“Yes. The kids have been asking her if she can glow or makethemglow.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“Oh,” she said, her eyes narrowing, “I suppose her mother told her a thing or two about what the kids used to say about me. My eyes were so green because I was an alien, and I could make you glow if I stared too long. But most of my life was spent wrapped up in dance, Brando. By the time I was her age, I had traveled extensively for dancing. It was hit and miss for me. Most of the time it happened when I was home and Charlotte’s friends were over.”
I released another long breath, not sure what to say. So, I picked her up from the sofa, carrying her in my arms, holding her close. Despite Mia’s attitude, that night before she went to bed, I held her close too, telling her how beautiful she was.
The moods were not limited to our kids either. Scarlett hadn’t been acting like herself. If I had to pinpoint the issue, I couldn’t. There was something there, though, something I couldn’t quite explain. She had become quieter, her eyes more assessing, missing absolutely nothing.
It had started around the time Marciano had been sick with an ear infection and we had people over to the house.
“Is it Cerise?” I’d said to her.
“Is what Cerise?”
Our eyes met and held.
I got the feeling that whatever she felt, she wasn’t even aware of it, nor her reaction toward whatever it was. She had admitted that she felt afraid—for Cerise.
The woman had been behaving more unpredictable lately, and I wondered if Scarlett felt guilty about Livio’s sacrifice. Just as Marzio had given his life for our love, so had Livio.
The idea of sacrifice in honor of our love was a double-edged sword to a woman like my wife.
She respected his sacrifice, demanded that we live life to the fullest to give life to those who were lost in the pointless war we somehow had found ourselves in. On the other hand, it made her feel an unaccountable amount of sorrow. Sorrow I couldn’t steal from her even if I were an infamous thief.
“You’re not yourself, Scarlett,” I’d said, giving her a look that she couldn’t hide from. “Tell me.”
“I don’t know. So much change…”
In the past, feelings that came from her, about her, were misconstrued as something else. Almost misplaced. Like the natural course of things had started a battle with the sixth sense she had. The natural course wanted to shield her, putting up a thick wall, while the sixth sense still attempted to send her coded messages, warnings about what was to come.
I didn’t fucking like it.
It gave me a peculiar sense of foreboding, like I was walking in an impenetrable darkness, having been warned ahead of time that somewhere in the room existed a deathly drop. Being in that same room before, my heart palpated, and my mind refused to shut off—a rush of adrenaline seemed to be my constant companion.
To do something, other than stewing on all the different moods in the house, Scarlett and I agreed to take a trip to New Orleans.
Close enough in distance to Natchitoches that we were able to drive, we stuffed all the kids and the two dogs into the SUV and took off at our leisure.
Everett had acquired a property in the Garden District, a prominent area in New Orleans proper that was known for its old, prestigious homes, some from the 1800s. The place was steeped in history—some of it belonging to Scarlett’s own heritage—and from its front windows, the historic St. Charles Streetcar moved from one stop to another. It had its own cadence, its own antiquity, and only added to the charm of the place.
Modern day or hundreds of years ago, the thin veil of time could easily be breached there.
Everett also owned properties in the French Quarter, but since the kids were with us, we decided the new place would be a better fit. Besides, Everett and Mati (Pnina) insisted. Their annual Christmas party would be held there.
We hardly stopped, eager to keep the kids active and entertained.
Celebration in the Oaks, streetcar rides, special trips to Café du Monde at midnight for New Orleans style café au lait and sugary beignets, along with a bug museum where Marciano almost threw up because I ate a sautéed cricket. Eva and Gabriel met up with us, and along with Romeo and Juliette, our families explored even more, becoming tourists in a city we had been to numerous times before.
Away from our home, Scarlett had relaxed to a degree that almost made my head spin around with the abruptness of it. For the short time we were there, she’d started to laugh again, her eyes not so wary, her entire attitude one that I knew well. The kids felt it, too, and since she was the star we revolved around, they in turn relaxed, and for the most part, had a great time.
We made plans to return for the upcoming New Year, fireworks over the Mississippi River, and for Mardi Gras, parades and king cake parties.
As we pulled up to our house, hundreds of holiday lights brightening the night, our Christmas tree displayed in the picture window welcoming us home, the mood in the car became thick, filled with tension once again.
For Scarlett, it seemed like a switch. Easily flipped on or off.
Even the dogs groaned, but they jumped out of the SUV quick enough, sniffing around to make sure all was right in the neighborhood.
