Chapter 49
Bastian
I go downstairs to call Evelyn, and then follow at a distance as our mother goes up the stairs. She closes the bedroom door in my face when I try to follow her inside, and even with my ear to the wood, I can’t hear what they’re talking about in our bathroom.
They come out of our room a minute later, a towel wrapped around Sybil’s waist. I brace myself, fully expecting The Witch to drag my sister down to The Bad Place.
Evelyn takes her upstairs to her bedroom.
Somehow, that’s worse.
I tell myself everything’s okay…but I find myself pressed to the door, peering through the keyhole all of ten minutes later.
Evelyn is brushing Sybil’s hair.
My sister sits rigid on the vanity stool, staring at her own reflection.
She looks terrified.
“You must track your cycle on a calendar so you can prepare for it in advance,” Evelyn is saying, working through a tangle with a harsh tug that makes Billy wince.
“Is it supposed to hurt this much?”
Evelyn steps back, gesturing for Sybil to stand. That’s the first time I realize she’s wearing a dress…and it’s not one of hers. It’s dove gray and fits Billy well enough—everywhere except the chest.
“The pain comes and goes,” Evelyn says. “Some months are better than others. You’ll get used to it.”
“It hurts a lot.” Sybil winces, her hands sliding over her stomach. “May I have some ibuprofen, or—”
“You’ll develop ulcers if you take painkillers on an empty stomach.”
Sybil is silent for a beat. “Then how about you feed me for a change, Mother?”
I look away when Evelyn’s hand shoots out, but I can still hear the slap ringing in my ears.
“You ungrateful bitch!” Evelyn grabs a fistful of the hair she just brushed and yanks Billy toward the door. “Go downstairs and set the table. Use the good china. We have a guest joining us.”
I duck into the shadows just as my sister bursts into the hallway.
“Who the hell did she invite?” I whisper as she passes me.
Sybil shrugs, swiping angrily at a tear. There’s a splash of red on her pale skin, her hair messy where Evelyn grabbed her. I try to smooth it down for her, but she knocks my hand away.
Jeez. Isn’t PMS supposed to be premenstrual syndrome?
I almost say something, but we moved past empty platitudes long ago. We’re at the ‘grin and bear it’ stage of our traumatic childhoods, where we’ll likely remain until we extricate ourselves from this house.
We have a plan.
As soon as Billy turns sixteen, she’s applying for emancipation.
By then I’ll be old enough to get a job and provide for both of us.
She’s tried convincing me to emancipate ever since I told her it was possible, but I could never leave her alone with The Witch, and if she ran away with me, sure as shit Evelyn would track us down and put Sybil into the system as punishment.
Three more years, and we’re free.
“What if it’s one of our dads?” I ask Sybil as we go downstairs.
“Please,” Billy scoffs bitterly. “Like they’d risk being forced to take care of their bastard children?”
“True,” I mutter. “What about her publisher? That’s supposedly who she’s always running off to meet. Think we’ll actually…”
I trail off as we step into the kitchen. It feels like I just walked through a fairy ring.
I’ve never seen so much food in my life. A golden-brown turkey. Mashed potatoes swimming in butter. Stuffing studded with chestnuts. Cranberry sauce. A pie cooling on the counter.
Sybil gazes at the turkey like it’s the second coming.
“It’s like the wedding at Cana, Bash,” she whispers.
Wedding? We’ve never been to a wedding.
Shit.
Is my sister losing her mind?
“We’ve never been to—“
She grabs my sleeve without taking her eyes off the food. “It is, Bash. It’s just like when Jesus turned water into wine. God was testing me, and now…this is his reward.”
Oh. Right. She’s referring to some religious parable.
I read a lot, but there’s one book on my sister’s Tbr that I’ll never crack open, and it’s the Bible. And those glossy-paged recipe books. My sister reads them like guys read porn.
I assume.
“This isn’t a miracle, Billy. It’s a trap.”
She glances at me, a sparkle of what might have been happiness in her eyes, before reality sinks in and the light fades.
“Right,” she murmurs, blinking. “No, you’re right.”
I help her set four places at the table with the good china while outside, snow drifts and wind gusts.
Sybil runs her finger along the gold rim of one of the fancy plates while her gaze dances over the food. “I feel strange, Bash.”
“Can you actually feel your uterus shedding its lining?”
She looks up at me with a hard frown. A blush makes the fading handprint on her cheek flare again. “Stop talking about my ovaries,” she hisses.
I pause midway through folding a napkin. “You just said you feel—”
“Weird, Bash. Weird, like—” She gestures wildly at the food. “Like this is all just a dream and I’m trying to wake up, but I can’t.”
“That’s because usually we’re in a nightmare,” I quip, smiling.
It’s the bright colors and vivid smell of the food, the fancy crockery, the almost soupy heat inside the kitchen. I didn’t get very far with my paper, but I’m suddenly itching to write some more.
Out of nowhere, I get the urge to hum. Nothing in particular, just a jaunty little tune.
I’m grateful for—
“Stop!” Sybil snaps, slamming down the napkin she’d been folding.
“Jeez Louise.”
Her face clears, and she blinks a few times. “Sorry.”
I snatch a bread roll from the basket and toss it at her. “Here, cranky pants. You’ve probably got low blood pressure again.”
Billy fumbles with the bread. “I can’t. She’ll know.”
I grab a roll, take a bite, and shove it back in the basket with the bite facing down. “How?” I mumble through a mouthful of bread.
Usually I’d get at least a giggle. But she stares at me with too-big eyes, then slowly puts her roll back in the basket.
…Because our mother is standing behind us. I swallow everything in my mouth, forcing the lump of dry bread down my throat as Evelyn walks past me to inspect the table.
She turns, chin raised, as if she’s upset there wasn’t anything to complain about. Then her eyes drop to my chest. “There are crumbs on your shirt.”
My eyes slide shut as I quickly brush my shirt with my fingers.
I’m going to pay for that. Thank God Billy isn’t as impulsive as me.
“Go wash up, and bring your papers down with you.” Evelyn busies herself at one of the kitchen cupboards. “Our guest will be arriving shortly.”
Billy throws me a frantic look over her shoulder.
Her face is suddenly as white as the snow drifting past the window.
I don’t think it has anything to do with her uterine lining or low blood pressure.
When we come back downstairs, Evelyn is seated at the table, sipping a glass of wine.
We take our seats, both glancing suspiciously at the glass of milk beside our place settings.
Evelyn stopped letting us drink milk a couple of years ago.
Something about hormones. Now the only milk we get is the watery skimmed stuff in our cereal—just enough to wet it.
There’s a second wineglass at the empty place setting.
I’ve never seen our mother drink alcohol. Not once in sixteen years. She refers to it as a crutch for the intellectually feeble.
Half an hour later, she’s on her second glass.
Her guest still hasn’t arrived.
We sit in silence, our hands in our laps, our eyes on the food we know we’re not allowed to touch. My stomach has moved past cramping into a hollow ache that makes it hard to think.
Sybil’s gripping the edge of her chair so hard that her knuckles are white.
“It’s a shame to let such a stunning meal grow cold,” I venture carefully. “Could we perhaps—”
“We wait until our guest has arrived.”
“It’s just, Sybil’s been struggling with her blood pressure today, so—“
“I said, we wait.” Evelyn drains her second glass and pours a third.
The gravy has congealed. A fly found its way inside the kitchen—probably from The Bad Place—and I’ve stopped shooing it away from the turkey. Instead, I watch it parade around on a drumstick, rubbing its legs together.
Sybil makes a small, desperate sound.
“Perhaps we could read our papers while we wait?” I suggest, grasping for anything that might get food into my sister’s mouth—or at least make the prolonged suffering bearable. “I think you’ll be pleased.”
Evelyn’s eyes focus on me. They’re glazed from the wine, but still lock on like a blowtorch.
“Fine.” She waves her glass. “You first.”
I clear my throat, then glance up at Billy.
She’s staring forlornly at the pie.
Suddenly I’m not so sure about my ‘paper.’ I’m all about pushing our mother’s buttons, testing her iron-clad boundaries…but I’m starting to feel weird too.
But I push on because I’m hungry enough to eat this damn paper.
I clear my throat.
“Gratitude. A study in absence.”
Evelyn’s eyebrow twitches.
I continue, my voice measured, academic even.
“Research suggests that mandatory expressions of gratitude, particularly in high-stress domestic situations, may produce paradoxical effects on the subject’s psychological wellbeing.
Rather than fostering genuine appreciation, forced gratitude can create what Festinger termed ‘cognitive dissonance.’ A state of mental discomfort arising from the conflict between one’s true feelings and the emotions one is compelled to express. ”
I glance up again. Evelyn’s face is unreadable. Sybil is staring through me like she’s dreaming with her eyes open.
“For instance,” I continue, most bravely, “a subject might be instructed to feel grateful for basic necessities such as food, shelter, or the absence of physical harm, while simultaneously experiencing conditions that make genuine gratitude psychologically impossible. The resulting tension can manifest as anxiety, depression, or in extreme cases, a complete dissociation from one’s authentic emotional state. ”