Chapter 48
Bastian
BASTIAN: AGE 16
We know something is wrong the moment Evelyn walks through the front door carrying grocery bags. She usually shops on Sunday mornings—the sacred three hours when my sister Sybil watches the Bible Network and I conduct guerrilla warfare against The Witch.
Last Sunday, I loosened the screws on her reading glasses. The previous week, I put a dead roach in her underwear drawer.
But today is Thursday. Thanksgiving, according to the calendar in the kitchen—not that we’ve ever celebrated it. Evelyn considers holidays manufactured occasions for the weak-minded to indulge their basest impulses.
But here she is, unpacking a turkey. Stuffing mix. Cranberries. Sweet potatoes.
Thanksgiving things. Even recluses like us recognize them.
Sybil peeks around the kitchen door, her green eyes huge in her thin face. She’s thirteen now, but she still looks ten. Malnourishment, neglect, and isolation can do that to a girl.
“What’s happening?” she mouths at me where I’m standing on the other side of the doorjamb.
I shrug.
Evelyn catches us watching and sets down a bag of potatoes with a thump loud enough to make us both jump.
Her dark hair is up in a tight bun, her glasses dangling from a chain around her neck. One of the ear pieces is attached with tape. Guess those tiny screws are too hard to find with her failing eyesight.
She’s picked up weight the past couple of months, so she’s no longer a skeletal crone with sunken cheeks. It’s like she’s trying to look more human…not that she can fool us into thinking she’s anything but evil incarnate.
“Do you know what day it is?” she asks in her flat, tightly controlled voice.
“Thursday,” we say in unison.
Her hands pause while unwrapping the turkey, disapproval radiating off her in waves.
“Thanksgiving,” I say. “Which we don’t celebrate because?—“
“This year is an exception,” Evelyn interrupts. “Consider it a sociological case study of sorts.” She glances over at us, her dark eyes narrowing as she sighs impatiently. “Dimwits like you would never understand.”
I bristle, but Sybil seems more interested in the food than our mother’s casual verbal abuse. I suppose we’ve both grown accustomed to Evelyn’s opinions of us. We’re simply the dumb, ungrateful spawn of the men who were worthy enough to knock her up, but not worthy enough to remain in her presence after.
At least, that’s what she tells us.
I know it’s a lie, but I keep that knowledge to myself. Letting Sybil believe that Evelyn chased away our respective fathers seems a lesser evil than them knowingly abandoning us with her.
“Can I help with dinner?” Sybil asks sweetly.
I’m not sure who’s more shocked—me or Evelyn.
We’re not allowed in the kitchen. She must have left the door unlocked because her hands were full. Evelyn prepares all our meals—controlling every aspect of our nutrition. Sybil hasn’t so much as cooked a boiled egg.
I can’t blame her. Her meals are half the size of mine, and mine are barely enough to keep me standing.
Even more shocking, Evelyn hesitates and casts my sister a thoughtful glance.
Is she actually considering?—
“Are you insinuating I’m not capable of preparing a meal?” Her voice is light, as if she’s joking.
Evelyn never jokes. It’s always, always a trap.
