Chapter 33
DOVE
“Merci!”
I smile at the post office worker after signing for the package.
“Je vous en prie,” she replies, pushing the big brown box across the counter.
Outside, I lug the package from Chiara to the ’72 Porsche and plop it down in the passenger seat. I keep the windows down, grinning as I feel the Mediterranean breeze in my hair and teasing over my sun-kissed skin as I drive up the winding cliff roads from town to the villa.
It’s been two weeks, and we're pushing the limit in terms of staying here.
Madame Kuzmina has been very understanding about my leave of absence in light of all the bullshit…which is weird, and slightly worryingly out of character. But I’ve learned not to ask questions when it comes to her.
No, the past two weeks have been heaven, but we’re going to have to go back to the real world soon.
I make a face as I pull the vintage car to a stop outside the villa.
Best not to think about that now.
The sun is setting. Bane’s outside on the veranda, dozing in one of the chaise lounges, a copy of Bastian Pierce’s Fucked Sideways lying open on his bare chest. I’ve played a huge part in him not sleeping much the last two weeks, so I let him keep snoozing as I eagerly set the box from my sister down on the coffee table.
Chiara emailed me the other day, saying she’d found a box of Agatha’s things in the closet of her old room at Dad’s house, and would I like her to send it?
Why, yes, I fucking would.
I tear the tape off the top and rip the box open, grinning as I lean over it and poke around inside.
Aww.
Right on top is a framed photo of Agatha hugging Lark and me at around the age of nine, in the back garden of the house. A smile touches my lips, my eyes misting as I set it down on the coffee table and poke around some more.
Agatha’s old pocketbook.
The little metal case with the matching pens inside that she used to write her letters with. She was a prolific letter-writer, and I was always jealous of her incredible penmanship.
There’s also a scarf, and when I yank it out and bring it to my face, I melt a little, smelling the faint vestiges of her perfume.
I remind myself to thank Chiara profusely and get her an awesome Christmas present.
The rest of the contents are just a few old paperback mysteries, a pair of reading glasses, and…
My brows arch.
An ancient VHS videotape.
I pull it out, reading the title on the side: “My girls” in Agatha’s impeccable pre-dementia handwriting.
Curiosity burns in me. I glance out to the veranda. Bane’s still asleep, and I’m not going to wake him up to ask if this house has an old VHS player.
So I just open the media cabinet set into the bookshelves of the living room. DVD player, CD player, tape deck….
Bingo.
I grin from ear to ear when I spot the old VHS player. My hands shake as I push the tape inside. It takes me a while to figure out how to get it to play on the TV, but eventually, I succeed.
The TV screen flickers to life as the tape begins to play. A huge grin tugs my lips as Agatha’s face fills the screen.
And I mean fills.
The video is zoomed super close to her face. There’s no sound, but she’s laughing and smiling broadly as the camera jiggles, like the person recording her is laughing, too.
Then I realize the damn TV is muted.
I scramble for the remote and hit the volume button. Instantly, Agatha’s laughter fills my ears for the first time in years.
“No, it’s recording, hon!” she laughs, the skin around her twinkling eyes crinkling with smile and age lines. “The little red light is on!”
“Oh, shit, it's zoomed all the way in!”
The second voice stops me cold.
I've only heard it in recordings and videos from before I was born.
Because the owner of that slightly husky yet gorgeously feminine voice died giving birth to me.
It’s my mom.
“Be careful of her head!” Mom laughs, her voice still happy, though tired.
Agatha’s zoomed-in face snickers. “Which one?! Don’t you scold me,” she laughs. “I’ve held babies before, you know, thank you very much!”
Wait.
What?
Agatha’s brows knit. “You’re still recording, hon.”
“Fuck.”
Agatha laughs. “Watch that potty mouth in front of them!”
I stare at the screen, hungry for answers.
“Oh! Found the zoom button.”
“Good,” Agatha smiles. “Now, get a good shot of me and my grand babies.” She shoots the camera a look. “And you’d better believe that’s what I’m calling them.”
“Well,” Mom laughs sweetly, “you’re the closest thing to a mother I have, so I think that's fair.”
An old-sounding cellphone rings in the background.
“Oh, shit! That might be him,” Mom blurts, still out of frame. She puts the camera down, and I laugh when it tilts wildly, angling away from Agatha.
“Is it him?” Agatha asks anxiously. “Does he have the passports?!”
My pulse skips.
“Dammit, no,” Mom sighs. “Just the dry cleaners. Cesare’s shirts are ready.”
Agatha snorts in disgust. “He’ll be picking up his own damn shirts soon enough. Or going shirtless for all I care.”
“Ahem. What happened to not swearing in front of them?”
The camera goes right side up again, zooms out, and swings back to Agatha.
What the fuck.
Two tiny infants are swaddled in matching pink and white blankets with little pink caps on their heads, each of them tucked under one of Agatha’s arms as she sits in a rocking chair.
A rustic cabin window behind her looks out over waves crashing against a sandy, rocky, wintery beach.
Agatha beams down at the two sleeping little ones with a happy sigh. “He might be a bastard,” she sighs. “But you two made some beautiful babies.”
My heart stops.
“Don’t worry, my little birds,” she coos. “You won’t have to think about that horrible man ever again once we leave.”
One of the babies stirs, her tiny face scrunching up as a soft, delicate little cry bubbles from her mouth.
“Awww, I hear you, little Dove.”
A sob catches in my throat as my hand flies to my mouth, my eyes filling with tears. I watch as the shot stabilizes, the camera clicked into place on what must be a tripod. A woman in baggy sweats and an oversized hoodie steps into view.
“Lydia!” Agatha scolds. “Stop it! You should be in bed.”
“Please,” Mom scoffs. “I’m fine.”
“You just gave birth to twins. Quit being so stubborn.”
Twins.
Tears roll down my cheeks, my face caving as I press a hand to the TV screen.
“Come here, little Dove,” Mom whispers, taking the crying baby…me…from Agatha. “You’re just hungry, aren’t you?”
She steps slightly away from the camera, unzipping her hoodie and bringing me to her breast. For a second she turns, and I see her smiling, tired face.
Another small cry burbles through the speakers, and Mom laughs. “Oh boy, now you’re hungry too, aren’t you, Lark?”
“Hang on, hon,” Agatha says, gently standing from the rocker holding Lark.
My best friend.
My other half.
…My fucking twin sister.
“Let’s shut this off for now.”
Agatha steps over to the camera, and the screen goes black. Then it switches to dull, silent blacks and white static.
Something in me breaks.
Something shatters.
The cry that erupts from my throat is somewhere between mourning and happiness.
That place between pain and release.
I crumple, sobbing as I drop my face to my hand, the other still pressed to the static screen. Feeling like my reality just broke. Like the floor is giving out beneath me with a creak.
Except then it creaks again, audibly.
My eyes are blurry, my face wet with snot and tears as I turn to look up to where Bane is standing in the doorway of the living room behind me, his face haggard and drawn.
“Baby…”
I somehow tumble to my feet and rush into him, slamming into him with a gut-wrenching, twisted sob from deep in my chest. I collapse into his arms, sobbing and weeping in pain and relief, in grief and in joy.
And my whole world is upside down.