“Calvin?”
“What happened?” Finally, I give up and rip the lock open with a yank.
She sits up and rubs her eyes as I fixate on the small black stain underneath her. “Ah, shit.” I kneel next to the bed. “What’s hurt?”
Her chin quivers slightly, and she covers her face with her hands. “It’s nothing. C-can you get Rosa? Or Norman?”
Ignoring the sharp pang from her request, I pull her shoulder gently to inspect her back. “What is it? Where are you hurt?”
She seems to struggle with words behind her palms. “I’m not hurt.”
“This is not the time to be shy. You’re bleeding—”
“It’s my period,” she cries, shrugging me off. “I got it this morning but have nothing to st-stop it. Please, just leave me alone.”
Relief floods me, and my forehead falls into my palms as I exhale. “You’re not hurt?” I ask, standing. She sniffles and curls back into a ball, inching toward the wall to avoid the stain.
“Answer me, Cataline.”
“I’m not hurt.”
After a deep sigh, I hold out my hand. With her face buried in the pillow, she looks small and weak, more pathetic than I’ve ever seen her. “Come,” I say, beckoning once. “I’ll get you cleaned up.”
After a moment, she swipes hair from her cheek. Her lashes flutter up at me, revealing frightened and innocent blue eyes. There’s tenderness in her voice when she asks, “Really?”
“Yes. Come on then. I haven’t got all night.”
She’s gnawing on her bottom lip. I’m tempted to tell her to quit it or to free it with my own fingers, but I inhale and refrain.
“No,” she says at last. “I don’t want your help.”
My outstretched hand drops to my side. “Excuse me?”
She flips away from me to face the wall. She doesn’t respond, but the yellowed pillow gnarls in her grip.
“You’d rather lie here in your own blood,” I state.
“Yes.”
My eyebrows are a thousand pounds as I stare at her, anger heating me from the inside out. I’ve never hit a woman like Cataline before, one who didn’t want it or deserve it, one who wasn’t expecting it. But my palm burns with the urge to put her over my knee, lift her nightgown, and spank the shit out of her. “Have it your way,” I say.
I spend the next twenty minutes in bed attempting to block out her whimpering, relieved when sleep finally begins its descent over me.
17
Cataline
“Do you know how much I love you?”
“More than the sun?”
“No . . .”
“More than the moon?”
“No . . .”
“More than the stars?”
“No . . .”
I frown. “How much, Mommy?”
“I love my little Cataline more than the sun, the moon, and the stars combined.”
I squeal and jump into my mother’s embrace, throwing my arms around her neck. “I love you that much too, Mommy.” When her skin under mine turns icy, I draw back to find her eyes are closed. “Mommy?”
Her blue-tinted face is slack, her body unnaturally still. My once-white nightgown is soaked red and clinging to my body. I swipe at my mother’s blood as I scream, but when I reach for her again, she’s gone. It’s my own blood sticking to my hands.
A man’s far-off voice says, “Oh, dear.” I cry out to him for help, but he just continues to repeat the words.
Darkness is splintered by harsh, yellow light, and I have to shield my eyes with my elbow. “Turn it off,” I say. I’ve been in shadows for days, even during my meals, and the light’s assault is painful.
I recognize the voice as Norman’s when he yells for Rosa. Peeking from under my arm, I see the stain has spread on the mattress. I can’t help staring at it until Rosa appears, one long string of Spanish words flying out of her mouth. She coaxes me from the mattress and urges me up stairs upon stairs until we’re in my room.
The space is blindingly bright, but not so much that I don’t notice it right away. “Rosa,” I say, pointing. “My window. Why’s it closed?”
She pushes me until we’re in the bathroom, where she helps me strip off my clothing.
The shower steams over quickly. In the foggy, distorted mist of heat, I pretend I’m in my apartment bathroom. I wipe my hand between my legs, scrubbing at dried blood as I think about what I’d normally be doing. I don’t know what day it is, so I pretend it’s Friday. I’d work and then go home either alone or with Frida, depending on her plans. It makes me regretful of all the times I declined her invitations to spend time with her work friends. I don’t fit in with them, though. Or anyone, really. But if it somehow meant I’d be somewhere else in this moment, I wish I’d done it.
After, Rosa thrusts a box of tampons at me, forcing my hands around it as though I might throw it down. I promise myself I’ll never take the little things for granted again. Or the robe she wraps me in, or the way she lovingly combs back my wet hair.
A half hour later, cleaned and fed, I sit in the main dining room awaiting instruction. When nobody comes to get me, I decide to search the mansion for Norman. Eventually I give up and go to the library, where I find him in an overstuffed chair by the window.
“Come in,” he says when he notices me, gesturing to the chair across from him.
I sit hesitantly and pull my robe tighter.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
“I’m not hurt, Norman. I just got my period.”
“I know,” he says, and we both look at our hands. “I’m sorry. I’ve been taking care of people for a long time, Cal—Master Parish included. I’ve never been so careless in my life.”
“It’s not your fault,” I say. “I didn’t know how to ask . . . I was ashamed.”
He touches the corner of one eye and nods. “I’m in a difficult position, Cataline. I’ve served the Parish family for many years. Calvin was still a boy when his parents passed—well, he was a teenager, but he wasn’t yet a man.”
My fingers run along the hem of my robe. “I didn’t know that.”
“He never discusses it. He feels a . . . responsibility to them and to this city.”
“A responsibility?”
“He’s not a bad person.”
“I disagree.”
“And he would say you’re right. He’s his own worst critic. Imagine a life where you never allow yourself a single mistake. That’s him. This has been difficult for him because you bring a sense of disorder to the mansion. He isn’t used to that. He likes things a certain way, and . . . you don’t always follow the rules.”
“I don’t understand any of that. If he hates having me here so much, why doesn’t he let me go home?”
Norman sighs, and his eyes scan the room quickly. “I’ve said quite enough. Just try not to upset him. I know you find it hard to believe, but he is a good man.”
I want to believe it. At least I did once, but now I know the truth. It seems Calvin has everyone fooled but me.
“I . . .” It’s silent while I determine how to respond. “I think you’re a good man, Norman.”
He swallows audibly as his eyes take their time meeting mine. When they do, I attempt a smile.
“Even after all this?” he asks.
“Yes. I’m sorry for being difficult. It’s just that I’m scared. That’s the only reason.”
“I know you are,” he says, turning his gaze back out the window. I’m not sure if I imagine it when he whispers, “I am too.”
“Will Calvin be mad you let me out?”
“Let me deal with him.”
My fingers in my lap are speckled with red, and I wonder how long I’ve been wringing my hands. The words I say to him, someone who hurts me even without laying a hand on me, are sweet, soft, and feathered. Someone else speaks them from my mouth. “Put me back in,” I tell him.