Chapter Five The Nova #4
“Calm, please.” I froze, looking around for a handkerchief to clean the bits.
I had to run to the bar table drawer to find a napkin.
Upon returning, my poor father hastily brushed a leather-bound journal, dusting it as he held it out to me.
It was like he was presenting an assignment he’d forgotten to turn in.
“Oh.” I took it from him. “Thank you,” I said slowly.
Just those simple words, the transaction alone, made his entire body relax. He closed his eyes, a restful smile appearing. “Take care of it.”
“What happened?” My mother poked her head around the parlor entryway.
“It’s all right,” I called to her, squeezing his hand. My throat felt like it could close up and just choke me then.
“My star,” he muttered, glancing out the window again.
Soon my mother returned with a clattering coffee service.
I offered to take the tray. I paused, our hands touching. I could only look down at the coffee; then it just blurred.
“Lucy, go sit, we will let him rest,” she whispered.
“It’s not getting better.” I cleared my throat, finally meeting her eyes.
She gave me a knowing, sad smile. She shook her head.
I tucked the journal into my bag, then receded into the middle of the room, leaving my father to gaze in the corner.
We sat on the sofa, the coffee tray on the table before us to pick at.
Peeking from under my father’s chair was a larger Peculiar. It almost could have been mistaken for a shadow, but I saw its tendrils move. As soon as I looked at it, it took off. Slinking through the furniture and out of the room.
Something was in the air, and it wasn’t good. Could it be that my luck was diminishing? Why were they so aware of me? Was it possibly because of how aware I was of them?
“What troubles you, Lucy?” my mother asked. “I told you that you need not worry about us. He is comfortable.”
“The doctor referral. I sent you a specialist,” I said sternly. “Was there nothing to be done?”
“He said it was uncommon for this prognosis at his age, but medicine is just as much of an enigma as the stars, bella.”
“His job is to demystify it.” My jaw was so tense, a headache was bound to form.
She placed her hand over mine in my lap. “All that matters is that he is not in distress.”
“But what about you? Who is taking care of you?” I strained, my hands shaking enough that I had to relinquish my cup back to the tray.
“I will be fine,” she said, smiling. “I am rich beyond means. My beautiful children, a house with no leaks, and my husband is at peace.”
“Until he isn’t.” I shook my head, panic seeding itself in my chest. “We’ve both seen him when he gets confused, when he is frightened of the dark in broad daylight. He will only get worse.”
“Hush. We don’t talk in negatives.”
“Not talking about medical history and symptoms is probably why he is here in the first place. How come no one talks about what ails us as a family? We can only protect each other by sharing that information. Otherwise, we might have been able to prevent this.” I was attempting to speak low, but it just came out like a hiss.
“Lucia,” my mother said sternly, “we have to make do with the luck we are dealt.”
“Luck can be made—you just need to find a way.”
“I won’t tolerate blasphemy in this household,” she said. “I also will not accept anything from you. I will not be a burden on my children.”
“You are our parents—you will never be a burden.” I had to blink away tears. “I want you to promise me. Promise me now that you will tell me if you are in need. At anytime, anywhere.”
She sighed, placing a hand over her heart. “I promise you. Let’s hope I never need it.” Her eyes were glassy, far off. I hated when she looked at me like that.
“Okay.” I took a deep breath. “Good.” I smiled, though it was mostly to absolve myself. I couldn’t help but wonder if I could have done something, if maybe with one extra ritual during his early diagnosis, it could have all gone away. But what was done was done; I couldn’t change the past.
Out of the corner of my eye, blackness.
The walls were covered in picture frames. Ancestors, beloved pets, a Sicilian countryside, a painting of our family, stray photos of Maxim and me in our younger years, posing for proper portraits. The frames were heirlooms, taken from their home in the old country.
Behind them, movement.
In the shadows of the frames, more Peculiars. They wrinkled and thrived when I looked at them, yet they weren’t willing to move like some of the others. They gave the illusion of shifting candlelight.
They were feeding, always.
On me, on my mother’s emotional labor, on the days she might have felt strongly about being essentially alone. They were also feeding on my father, on the little fleeting moments of nostalgia, a delicacy.
I looked to my mother. Her face at ease, she sipped her coffee and began to talk about the cookies she’d gotten from the bakery around the corner. I was reminded that no matter how she might say she was fine, I would never believe her.
They said time was a thief, but there was no bigger con man than grief—the same trick, the perfect team.