CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
I finish packing and arrive downstairs to find the family at breakfast. The children brighten when they see me, and Amelia gives me a brief hug when I sit down. My heart breaks at their affection. Of course I would determine to leave just as I finally break through their grief.
But I must leave. I must do what Marcel couldn’t and remove myself from a circumstance that is causing me to spiral into madness.
Josephine and Etienne don’t seem much improved, but they do seem relieved to see the children happier. Josephine even suggests that the five of us go on an outing this afternoon. I accept only because I can’t refuse without admitting the reason in front of the children.
I will miss them terribly. I’ve known them for only a short while, less time, in fact, than I’ve spent at any of my positions. Still, I feel that I’ve helped them cope with the worst of the pain the tragedies they’ve experienced will bring them. I wish I could be here to hold their hand through the rest of their journey, but…
Well, I’ve belabored the point long enough. I am far too close to being out of my right mind to risk staying here. I can only hope that I’ve given them enough to hold onto as they pull themselves the rest of the way out of despair.
When we finish breakfast, Gabriel asks, “Can we resume our lessons today, Mary?”
Amelia giggles and says in a mock posh accent, “Oh yes, Mary, can we resume our lessons? I’m just aching to return to my studies.”
Gabriel shoves her playfully and teases, “At least I know how to speak properly.”
"Oh yes, indeed, good sir," she replies. "How droll, how quaint, and may God save the King."
I grin, and Etienne chuckles. It's good to see the children playing with each other again, and of course, that only makes my decision even more painful.
Still, I suppose if I leave in the evening, it’s no different than if I leave in the morning. I’ll give the children one good day. “Of course we can. Only a half day, though. Your grandmother has something special planned for us.”
Josephine smiles gratefully at me, and I feel another pang of guilt. I have been most unkind to her. She is, after all, only a woman approaching old age without the love of her life and with the knowledge that everything he worked for is almost certain to fall apart. She is going through a very hard time. I regret now being so harsh with her.
The children walk to the study room with a bounce in their step. As we pass the parlor, I look at the piano apprehensively. I almost expect to see the Vie Apres a la Mort on the piano, taped together and looking good as new otherwise.
It’s not there. I’ve finally sent it somewhere even I can’t get it back.
I give the children their lessons, and they dive into the work eagerly. This is good. They’re getting a routine back, and as I mentioned earlier, that is the most effective way for them to overcome their grief.
And I’m about to throw that routine under the bus.
Maybe, with the manuscript gone…
No. I can’t risk it. I can’t have another episode and make things worse.
A chill runs through me as I anticipate my return home. What if leaving New Orleans doesn’t stop the nightmares? What if I try to stop looking for Annie, but she doesn’t want to leave me alone? What if I end up losing control in Boston and hurting Sean?
I really don’t want to talk to a psychologist. If I do, then they might decide that I deserve to be incarcerated again. I can’t be committed. If I am forced to step foot in another sanitarium, I will never leave.
My earlier good mood fades. The work never ends. Maybe I’ll be better off if I can finally give up on my need to solve my sister’s mystery. Maybe I’ll never be better off. Maybe, like Marcel, I’m too far gone.
“Mary? Are you all right?”
I stir and smile at Gabriel. “Yes, I’m fine. I just didn’t sleep well last night.”
“The storm kept you up?”
“Yes. Wide awake.” I stand from my desk. “I’ll make myself some coffee. Don’t worry about me. Worry about those math problems I see untouched.”
He grins sheepishly and turns his attention back to his work.
I head downstairs and find Josephine in the parlor, staring at the husk of the piano. I am not interested in being roped into any more nonsense, but when I try to walk past, she calls to me. "Mary? May I have a word?"
I force a smile and sit across from her. “Of course. What is it?”
She takes a deep breath and asks, “Have you read the journal yet?”
I sit, frozen. At this moment, I regret not announcing my departure immediately and leaving the house before I can get roped into staying the extra day. “I… You… Did you leave that in my room?”
She nods. “Sorry. I meant to give it to you in person, but I was worried what you would think of me.”
Better than I would learning that you invaded my privacy.
That thought is followed immediately by guilt. After all, I’ve made a career out of invading the privacy of my employers, and it’s my snooping through the Lacroixs’ attic that causes this mess with the music to begin with.
When I don’t reply right away, she says, “Well, it’s true. Every word of it.”
“The journal?” I ask.
“Yes. It’s true. He…”
She takes a deep breath and smooths her dress. “Marcel was a passionate man. Fiery. Intense. That’s why I fell in love with him, although I suppose in awe of him would be more accurate. When he was in the middle of a mania, he had an energy about him that was just indescribable. I was swept up.”
She flips her hand, “Anyway, we married, and the passion continued into our marriage of course. I thought I was the luckiest woman alive. I don’t really care for music. I suppose I’m insane for admitting that.” She laughs nervously. “The wife of the greatest jazz pianist of the past fifty years, and I’m admitting that I don’t care for music.”
I don’t know how to respond to her. She seems to be loosely following a thread, and I fear if I speak, I’ll snap it. So, I say nothing, and eventually, she continues.
“Eventually, I stopped caring for him too. I…” She sighs. “That’s not true. I never stopped caring for him. I just resented his passion. I grew older, and we had Etienne and Sylvie, and I was ready to be a family and leave the business to others. You wouldn’t believe how cutthroat it is, Mary. How vicious. It makes no sense to me. It’s jazz , for Heaven's sake. How many people even listen to jazz anymore? Who are we showing off for?"
She shakes her head and looks at the piano. I resist the urge to follow her gaze.
“But Marcel…” She lifts her hands and lets them fall onto her lap. “He didn’t care about the business either. He didn’t care about us either. He cared about the music. He cared about doing something momentous. Transformative. It wasn’t enough for him to be the best. He had to change the fabric of reality. I know you read that, Mary, but can you imagine my reaction when he said those words to me? When he actually told me that he wanted to change the world by writing a jazz composition? It’s… ludicrous, it’s insane!”
I speak for the first time. “I couldn’t agree more.”
“But he did it!” she hisses, staring at me with wild eyes. “That’s what’s really crazy! He did it! He said that he was going to open a door between this life and the afterlife, and he did ! I still remember the first time he played that song. I swear I saw her. I saw her, Mary.”
My blood freezes. “Saw who?”
“ Her . The Angel of Death.”
I sigh and lean back on the couch. Josephine mistakes my reaction and insists, “I swear it! And then each time he played, something bad would happen! A speaker would explode, there would be a fire in the club, his car wouldn’t start… And eventually, people would die.”
She leans forward. “Marcel wasn’t the only one to die from this song. Neither were Claude and Audrey.”
“Audrey killed herself,” I say tersely. “Unless you were lying about that.”
“I wasn’t lying. But her death came about as a result of Cluade’s death, and Claude was murdered by this music!”
I stand abruptly. “Mrs. Lacroix, I am tendering my resignation effective immediately.”
She recoils as though slapped. “What?”
“I’m leaving. I can’t do this. I…” I take a breath and compose myself. “I am aware of the power that Marcel’s legacy has over this family, and I confess that I also felt as though I was under a spell cast by Gabriel’s performance of Vie Apres a la Mort. But I am a grown woman, not a child, and I can’t believe that a jazz composition has somehow opened a portal to the world of the dead, nor can I believe that it has cursed people to die.”
“Then how do you explain what you’ve seen? What we’ve all seen?”
“Mass hallucinations brought on by grief. We were all in highly suggestible states and ready to believe the most fantastic explanations so that we might have some answer, even if it was a foolish one.”
“But why would you grieve? You didn’t know Claude or Audrey or Marcel?”
“I grieve my sister.”
She blinks. “Your sister?”
I sigh. "I came to New Orleans to look for signs of my sister, who disappeared thirty years ago. I found a playbill from twenty-nine years ago for a jazz show in New Orleans. My sister played jazz saxophone. I… I thought that it was a sign. But that was foolish of me. I am a sensible woman, and I allowed myself to behave insensibly. I came here and unfortunately found myself surrounded by grieving people who were also behaving insensibly. None of that is your fault, but it's the truth. We're not compatible because this house needs a voice of reason, and none of us can be that voice. I tried, but as you've pointed out, I'm also seeing things that aren't there, things that can’t be there. Your children need someone who can keep them grounded in reality. I implore you to find someone somewhere who can accomplish that. But it’s not me. I’m sorry.”
She stares at me for a long moment. Then she says in a brittle voice. “I see. Very well. I will leave you to tell the children.” She stands. “They’ll be quite disappointed, but that’s life, oui ?” She smiles bitterly and with more than a hint of contempt. “I wish you well, Mary Wilcox.”
I don’t bother to return the sentiment. I don’t think she particularly wants me to. She leaves the parlor, and I sigh and press my fingertips to my eyes for a long moment before returning upstairs to break the news to the children.