“Your husband, I mean…your fiancé,” she corrects herself, “Is he…kind to you?” Her eyes lift to mine, hesitant, a silent sisterhood reaching out to me. I erase her doubt with a smile carrying months of care and tenderness.
“When…when I left, my parents had chosen a prospect for me. Alain Finiard. He worked at the Institute. I don't know if you remember, he taught algebra.” My mouth tightens. I do remember. He used to walk around the courtyard with his hands behind his back, assessing us in silence, glancing at us girls more often than his duties needed him to.
“He was in his late sixties,” she adds. I reach across the table and rest my hand over hers. Thin translucent skin meets mineand I wonder if I used to look like her, too. Skin on bones, barely alive, barely beating.
“We didn’t marry,” she says quickly. “I left before that happened. I met him alone once, though, and…he wasn’t kind.” Her voice cracks on the last word. “He used harsh words,” she shakes her head and swallows, “I just…I just want to make sure you’re safe here.” I squeeze her fingers. The notebook calls me to the table, begging me to ink the pages with reassurance.
“I’m sorry you had to go through that. Truly,” I write. “Vox is different. I know he can look intimidating, but he is kind to me and the only one who would do anything to keep me safe.” She reads each line carefully, then looks back up.
“But…how could I find that too?” she whispers.
“A caring man?” I write.
She nods. “Someone who doesn’t want to hurt me.” The tremor in her voice hits a deep place in me. There was a time when I could have said the same sentence word for word.
“There’s no rush,” I write after a moment. “You’re so young and you just got here. The right person will find you and love you just the way you are.”
Her shoulders loosen a little. “I hope,” she says.
“Hold on to that,” I write. “Hope saved me more than once. When I came out, everything was…just too much. I was terrified of getting lost. Even crossing a street was a challenge.” She smiles faintly. “You will find your path. And one day, you’ll look back and see how far you have come. I’m sure of it.” I tap my pen against the paper, thinking.
“Do you know the names of…Jezebel and Greta by any chance?”
Her eyes light up a little. “I do, yes. You guys were friends, right?” I nod. “I heard Jezebel got…um, married," she says. “And Greta… She’s on her way to become Lady of the Chapel.” The title sends a cold shiver through my spine. Lady of the Chapel.Assistant to the Shepherd. The one who helps him with his rituals. The one who stands at his side like an ornament. My throat tightens. They’re still there, trapped and bound to a life with no choices. “And…my mother?” I ask. My voice does not come, yet the words still feel loud inside my head as I write them down. A memory of my mom cutting bread on the kitchen table floats in my mind. She used to have those eyes, the ones saying sorry I brought us here. Those same eyes shut each time I got punished, each time I got humiliated. They still haunt me at night. When the flames surround me and I want to crawl back to the arms of a loving mother. Only the arms are made of chains and her fingers slap tape on my mouth. Her eyes aren't even there, deep and dark, loveless.
“She…um,” Carolina says carefully. “Everyone knows about her. I heard she doesn't go out anymore nor come to Mass.” Carolina scratches her nape, hesitant. “My mother said… She said she was losing her mind. I’m so sorry. I think maybe she just doesn’t believe in any of it anymore. Ever since you left and your father…” The sentence trails into silence. “How do you deal with this?” she asks suddenly. “Knowing you won’t see them again. Do you ever…miss them?”
“Sometimes,” I admit, even if I’m learning to live with this strange contradiction rooted in my heart. Her shoulders sag. “Yeah…me too. I guess, to be honest, I miss the idea of them more. Of…a loving family.” A sad, understanding smile pulls at my lips.
I write, “I feel the same. I miss the idea of a family more than the people they actually were.” It’ll be an ache I’ll forever keep, the fantasy of parents who love me unconditionally, whether I speak or not, whether I believe or not. I find solace in knowing that my children will never have to feel this way. I will give them everything I missed. A tiny thread of smoke comes out from the mug in my hand, and I glance at my kitchen, thegarden blooming behind the window. Certainty embraces me as I picture once again my children here one day.
“Have you thought about the future?” I write next.
She nods. “I did. But…everything is still new. I’d like to go to school. Study things. Learn how the world works, with real books, you know? It might take time. I’m not… I’m ready yet. It’s like I’m always three steps behind. I barely understand how basic things function.”
“I know the feeling,” I write with a wry smile. “Vox had to be so patient. He explained to me how the TV remote works probably a hundred times.” I chuckle. “Don't beat yourself, there's no shame in learning, they're the ones who should carry it, we did nothing wrong.” I continue, a glimpse of rage bubbling under my skin, “I used to see teenagers in the street, holding phones, talking about school, and I envied them. I know it sounds silly. But they knew more about life than I did; it didn’t seem fair.” She nods slowly, absorbing every word.
“What was your favorite thing you discovered?” she asks. I tap my index finger against my lips, thinking, then grin and bend over the page.
“That I could wear what I wanted,” I write, as I notice Harley sleeping on her back, paws in the air on the couch.
She laughs, cheeks turning pink. “Me too,” she admits. We share a look, carrying the weight of our common story.
“What did you do with it?” I write. “The brown dress. I would have burned mine if I still had it.”
Colour rises on her face. “I’ve…cut it with scissors,” she says. “Tiny pieces. Then I’ve put the pieces in the trash, under potato peels.” Laughter bursts out of me, silent but visible. My shoulders shake with tiny spasms of joy. A knock on the wall makes us both jump slightly. Vox leans on the doorframe, shoulders relaxed, eyes on me. He moves slowly, his gaze flicking over the notebook.
“Can I?” he asks. His voice vibrates low and gentle through the kitchen. I offer him my brightest smile and nod.
“Of course. Come in. Hungry?” I sign. He watches my hands and grins, answering with his own.
“Ravenous,” he signs back. The meaning is innocent on the surface. Only we know the second layer it carries. His eyes twinkle with that special grain of malice that makes my knees weaken. “Your aunt’s waiting outside. No rush if you need a few more minutes, though. I can go tell her,” he says calmly, as if he didn't want to interrupt us.
She shakes her head quickly. “No, it’s alright. It’s time for me to go. I don't know how to thank you. Both of you. For…everything.”
“Thank you for meeting me… You have my number now. We can text and you can come visit again. Whenever you want.” I write. Her shoulders lift, then drop as if she just put down a bag of stones.
“Thank you, Rose. Thank you so much. I will.” We stand, and hesitate, both unused to the language of casual affection in the community we used to live in. After a second, we fall into a hug, awkward at first, then tighter. Her body is slim and rigid against mine. For a moment, I wonder if I'm holding her or my past self. A younger Rose, much more fragile and vulnerable. We stand there a few seconds, clinging, until her aunt honks lightly outside.
