“Would you tell my brother something?” I ask, trying not to linger in his sorrowful eyes.
“Of course.”
“Tell him I miss him.” It’s a whisper, a fragment of all the things I want to say.
Valdemar bows his head.
I turn and begin my descent, my footsteps heavy, my heart even heavier, and I don’t know why I feel this pain now. Is it the knowledge that Valdemar doesn’t seem willing to try to help me anymore, or is it the pain of having felt I might belong with someone after such a long time while knowing it can never be?
His question echoes inside my head.
“And if I hadn’t killed your brother?”
My reply burns in my chest.
“Then I would be falling at your feet.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
To my relief,Abel drives me home in silence, but my thoughts are chaotic. Images of my mother clash alongside her mystery lover, black-feathered birds flapping their wings against the inside of my skull along with the haunted look on Valdemar’s face as I walked out of his house and left him. My inner thighs burn with the slightest of movements, my stomach muscles sore, my throat feeling hoarse—reminders of what I’ve just done, who I’ve just fucked.
“I wish things could be different.”
I already know I’ll never feel pleasure like it. No other man will ever compare to him, but what choice have I got except a life of celibacy? If I were to sleep with another man now, I know my thoughts would stray to Valdemar. It would be the memory of his hands upon my skin that would make me burn, his fingers inside me and his hand around my throat that would make me come. Not only can I not have him, but he’s ruined me for anyone else.
The slam of my apartment door is loud enough to wake the dead, and just as I’d hoped, my mother is sitting at the table, her hands clasped, her back straight, but there’s no smile.
“What is this?” I slam the book onto the table, full of anger at my predicament, that I’ve given in to temptation, that I’ve slept with the enemy. But he doesn’t feel like the enemy. He hasn’t for a long time—and maybe that’s why I’m so angry.
As expected, she doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t smile either. She merely looks at the book like I’ve just slapped a dead rat onto the table.
“Who is ER? Who was he to you?” I ask.
She stares at me, and I wish I could grab her and shake the answers from her.
“Why won’t anyone answer me?” I shout at the walls, but they don’t answer me either, so I grab my laptop from the middle of the table and fire it up, my fingers itching to surf the keys.
While everything loads, I freshen up in the bathroom, changing out of my dress and into leggings and a hoodie. Mouthwash makes my eyes water, and I rub some micellar water over my tired skin.
Feeling a little more alert, I begin.
My first search is for the poem “The Raven.” It must have some significance to my mother. Her name was Lenore, just like in the poem, and she called my brother Edgar, like Edgar Allan Poe. I search for the name Evangeline, wondering if my name is also from Poe, and find out that he composed a poem called “Evangeline” that was part of an essay he wrote and first published in 1884, but I’m lost in the old jargon, so I return to “The Raven.” What was her fascination with this poem? What did it signify?
There are chat rooms and forums dedicated to the poem, containing many discussions on its origins, the meaning behind it, and what a master of the macabre Poe was. But after an hour, all I learn is that the poem is about the death of a loved one and how the raven symbolises the never-ending suffering and pain of the narrator remembering his Lenore. The message Poe wassending was to let go, as holding on to the mournful memories will cause eternal suffering—something I can wholly relate to.
Is that the reason Valdemar gave me this book? Is he trying to tell me to let go of my brother and live my life? But it still doesn’t answer why my mother had it and who ER was.
In a change of direction, I search for the initials ER, thinking there can’t be that many male names beginning with the letterE, but I’m wrong. It’s a needle in a haystack.
After looking at Edmund, Edward, Egor, and Ethan for what feels like hours, I take a break. The need to shower is compelling, but I don’t want to wash the scent of Valdemar off me. The water would pummel away his touch, and I’m not ready to let the memory of him go just yet. That thought only prods at the ache of how messed up my feelings for him are—how I want him but won’t allow myself to have him because he can never change what he’s done. Instead, I delve into the furthest depths of my closet and pull out the old box that has sat at the back for the past ten years.
I’ve never looked at the contents of this box. It’s always been too painful, but I’m on a mission, and the recollection of Valdemar saying that the book was the only thing he had of Ed’s makes me wonder what else I might find if I look.
My father, William, had been the one to eventually clear out Ed’s room, and I don’t think he kept anything of value except what he gave me in this box.
The room stills as if it’s holding its breath over what I’m about to find. And I know she’s here, sitting on the window seat, her favourite spot when I’m in my bedroom.
“What am I going to find in here?” I ask her, but she just motions towards the box, urging me to open it.
