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“Who, Adelaide?” I’m terrified, but the part of me that wants to match up the timeline of Beatrix’s story wins.
“She ruined my life.”
“There are some people who say you ruined hers.”
It’s the wrong thing to say. Beatrix lurches forward and grabs my chin.
“I could never hurt a mother. Your babies are the only thing that’s saving you.” She rakes her remaining fingers down my cheek, raising welts parallel to my nose. I gag at her rotten scent.
“If she never came here, Martin and I could have raised our child together. Do you know what I named him?” she asks. Again, the curiosity gets the best of me.
I wait for her to tell me.
“Joseph,” she says, something different in her voice. It’s warmer, loving almost. A chill runs down my spine. I scream, but Beatrix clamps her rotten hand over my mouth.
“He was beautiful, even if he was born dead. He was born the day Adelaide arrived. Of course, Martin wasn’t there. I was alone, bloody, and exhausted. He wasn’t breathing.”
A pang of sympathy cuts through the waves of terror wracking my body. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper through her clenched fingers. Her flesh is salty and cold. I gag again.
“You don’t know how lucky you are,” she says harshly. “You’re taking everything for granted. You don’t deserve them, any of them.”
I try to ignore her, but momentarily, I fear she’s right.
Chapter 12
Joseph
I’mworkinglateduringa chilly evening in mid-November. The door to my office is locked. I have a mug of tea steeping, though I desperately wish it was a glass of Whiskey.
We’re redoing our website for the first time in ten years, and though my coding expertise is usually relegated to our user interfaces, I volunteered to take a look at the website.
I don’t know why I feel so charitable lately. Perhaps it’s Eleanor and our growing family. She’s starting to show now. A prominent bump protrudes out of even her baggiest sweaters. Her cheeks are round again.
I’m grateful that she’s gaining weight and able to keep food down. I had no idea that parenting included so much worrying. I’m a relatively easygoing guy, but I worry about everything these days.
Are the babies growing? Is Eleanor getting enough sleep? Is she getting enough nutrition? Am I getting enough sleep? I want to be there for Eleanor as best I can, but I’ve woken up on the beach for the past two nights, including today.
Each time, I have no idea how I got there. Each time, I call for help, sprinting after the woman in white, who seems to be the only living being for miles—except I don’t think she’s living. I get closer and closer to her, but she never turns around. This morning, I could smell her. I could see her shoulders poking out of the back of her dress. I almost stepped on her skirt, but she disappeared when I opened my mouth.
I don’t know what’s happening. I’m too terrified to mention it to anyone. If I tell someone, it will be real. There will be no turning back.
Eleanor isn’t sleeping great, either. There are dark circles underneath her eyes. My mother makes her endless cups of chamomile tea, and the three of us wait to see who will mention Beatrix first.
Even my mother seems jumpier than normal. She startles easily and is constantly glancing over her shoulder.
Suffice it to say, I need a break. I need something logical and straightforward, like a glitchy website that hasn’t been updated since 2009.
I allow myself to become immersed in the lines of code, turning on my desk lamp for extra light. The floorboards creak outside my office, but I ignore it. The temperature drops, and I tell myself that it’s just the impending chill of winter. I’ve had enough of Idylewylde Hall.
My computer hums loudly with effort.
“Come on!” I grunt. I bought it last year, but it’s heaving like a 1997 desktop.
Suddenly, a sharp scream pierces the air, “Joseph! Joseph!” It’s Eleanor’s voice, and it’s coming from the attic.
My palms start to sweat. I bolt upright and nearly throw my desk chair across the room from panic.
I wrench the door open. Her screams echo down the hall, guttural and frantic. She’s sobbing.
