Chapter XI. 2007 #3
But for what she had in mind, she didn’t need to be that good.
It was an old story, one she’d used to get out of countless P.E.
classes. She knew it well, and she knew that it worked.
Even better was that her father would believe it, too.
He would be angry, but he wouldn’t be suspicious.
He might be ashamed of the potential sin hidden inside her body, but even he couldn’t deny its functions.
And it would mean time alone with her mother.
She leaned forward in the seat and tapped the driver. “I’m so sorry, but could you turn around? I need to go back to the house.”
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Pastor Burson says I’m supposed to take you to church. We’re almost there. If you forgot something, I can call and have Angela bring it.”
“It’s not that. It’s just that … well … I’m having”—she dropped her voice into an embarrassed whisper—“a lady problem.”
“Oh.” His face flushed a mottled crimson. “I see.” He put on his indicator and shifted to the left lane, the opposite lane clear as he completed what was likely an illegal U-turn. Anything to keep him from sharing space with a bleeding woman.
He took the curves a bit too fast, but within minutes, they were pulling back down the long driveway, and Camilla didn’t wait for him to open her door, making a show of holding her purse over her backside as she did so.
“No need to wait. I wouldn’t want you to be late for service, and I’ll need to change. Maybe even shower. I’ll call my dad and let him know I can drive myself back.”
He flushed again and kept his eyes trained on the steering wheel instead of having the decency to look at her as if she was an actual person and not a walking, talking she-devil.
“Thank you, Miss Burson.”
She closed the door and backed up a few steps with her hands and purse still behind her as the car pulled away. Only when it was a distant speck on the horizon did she allow herself to turn and make her way into the house.
She hoped Angela was already gone. She never left before the rest of the Burson family, always staying behind to ensure she was there to provide for any last-minute request. She wouldn’t linger though.
Wouldn’t want to be late for service herself, so while Camilla had left no more than twenty minutes ago, the house was likely empty.
Empty of everyone except her mother.
She knew she should call her father and feed him her excuse for not being front and center in the family pew for her grand return to righteousness. Her explanation would only mildly calm his fury over her absence, and offering it sooner rather than later would work in her favor.
But it would have to wait. She didn’t know how long she would have alone with her mother. If her father would send Angela or the driver back to check on her. If he would foist today’s sermon off on one of his many assistant pastors and show up himself.
She kicked off her heels and ran up the stairs, skipping the last one and hauling herself up by the banister. If only her legs would move faster.
The door was as she saw it last: closed against her. A barrier meant to serve as a reminder to keep away, but she rushed toward it and then slammed her palm against the wood.
“Mom? It’s me.” She jiggled the handle, knowing it was locked but hoping her father had forgotten or left without locking it behind him, assuming the house would be empty of anyone who wanted to get inside.
“Open the door. I don’t care if it’s contagious, you have to open the door.” Her voice grew thick, tears pooling in her eyes so that she blinked furiously, the world around her a blurred smear of light and color.
But there was no movement. No sounds of her mother pulling herself out of bed and shuffling toward the door, her voice soothing as she called out for Camilla and told her not to worry, she was coming.
She leaned her head against the door and heaved a sob. She was going to lose them. Brianna and her mother. They were going to get sicker and sicker, and she couldn’t stop it. Tania Fullerton hadn’t been able to stop it. It was foolish to think she would be any different.
From behind the door came the smallest sound. An exhale or a sigh, Camilla didn’t know, but it was enough to know there was someone there. Her mother heard her.
The handle turned, and the door opened. Her mother stood there, illuminated by the dim glow of a single lamp. The curtains were closed, and the room had the stale odor of unwashed bodies. A sickroom that opened now for Camilla as her mother reached for her and drew her inside.
“You shouldn’t have come back.”
“I needed to talk to you. Without him here. And I couldn’t sit through that service and pretend like everything is okay. Not with…” She let her gaze drift to her mother’s mouth. The sores. “How long have you known?”
Her mother squeezed her hand. “Not long. I found the first one right after you left. I used every makeup trick I know, but not even I could hide it.” She chuckled, but it was a loose, wet sound. As if some integral part of her throat had shaken free.
“He lied to me. He said you had a cold.”
Her mother closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. “I know.”
“He should have told me.”
“I know.” Her mother let silence fall between them. She did not try to fill it with justifications for her father’s lie. That he did it to protect her, to keep her from being upset. Camilla was grateful she didn’t. He wasn’t here. There was no reason to lie for him.
Camilla had only ever known her mother’s body as gracefully poised, an embodiment of all things lithe and flowing, but the illness had collapsed those elegant lines.
Her shoulders hunched. Her chin fell toward her chest. It was the first time Camilla had ever seen the potential that one day her mother would grow old.
“You should lie down,” she said, but her mother waved her away.
“I’m so tired of lying down. Every hour I think about setting that mattress on fire. Or climbing out the window.” She glanced toward the windows as if she was considering it right then.
“Mom.” Camilla covered both her hands with her own and gently tugged, relieved when her mother’s gaze finally slid from the windows and back to her. “I have to ask you something.” She licked her lips, suddenly nervous.
“What is it?”
“Before. The night I went on Retreat. You said you’d seen them. The Dark Sisters.”
She watched as her mother’s lips creased into a frown, the sores cracking as they opened and blood seeped onto her chin. A beauty queen born into a nightmare.
“They aren’t real. I’m not doing this. Not with you.” She tried to turn away, but Camilla held her, the bones of her mother’s hands flexing beneath her grip, the skin gone so thin, Camilla worried it might tear.
“I saw them, Mom. The first time, I thought it was a dream. The night I was sleepwalking. But then I saw them again, and I knew it was real. They’re real.”
Her mother groaned as yet another sore stretched and popped, her lips pulled back from her teeth as she spoke.
“I told Vera then that it was wrong. To stop asking about them because it was a story. A bad dream I’d had.
But she kept on and on, and my father … if he knew I’d even considered the possibility of what I’d seen as anything other than some delusion, my entire life would have been ruined.
Everything I wanted just poof. He used to say, ‘The Lord giveth, but I’m the one who taketh away.
’” She snorted and used the hem of her robe to dab away the blood on her chin. “What an asshole.”
“Listen to me. Brianna’s sick, too. And Tania Fullerton—the tree where they found her body—that’s where I saw them.
” She spoke more rapidly now, urgency forcing her to bypass the script she mapped out in her head during Retreat.
“I think it’s all connected. The Sisters.
That tree. The reason why you and Brianna are sick.
It has something to do with them. So if you know something, you have to tell me. Okay?”
Her mother’s eyes went glassy. Her gaze unfocused, her hands going limp beneath Camilla’s as she lifted them toward her face. Her mouth.
“I can feel it. Inside. How it’s making everything loose.”
“Mom?”
“They’re not real,” her mother said, pinching her front canine tooth between two fingers. “Not real,” she repeated, and tugged.
The tooth came away easily, blood oozing from the opening where it had once been.
The decaying root dangled from its bottom.
With it came the smell of spoiled meat. Of sun-heated carrion.
Camilla fought against her desire to retch and tried to pull her mother’s hands away, but they were slippery with blood.
“Mom, stop!”
But her mother did not stop, and Camilla looked on in horror as her mother pulled two more teeth and tossed them to the floor.
“Not real,” she repeated. “Not real.”