25. Dreams
ELOISE
Idream of Damien that night. We’re on the cliffs at the back of our property, having a picnic. His head rests in my lap as I run my fingers through his hair. Our children play around us. Faceless, laughing children who run too close to the edge. I’m not worried. My mother is watching over them, keeping them safe. She’s calling to me again, saying something into the wind I can’t hear.
When I wake, the happiness from that dream sticks with me, but then I realize it’s impossible. A picnic in the sun would weaken Damien. Even if he’d do it for me, I wouldn’t want him to. And we could never have children, could we? We’re not even the same species.
Am I actually lying in bed thinking about having children with Damien? Yes, I am. Damn it. I’m falling in love with my monster. It’s a terrible idea for many reasons, not the least of which is that I do intend to destroy the candle when we’re done saving my house. Afterward, he’ll disappear. Probably find his shade friends and a way home. He”ll definitely steer clear of the Gowdies. Once he’s liberated, I fully expect he won’t waste his newfound freedom with a human in cashmere sweater sets and pearls.
I roll my eyes. I’m so sick of dressing like Tony’s little Barbie doll. All my clothes are really his. How he wanted me to look. How he wanted me to act. Who he wanted me to be. If I wasn’t on the verge of bankruptcy, I’d buy a new wardrobe.
I sit up in my childhood bed, my eyes widening as an idea ignites in me like I’ve tripped an explosive force in my brain. I’m an artist. I’ve worked with diverse media to produce creative work for most of my life, first at my mother’s side and then to get my degree. I have talent, my mother’s art studio, and fabric.
I don’t need to buy new clothes. I can make them.
Popping out of bed, I dress in overpriced yoga gear, then run to check on Grams. Once she’s settled, I visit my mother’s studio.
The door is painted deep blue with stars and a moon, and my mother’s favorite dragon curled and sleeping at the base. I think of my tattoo, how I’d always thought it was a key but Damien thought it was a dragon. How he said if I was ever to win this house, I’d have to wake my inner dragon. I understand now. I need to wake the part of me that fell asleep to please Tony. I need the girl who was reckless and wild. That was a girl who could get things done. And the tools I need are in this room.
Since the day I moved back in with Grams, I’d walked past the door to my mother’s studio but refused to go in. This is Mom’s part of the house. Opening the door feels like tapping into her soul. Pressure builds in my torso, forcing my heart into my throat, as I turn the knob and the smell of stale air, oil paint, and dust hits me squarely in the face.
My mother made her money painting with oils. The Diana Harcourt brand paired fantasy creatures with ordinary settings. Two of her most popular paintings were titled Dragons in the Deli and Witches in the Waiting Room. But as I stride into the massive space that was once her studio, the central figure is a sculpture made out of knives.
I’ve never seen this piece before. Kitchen knives, short daggers, curved blades, butter knives… even a rapier and a broadsword make up the sculpture. They’re all arranged with sharp points facing out in a column running from floor to ceiling. I approach it cautiously and gently tap one of the points. Ouch! I suck my pricked finger. What the hell inspired this? I find my answer on a plaque mounted to the base: Motherhood by Diana Harcourt.
I bark a sharp laugh. My mom thought motherhood was a tower of deadly weapons. Wow. Was it because I was such a wild kid? I think back, tapping my chin. No, she’d loved that part of me. She always encouraged it. So then, what’s the meaning? I pace around the sculpture. How is it possible I’ve never seen this one before? Admittedly she died when I was a teen, and I couldn’t see more than two feet around myself back then, but still, I’d worked with her in this studio. This must’ve been a piece that had been loaned out to a gallery. I pause when something caged inside the sculpture catches my eye. Squinting, I rise on my tiptoes for a better look at what’s mounted there. A framed picture of me as a child is nestled within all those sharp points.
Now it makes sense. This is a sculpture about protective instincts. A mother becomes a whirlwind of weapons to protect her child. This is how she felt about protecting me. Memories of her wild blond curls and rambunctious smile flood me, followed by my father’s taciturn strength. What would they think about the trials that I face now? What advice would they give me? I almost wish I could wedge myself into the middle of this sculpture and, for just a few moments, feel safe like I did when they were alive, when I was wrapped in my father’s arms or tucked into my mother’s side.
Do we ever again feel as safe as we did when we were children? Before we understood how evil the world could be?
I swallow around the lump in my throat, my vision blurring from tears I can’t hold back any longer. It’s time, I decide, to allow them to fall freely and to accept that this grief is a part of me now. I’m a survivor not a victim. I won’t let it own me.
Through my tears, I find a few empty bins and start loading them with bottles of fabric dye, growing hopeful as I see that I have everything I need here. Minutes later, I’m back in my room, pulling all the clothes from my closet and drawers. I set up a system in my bathroom. Any fabric that is dyable goes into one of five vats, purple, black, red, orange, or lime green. Nothing is coming out of here remotely beige. All the pain, all the loss I’ve held at arm’s length, I invite in. I grieve the end of my marriage right along with the loss of my parents and the preemptive loss of my grandmother.
I shove the last three years underwater and hold it there.
My fabric shears became a scalpel for what remains, extracting Tony from every piece. I grin at what he would think as I carve up a Brooks Brothers blazer he bought me for Christmas. Not even Grams would wear the ugly print, but it has lovely leather and brass detailing, and the lining is perfect. Once I’m buried in fabric scraps, I rev up the sewing machine and don’t stop dyeing, cutting, or stitching for eighteen hours straight, aside from an occasional bathroom break and to check on Grams.
By the time I wrap things up, my hands look like Easter eggs, but I have a closet of original outfits I can’t wait to wear. I don a pair of black cigarette pants and a green off-the-shoulder top that’s fitted around my waist and descend the steps to grab something to eat for the first time that day.
“Eloise?” I hear Grams call. It’s the middle of the night, so I race to her room. She’s left the bedside lamp on and has propped her frail frame up in a foamy sea of white blankets. When she sees me in my new outfit, she gasps, a smile transforming her face. Her hand trembles as she raises it to her mouth. “Eloise,” she says breathlessly. “There you are. You’re back!”
I smile. “Do you like it?”
Her rheumy eyes swim with tears, her chin tucking into her chest. “Much better. You look lovely. Just lovely.” Her gaze lingers on my still-blond hair.
“I’m dyeing it back to its natural shade tomorrow,” I say with a laugh. “Ran out of time today.”
She claps her hands together. “You’re beautiful any way you wear it. But let it be how you want to wear it.”
I nod, my eyes misting. “That’s my plan. What are you doing up so late?”
She waves a hand like she’s shooing the comment away. “When you spend so much time in bed, things like night and day don’t have the meaning they once did. Anyway, I called you in here for a reason. Could you please open the drapes? I want to watch for Howard, and the nurse keeps closing them during the day. I told her I have no problem resting in the light of day. This body could sleep with a marching band going by. But she keeps closing them.”
“I’ll remind her next time.” I walk through the room and open the drapes wide, allowing the moonlight in. Across the backyard and beyond a field of wildflowers, I see the marble crosses that mark my parents’ graves. I haven’t visited them since I’ve been back. Maybe it’s time. God forbid, if I lose the house, it might be the last time.
Lights bounce beyond the graves, darting between the trees. My breath catches.
“You see them, don’t you?” Grams says excitedly. “The fairies!”
“I see lights.” I dart a glance at her. By the time I look back, the glowing orbs have vanished. Did I see what I thought I saw? I shake my head. “They’re gone now.”
“They come and go.” She shrugs. “I’ve been seeing them for months now, always this time of night. I suppose the fae have things to do just like everybody else.”
I have no explanation for the bobbing lights. Maybe they are fairies. Maybe balls of phosphorescent gas are rising up from the cavernous earth our property is built atop. Either way, it sure gave my heart a workout seeing that show. I cross to Grams and place a kiss on her cheek. “Now the shades are open. You won’t miss them if they come back.”
She squeezes my hand. “Thank you, Eloise.”
“Have you been able to sleep at all?” I ask.
“Enough.”
“Are you still up for your nail appointment tomorrow, I mean later today? I can ask Simone to come here instead.”
She shakes her head. “Oh, I’m still getting around, and there’s nothing I like better than listening to Simone spill the tea in that salon. It’s not the same here.”
It’s Grams’s last guilty pleasure. Even if I have to carry her into that nail salon, I’ll do it to make sure she gets what she wants. “Great. It’s not until one, so you can take your time getting up.”
“I plan to.” She smiles whimsically. “G’night, Eloise. I’m so glad you decided to become you again.”
Me too. “G’night, Grams.”