I’d have to put Amelia and Bob in the bedroom across the hall from mine, since the guys were occupying the upstairs. The bed in my old room was narrow, but neither Bob nor Amelia were large people.
This was all just make-work for my head. I poured a mug of coffee and picked up the envelope and the bag. I sat down at the kitchen table with the objects in front of me. I had a terrible impulse to open the garbage can and drop them both in it unopened, the knowledge in them unlearned.
But that was not something you did. You opened things that were meant to be opened.
I opened the flap and tipped the envelope. The flouncy-skirted bride in the picture stared at me blandly as a yellowed letter slid out. It felt dusty somehow, as though its years in the attic had soaked into the microscopic crevices in the paper. I sighed and closed my eyes, bracing myself. Then I unfolded the paper and looked down at my grandmother’s handwriting.
It was unexpectedly painful to see it: spiky and compressed, poorly spelled and punctuated, but it was hers, my gran’s. I had read God knows how many things she’d written in our life together: grocery lists, instructions, recipes, even a few personal notes. There was a bundle of them in my dressing table still.
Sookie, I’m so proud of you graduating from high school. I wish your mom and dad had been here to see you in your cap and gown. Sookie, please pick up your room, I can’t vacuum if I can’t see the floor.
Sookie, Jason will pick you up after softball practice, I have to go to a meeting of the Garden Club.
I was sure this letter would be different. I was right. She began formally.
Dear Sookie,
I think you’ll find this, if anyone does. There’s nowhere else I can leave it, and when I think you’re ready I’ll tell you where I put it.
Tears welled up in my eyes. She’d been murdered before she thought I was ready. Maybe I never would have been ready.
You know I loved your grandfather more than anything.
I’d thought I’d known that. They’d had a rock-solid marriage . . . I’d assumed. The evidence suggested that might not have been the case.
But I did want chilren so bad, so bad. I felt if I had chilren my life would be perfect. I didn’t realize asking God for a perfect life was a stupid thing to do. I got tempted beyond my ability to resist. God was punishing me for my greed, I guess.
He was so beautiful. But I knew when I saw him that he wasn’t a real person. He told me later he was part human, but I never saw much humanity in him. Your grandfather had left for Baton Rouge, a long trip then. Later that morning we’d had a storm that knocked down a big pine by the driveway so it was blocked. I was trying to saw up the pine so your grandfather would be able to bring the truck back up the driveway. I took a break to go to the back yard to see if the clothes on the line were dry, and he walked out of the woods. When he helped me move the tree — well, he moved it all by himself — I said Thank You, of course. I don’t know if you know this, but if you say Thank You to one of them you’re obligated. I don’t know why, that’s just good manners.
Claudine had mentioned that in passing when I’d first met her, but I believed she’d told me it was simply a fairy etiquette thing. Mindful of my manners, I’d tried to be sure to never explicitly thank Niall, even when we’d swapped gifts at Christmas. (It had taken every bit of self-control I’d had not to say “Thank you.” I’d said, “Oh, you thought of me! I know I’ll enjoy it,” and clamped my lips together.) But Claude . . . I’d been around him so often, I knew I’d thanked him for taking out the garbage or passing me the salt. Crap!
Anyway, I asked him if he wanted a drink and he was thirsty, and I was so lonely and I wanted a baby. Your grandpa and me had been married five years by then and not a sign of a baby on the way. I figured something was wrong, though we didn’t find out what until later when a doctor said the mumps had . . . well. Poor Mitchell. Was not his fault, it was the sickness. I just told him it was a miracle we’d had the two, we didn’t need the five or six he’d hoped for. He never even looked at me funny about that. He was so sure I’d never been with someone else. It was coals of fire on my head. Bad enough I did it once, but two years later Fintan came back and I did it again, and those weren’t the only times. It was so strange. Sometimes I would think I smelled him! I would turn around and it was Mitchell.
But having your dad and Linda was worth the guilt. I loved them so much, and I hope it wasn’t my sin that made them both die so young. At least Linda had Hadley, wherever she may be, and at least Corbett had you and Jason. Watching you grow up has been a blessing and a privlege. I love you both more than I can say.
Well, I’ve been writing for a long time. I love you, honey. Now I have to tell you about your grandfather’s friend. He was a dark-headed man, real big, talked real fancy. He said he was sort of like yall’s sponsor, like a sort of godfather, but I didn’t trust him any farther than I could throw him. He didn’t look like a man of God. He dropped by after Corbett and Linda were born. After you two came along, I thought maybe he might come around again. Sure enough, he showed up all of a sudden, once while I was keeping Jason, and once while I was keeping you, when you were both in the cradle. He gave each of you a gift, he said, but if so it wasn’t one I could put in the bank account, which would have been useful when you came to live with me.
Then he came by one more time, a few years ago. He gave me this green thing. He said fairys give it to each other when they’re in love, and Fintan had given it to him to bring here to me if Fintan died before I did. It’s got a magical spell in it, he said. You won’t ever need to use it, I hope, he said. But if you do he said to remember that it was a one time thing, not like a lamp, like in the story, with a lot of wishes. He called this thing a cluviel dor, and showed me how to spell it.
So I guess Fintan is dead, though I was scared to ask the man any questions. I haven’t seen Fintan since after your dad and Linda were born. He held them both and then he left. He said he couldn’t come again ever, that it was too dangerous for me and the kids, that his enemys would follow him here if he kept visiting, even if he came in disguise. I think maybe he was saying he’d come in disguise before, and that worries me. And why would he have enemys? I guess the fairys don’t always get along, just like people. To tell you the truth, I’d been feeling worse and worse about your grandpa every single time I saw Fintan, so when he said he was going for good, it was more or less a relief. I still feel plenty guilty, but when I remember raising your daddy and Linda I’m so glad I had them, and raising you and Jason has been a joy to me.
Anyway, this letter is yours now since I’m leaving you the house and the cluviel dor. It may not seem fair that Jason didn’t get anything magical, but your grandfather’s friend said Fintan had watched both of you, and you were the one it should go to. I guess I hope you won’t ever need to know any of this. I always wondered if your problem came from you being a little bit fairy, but then, how come Jason wasn’t the same? Or your dad and Linda, for that matter? Maybe you being able to “know things” just happened. I wish I could have cured it so you could have had a normal life, but we have to take what God gives us, and you’ve been real strong handling it.
Please be careful. I hope you’re not mad at me, or think the worse of me. All God’s children are sinners. At least my sinning led to life for you and Jason and Hadley.