Page 40 of One Last Regret

“Okay.”

I frown. “You know what? Do whatever you want. I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.”

“Like what, Mary?” she asks innocently.

I turn to reply, but when I see the look in her face, I don’t. She looks innocently at me, but there’s hate in her expression. Maybe hate is too strong a term, but I can tell in her eyes that she wants to anger me. She’s being difficult on purpose because she resents me for holding her accountable for her own decisions. If only she knew how much like Mother she looked right now.

I smile. “You know what? You’re right. I lapsed in my musical studies years ago. I shouldn’t taunt you. If this isn’t something that fulfills you, then you should give it up, just like I did.”

She blinks, and her smile fades. I feel a leap of joy when I see the frustration that flickers across her eyes. I’ve won.

Without another word, she picks up her saxophone and begins to play. The improvement is immediate. Where beforeshe struggled to keep her breath and her fingers moved stiffly over the valves, she now sways as though the music is a living thing moving through her and not from her. Her fingers dance, and her eyes blaze with fire.

She meets my eyes, and the hate in hers fills me with glee.Go ahead and hate me, but I won. I made you do what you needed to do even though you didn’t want to. You can hate me, but I’m right, and you know it.

I gasp and shut the water off. I haven’t gone into a fugue, but the effect of that memory is the same as if I had. I replay it in my mind, but it’s just as clear the second time as it is the first time.

I wasn't frightened of her hate. I enjoyed it. I wasn't disturbed by her disdain of me, I reveled in it. I manipulated her into practicing saxophone, knowing that she couldn't stand to be compared to me. I knew that she had to beat me, and I used that knowledge to beat her.

Spelling all that out makes it sound utterly childish, and of course, it was. But then, wewerechildren. She was seventeen, and I was eighteen.

Still, it shakes me that I was so cruel. Had things turned out differently for me and Annie, I might be able to dismiss it as childhood pettiness, but it was only a few years after that Annie left my life for good. I spent most of the years after believing that she was hurt or killed. Then, when I learned that she had instead left by choice, I assumed it was hatred for our mother.

The more I remember, though, the more I wonder how much of her hatred was for me.

I am numb as I towel off and dress. I feel adrift, as though life is happeningtome, and I can't control any of it. Was all of this suffering fated? Has my past informed my future and prevented me from any agency? And if so, what is the purpose? What realization must I come to in order to reconcile what I feelshouldbe the truth with what is actually the truth? And what is actually the truth?

This is when Sean would tell me that I must just accept things as they are, including the fact that I may never know the truth.

But Ican’t. I can’t just now know. It’s not fair.

I sit on the edge of my bed, bury my head in my hands and cry. I’m sure I would look pathetic to anyone who walked in and saw me like this, but I can’t help myself. It reallyisn’tfair. Whatever pain I caused Annie, we could have worked through it together. Instead, she walked out of my life and derailed me. Because of her, I changed my career. Because of her, I lived friendless and alone until very recently. Because of her, I have nightmares and worse. Because of her, I can’t allow for secrets to continue but must expose them no matter how much pain it causes me to expose them. And now, all I want is to know what happened to my sister and why she felt she had to abandon me.

I am ruined. And it’s not fair.

The smell of smoke pulls me from my pity party. I frown and wonder if perhaps it is a lingering odor from last night’s festivities. Something in the back of my mind tells me that’s not the case.

I put on my slippers and leave the room. As soon as I enter the hallway, the smell strengthens, and an alarm sounds in my head. I run downstairs, and once more, my greatest fear is realized when I see smoke coming from the parlor.

A silhouette catches my eye. Amelia is in the living room on her knees, weeping in front of a fire that is rapidly consuming Marcel’s piano.

“Oh, God!” I cry out. I rush toward her and half-drag, half-carry her from the room. “Etienne!”

“I had to,” Amelia weeps. “I had to, or it was going to kill all of us.”

“Hush,” I command firmly. “Etienne!”

Footsteps rush down the stairs, and a moment later, he cries, “Oh myGod!”

He rushes toward the piano, tearing his shirt off and beating at the flame with it. I stare at the blaze in shock, but behind the shock is a kernel of hope that Amelia will have succeeded, that with the piano, the cursed music will have also burned.

It is not to be. After thirty seconds or so of watching the fire slowly spread across the instrument, Henri brushes past me, holding a fire extinguisher. “Stand aside, Mr. Lacroix!” he calls.

Etienne backs quickly away, and Henri blankets the fire in foam. The blaze is quickly extinguished, leaving only haze behind.

“Open the kitchen windows,” Etienne commands.

Henri moves to obey while Etienne opens the windows facing the yard. A draft blows through the house, and the smoke begins to clear.

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