I knew I needed to explain what had happened to Paul. There was no more putting it off.
It didn’t help that I was expecting a text from Penny at any moment asking how my mother had taken the news.
My mother’s smile seemed to broaden, but her eyes stayed closed. Her arms were at her sides, her hands clenched into fists, as if she was getting ready for a fight.
Resisting the urge to retreat, I leaned down close to her, so close that I could smell the apple shampoo, the baby powder Janice had dusted her with. But beneath it, a foul odor. Rot. A body deteriorating.
She smelled like a corpse.
“Azha?” I whispered.
Her eyes flew open and her smile widened, showing yellow teeth clenched together. “Isn’t it nice to know at last? To have the truth out in the open?” she asked. “No more hiding. No more pussyfooting around it. Now we both see each other for what and who we truly are.”
I nodded, trying to gauge what she was up to. Was this really a delusion brought on by her illness or the meds—a way for her psyche to justify a lifetime of cruelty to those who loved her? Was it just a game she was playing? One final mind-fuck to leave me reeling?
And when she looked at me, what and who did she see? Part of me wanted to ask her, but another part really didn’t want to know.
“What’s that?” she said, sitting up, pointing to the bundle around my neck with a crooked finger, knuckles swollen from arthritis.
“Something Penny gave me.” I held it up, smiling. “A good-luck charm.”
“It stinks,” she said, her face contorting to show her disgust as she turned away.
“Do you really think so?” I put it to my nose. I thought it smelled lovely. I caught a hint of sage, of lavender, and something deep and earthy underneath it.
“Take it off,” she ordered. “It smells vile. Like shit.”
I tucked it back under my shirt, took a step back. “It’s just a silly charm.”
“What is it you want, shit girl?” she snapped. Then she tutted, shook her head, bangs of silver-white hair falling across dark eyes. “Oh, that’s right. You’ve come to tell us about Paul, haven’t you?” She made an exaggerated pouty face, bottom lip out, eyes wide and sad. She looked like an absurd cartoon, a caricature.
Did she know already? How could she?
“He’s dead, poor thing. He went off half-cocked and lost his head.” She giggled, sounding strangely little-girlish.
“How did you know?” I asked, breathless, startled.
“Who killed Cock Robin?I,said the Sparrow, with my bow and arrow,”she sang.“I killed Cock Robin.”
“How did you know Paul was dead?” I asked again, my voice stronger and louder this time; myanswer me, damn itvoice that was full of a strength and confidence I did not feel.
“Who saw him die?I,said the Fly, with my little teeny eye, I saw him die.”
I remembered the flies in Izzy’s room, their thick bodies as they huddled in a mass against her window. The soft thudding sound they made.
I looked around the room, half expecting to see more of them, sure I heard a faint buzzing.
“Answer me,” I demanded. “How did you know about Paul?”
Her smile faded. “I know everything. I am the sparrow and the fly.”
“No one can know everything.”
She laughed again, a terrible grackle-like laugh. She lay back, rested her head on the pillows piled up behind her. “True enough. You caught me in my lie. Aren’t you the clever one? The cat who swallowed the canary and is all proud and pleased, chest puffed out, head held high.” She stared at me. “Meow, meow, meow.”
I looked at her, the way her face contorted as she made cat sounds—and I was sure, for a few seconds, that this wasn’t truly my mother but some grotesque facsimile of her.
She fiddled with the edge of her quilt. “The truth is,” she said, “I know many things. Not all things.”
