Twenty-Four

“I’ve had this condition since I was born,” Abigail said. “But the symptoms didn’t start showing up until I was twelve.”

And then she described to me and Hayley what it had been like.

It started on the same day she got her first period. Her mother was always so preoccupied with her patients and lecture schedule, she hadn’t really told Abigail what to expect. Abigail knew in a general way, from her friends, that periods were no joke. But when she woke up that morning and found blood on her sheets, she was shocked. On top of that, her belly began to cramp, so bad she had to double over.

For a doctor, her mother could be oddly squeamish. It was as if she focused so hard on her patients, on their medical messiness, she wanted only health and order at home. So Abigail told her mother she was sick with a stomachache and she said Abigail didn’t have to go to school. Fitch seemed weirdly alert—he asked Abigail all kinds of questions. What kind of stomachache? Exactly where did it hurt? Did she feel sick, like she might vomit? Did she have a headache? All she knew was that she wanted to be alone. She was embarrassed and didn’t tell anyone the real reason she was staying home. They finally left, for work and school.

Abigail went into her mom’s bathroom and took a pad from a shelf in the closet. The whole ordeal made her feel exhausted. She went back to her room to change her bed. She pulled off the bottom sheet and put it in the washing machine. She threw in bleach and extra detergent. Then she went back to bed and immediately fell asleep.

“I remember there were thunderstorms,” Abigail said to us. “And even though I was asleep, I could hear the rain hitting the window, so hard I thought the glass might break. And the thunder sounded violent, as if it was attacking the house.” She closed her eyes. “It was the strangest feeling—like I was in a trance, more than asleep, waiting for something to happen. Something awful. The worst thing.”

The trance gave way to dreams. She had the sense of walking down a path between tall trees, into a tunnel made of interlocking branches overhead. It started out warm and beautiful—no more thunderstorm—with sunlight dappling through the leaves. It seemed familiar, and she knew it was the Braided Woods.

The weather changed. It was winter. The trees were bare, their branches coated with ice. The ground was deep with snow. The forest disappeared, and she was in the Arctic. Everything was white, and the glare blinded her. The world was frozen, including Abigail.

“I was a statue,” she told us. “Carved of ice. I couldn’t move. My eyes were wide open but I couldn’t blink. Animals surrounded me—polar bears, arctic foxes, and snowy owls. I wasn’t sure if they were protecting me or were going to eat me. But I knew something was going to happen.”

She got colder and colder. She couldn’t take a breath. Her eyes were wide open. She saw three columns in the distance. They approached her, getting closer and closer. She saw that they were the women in the panels at the Miramar, the hotel her family owned. They wore long white dresses. Two of them were dead, and that’s when Abigail knew she was one of them.

“One of them?” I asked.

“A gene carrier,” she said. “I knew I had the family disorder.”

Later that day, Abigail learned that Fitch hadn’t gone to school after all. He had left the house, pretended to head to Black Hall Middle School, then circled back and let himself into the house. He had sensed that this was about to happen. Even though Abigail was only twelve, and he was only thirteen, he had been studying the family disorder since he first learned about it, when he was nine and Abigail was eight. Their mother had warned Abigail, gently, to be on guard against strange sleep patterns. That if she found herself unable to breathe, she should wake her up.

Fitch had said: “If she can’t breathe, she’s dead.”

“Well,” their mother had said. “Death isn’t instantaneous, dear. There is a warning. And when Abigail feels it, she should call us. Besides, this won’t be a concern for many years.”

“Until when?” Fitch had asked.

“The condition won’t manifest until puberty, if at all,” their mother had replied. “So let’s not worry about it, shall we?”

That day, when Abigail got her first period and the condition manifested right on time, Fitch was prepared. He had been studying medical texts and family histories ever since their mother’s warning.

By then he knew more than anyone, even their mother.

While Abigail stood on the tundra in her dream, a frozen statue surrounded by the Sibylline sisters, Fitch was shaking her and calling her name.

Abigail heard his voice. She felt him throttling her. But she was still a statue, she was still made of ice, she was still dead. The Sibylline sisters were telling her to come with them, they would take her to the peaceful place. She wouldn’t have to suffer. She wouldn’t have to live a lifetime of the nightmare. They whispered their names to her: Athena, Daphne, and Circe.

“Don’t listen to them,” Fitch screamed. “Stay here, stay with me! Breathe!”

He began pounding her chest so hard she could almost hear her ribs crack. She felt the rhythm—one-two-three-four. He breathed into her mouth, artificial respiration, like she’d been taught in junior lifesaving at the beach.

And then she woke up. She gasped, drinking air as if she’d been dying of thirst and it was cool spring water. Her breastbone and ribs felt as if they were broken instead of just bruised. She was no longer in the frozen north, but in her bed at home in Black Hall, Connecticut.

“Why did you do that?” she asked, crying and hurt, staring through tears at her brother.

“Because I thought you were dead,” Fitch said. “I was just about to call 911.” He gave her a half smile. “But I’m glad I didn’t.”

“Why?”

“This is our chance,” he said. “I don’t want outsiders studying you.”

“Studying me? What are you talking about? Why would they do that?”

“Because you’re special. You’re rare. This was your first episode, right? You never had that happen before?” he asked.

“No, never,” she said.

“Good,” he said. “Because this work is going to be all mine.”

“Work?” she asked.

“Gale, I have been waiting for this. I know it might sound terrible, but I have been hoping you had the disease. It runs in the women in our family, and if someone has to get it, I’m glad it’s you—not Minerva or even Mom.”

“Well, thanks, Fitch!” she said, furious.

“Hear me out,” he said. “I believe this condition comes with gifts. You know how the legend is that the Sibylline sisters were clairvoyant?”

“Yes. You’re telling me I’m going to have second sight? That I’ll be able to tell fortunes every time I have one of those?.?.?.” She tried to think of what to call the awful, freezing, airless feeling that had come over her.

“Seizures,” he said. “That’s what you had. And no, not fortune-telling the way you see in movies. More like heightened sensitivity.”

Abigail shivered. She wouldn’t wish her experience on anyone—how could her brother call it a gift? She had a friend in school, Jeannie, who had epilepsy. Jeannie had seizures, where she would feel an aura just before they came on. She took medicine that kept them under control.

“Do I have epilepsy?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “It’s something else.”

“What?” she asked.

“Never mind for now—I think I know, from things Daphne has said, but I’ll establish a definite diagnosis going forward. Meanwhile, don’t tell Mom what happened. About the seizure. Just for now.”

Abigail shrugged. Not telling their mother would be nothing new. Their mom was always so distracted, and she didn’t approve of complaining. Abigail knew that Fitch cared more about her than their mother did.

He was secretive in his own ways, always studying. At thirteen, he had the reading ability of someone with a doctorate. Birding was his only outdoor activity, and sometimes he came home with dead birds to dissect. Then he would embalm them so he could hang them from the ceiling. Abigail told him that was creepy and gross, but he said it was science, and that science was his life.

Eventually, she told her mother, who then sent her to Dr. César, a specialized neurologist in Boston. But Fitch decided he could take better care of her and learn more about the condition. So they let their mother think Abigail was still taking the train to Boston to see Dr. César, but instead, Fitch would bring her here, to the Miramar. Their mother never paid too much attention to medical bills—she had an accountant for that—and never even noticed that she wasn’t getting charged for the doctor visits.

Now, in the attic of the Miramar, I listened as Abigail spoke. If her episodes had started when she was twelve, she had been suffering them for almost four years.

“I’m so sorry you’ve been going through this,” I said to Abigail. “Not just the seizures, but being your brother’s guinea pig. Did he ever answer your question?”

“Which one?” Abigail asked.

“About the condition. What is it?”

“Parasomnia,” Abigail said.

Parasomnia—the word Daphne had mentioned. I turned the word over in my mind. Insomnia, parachute, parasol. “What does it mean?” she asked.

“It means beyond sleep . Or apart from sleep ,” Abigail said.

“But you are asleep when the episodes come,” Hayley said. “We’ve seen you.”

“It might look like regular sleep,” Abigail said. “But you can’t see what’s going on inside. It’s anything but regular.”

“What do you know about parasomnia?” Hayley asked Abigail. “What does Fitch tell you?”

“He hardly tells me anything,” Abigail said. “He wants to keep all his knowledge to himself. But I’ve read about it on my own, of course. Parasomnia isn’t exactly a disease. It’s a disorder—it’s called a ‘disorder of arousal.’ Meaning I can’t be aroused from sleep, I can’t wake up. It happens during really deep sleep. But only part of the brain is asleep. The other part is awake.”

“Is that the part that feels as if it’s in a trance?” I asked.

“Yes. In many cases, the disorder is not rare. But mine is an extreme form. Instead of having convulsions and thrashing, like some people do, I turn into stone. My muscles tighten, and I don’t move. Not even my lungs, not even my heart.”

“So you actually could die each time you have one,” Hayley said.

“Yes,” Abigail said.

“What do blood types have to do with it?” I asked.

“We’re not really sure. Maybe nothing. But all our family members who have developed full-blown parasomnia had AB negative. Like me. Like all of us.”

“Like Eloise,” I said.

We were all silent for a few minutes. Thoughts raced through my mind. Whatever Fitch was doing to find a cure for Abigail had killed my sister. And was he even trying to help Abigail? Or just use her?

She had said she believed he had personally killed the birds hanging from the ceiling. I looked up, at all the dead and dusty gulls and owls and songbirds swinging from the old rafters, and wondered how he had felt taking their lives. What kind of monster was he?

“You mentioned the Sibylline sisters’ names,” I said.

“Yes,” Abigail said. “Athena, Daphne, and Circe.”

“Daphne,” I said. “I met her, downstairs.”

“Yes, that’s her,” Abigail said. “My great-aunt. The only one of the sisters to survive. And really survive—she’s a hundred.”

“Is she in on this?” Hayley asked. “Does she know about Fitch, what he’s doing with AB girls?”

“She’s not,” I said, and I felt sure of it.

“I agree,” Abigail said. “She knows I have the disorder, and she’s so sympathetic. I can tell she’s skeptical about Fitch—he acts nice to her, but she sees through him. She’s an oracle, after all.”

But did Daphne know what was happening up here? It seemed she didn’t. And what about Minerva? Was she on her way back with the brochure? What would she think if Iris and I weren’t outside waiting? I could only hope that she would ask Daphne if she had seen us, and Daphne would tell her that we were inside.

But maybe they were all on Fitch’s side; maybe they didn’t want us to get away.

At one point I would have hoped that Matt’s and my connection was strong enough for him to come bursting through the door to rescue us, like a hero in a fairy tale, but I knew that was just a fantasy. One that had been smashed to bits.

Be a hero to the goddess , Fitch had said. No: Hayley and I were going to be heroes to ourselves. If only we could figure out how to escape this unescapable prison. It was up to me, and I was going to make sure we did.