Page 2 of Lucy Undying

Maybe if he’d been healthy enough to travel to Miami, he’d be convinced. It still makes no sense why she was buried there when she lived and died in the desert West.

“But I saw—”

“She’s gone, Dad. I promise.” I don’t tell him that I took a few minutes alone with the casket on the long flight to her custom mausoleum. I expected her waxen, bloodless face to haunt me. Instead, I keep returning to the memory as a comfort. She’s dead, and I’m so close to being free.

“But she was here,” Dad whimpers. “She told me to open the window and let her in. She’ll be back tonight; I know she will.” He sounds like a child, scared of the dark. But he never protected me from the darkness or from my mother.

I glance down the street, trying to get my bearings. All the buildings feel too close to each other, so there’s no way to see where the sun is. “Tell your nurse to make sure the window’s locked and close the drapes nice and tight. And if Mom comes back, tell her to fuck off. Bye.” I hang up and immediately regret it. And then try my hardest not to regret it.

God, I’m never going to escape. No matter where I go, she follows me. Exhaustion radiates from my core, like if I don’t sit down and dissociate right now, I might die. I have no idea what to expect when I get to the house, either. Will it be in good enough condition for me to stay there, or will I have to get a hotel? That bastard Robert Frost taunts me, my mind repeating, The woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep.

I guess it’s “kilometers” here, though. Such a typically dry English joke, giving us their nonsense measurement system and then switching to metric themselves.

It’s so tempting to find a hotel and sleep off the jet lag. Burrow into white sheets, be blissfully unconscious for a day or two. But I can’t risk the delay. I can’t be sure they aren’t already following me. My beloved running-away-backpack straps dig into my shoulders, and I welcome the weight. It helps me focus. It reminds me why I’m here.

This is the only chance I’m ever going to get, and I won’t blow it because I’m tired.

My phone rings again and this time I check before answering. “Can I just burn the house down and be done with the estate that way?”

Dick’s voice is as dry as kindling. “That’s arson, Miss Goldaming, and even in the UK it’s quite illegal.”

“What a hassle.”

“You could always return home and address the responsibilities you have here.”

I want to punch his voice in the mouth. My mother really outdid herself when she put Dick Cox in charge of executing her will. A name like that, he should be a world-renowned adult film star, not a pedantic attorney so relentless I’ll never escape him.

“Don’t want any of it. The responsibilities, the company, even the money. Once I sell the London and Whitby houses, we’ll talk about getting me out of the rest.”

“You will want it,” Dickie says with bland assurance. “It’s in your blood. And the blood is life.”

I flinch at the hateful mantra. It feels like my mother, pinching me under the table so I’ll sit up straight and smile. “In my case, the blood is my eventual death, so thanks for your continued insensitivity. Bye, Dickie.” I hang up. Between my dad and Dick, I’m a walking panic attack. I thought I’d feel brave when I got here. Ready. Instead, I just feel haunted.

There’s a café across the street. Coffee is my greatest ally; it will help me fight my jet lag, fight my blood, fight my past. I can do this. I look to the left and step into the street.

Three things happen at almost the same time:

A hand grabs my pack and yanks me so forcefully I fly backward through the air.

A black cab passes on my right within inches of mowing me down.

And I fall onto my ass, looking up at a stunning porcelain angel of a woman, golden head haloed by the sun, still holding the backpack strap she used to save my life.

3

May 6, 1890

Journal of Lucy Westenra

Mother’s been in my room. I leave little traps for her everywhere, little ways that I’ll know where she’s been with her prying fingers and cutting eyes. But she didn’t find my journal. Dear, dear Mother, who loves like a knife, slicing me into ever smaller pieces until I’m exactly the shape that pleases her the most.

Though this shape she cuts me into is pleasing all around. Doctor Seward has been by again. What business does he have doing house calls for my mother? He shouldn’t be looking after a fussy woman convinced that every cough or sniffle is the plague. I wish he would tuck her into his big black bag along with his vials and bottles and take her to his sanitarium. She could complain all day and have him instead of me at her beck and call. But he loves sitting for tea after he listens to her heart and her ever-lengthening list of ailments. And all the while, he watches me over those glasses, tracking me more carefully than he tracks her pulse.

Sometimes I smile at him, as placidly as I imagine a saint would. What he doesn’t know is I’m Saint Joan of Arc, waiting to take up a sword and make all of England cower before me.

But that’s wishful thinking. I could no more wield a sword than Doctor Seward could inspire a young woman to blush. But as my mother taught me, if someone frightens you, make them love you. Then you will be in control.

If my mother’s love is any indication, that’s not true. I certainly don’t control her. But I will not make an enemy, and I will pray Doctor Seward grows tired of my mother’s complaints long before he grows tired of my face. He promised to come again next week and bring his friend from America, and I had to pretend to be thrilled at the prospect. I do not care for Doctor Seward—why should I care for his friend?

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