Ree
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Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater, had a wife and couldn’t keep her. Kept her in her Percy cell and made her life a living hell. Isn’t it time this living hell came to an end? I can make that happen for you.
Lena texted this morning.She said she wanted to meet for coffee, and I promptly ignored her. Oh, Lena, my precious, precious sister. My life has truly gone to hell indeed, and you are the least of my worries right now. And ironically, even the least of my problems is a bitch to contend with. The weather is overcast. All hints of spring have vanished, but the cool breeze is still infused with salt. Usually there is nothing like sea air to make me feel alive, but this numb bubble I’m living in has made even the simplest task feel as if I’m trying to accomplish it under water. Lethargy is my new friend. My appetite has dwindled. I’ve done research on how to successfully leave your husband. The first and only rule is drain your joint bank account. The most creative mind was Simone herself—stocking up on gift cards—a suggestion per her journals circa prior to their vanishing act. Bram has the diaries. He must. He didn’t breathe a word to me about them. But in his defense, we’re not speaking and he left early.
I pull into the driveway with both Lilly and Jack amped up to new heights. I swear on all that is holy, Richard E. Moss feeds them buckets of icing just before they deposit them in the pick-up line. A class action lawsuit should be issued, and knowing the snobbery and Nazi-like parent police there will be. I’ll be cheering them on from the sidelines. From divorce court. From the den where I’ll sequester myself while my life lies in pieces all around me. If everything is true, and Bram was simply an illusion this entire time, then I am irrevocably broken. Irreparable beyond measure. It seems cruel of the universe to plant me in a monster’s womb, only to land me in front of another twenty-four years later. It’s unbearable, unfathomable. A shitstorm of bad luck that seems to be interwoven right in my DNA. In the back of my mind, an angry mob of voices screamsyou are not a victim. The hell I’m not.
The kids bolt straight to the backyard, right along with Dawson barking happily in their wake, but a tiny package catches my eye at the door and I take it to the kitchen.
My name is written across the front in all capital letters, no address, no evidence it ever went through the postal system. I spin the small package in my hand looking for clues, something that suggests foul play. It’s from my mother. I have no doubts about it. My gut says make a spectacle of throwing it into the trash. I know she’s watching. But my heart is leaping out of my chest, my curiosity far too powerful to nullify this exchange. There is no heft, no significance whatsoever to this box of misery my mother planted on my doorstep. Throwing it away without looking inside could breed years of nightmares, years of a morbid desire to have at least taken a single peek. It’s better that I look. I’ll leave the box on Lena’s doorstep when I’m done with it. A grown-up version of ding-dong-ditch. Lena can inspect the contents for herself when she gets home. She and my mother can work on the details of which landfill they’d like to grace it with. This is their problem. Not mine.
I pull a knife from off the counter and trace along the outer seam, popping it open, only to be met with a putrid stench. It’s dark and murky, something gray, and then I see them.
My entire body seizes as I inch back, and before I can run, an impromptu paralysis hits me.
A scream locks itself in my throat. Can’t breathe. Can’t move. And then, like an aria, the scream releases, lusty and primal as it rises to the ceiling without my permission.
A box of fingers. Four, eight, six—hell, I can’t count them, severed fingers. Curved little fingers with a crown of dried blood at the base. The one sitting on top is fresh, the fingernail painted a cheery shade of yellow. Something black and hairy sits to the side, and it takes a moment for my mind to identify it as a feather. Everything in me seizes once again. One slap of shock after the next, and I can’t catch my next breath.
A feather. Black feather.Shit, shit, shit.
The front door loosens and jingles before opening and shutting.
“Ree?” Bram’s voice fills the house right up to the rafters, and a small part of me is warmed to hear it.
A shot of adrenaline rockets through me as Bram enters the room, his eyes wide with wonder. That handsome face looks as if it’s begging for mercy.
“Ree—we need to talk.” He takes a step forward, and I slap my hand over the knife on the counter before lifting it between us.
“Keep away.” My voice is threadbare, my chest convulsing with every breath I take.
His hands float up, his eyes wander momentarily to the box.
“Ree, it’s not what you think.” His voice is loud and curt, his agitation growing by the moment. “Hell, I don’t know what you think, but whatever has you shaking, holding a knife like you’re not afraid to use it… I think I’m being framed.”
“Framed,” I parrot the word back to him. Could it be? My mother in her infinite wisdom, her unbridled wickedness has taken her game to a whole new level? The knife slips from my hand. Bram doesn’t miss a beat. He pulls the box over and peers inside. A guttural noise escapes him. He retches hard before jumping back.
“Shit!” He steps forward again and examines the box, scrutinizing its contents before mobilizing. Bram pulls a trash bag from under the sink, wraps the box in it, and walks it into the garage before reappearing. His eyes glazed with shock.
“Ree,” he breathes my name out like a sad song. “In addition to all that sick, there was a black feather in that box. Do you know what that means?”
“That you struck again?” There’s not a note of humor in my voice.
His eyes close a moment. “Brace yourself. It only goes down from here.”
