Chapter Twenty-One

twenty-one

SINCE JEMMA HAD BLURTED OUT that she knew Inès was her mother, she didn't feel the need to hide her desire to be close to her anymore. After staying out of the house for days, Jemma returned, as did Inès to her small room off the kitchen.

"So, you decided to come back." It was Honorine, standing at the back door as soon as Jemma came inside.

"Only for my mother and my brother. And Fosette. Once the curse breaks for us, unfortunately, it breaks for you, too. But I want to save them."

As much as her grandmother might want her to leave, Jemma knew Honorine wouldn't toss her out. Not when so much was at stake.

Although she'd missed several dinners, Honorine didn't punish her upon her return. Maybe the old woman was as tired of the facade as Jemma was. Or maybe the slight desperation she sensed was getting to the family. After all, she had just under two months now to figure something out to free them all from the curse. Instead of punishment, Honorine doled out indifference. She and all the other Duchons, including Fosette, simply acted as if Jemma weren't there.

Several nights ago, Jemma had asked Russell to pass the bread, only to have her uncle pretend he didn't hear her. The same thing happened when she asked Fosette to pass the rice. If Jemma wanted a dish at the other end of the table, she had to get up from her seat and get it herself. Sometimes Inès passed it to her, but other times it was apparent that her mother's mind was someplace else. Jemma hoped it was a nice place, a cool place full of friendly faces like Dennis's.

Yesterday she'd walked in on Fosette and Laurence in the living room, playing cards in their hands. Jemma stood awkwardly in the doorway before clearing her throat.

"Do you want a third?"

Her cousin had pursed her lips before placing a card on the table and asking Laurence, "Did you hear something?"

Laurence didn't reply, but he didn't look at Jemma, either. His head dropped, so perhaps he had the decency to be ashamed, but he still ignored her, as they all did. She was more cast aside than ever.

This afternoon in the library, she spotted the gray ledger. She swiped the book up, the sound of her family's faint laughter—often little more than brief nervous giggles—drifting in from outside the room.

The sound of approaching footsteps tore her attention away from the book.

Laurence leaned against the doorjamb, his arms crossed, before moving to the settee. He patted the seat next to him. Jemma hesitated for a moment before joining him, her gaze on her lap.

"I don't hate you, you know," he said.

"And why would you? I didn't do anything wrong." She spoke without looking up.

"Sorry they've been…we've been…ignoring you. After what happened at the séance, we were terrified. You can understand that, can't you?"

Jemma gave no indication that she could.

"When that didn't work, we all felt like nothing would work. Everything just seems hopeless, like bringing you here was a waste of time. And now that you know about Agnes…"

At that, she raised her head, warmth spreading all over her face. "You mean Inès? My mother? Our mother?"

He glanced toward the door, as if to make sure no one was listening, then turned back to her. "What do you expect of me? Unlike you, I grew up in this house. This family is all I've ever known. And ever since I was a child, all I've heard is how Inès cursed us, how she's made sure one of us dies every seven years, on your birthday. How else would you expect me to feel about her? It didn't matter that she's my mother, not when everyone else—grandmother, uncle, cousin, aunt—has poisoned me against her."

"She's still your mother!"

Laurence's shoulders dropped, his hands loose between his knees.

"I know. And I know you can't understand what it was like growing up here." He raised his eyes to the ceiling, scanning the room. "To be slapped when I said I had a crush on one of the Gaines girls. That's when we still had visitors. Their mother would bring the girls to play with Fosette. ‘Those darkies?' Grandmère said. ‘Don't you dare, ever.' To have your…our mother act as a servant for almost my whole life, to see everyone else treat her like shit so much that that's what I thought I was supposed to do, too. And Fosette…" He ran his hands down his face. "She's so beautiful and yet so hideous at the same time."

She didn't realize he was crying until the low howl came out of him, awful in its quietness. She sat frozen, unsure whether to comfort him or if she even wanted to.

"I hated her," he sobbed before looking up at her, his eyes red and wild. "I hated her. But how can you hate your mother? I used to try…and…be kind to her. But they…Maman, no, Tante Simone…she punished me."

Jemma's hands twisted in her lap as Laurence struggled to compose himself before going on.

"I was eight, maybe nine. One night I couldn't sleep. I came downstairs for a glass of water. And I heard talking in the library. Grandmère was telling Tante Simone that Laurence must never know, and I stopped and hid right outside of the room so they wouldn't see me. Grandmère said, ‘He has to continue to believe this. Otherwise he'll hate you. He'll hate all of us for what we did to Agnes.' I didn't know then that she was my mother, but I knew something was wrong. The next time I was able to be alone with her, I told her what I'd heard. I asked what they'd done to her." Laurence paused and wiped his face. "And she slapped me. She grabbed me and shook me and slapped me again and again." His shoulders shook as he cried soundlessly. Jemma laid a hand on his arm, as lightly as if she were afraid she'd break him. "She made me hate her. Before that, she'd always been kind to me. But afterward, all of it stopped. And I stopped being nice to her. Even when I found out…after Fosette and me…By then, I'd been cruel to her for so long that I couldn't stop. None of us could." The next few moments were full of nothing more than Laurence's quiet wails and Jemma's unsure hand patting his arm at random intervals. A part of her wanted to do more, longed to comfort the little boy who'd been severely pushed away by the person who loved him most, while another part held in its own anger.

When he spoke next, no emotion clouded his voice. "All those years, thinking Tante Simone was my mother, that Fosette was my sister. When I found out who she really was, knew that she was the one responsible for none of us being able to leave here, I wanted to kill her. But I still loved her. I wanted her to love me back."

"She does, Laurence."

As he leaned forward and buried his face in his arms, his body trembling, Jemma pictured the child he must have been, traumatized by the woman he didn't know was his mother slapping him for asking an innocent question. Inès had no doubt done it out of fear that the family would think she'd revealed secrets to her son. So she did what she thought she had to—pushed him away, hard.

Jemma raised a hand to her own cheek, the ghost of a long-ago slap stinging there even now. She'd been even younger than Laurence when Mama had smacked her for staring at a spirit in the grocer's. Mama couldn't see spirits, but she could tell when Jemma did.

It had been an old woman, standing by the dried goods, a transparent hand resting on the shelf. She'd smiled at Jemma, who'd been too frightened to move.

Slap.

The smack had brought Jemma out of her frozenness. She'd looked up at Mama through tears, the tip of her adoptive mother's nose touching her own.

"Count them away. Do you hear me?" she'd hissed at Jemma. "Count! You ain't gonna be standing around like some fool. Get rid of them. "

The small grocery receded in Jemma's mind until she was aware of her brother's stillness. She moved her hand from her face to his own, hoping to soothe any phantom pain he might yet feel.

—

IT WAS ANOTHER FEW DAYS before Jemma found Inès willing to stay put long enough for them to talk. She caught her mother coming out of the washhouse one afternoon.

"Mama."

Inès looked up at Jemma's voice, and if she felt any disappointment that her presence didn't immediately elicit a smile from her mother, she tamped it down. There were more important things to worry about.

"I need your help."

As Inès brushed past her, Jemma grabbed her arm.

"Mama, I need you to help me, in any way you can." Ignoring how the woman shook her head and tried to pull out of her grasp, Jemma went on. "I know you didn't mean to hurt anyone. You didn't curse this family to death, but if you know how that happened, you have to tell me. I don't want to die! And I don't want you to die." Inès yanked herself free and headed toward the house, Jemma close on her heels. "And what about Laurence? He's your child, too. What about him?"

Inès stopped so suddenly, Jemma ran into the back of her. Her mother faced her, a deep frown on her face, but instead of making her look angry, it only made her look frustrated. Her hands waved around in the air, her mouth moving, although she didn't seem to be trying to form words.

"I don't know what you're trying to say."

Her mother's shoulders dropped. Jemma was afraid she'd stop trying to communicate with her altogether.

"At the séance, one of the ghosts whispered something to you. What did she say?"

Inès pulled a notepad and pencil out of her pocket and scribbled, then thrust the note to Jemma.

I didn't hear everything because of all the noise. It sounded like let go…

"…or you will never be free," Jemma finished.

The words from Betty's letter echoed in her mind.

If you're willing to let the bad stuff go.

Tears sprang forth out of her mother's eyes, but before Jemma could do anything to comfort her, Inès put a hand to her heart and then rubbed the side of Jemma's face. She then pointed to the house and ran her palms back over her head a few times. At Jemma's perplexed expression, she repeated the motion and followed it by patting her head. Jemma threw her hands up, frustrated. Inès pointed to her daughter and then held up two fingers, before making a cradling motion with her arms.

"Laurence and me?"

Inès nodded, smiling, brushing her tears away. She patted her heart again.

And Jemma understood.

Her mother loved both of them. She didn't want either of them hurt. But when she pointed toward the distant cemetery and then ran her hands down the side of her face, Jemma understood that, too. Her mother hadn't forgiven her family for killing Jemma's father. And she might never be able to forgive them.

It would have to be enough for Jemma to forgive.