Chapter 28
Spring finally sets in, the weather more stormy and rainy as the cold snow begins to melt away – slowly at first, and then all at once, as though it was never there to begin with – and on the heels of spring comes summer, roaring like a lion, its heat waves making their appearances far earlier than you would have guessed. Your life takes on a new sort of habit – there is still time to read with Jamie, and there is still time for you to read, and you find that, eventually, the bookshelves that once lined your little room slowly disappear. At first, this makes you wary. You have gotten no indication that Dani’s brief moment of favor should incur this sort of wrath, and more importantly, you weren’t certain she could make such changes to the room that was your very own before she ever described the jungle or gave you more space to roam. And yet, it is only on leaving your room that you notice a new door in your hallway, one that leads to a library that grows more expansive the more books you read.
This library is unlike the one where Dani takes you on what is now a weekly venture. Where that one was more cool, cold metal and stark white walls with paper and cards to search through in trying to find books, this one is warm and as you imagined libraries in your time must have been. The walls are warm wood in keeping with that in your room, and the bookshelves themselves are built of similar material, their ends carved in a manner almost as intricate as the trunk in the wall across from your bed. Most importantly, there is a fireplace on one end with a rug set just in front of it. There is a chair next to the fireplace with a little table for your tea, and within the fireplace, there is a warm, crackling fire.
Sometimes, you take to sitting in here and rereading one of the books you have already read instead of staying above after Jamie is too tired to continue talking. You think, perhaps, that this might have been Dani’s intent – that you should stay inside, in your own place, instead of tucking her away, but you are not too sure. Regardless, it makes your part of the world seem warmer, and you are content.
Still, as much as you want to tell yourself that this is enough, something within you still aches for more. You cannot say what this more is or how you will know when you reach it. Perhaps you won’t. That may be part of what still being here is – wanting, wanting, wanting with no end to your desire to devour. In which case, it is entirely possible that Dani is right to fear you – but you refuse to believe that.
Instead, you find that innermost part of yourself churning every now and again. At the library, you find yourself drawn to books outside of the ones Dani considers to be for adults. You roam, you explore, as is your nature, and you find children’s books. Some of them are picture books, and these—
For some reason, it is these that hurt you the most, that make you ache ever more and more in that wanting way that you have. Perhaps it is only that you miss your daughter, even though you know – you are certain – that she is far gone, that she does not roam this world in the same manner as you do. And yet, knowing that doesn’t stop the ache in your chest.
You can’t even remember what she looked like.
You can’t even remember her name.
And yet, you remember that she existed, and you remember the soft touch of her baby hand clenching around your fingertips as you lay in bed next to your husband.
You do not know why this particular memory is so strong, given that it is so vague and nonspecific – and yet, it is. It is perhaps the first thing, the first feeling, that you remember remembering at all – although at the time, it was less a memory and more of an internal desire, an internal feeling that where you were was wrong in some way. It was the first indication that this new body in which you had been placed was not the one that you were familiar with and that the bed in which you found yourself awakening was not your own. Yours would have a child tucked just next to your bed, just within reach. That one did not.
Every now and again when you visit the library, you find a family exploring the children’s area. You see a mother with her daughter – sometimes beleaguered, sometimes exasperated, sometimes waiting to see what the child would pick, sometimes showing them old books she remembers from when she was young – and you ache for those memories of your own, that nostalgia that you could share with your own daughter, your own blood. It isn’t nice to stand and stare – and while Dani doesn’t always see through her eyes to keep track of what you are doing anymore, you know that she would not approve of you having her act in such a manner. But you cannot seem to stop yourself from doing so.
Eventually, you begin to sit in the children’s section instead of aimlessly wandering through the others. You pick a few of the children’s books and read them so quickly that it isn’t worth checking them out or bringing them back with you. Dani’s clothes aren’t your style – if you could even be said to have a style in this day and age – but you make yourself comfortable enough.
You sit and you read and you watch and you do not know what you are waiting for, do not know what you hope for, but a longing that you know full well sits in the center of your chest, ready to pounce if the opportunity for whatever it is presents itself.
As the days go by, Viola spends more and more time at the library. Dani doesn’t always watch – doesn’t always want to watch, if she’s honest, although in those first few visits, she sat right behind her eyes, making sure that Viola didn’t do anything untoward. But the more the ghost seems to respect the boundaries Dani has put in place – not leaving the library, coming to speak with her when she is finished selecting her books, letting Dani take control of her body easily and without much fighting – the easier it is for Dani to allow herself to fade into the background and let the ghost do as she pleases.
And the thing is? It is comforting to fade away into a world where no one else can come to speak with her, provided that it’s only for a short amount of time. It gives her a place to recharge from the pressure of everything else that is going on – helps her deal with the darkness of the anniversary of Eddie’s death, helps her deal with….
Well, ironically enough, it helps her deal with the pressures of Viola.
Dani uses the time that she is in that inner space to explore Viola’s side of the gate, since the ghost does not seem against the idea. Sometimes the silence is more than she can handle, and on those days, she returns to her side or curls up in that space between her eyes until such a time as Viola decides to switch places with her again. It actually gives her a little glimpse into how the ghost acts when she is in control, which is…oddly comforting.
Of course, it is impossible to miss how often the ghost seems to fixate on children, and the action makes her more uncomfortable. Dani can’t help but remember how Viola had willingly dropped her to take Flora, how Viola had taken Flora with her to the middle of the lake, how Viola would have drowned Flora if Dani herself hadn’t interceded. Just because Viola wasn’t fully herself then didn’t make the actions any better, and a part of her can’t help but worry that this new fixation on children would end the same way.
But the more Viola simply sits in the library and reads children’s books, the more Dani is convinced that, too, is a baseless concern. Viola does not seem as though she has any intent to harm the children, nor does it seem as though she wants to do anything to them. Only that calm staring at children with their parents, only that reading of books that are too small and thin to take back to the house unless they checked them out in great quantities – and for this, at least, Dani is grateful. She doesn’t want to field the questions that would most definitely come from the librarians (and might possibly come from Jamie): Are you planning on having children? Is one visiting you? So on and so forth.
It isn’t as though Dani hasn’t considered having children. When she was with Eddie, it had been the one good thing of the situation – the possibility (the likelihood) of having her own son or daughter. Then Eddie died. Then he began to haunt her. Then she realized that maybe having children would be a bad idea. Taking care of Flora and Miles, yes, had been an extension of her desire to change a child’s life; she certainly hadn’t lied to Henry when she told him that she wanted to help them. But a part of it had been meant to prove to herself that yes, she could raise a child of her own, maybe, even with Eddie hanging around.
Then Eddie left. Then there was Jamie. Then there was Viola.
Sometimes, keeping an eye on Viola keeping an eye on the children she sees, Dani wraps her arms around her knees and wonders. But she isn’t going to address that until she trusts Viola more, and that’s not something that will come easily. Besides, how would she ever explain to a child that she was really two people? If she couldn’t forbid Viola from spending time with Jamie, then she certainly couldn’t forbid her from spending time with their child, should they ever have one.
But Dani isn’t thinking about having a child of her own. She isn’t. Not at all. If anything, she’s thinking about whether Viola’s fascination with them is rooted in her own desire for one, when she thinks about it in that constructive a manner at all. More often than not, she has come to the conclusion that it is simpler to leave her with Corduroy or Paddington or Winnie the Pooh (and then wondered why Viola is attracted to the bears before considering directing her towards the Berenstain books).
Of course, Dani grows mostly content to leave Viola to her business in the library – or as content as she can be, considering – until one day….
You sit in what has become your customary chair in the children’s section with a new stack of the thin books with bright colorful pictures. The last family you’d seen had picked out a few of these so called Dr. Seuss books, and while you expect they will be quite a bit different from the walking, talking animals you had been reading before, you expect a slightly higher thought fare. These are written by a doctor, after all. You are curious to see just how someone of such high thought could write in a way that is appealing for children.
Then something tugs on your pants. (You have yet to convince Dani to wear a skirt for your comfort. In truth, you haven’t asked. You do not think she would appreciate the question, and in fact, it is much more likely that she will wear them all the more just to frustrate you. It is her body, after all, and not yours. You know this. She won’t let you forget it.) You blink a couple of times and then close your book around your forefinger, glancing down before you.
A small child.
A very small child.
Looking up at you with the biggest brown eyes you think you may have ever seen.
You stare back at him. At least, you assume this is a him. His hair is cropped short, but its curls make it appear fluffy and longer than most of the little boys you have seen around here. He looks a little too old to be looking for children’s books, but maybe you have grown poor at estimating children’s ages in the centuries that you have been gone. Worse, you didn’t have children’s books like these when you were alive, so the only idea you have for how old a child reading these should be is based on your observance. But you could be wrong.
And, of course, that may not be why this child is tugging on your pants.
You press your lips together as you stare at the child, but his large brown eyes do not look away from you. “Hello,” you say, finally, staring at him. “Is there something I might help you with?”
The boy looks from you to the stack of books and then back again. He bites his lower lip then pushes his hands together, fingers wiggling against each other. “You can read.” It isn’t a question; it’s a statement, and he looks away as he says it. Then he takes a deep breath and peers up at you again. “Can you do the voices?”
You blink at him. For a moment, you aren’t sure you understand, but you nod anyway. As you nod, the boy’s face splits into a grin. It takes a moment, but you think you can guess at what he wants. Instead of picking him up and placing him in your lap the way you once might have with your own child, you move from the chair and sit on the floor with him, crossing your legs under yourself. He clambers into your lap without your suggesting it, and he pulls the stack of books to the floor, parsing through them until he finds one he likes. “This one!” he exclaims, with that same bright smile on his face.
It’s a book you haven’t read before. You don’t really reread the children’s books, although you have made the occasional exception for Pooh and his kin. They weren’t your first, but they have been your favorites. Corduroy might have been higher on that list if you knew the location where he was, but malls continue to elude you. This is one of those things that you believe there is little point in asking Jamie or Dani about. Jamie would do her best to explain it, but Dani would likely not take you there to experience it. So the subtleties of Corduroy are lost on you.
You take the book gingerly, and you open it to the first page. You aren’t sure exactly what voices the boy wants, but you begin to read anyway. He sighs with contentment and snuggles close, leaning back against you. It is a weird, warm feeling.
Almost familiar.
Almost.
(There is no way that this author can be a doctor. These books are all in simplistic rhyme full of words that feel imagined to you. Then again, Shakespeare imagined words of his own, so who is to say that this Dr. Seuss cannot do the same thing? Perhaps he is the new Shakespeare. You doubt it.)
There is a scampering towards your room.
You hear the footsteps before they reach you.
They startle you out of the near rest you have entertained.
No one is supposed to be back here,
at least,
not the one you want here.
But these come with a rushing,
a speed,
and all at once, your daughter runs into your room,
shuts the door behind her with a little giggle,
and then collapses with her back against it,
a bright grin on her face.
You’ve seen her, of course.
It is impossible not to see her.
But they have been keeping you far from her.
At first, it was because they were afraid your illness would spread.
Now, it is because you are not who you once were.
They are ashamed of you.
You know this.
You know this.
You have never been one to be ashamed of yourself.
You haven’t been before, and
you aren’t now.
But looking at your daughter, you regret
you are not what you once were.
What, not who.
You are still who you were,
just not wrapped in the same trappings
and appearances
that made people believe it.
She grins
and she grins
and your heart fills with warmth.
Then she glances up.
Her eyes meet yours,
and she freezes,
eyes widening.
“I’m sorry,”
she says,
and it breaks your heart.
“I wasn’t trying to disturb your rest.
I can hide somewhere else.”
Hide and Seek.
They must be playing Hide and Seek.
You know the game well,
know how you and Perdita used to run about the house
hiding from each other,
looking for each other,
learning the different routes around and through the manor.
It was how the two of you came to know the secret doors,
the passageways, the servants’ corridors.
Sometimes, you believe the two of you had a more intimate knowledge than your father did.
You never told him that.
Sometimes, you believe that Perdita lost that knowledge over the years.
“No, no,”
you say,
your voice soft as can be.
“You are not bothering me.”
You know not to gesture to her,
not to hold her in your arms,
because you do not want her to catch your illness.
But then
no one else in your family,
no one else in the manor,
has caught the disease.
Only you,
who has not died,
who refuses,
but who cannot make yourself well.
“If you want to hide here,
you may.”
You smile.
“In fact, I believe that no one would know to search for you here.
It is quite the best of hiding places, isn’t it?”
You try not to cough.
It is impossible.
The hacking fills your lungs,
wracks your body,
and you resist the urge to vomit.
You can do this.
Just for the few moments of the game.
You can—
“Raf, what are you doing?”
The boy in your lap squirms, and you stop your reading. You have not even been paying much attention to the book, having suddenly been thrown into one of your memories. There is so much to be learned from this – you were sick, and it seems like you should never have forgotten that. Of course, you were sick. But the illness – the lung, you remember, vaguely, the words floating in the back of your mind – did not kill you. That is certain. Your stubborn sense of will would not let it. But there are things that your will alone could not prevent. You do not remember yet what that is.
“She was just reading to me,” the boy in your lap says.
He must be Raf. That must be short for something. No one would just name their child Raf. Or maybe they would. These are strange times.
You glance up, and you see another child, older than this one, with wavy brown hair and bright eyes staring at the two of you. Her voice is softer than his is, as though she is more aware of the sanctity of books or more wary of the workers who will quiet them. “Raf, you shouldn’t bother people.” She glances up and meets your eyes. “He’s not bothering you, is he? Daddy’s been busy working, and I thought if I brought him here he could read or play on the playground outside while I read, and I’ve got to do more reading for school and everything, and Dad likes it better when I’m reading instead of being out with everyone, and—”
The girl walks closer to you as she rambles on, and then she comes to a stop with a short distance between you. Closer than your daughter would come, you think, although you can’t remember that being the case. You know it, somehow, deep within your bones.
Or Dani’s bones, as it were.
“He isn’t bothering me at all,” you say, and you find that it is true. In fact, as the boy clambers out of your lap and returns to the other girl, who you expect is his sister, with a scowl on his face, you find yourself disappointed that he is leaving. Something in you aches to continue the story, to keep the child in your lap. It is a familiar ache, but not a predatory one. You nod to the little boy. “I enjoyed reading to you.”
Raf pulls on his sister’s hand. “We should come back tomorrow, and then she can read more to me.”
“You should be reading yourself.” The girl doesn’t snap at him, but something in her is sad at this. She sighs and looks up to you. “He’s behind. He can’t—”
“I can too read!” The boy clenches his hands into little fists, his brow furrowing. “I just like hearing other people read better! They do voices!”
“You can make your own voices!”
“It’s perfectly fine,” you say, reaching out one hand and hesitantly touching the girl’s. She doesn’t flinch away, and you grow warm at that, too. Although why she should flinch away, you do not know. It is not as though you are sick any longer. “If he wants me to read to him, then I can do so. It does not bother me.”
Something within you bubbles forth, a slight pressure just between your eyes, and you hear Dani, quiet but firm, say, I can teach him. If he needs to learn how to read, I can teach him. Tell them that. Tell them you can teach him.
“And if,” you continue, breaking through a conversation that the girl is having with her brother, “if he is having trouble reading, then perhaps I can help. I’m a very good teacher.”
The girl looks you over, and her eyes narrow. “If you’re a good teacher, why aren’t you in school, then? Shouldn’t you be teaching someone or grading homework or something like that? I thought teachers lived at school. My teacher’s always there super late. I can see his car still there. He doesn’t ever leave.”
“I quite doubt your teacher lives at the school,” you say, and you fumble for a moment, waiting on Dani to insert herself again, to give you an explanation, but she says nothing else to help you. You sigh. “I have taken a break from my official teaching capacity, due to some mental stress.” You can feel Dani scowling and bristling at the comment, although you are unsure if that is due to the wording or if she believes you are intentionally offending her. “But I would be more than willing to tutor your brother, if you would like.”
The girl looks at you while the boy tugs on her sleeve. “I’ll have to ask my Daddy,” she says, finally, her lips pressing together, brow furrowing. “I don’t think he’d like us learning from a strange woman we met in the library. He’d want to talk to you, I think. He’d want to know.”
“Of course.” You pause, then continue, “I will be here tomorrow at the same time, if he would like to speak with me then.”
Another hesitant nod from the girl. “Thank you,” she says softly, and she reaches out to touch your hand in the same manner that you just reached out to touch hers. She bites her lower lip and nods before taking her brother’s hand. “We’ll come back tomorrow.” She drags her brother off, but he turns back to give her a long look. Something in her aches.
You fade into the space in your mind where you and Dani usually meet, and she is…unkempt, perhaps, is the best word for it. “I apologize,” you say into the dark void, “if I have overstepped. You are the one who suggested teaching the boy. I merely thought—”
“No, no, it’s okay.” Dani waves one hand at you then bites on her nails. “Only, I don’t think you’re the one who should be meeting with their dad.” She turns to you, plaintive. “He’s going to want to know that you know, um, things. You don’t know things.”
It is perhaps the most plain that Dani has spoken to you in a while, if ever. There doesn’t seem to be that push and pull between the two of you, that tension, that you normally feel. You are certain that will return later, but for now, it is the two of you together, going in the same direction with the same end goal. “If you believe that it is better for you to meet him, then that seems best to me. There is still much I do not know. You are right that you would be better for this.”
Dani nods to herself and begins to pace in the dark void. Her hands shake. “I’ll have to prepare.” She looks up at you. “No interfering or butting yourself in, okay? You’re going to have to let me take care of this.”
“Of course.”
You do not know what it is that is making her so anxious, and this time, you do not push to ask. This, you think, would be better to be seen in action. Asking will not help.
Still.
“I’m finished for now,” you say, “if you wish to return.”
“Yeah.” Dani nods, more to herself than to you. “Yeah, yeah, of course. I can do that.”
And within that moment, she is gone.
You stare into the space where she once was and take a deep breath. It is impossible for you to have a headache, and yet your head feels full – large – as though it cannot contain everything that has happened. You feel…excited. Is that the word for it? Excited.
Dani might actually let you spend time with real people. Outside of general encounters with the librarians – actually spend time with people. And with a child—
You walk back across the path leading out of the void back to the jungle, and you take a deep breath. This is good. You are certain that this is good. It has to be. What else could it be?
Bad.
It could be bad.