Chapter 27
TWENTY-SEVEN
The front door swings open without protest.
She pauses on the porch as she locks it behind her, struggling because her fingers are stiff and full of splinters from the saw handle, and because Jude is a deadweight on her hip.
Dawn has broken the sky with a sharp slice, a bruised persimmon glow to the horizon that feels like condemnation.
It clears as she drives, the sky almost cloudless, the blue frostbitten and gorgeous.
She wipes her hands on her coat before she slides behind the wheel, but blood rims her fingernails and the tissues she used to wipe her face probably did futile battle against the mess.
A hot shower is needed, a solid scrubbing.
Later. To do that now would be to think of Bren, his mouth warm and sultry on the back of her neck as the shower’s steam envelops them both, she leaning into him with easy confidence because he would never let her fall.
He stalked her, she reminds herself. He obsessed over her, he felt owed, he waited until she was too desperate to do anything but cling to him to keep from drowning.
She hates him, but she also pulls out every soft memory she has of him and sews them into her skin.
The drive is quick, Farrows sliding past in a blur of dying autumn leaves and sleepy homes.
She turns down the street lined with poplars and parks in front of the quaint house that looks made of gingerbread and white chocolate, a soothing lure to it that makes her feel calm as she unbuckles Jude from his booster seat and carries him slowly up the garden path.
A headache drums in the back of her skull, but it feels like a lifetime since Bren cracked her head.
She can ignore it. She can push through.
Her black coat feels glued to her skin, stiffening, but she can’t imagine taking it off. Wearing it is like being held by him.
Exhaustion has set in as she rings the doorbell, and she tries to remember what time it is—seven o’clock, eight?
—and if she will inconvenience anyone by waking them.
Cheerful music from children’s cartoons can be heard sifting under the door, and she smells coffee, luscious and freshly roasted.
It gives her a heady rush, reminding her how long it’s been since she ate, how the baby will suffer if she starves herself.
Your baby is the size of a mango.
Your baby is the size of all your sins.
The white front door swings open, and Ava stands there with a mug of coffee in hand, her pajamas still on, cardigan stained with toddler breakfast. Her usual immaculate curls are piled on her head in a haphazard bun, and the bags under her eyes indicate that maybe Poppy doesn’t have a perfect sleep schedule after all, since apparently she’s watching early-morning cartoons when “screen time is bad for children.” Seeing this raw, unfiltered version of Ava’s life feels like a crime, yet it swells Elodie’s heart with grateful relief.
Ava looks normal; she looks like a mother.
“Sorry to be here so early,” Elodie says.
The mug drops from Ava’s hand and smashes on the welcome mat.
Elodie doesn’t flinch, the slosh of liquid over her shoes barely even registers, and she takes time to hoist Jude a little higher on her hip and steady her breathing.
Abject horror crosses Ava’s face as she takes them in: Jude a living blood clot, Elodie still saturated, something torn out of their broken eyes.
“Oh my god.” Her hands fly to her mouth.
“You knew he stalked me for six years. I overheard you at Thanksgiving, and it makes sense now. You knew.” No malice threads through her voice, no accusation; she has been too far hollowed out.
Ava stares, completely frozen but for her shaking hands.
“But I don’t hate you,” Elodie says. “I was jealous, yes, but I respect you now. You went through hell losing your parents and you built yourself a beautiful life despite it. I wish…” Her voice catches, shreds around the edges. “I wish I knew how to do that, but I don’t.”
“Elodie.” It comes out barely above a whisper. “What … What happened?”
In the background, a new cartoon comes on, the music changing as Poppy lets out a little squeal of delight. It doesn’t seem to penetrate Ava’s shock.
“I thought there was something wrong with the house,” Elodie goes on. “But it was Bren. And it was me. And you knew.”
“I’m so … I’m so, so sorry.” Ava swallows. “Come inside. Please … Please, we’ll talk about it. Where is … Where is Brendan?”
Elodie almost laughs, but her mouth is too full of broken glass. “He loved me, worshipped me. But he is … irreparably fucked-up.”
Tears gloss Ava’s eyes, but she is pulling herself together now, her gaze flicking down the street to see if anyone’s watching as she tries to catch the edge of Elodie’s sleeve and pull her inside.
It is like tugging at a ghost. Elodie only unravels, gossamer threads spinning out wild and lovely all around her.
“Please c-come inside,” Ava says. “I’ll help. We’ll figure this out.” But her eyes are on Jude again, his fire truck pajamas painted to his skin in blood.
There is nothing in his eyes.
“Can you take him?” Elodie says.
Ava reaches out without hesitation and takes Jude in her arms, adjusting him so he can lay his head on her shoulder.
His body caves into hers, no resistance in his cotton limbs, no protest in his empty mouth.
She is so much like Bren right then, those big, soulful blue eyes, the way she offers help immediately and assumes all problems can be fixed.
Elodie looks at Ava’s flat stomach, the lack of a baby when all she wanted was another. This was the right choice. This is the fulfillment of her promise to Bren to do what’s right.
“Is Bren still at the house?” Ava’s voice is high, but she fights to control it.
Elodie gives the smallest incline of her head.
“Come inside and I’ll get you some coffee. We’ll just … talk. You can tell me what happened, and I’ll—be here for you.” Panic has set into her voice, and she is struggling not to freak out. “We’ll give Jude a bath. Is he hurt?”
“The only thing wrong with him is me.” Elodie tucks her cold hands in her pockets to distract from the loss of his weight.
The loss of him. “I loved him wrong, but I do love him. I need … I need—” Her voice cracks all the way through then, and she will never shape the rest of what she wanted to say.
All she can do is take a step backward, then another.
Ava’s eyes go wide and she reaches out a hand, a useless fluttering gesture. Understanding sweeps across her face.
Jude peels his head from Ava’s shoulder and looks at Elodie. His wail is high and clear, a sound that is precious to his mother, even though there is so much grief twined through it that she could hang herself with its weight.
She turns her back to them and begins to walk down the garden path.
If he is taken from her, she will die; the truth of that has beaten itself into her skull from the moment she pulled him from inside her and looked at him lying wet and smeared in her blood on the bathroom tiles. She was his house.
But she is not a house anyone can survive in, not when peeling back her skin will show bones ribboned with rot, horror sunk so deep into her marrow that there is no separating her from it.
If she chooses to leave him, she thinks it will be the first time she has actually been a good mother.
She walks quietly to the car and pulls open the door, his screams echoing down the street as they escalate higher and higher.
“MAMA! MAMA!”
On the porch, Ava wavers, her mouth open as if she means to call Elodie back, but obvious panic is wrapped so tight about her tongue, she can only choke. Jude thrashes in her arms, and her attention is taken up by trying not to drop him.
Elodie slams her door and starts the engine.
The car slips easily from the driveway. In the passenger seat sits his wallet—she will empty his cards at an ATM and then later abandon the sedan in a different city.
Jude’s rabbit lies on its side, its single button eye locked on her with eerie reproach.
Blood splatters its deflated belly, as if it has been shot.
When she glances in the rearview mirror, she sees Ava lose her grip on Jude, unused to the wily wriggle of his limbs.
She runs after him as he bolts into the street.
It hits Elodie with swift, cutting force, how she didn’t stop to explain to Ava what Jude likes to eat, his bedtime routine, how he will want milk in a duck cup, that he plays by lining up his toy animals.
She didn’t mention the skills he’s regressed on, the potential lead poisoning in his blood.
She didn’t explain that he loves to play games, he loves to win, and he will be cuddly and affectionate when it suits him, when he’s ready.
She didn’t tell Ava how he is perfect; he always has been.
Through her closed windows, she can hear his wretched, panicked wailing. For her, over and over and over.
“MAMA.”
As much as she terrifies him, she is all he knows.
She will never be more loved than here in their darkest moment, and she will forever be listening to the cadence of his scream in the back of her head.
If it ever begins to fade, she will cut herself open from throat to navel and plunge her hands into the decayed cavity of her soul until she finds those screams again.
Ava runs onto the road and snatches Jude up, holding him tight as he wails and struggles, his hand outstretched toward his mother’s fast-disappearing car.
Elodie presses her foot on the gas and then she has followed the bend in the street. The car picks up speed and poplar trees race away beside her. Tears cut free of her hollowed-out eyes and run a soft line down her cheek. Inside the car, there is silence.
She can’t hear him anymore.