Chapter Twenty-Three

twenty-three

ONE WEEK LATER, RUSSELL WAS unchanged. The family had called the doctor out, and he was extremely puzzled.

All of them, Jemma included, were crowded around Russell's bed that morning, where he now slept. During the night, however, loud moans carried through his closed door, down the hallway and all the way downstairs. He didn't wake, simply howled like a hound tracking through the bayou, his eyes screwed tight.

"I'm going to call the hospital, have them send an ambulance out," the doctor said, stuffing his stethoscope back into his black bag.

"No!" Honorine barked. The man looked at her. "We'd prefer that he stay here."

"But, Mrs.Duchon, I don't have the tools…"

"I understand, Dr.Abernathy. But my son has to stay here."

"I can't treat him properly here."

He looked at each member of the family in turn, a soft pleading in his eyes, settling on Laurence, as if the only other male family member present could talk some sense into these senseless women. But Laurence, like all the rest, merely looked back at the physician, resoluteness joining the Duchons together. The doctor's mouth set into a thin line as he snatched his bag up and left the room, Honorine padding along quietly behind him.

Jemma left, too, heading for the kitchen. As she passed through the dining room she slowed, the sound of a heated argument between the doctor and her grandmother echoing through the space. He tried to convince Honorine to change her mind. As Jemma stood against the wall, keeping out of sight, she wondered what would happen if the ambulance did come and take Russell away. Would he be able to leave the property then, since he would have no control over going?

"If he dies, it's on your hands," the doctor said.

"I understand."

The front door opened, but apparently the man was going to have the last say. "I would think, after all the other family members you've lost over the years, that your son's life would be more precious to you."

"Good day, Doctor."

Jemma scurried toward the kitchen, running into Inès, who was still cleaning up the breakfast dishes in the dining room. Her mother's eyebrows rose, her gaze flicking upward.

"He's the same," Jemma said. "The doctor wanted to take him to the hospital." Inès nodded once and reached for the creamer pitcher, but Jemma put a hand on her arm. "Could he leave that way, if someone took him off the property? He doesn't have a say in it at this point."

Her mother glanced at her before resuming her task, shrugging her shoulders. Jemma grabbed the coffee pitcher and the butter dish, ignoring Inès's frown and head shake, and followed her into the kitchen. Her mother didn't stop her from plunging her hands into the hot, soapy water of the sink and washing the dishes this time. So as Inès brought in plate after plate, mug after mug, Jemma washed. Once all the dishes were cleared away, her mother stood next to her and dried everything.

"They blame me for what happened to Russell. And maybe it was my fault. But they don't even know what's wrong with him since they won't let him go to the hospital. It could be something else, something that has nothing to do with me." Jemma brought her hands out of the water for a moment, sudsy bubbles breaking across the surface. "I wish…I wish I knew what I was doing wrong."

"Probably everything," said a voice behind them.

Mother and daughter turned to see Simone standing by the refrigerator.

"Agnes? Can I get a refill on the coffee?" Simone held up an empty cup, dangling it by the handle.

"You can get it yourself," Jemma said, lifting her chin toward the carafe on the counter. "It's right there."

"But what do you think we have a maid for?"

Before Jemma could stop Inès, she'd already grabbed the coffee and poured it into her sister's cup. Simone didn't bother to say thank you before she left. As her mother brought the empty pitcher to the sink, Jemma noticed the hard lines on her face, the way her lips pulled downward.

"Yeah, I can't stand her, either."

Inès looked at her then, puzzlement stamped on her face. She shook her head shortly before rummaging through a drawer and pulling out a sheet of almost clear paper and a pencil. She scribbled fiercely for a moment before thrusting the note at Jemma.

Simone and I weren't very close growing up, but it was much worse after Lucie died. She never forgave me for Lucie, for what I did.

Forgiveness, Jemma thought. This whole family couldn't forgive one another. Just as she couldn't forgive them for everything they had done. Murdering her father. Cutting out her mother's tongue. Giving her away because she was too dark for them. Bringing her here under false pretenses. Holding her at arm's length despite their supposed need for her.

But Jemma knew it wasn't that she couldn't forgive them. She didn't want to. Just as she hadn't wanted to forgive her adoptive father for never accepting her. She'd spent all that money on his funeral to prove to him that she was worthy, but what difference did it make then? He was already dead. But Jemma had thought, If he's looking down from wherever he is, he can see what I did for him, can see that he should have loved me .

And her inability to forgive Marvin for getting another woman pregnant, for not stopping her from leaving.

Jemma thought of her friend Betty, Betty who somehow found it easy to forgive others their mistakes, their cruelty, their deceit.

If you can forgive him…yes, find it in yourself to forgive him. It's freedom in that, her friend had said.

Freedom.

Freedom in forgiveness.

Set them free, the spirit had said.

Let go or you will never be free.

What if it meant Set them free by forgiving them ?

Jemma's knees buckled and she sank to the floor, a puff of air leaving her parted lips. Inès wasn't quick enough to prevent her fall, but her mother caught her under the arms right before she hit the floor, softening her landing. Jemma turned to her.

"I think I know how to set us free."

—

IT WASN'T NEARLY AS EASY to convince Inès to go along with her as Jemma had thought it would be. Her mother's refusal to immediately hear her out confused her, then angered her. She wanted to remind Inès that it was her curse that had them all stuck here, including herself. But Jemma bit back the words and tried her best to tamp down the negative thoughts. She needed a clear head for what was coming. She needed to act out of love, not anger.

Russell still hadn't woken. The doctor made visits to check on his status and continued to argue with Honorine, but after his third trip out to the house he gave that up. He simply came in, checked the man's vitals, sometimes raked his gaze over any other family members present and then left until the next time.

One cool evening after dinner, during which time Honorine and Simone went straight to Russell's room to sit vigil for him, and Fosette and Laurence went elsewhere (Jemma pushed images of the two of them together from her mind), Jemma caught her mother heading to her small room.

"Can I show you something?" she asked.

Wariness drew Inès's face into a tight ball, but she walked beside Jemma as they made their way across the back lawn, toward the washhouse. Jemma didn't know how her mother would react, but she'd made up her mind that she was doing the right thing. She needed Inès's help to break the curse, and she was afraid she couldn't convince her on her own.

Pointing toward the woods, Jemma asked, "Do you remember who lives back there?" The waning sunlight cast a golden glow over the grass, the sky, their skin. "Someone who thought you were dead, Mama. Someone who deserves to see you."

Inès's arm tensed beneath her daughter's hand before Jemma pushed the door to the washhouse open. In the middle of the room stood Magdalene, looking very much like she had the first time Jemma met her—long braids trailing past the low-slung belt—only this time the woman didn't carry the pistol.

The two older women stared at each other, Inès's hands raised to her mouth, Magdalene's hand on one cocked hip.

"All this time, I thought you were dead, Inès." Magdalene shook her head, eyes heavy with sadness. "Thought you were dead and buried over there." She took a few steps forward and stopped suddenly, displaying an uncharacteristic lack of confidence. "What have they done to you?"

Seemingly deciding that it was safe to get closer, Magdalene approached the frozen Inès until they were within arm's reach of each other. Tears spilled down Magdalene's cheeks as she asked again, "What have they done?"

She reached forward, first with stiff arms, as if she wasn't sure if it was all right that she touch her. But Inès, although she appeared lost for a moment, relented, bent and closed the space between them. Jemma stood by and watched as the women sobbed into each other's shoulders.

—

"WHAT'S YOUR PLAN?" MAGDALENE ASKED a short while later, the three of them around the big table. Inès and Jemma sat, while she stood against the counter.

"If Mama is able to forgive, if I'm able to forgive, I think we can break the curse. The spirit said to ‘free them.' It said to let go."

Now Magdalene directed her words to Inès. "And can you do that? Forgive them for everything they did? Not just to you, but to Ismael and Emmaline here?" Without waiting for a nod or a shake of the head, she turned to Jemma. "That's a lot to ask of her. They made her act as a maid to them for almost thirty years. That's thirty years of hate and resentment she's sitting on."

"I know she has more reason than I do to be angry. They've treated her much worse than they have me." She looked at her mother then. "I'm sorry. We're talking about you as if you're not here. Do you want to write something down, tell me if I'm right, wrong, anything?"

At first, Inès didn't react, and Jemma was afraid her mother would close herself off despite her obvious happiness at seeing Magdalene again. After a moment, she jumped up and rifled through several cabinets along the wall before returning with a sheet of paper and a piece of charcoal no longer than a pinkie. She scribbled:

I don't know if I can forgive

"Not even to get out of here?" Jemma asked.

Inès shrugged and waved a limp hand, as if to ask, Where would I go?

"But what about Laurence? He hasn't been off the property since he was a little boy. He never even got to go to school. Don't you want to leave? Maybe you and Dennis. We can have a life we didn't get to have before. But I don't think it's going to work if you can't forgive them for what they did."

Inès gazed at the floor. Jemma wanted to give her mother the chance to think about what she asked of her, to contemplate a possible future. Her mother had been just as trapped as the rest of her family for twenty-seven years. If she went into New Orleans, she might not even recognize the city. Jemma suspected a part of the woman wanted to stay at the house, the place that was so familiar to her, even if another part of her hated it.

Inès scribbled something else.

If I do, it's only for you and for Laurence, but I need time

It wasn't a no.

"Of course, Mama, of course."

Jemma didn't have to remind her that time was something they didn't have much of. She left the two women in the washhouse and headed inside the big house, straight to her brother's room.

It's only for you and for Laurence.

He opened the door to Jemma's knock, his hair rumpled.

"We need to talk," she said.

He stepped back, opening the door wide. As she settled into a wingback chair in a corner, she surveyed the space. Pale blue wallpaper and ivory wainscoting lent his bedroom the same formal atmosphere present in the rest of the house, but his felt more comfortable than Honorine's room. On one of his nightstands sat a small framed photograph of two young children, a boy and a girl, both staring somberly at the camera.

"Fosette and me in happier times," he said with a nod to the picture, his sarcasm evident. He sat on the bed and ran a hand through his hair before turning his attention to Jemma. "This must be important for you to come to my room."

"It is. I think there's a way to break the curse, but our mother has to be willing to forgive everyone for what they did. Naturally, it's not easy for her since all of you have been so horrible to her. But she still wants to save us, her children. You have to talk to her, to ask her to forgive. It can't just be me."

Laurence's usual smirk disappeared. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "I haven't tried to talk to her in so long. What could I even say?"

"Maybe you can start with an apology."

His eyes flicked upward to meet hers. "Do you really think that will be enough?"

"I don't know. But it's something."

So later that night, after everyone else had retired to bed, Jemma and Laurence slipped downstairs like two children sneaking sweets. He'd begged her to accompany him. He wiped his hands on his slacks half a dozen times as they stood in the kitchen doorway, he telling Jemma he wasn't ready yet.

"We don't have a lot of time."

"I know. Just…I feel like she hates me for what I did. I don't even know what to call her. How can she possibly forgive any of us?"

"You might be surprised what people can do if you ask them right."

Their mother remained expressionless while her son fumbled his way through what sounded like a rehearsed speech, stumbling in calling her Agnes and forming his lips over "Ma—" before stopping himself and starting over.

"I've wanted to say something to you for so long, ever since I found out who you were," he whispered. "But it got to the point where I didn't know what to say. They wanted me to hate you. You made me hate you. Now I know that, all these years, you only wanted to protect me. Saying sorry can't undo all that I did—it can't even scratch the surface. But…Maman…I'll make it up to you in whatever way I can. I promise."

When he finished, his gaze on the floor, there was only the sound of the humming refrigerator.

Jemma reached for her mother's hand. "Mama. You love us. You want to save us. It's not Laurence's fault. He only did what they all did, and what they did was wrong. But to save me and him means forgiving him and all of them. That's the only way. Please."

Inès raised her other hand to Laurence's cheek, as if remembering slapping him there years ago. Tears shone in her eyes.

He placed his hand over hers, leaning in to her touch, while Jemma watched them both, the smallest flicker of hope daring to light inside her.

—

JEMMA HAD FELT TENSION IN the air from the day she'd arrived, but as her birthday drew closer, it seemed ever greater. Simone's barbs, once infrequent, had increased. Short and sharp, often in French patois.

"Can you pass the soup, please?" Jemma asked Fosette at dinner.

"Careful, daughter, lest you fall into a coma if that sac à merde so much as touches you," Simone said, her eyes on Jemma, who didn't bother to ask for a translation.

"Maman," Fosette murmured, pushing the tureen toward Jemma without looking at her.

"What?" Simone snorted, before addressing her niece. "Why are you even here anymore, you useless garce ? I told you you'd fail, and all you've done is prove me right. Luckily for me, I've already picked out the dress I want to be buried in. I hope the rest of you have done the same."

The family retired early, eager to get into warm beds. Russell's unchanging condition also seemed to have something to do with the strained atmosphere. Without his presence at meals, everything was quieter.

Later, as Jemma was getting ready for bed, Inès came to her room with a note: I'm ready

"Tomorrow night? After everyone's in bed?" Jemma asked, and her mother nodded once before heading back downstairs.

The next night, Jemma waited in her room until the stillness outside her door was absolute. In light slippers and a long nightgown and robe she'd found in the chifforobe, she made her way to the kitchen, where Inès waited in similar attire, her hair loose around her shoulders. Her mother handed her a lit white candle, a matching one gripped in her own hand.

The two of them walked across the grass, now cool under the night sky. At first, Inès simply followed Jemma, but when her daughter started toward the chapel, Inès placed a hand on her arm and pointed to the old slave cemetery. Where Jemma's father was buried. With each passing moment, the air grew colder and heavier. They wrapped their arms around themselves for warmth. Right before they stepped inside the leaning wrought iron gate, Inès pulled out two veils, placing one on her head and draping the other over Jemma's.

Inès handed Jemma a note, which her daughter read by candlelight.

"?‘I, Inès Lily Duchon, forgive my family. I forgive my father, Raymond, for killing my love, Ismael. I forgive my mother, Honorine, for letting it happen. I forgive her and my brother, Russell, for stealing my voice. I forgive my sister, Simone, for her cruelty and her jealousy. I forgive my son, Laurence, for not knowing how to treat me. I forgive myself for the curse I placed on my family, for keeping us prisoner here for all these years. With the power of forgiveness, I free all of us from this land.'?"

As Jemma read the words, a steady breeze had increased in intensity until it was now a whipping wind blowing Inès's hair about her head, both of their gowns up around their knees. Fallen leaves smacked them occasionally. They'd tried to shield the candle flames, but the lights had blown out with Jemma's last word.

In the darkness, she spoke again. "I forgive my mother, Inès, for binding the Duchons to this property. I forgive the Duchons for lying to me about who they were and why they brought me here. I forgive them for murdering my father, for sending me away instead of accepting me, for their cruelty and meanness. With the power of forgiveness, I set them free."

The wind whipped into a keening howl. As harsh and cold as it was, Jemma felt a spot of warmth growing inside her. As it grew, the wind gradually lessened, until it was the softest of breezes and then nothing.

Everything was still. The heaviness was gone.

"Did you feel that? Did you feel the warmth?"

Inès nodded, a small smile lighting her lips.

"I think it worked, Mama. I think you all can leave now. You did it. You set them free."