Page 41 of Lucy Undying

Then one night, everything changed. I wore one of my favorite costumes: elastic bands with two strategically placed, enormous white feathers, and nothing else. At the door, the club owner charged for hand fans. Men and women crowded against the edge of the stage, waving their fans, trying to shift the feathers to get a glimpse of perfection. It was salacious and absurd, dirty and somehow innocent, too, because everyone was in on the joke. Everyone was playing. Sometimes Paris seemed like nothing but one big dare: to drink a little more, to kiss a little harder, to dance a little longer, to look into the dazzling lights and ignore the encroaching darkness for a few more hours, a few more days, a few more years.

As we took a bow and dropped our feathers—that always got a roar of playful anger from the crowd, who had paid for their useless fans—the Lover looked up into the audience and froze. A beatific smile crossed her face, so pure, so exultant, that I wondered what she had seen. In that moment, I loved her. In that moment, I would have done anything for her.

But the smile wasn’t for me. The smile was for him, because he had found her again, and her favorite dance was about to start.

36

July 24, 1890

Journal of Lucy Westenra

Today Mina and I sat on a bench overlooking the ocean and talked as though we had no cares in the world. She took my hand as we walked, and I pretended the hand I was taking in marriage was the one I held then, the only one I ever wished to hold.

Mina’s asleep in the bed next to mine. It’s hard to focus. She told me something so funny today, though. She keeps a diary! One written in her own shorthand code so no one can understand it but her. When I asked her what she keeps a diary for, she laughed and said, “Evidence.” I asked what kind of evidence, and she said, “That I am doing and feeling what I should be.”

I was so relieved and excited that perhaps Mina, too, has an internal landscape of horrible secret longing. If we had been at the house, I would have shown her my journals on the spot. The journal filled with the fictional version of me, who thinks and feels only what she should, and this journal filled with the real version of me, who thinks and feels nothing that she should!

But then Mina immediately started talking about Jonathan. Missing him, wishing she knew how he was faring on his business trip into the mountains of Transylvania, wondering when he would return so they could be married. I barely know Jonathan. I doubt I could pick his bland face out of a crowd. So how is it that he creeps through my life like a thief, stealing everything I want?

I keep wondering, though: What is Mina doing and feeling that she shouldn’t be? Why does she need to keep a journal as evidence? I don’t dare hope, but looking over at her now, she’s turned toward me. Her beloved eyes closed, those clever lips pursed even in sleep, as though she’s hiding something. What are you really doing and feeling, Mina, my Mina? For the first time since she told me of her engagement, I dare to hope that maybe she feels as I do. That her engagement is a necessity and not what her heart wants.

But then why does she always tug our conversations back to my engagement to Arthur, no matter how I try to steer them away?

37

London, October 5, 2024

Iris

“You do know the time difference between London and Salt Lake City, don’t you?” Dickie asks as soon as he answers the phone.

“You do know what Leave me the fuck alone or I’ll never sign your fucking documents means, don’t you?” I snarl, prowling down the street.

“You’re going to have to enlighten me about what I’ve done wrong.”

“The photos. The ones you had taken of me outside the house. Could you at least try for a little subtlety when threatening me?”

“Are you perhaps still jet-lagged? Or you may want to have the house checked for gas leaks. Those photos aren’t threats. Those photos are gifts. Gestures of goodwill. I had a photographer take a few exterior shots for when you list the house. If you’ll check your email for once, you’ll find I told you about it, and also asked you to schedule with the photographer so she can come back to get the interior.”

I have no response to that. I move the phone away from my ear and check the email with the seminar invitation. Sure enough, Dickie told me about the photographer and asked when I think the house will be ready for staging.

No. No, he’s gaslighting me. Or implying-gas-leaks-ing me. This is what they do. They threaten me, they hurt me, and then they have the most reasonable explanation possible. An explanation that makes me look crazy and paranoid.

As if we both don’t know I have every reason in the world to be paranoid. It’s not paranoia if it’s based on fact and experience.

I put the phone back to my ear. “I flew across the ocean to get a little space to process everything. Do you know what space is? It’s that thing where you leave someone alone. No more fun stalker photos, no invitations to soirées to show me how close the nearest cult members are, no nothing until I say so, do you understand?”

“I’m paid to care about your well-being, Iris. Whether either of us likes it, you’re the heir to Goldaming Life. So much depends on you, which means—”

I hang up. I’m done with Dickie. It’s still too early to call the nursing home back, though. I shouldn’t call right now anyway. I’d probably be mean, and the employees there don’t deserve it. I try to burn all my angry energy by speed-walking to the nearest street with a café. Fucking Dickie. Fucking Goldaming Life. Fucking everything.

The café has an open table near an outlet, at least. I wolf a sandwich but nurse my coffee slowly. While my phone charges, I search online. My collection of antique books is worth a few hundred pounds. It’s not as much as I’d like, but I’ll take what I can get.

I email a few rare-book dealers around London to get preliminary quotes. I don’t want to waste my time visiting them in person if I’m not going to be paid. Then I check the time zone difference to see if it’s okay to call Dad’s nurses yet, since I can’t once I get back to Hillingham.

A realization hits me like a bus: When my dad dies, I won’t know. I’ll be in hiding, with every line of communication cut. A scalpel dividing my life neatly in two, severing all that came before.

I honestly don’t know how I feel about it, which somehow makes it all worse. My mom corrupted everything she touched, including my relationship with my dad. Maybe I should talk to him whenever I can over the next few days, but what would I say? I’d wish I hadn’t called as soon as he picked up.

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