Page 108 of Persephone's Curse
Nobody argued with me as I went into the kitchen. Nobody followed me as I filled the electric kettle, put it back on its holder and turned it on, got four mugs down from the cabinet and set them in a neat line on the kitchen counter. Nobody was there as I pulled down a half-empty tin of loose-leaf peppermint tea, as I filled four tea strainers and set them into the mugs. Nobody came into the kitchen as I took the honey from the cabinet and put it down, leaving my fingers sticky. Nobody was there as I washed off my hands at the kitchen sink. Nobody was there and then Evelyn was there and she was standing so still and so quietly that I remembered when she was a ghost, when I saw her from beyond the grave, when she reached her hand out to me and I knew that I knew her, I would know her in any dimension, in any universe, in any world.
“I know it’s something bad,” she said, moving closer to me. “I know I won’t be going back. I know he can’t stay here. I know you know. Will you tell me now? I can’t wait any longer, I have to—” Her voice broke then, snapped in half, and I felt it deep within my chest. “I just have to know now, Winnie. Will you tell me?”
I remembered Henry sitting on the edge of my bed when I was five or six and sick with a stomach bug that just wouldn’t quit.
I remembered Henry telling me he loved my hair, when I had to cut it to my shoulders after Clara stuck gum in it (accidentally, she claimed).
Henry was one of my earliest memories. It was my sisters and Henry, always. One of the first faces I saw, after my parents and the doctors and the nurses and the taxi driver who brought us all home from Lenox Hill. It was Henry, waiting inside the house, so happy to meet a new Farthing sister. It was Henry, telling me not to be frightened of the dark, that the scariest thing in this house was him.
But you’re not scary at all, Henry.
I know. That’s my point, silly goose. You’re safe here.
You’re safe here.
You’re safe here.
You’re safe here.
And thanks to Henry, we would continue to be safe here.
The kettle boiled and turned itself off and I ignored it and walked around the kitchen island to stand next to Evelyn, to take her hand and look her in the eyes as I told her what was going to happen.
“I’m so sorry, Evelyn,” I said, and then I explained it like Henry had explained it to me, and she was very quiet as she listened to me, and occasionally she nodded her head or made a little sound, cleared her throat or swallowed loudly.
When I tried to apologize again, at the end of it, she shook her head and said, “No, no, Winnie. No more apologies. What has to happen will happen now. We can’t help it anymore; this is how it has to be.”
Then Clara and Bernadette came into the kitchen and Clara was crying, which is how I knew Henry had told them as I had told Evelyn, and I couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief, that I wouldn’t have to say it all over again.
Henry came into the kitchen behind them and then it was the five of us.
Girl, girl, girl, girl, ghost.
As it had always been, since we were little, since we were born.
“We have to close the doorway first,” Bernadette said. “The one she created all those years ago. The one tied to this house.”
“Or else some idiot Farthing years from now will make the same mistakes we did,” Evelyn said, nodding. “Okay. How do we do that?”
“You and Clara have both given something up,” Bernie said. “It’s my turn now.”
We followed her upstairs to the attic and sat in a circle on the floor as she went into her bedroom, coming back a moment later with one of her journals. It had a worn, red leather cover and it was so stuffed it didn’t close properly anymore. It was one of her journals from Vermont.
“No,” Clara said.
“It’s okay, Cece,” Bernie said. “Everything in here is in here, too.” And she pointed at her chest, then smiled at herself. “Man, that was corny. Okay. Here goes nothing.”
And just like Clara had used her painting to open the doorway and let Henry through, Bernadette somehow used her journal to find the doorway and thencloseit. And I knew it was closed for good, forever, and I swear I heard a sound like the latching of a lock, the click of a dead bolt, the heavy catch of something solid and unmovable.
The journal was gone from Bernadette’s outstretched hands, and I saw her look at her now-empty palms with sadness. I rememberedthe time I had gone into her room and held her journals. I had wanted so much to be her, to be any of my sisters, to be anything but myself. But of course I had always remained me. The one sister who always played it safe, who hadn’t had to make any sacrifices because I had never taken any risks, because you can’t get burned if you stay as far away from the fire as you could.
I don’t think anyone would have moved if I hadn’t moved first. I took Evelyn by the hand and gently nudged Clara’s arm and Bernadette let her hands fall to her sides and followed us down the long flights of stairs, all the way to the kitchen, the back door.
The mugs of tea were still on the counter, the water in the kettle was tepid again. The kitchen smelled like peppermint and jasmine.
I got everyone boots and winter coats but when we stepped outside, I discovered it had turned suddenly mild. Snow still fell lightly around us, but just like in my dream, it wasn’t snow. It was—
“Jasmine,” Evelyn said, holding her hand out, palm outstretched, catching the creamy white flowers as they fell.
