
“Dad says that he wanted to call me Angelique after you, at least for my middle name. You said no. He also said that because it meant so much to Grandpère you agreed to name me Monique, but not as my first name.”
“That’s true.”
“Was that because you thought if Monique was my first name, it might be bad luck?”
“No. I wanted Carruthers to be your first name so that my grandmother, Louise Carruthers, would know she was loved too.” She giggled. “I had to go with Carruthers because I never liked Louise very much as a name.”
I rolled my eyes. That was pure Mom.
“Besides, Carruthers is an honorable name.”
“It is, Mom, but that’s not the question. I’m just trying to understand why you feel so strongly about these things.”
“Would you like me to call you Danni? I will, you know.”
I stopped and considered her question thoughtfully. To my surprise, I found myself shaking my head. “No. I like how Carruthers is special just between us.”
She shot me a look of pure skepticism.
“I do, Mom. Really. It was really nice the other day when you called me Danni, but no. Don’t change.” I flashed her an impish grin. “I can live with it. And I’m big enough now that I can whip anyone who makes fun of it.”
Her eyes glistened in the semidarkness. “Thank you. That’s part of your heritage too.”
“I know. Though you’ve ducked my question about why you don’t want to call me Monique.”
“Any other questions?”
“Yes.” This was the big one, actually. “Is our family . . . uh . . . I mean, are we really . . .” I shook my head and finally just blurted it out. “Am I an enchantress? A witch of some kind?”
“Oh, my dear girl,” she exclaimed. “No, not in any way. And neither was Angelique nor Monique.”
“What about Grandpère? Remember the candle on my thirteenth birthday?”
“That was just a trick candle he bought at some magician’s shop in Salt Lake. He just loves having people think he’s mysterious.”
“Oh, really? And what about this? Even though they took his cell phone away, he’s been texting us messages.”
She reared back a little. “Grandpère? Texting?”
“Mom. Answer my question.”
“He does have a phone. When the pistol went off in the house and pandemonium broke out, I saw him roll across the floor and take his phone back. I guess he’s managed to keep it hidden ever since.” Then she became serious. “Carruthers, listen to me. If you had asked me about the pouch, that would be a different matter. Is it enchanted? Yes, in some ways. Is it magic? Grandpère doesn’t like that word, and I’m not sure I do either. But it certainly does magical things sometimes. This much is sure—it has a power that we don’t understand. But it is a power for good, not evil.”
“Why do you think it’s called Le Gardien?”
She smiled. “Oh, so you’re not calling it Nanny anymore?”
“No. I regret that I ever did, and I will tell Grandpère that the first chance I get.”
“That will please him very much.”
“So?”
“So, I think you already know the answer to your question. The pouch becomes a wise and powerful guardian for whoever is the keeper of the pouch.”
“It’s function is to protect me? And our family, too, of course?”
“Oh, it is much more than that. It will teach you things if you let it. Guide you. Sometimes even rebuke you, if necessary.”
“I know what you mean.”
“I don’t understand it entirely, Carruthers. Obviously, it’s because of Le Gardien that you have been able to do what you have done. I don’t know how to describe it. Somehow it becomes interactive with us, extending its power to us. It watches over us, protects us, warns of us danger—”
“Put thoughts into our minds, or helps us think clearly.”
“Exactly. And it is this relationship, this invisible bond between the pouch and its owner, which em
powers and enables us. This is why we can do things greater than ourselves. It is a gift given to very few, but it is the pouch which makes the gift a reality.”
“Why does Grandpère still have some of those powers when he’s no longer the keeper?”
“Because if you are wise, you learn and grow and mature, and you don’t need it the same way anymore.”
She turned on her side so we were looking directly into each other’s eyes. “I guess one of the reasons I don’t like the word magic is because it brings up images of wizards and witches. But that’s pure fantasy. The pouch isn’t like that. There are no magic wands or love potions or invisibility cloaks. We can’t cast spells on someone, or curse them. As far as I know, it doesn’t help us see around corners or foresee the future.”
“But, Mom, sometimes I know when something bad is going to happen.”
“That’s not the same as seeing the future. The pouch works more through giving us feelings—premonitions, feelings of danger, or a strong confirmation that we need to do something. But it also engages our minds, inspiring us at just the right moment to do what needs to be done. And occasionally, it does something quite remarkable.”
“Like putting a pistol in a pouch?”
“Or making thousand-dollar bills. Did you know that the US government hasn’t made a bill larger than the one hundred dollar bill since 1969?”
“Really?” I grinned. “It also made a bobble-head doll of El Cobra.”
“It did what?”
I realized I’d left that part out in my narrative, so I told her quickly about Cobra Pequeño.
She put her hand over her mouth to stop from laughing out loud. “No wonder he hates you so much.”
“Well,” I said, “you’ve got to admit. That’s hardly normal.”
She sighed. “I know. That’s the part I don’t understand. But, as I’ve thought about it, I decided that those things only happen when something is required that we can’t do ourselves.”
As she spoke, I realized something with a start. “Why do you keep saying ‘us’ and ‘we’? Were you a keeper of the pouch once?”
She gave a deep, pain-filled sigh. “Yes.”
“But I thought—”
“You thought I had been skipped over because I’m too superstitious.”
“Well . . .” She had nailed it. That was exactly what I thought.
“So, that brings us back to your first question. Why do I feel like I do about Friday the thirteenth?” She sighed, and it was filled with sorrow. Then she laid on her back again, staring up at the ceiling. “I think I’m ready to answer that now.”
Chapter 72
As Mom spoke, her voice was so low that I had to move closer to hear her. As I did so, she took my hand, clutching it tightly.
“On the day I turned thirteen,” she began, “which was not a Friday, and certainly not the thirteenth, Grandpère took me into the back country of Rocky Mountain National Park. There he taught me about the Four Remembers, then gave me the pouch, just as he did with you.”
I was astonished. Grandpère had said that not everyone had the gift and sometimes the pouch skipped a generation, so I had just assumed he meant Mom.
“He actually began to show me how it worked. Later, he admitted that had been a mistake, that it was best to let people learn from the pouch itself. I was dazzled by the whole concept, actually. In fact, I decided I was a sorceress, a good witch, sent to right the wrongs of the world.” She turned her head, and I could sense her sadness. “I’m afraid I became quite prideful about it. Pretty headstrong.”
I winced, not sure I wanted to hear any more.
“One day, when I was about your age, I was with a group of boys and girls at a party. We were just hanging out, having a good time. There was one boy there that I had my eye on. But so did my best friend. We had this quiet competition going on between us. Without really meaning to, I decided to put her in her place by taking her down a peg or two. So I told the group I could read people’s thoughts. That was an exaggeration, of course, but I could often discern what people were thinking. So we started a game. They’d think of something, and I would tell them what they were thinking.”
“And the pouch let you do that?”
“Was it the pouch or me? I’m not sure. But I will say this. I didn’t know it then, but the pouch sometimes grants us things even though they may not be good for us or wise.”
“I know,” I said in a whisper.
She gave me a quizzical look, but went on. “When it was my friend’s turn, she didn’t want to play. I mean, she really did not want to play. She wouldn’t say why. So we pressed all the harder. Then . . .” She stopped and closed her eyes. “Then suddenly I knew what she was thinking.”
“What was it?”
“She was thinking about him. About the boy. She had such a terrible crush on him. She had his picture on the wall with hearts around it. She wrote a love poem to him in her journal. She would drive by his house late at night and sit across the street fantasizing about him asking her to the prom, or them running off to Las Vegas to get married.”
A sense of horror was creeping in me. “And you told the others that?”
Her eyes closed. “I did. I told them all of it.”
“What happened?”
“Well, she fled, of course, absolutely humiliated. The rest of us thought it was hysterical. The boy left the party a few minutes later and never spoke to me again.” One tear appeared at the corner of her eye and trickled down her cheek. “That night, my friend went home and took a whole bottle of her mother’s sleeping pills.”
I gasped. “No!”
“Thank heavens her parents discovered what had happened and rushed her to the hospital. They pumped her stomach, and she was fine.” She was speaking so softly, I had to strain to hear her. “It took me almost two years to regain her friendship, but eventually, we became best friends again. We still write regularly. I was maid of honor at her wedding.”
“Kendra?” I burst out. “That was Kendra?” Kendra Wilson was one of my favorite adult people in the whole world. She and my mom were closer than sisters.
“Yes,” she said, staring at her hands. “The next morning, I gave the pouch back to Grandpère. Nothing he could ever say or do changed my mind. I knew I wasn’t worthy of it.” She met my eyes. “There’s one more thing, Danni.”
I waited.
“The morning I gave back the pouch back to Grandpère was Saturday, October 14, 1995.” She stopped, waiting for my reaction, but I was drawing a blank. And then I knew.
“The party was on Friday night?”
“Yes.”
“Friday the thirteenth.” It wasn’t a question.
She laid her hand on my cheek. “I know it’s silly. Even neurotic. Up until then, it was nothing more than this nagging uneasiness. We had people in our family line who were born on Friday the thirteenth, and we had those to whom bad things happened on the thirteenth day of the month. But after that night, I was convinced that there was a curse on me, on Fridays, and on the thirteenth day of the month.” She sighed. “Did you know that in high school, I never went out on a date on a Friday? Or when it was the thirteenth? I made up some excuse or another, but I didn’t dare do it because I thought I would be punished.” She gave another weary sigh. “I’m better now, but—” She shrugged. “But I still can’t help feeling nervous about it. What do you call it again?”
“Friggatriskaidekaphobia.”
“The name is almost scarier than the disease.”
I smiled. “Thanks for telling me, Mom. I won’t bug you about it anymore.”
“I find that hard to believe,” she teased, “but I’ll hold you to it.”
“Mom, you said that you’d let me read Grandma Angelique’s journal someday, when I was older. After this is over, could I do that? Read all of it?”
“After this is over, you will definitely be older.”
“And I’m going to ask Grandpère if I can read Grandma Monique?
??s life story too.”
“Would you mind if we read them together?”
I snuggled against her. “I wouldn’t mind that at all,” I said happily.
Chapter 73
The next morning, I was brushing out my hair in front of the tiny mirror over the equally tiny bathroom sink that was in one corner of our bedroom.
Mom came over to stand by the door. “Your hair is getting so long, Carruthers. It’s beautiful.”
“Thank you.” I looked at her in the mirror. “Can I ask you something else, Mom?”
“My goodness, so many questions. What has gotten into you?”
“I think you’ve been there most of the times when El Cobra has called me on the phone, right?”
“Yes, as far as I know.”
“Am I being stupid or just plain nuts?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Let me put it this way. I’m a sixteen-year-old kid who’s bumbling her way through this whole thing. Armando is a professional criminal.”
She started to say something, but I held up my hand. “No, let me finish. But when I talk to him, something comes over me, and it’s like he’s the sixteen-year-old kid and I’m the adult. I’m glib, flippant, insulting. I disagree with him, tell him what he will and won’t do, hang up on him.”
A tiny smile appeared around her eyes. “You just described almost every sixteen-year-old kid in America.”
I couldn’t help it. I laughed out loud, then clapped a hand over my mouth.
She sobered. “When you kept hanging up on him the other day, he was absolutely livid. I thought he was going to burst a blood vessel.”
“That’s just it. What am I thinking? It’s like I have this crazy woman in my head who starts speaking for me. The words just pop out of my mouth, and sometimes I’m as surprised as he is. I’m not normally like that.”
Our eyes locked in the mirror, then a slow smile stole across her face.
“Well, I’m not,” I cried. “Am I?”
“I guess I’d have to say that you’re easy to get along with—as long as I don’t ask you to wear a dress, put a ribbon in your hair, or wear high heels. And nylons? Forget it—that would be like starting World War Three.”