I don’t believe her but I really want to. Her face is all patchy, eyes filling up again. Tears splash onto the Mary. She puts her down, picks up the wizened skull. Her mascara running just a little.
‘And Oona just hates men because she’s gay.’
I jolt at those words out of her mouth.
‘Excuse me? That is not a thing at all.’ My voice is almost spluttering.
‘It is a bit. Lon told me. With lesbians, they resent not being straight and often take it out on the men around them. Spreading vicious rumours and so on.’ Her tone is his, but that is no excuse for what she’s saying.
‘That’s bigoted, Catlin.’ My voice is colder, stronger. How dare she parrot hateful things like this? The sister that I knew would never, ever …
‘Sometimes bigoted things can be true. Stereotypes exist for a reason. I mean, I wouldn’t say it to Oona like that. But it makes sense. I mean, when Lon explains it.’ Her voice is calm. She wipes her eyes a bit. ‘I can’t believe he looked up at my window. It’s really romantic, isn’t it?’
The subject has been changed. But not for me. I think of what I’ll have to tell her some day. It just got harder. I won’t forget this. She hasn’t noticed I’m not even listening. What does she even think of me at all? The things she said about me in the library. She fully, fully meant them at the time. I feel my hands moisten and the back of my neck tense. How could she ever, ever …?
‘It can’t be true, Madeline.’ Her voice is quieter now. It’s more like hers.
‘Mamó said things too though,’ I say. ‘And Brian. Lon hates it when you talk to other men. He watches through your window. Visits in your dreams. You sounded like him there, the things you said. They aren’t what you think. It makes me worry.’
‘Worry away,’ she says. ‘You’re always worrying about stuff anyway, with your salt and your leaves and your poking into other people’s business. Why can’t you let me be happy? It’s hard for me too. I won’t always be around to protect you. I’ve fallen in love and eventually I’ll go away. We’re growing up, Madeline. Things can’t always be the same forever. You need to let me have this.’
She’s shifted back, her eyes bright. She’s sweating, holding a little skull, fingers twisting round and round and round the yellowed cranium. Some of the jawbone is missing, I notice. It takes so little force to break a girl.
‘I thought that Brian gave it to the guards?’ I say.
‘It might be another one … or something …’ she says. ‘I found it back inside the trunk again. Goodnight, Madeline.’
She wants me gone, and so I leave her there, still clutching at a part of someone’s corpse. Organise things, clamber into bed. Nothing was ever proven. It’s not enough for me to feel she’s safe. Who says that though, about the man they love? They couldn’t prove it doesn’t mean it’s lies. I think of Mamó feeding meat to the raven. The smooth and shining thing inside the beak. The salt. The mint. The jars in the moonlight. And the fox. I think about the fox.
Even if my life goes according to plan, if I work hard, do well, I can’t fix everything. Lon’s big hands on Catlin’s little arms. Digging in. His face against her face. I can’t just walk away from who I am, from who I choose to be. I cannot be a witch. I can’t choose magic. It is over now. But in my stomach, something stirs and flutters. And it tells me that I’m wrong. Things unfinished widen and they grow. In spite of me. In shadow and untrained.
Magic feels more emotional than scientific. It’s like a series of escalating inklings that end in an outcome, possibly a desired one, but sometimes a surprise. I’ve been wondering recently why I have to collect things at all. I always feel as if I have to keep Mam and Catlin safe. And maybe I always did. But from what? Boyfriends, husbands, colds and flus and thieves. The world’s a terrifying place all by itself, without the risk of monsters, magics, Gods.
I look at my small hands, my wide and stubby fingers stretching out. The gape of bone that strains beneath the skin. So many horrors underneath the surface of a person. So many things that we can choose to be.
34
Skullcap
Catlin smiles at me across the table. It’s not a friendly smile. She looks like a predator, or a competitor. I’ve seen that smile before directed at other girls. People who don’t matter to my sister. I am now included in their ranks, and it feels horrible. Any ground I break by listening seems to grow right back within the hour.
Catlin is smiling because she is smug about being allowed to get the bus today. It’s been a week, and Mam is getting tired of giving lifts. Lon won’t be waiting at the stop with coffee. Brian has made him promise. He’s asked him to back off, and apparently Lon told him that he would. And Brian trusts him in the way that all stepdads should totally trust lanky older men who hang around playgrounds chatting up their brand-new teenage daughters.
It’s the kitten thing all over again.
At least Button wants to be my pal, I think. He has not weed on me since the only time he weed on me, and that makes him my favourite person in the house right now. I wish all people were small, fat kittens who drink too much kitten milk and then fall asleep and their little pink mouths loll open and a bit of tongue falls out between their teeny fangs.
‘Meep,’ says Button, looking at his bowl.
‘Shut up, Button, nobody cares about you,’ Catlin says, and I actually gasp. I hope he doesn’t internalise her tone. I was doing some research and it’s important to be sound to your kitten. Formative soundness is key.
I think about glaring at her, like she deserves, but I just say, ‘Time to go,’ and grab my bag. I can tell her about how to love a kitten when she has learned how to not love an idiot. It will bring us closer together and everything will go back to normal and I won’t ever have to tell anyone that I’m a lesbian witch who isn’t using her powers of witchcraft or lesbianing right now because it’s all far too stressful to be dealing with.
‘I was thinking about refusing to go to school,’ she is saying now, ‘but it’s the closest I can be to him.’
‘Makes sense,’ I say.
She’s munching on a bright red apple. She usually has toast. I grab a yogurt and we leave the house. Our feet crunch on the driveway. I’m in boots and she is wearing delicate little pumps.
‘I’m still angry at you, you know,’ she tells me. ‘You’re still a bitch for doing what you did. It’s just – I need someone to talk to. And you’re my closest friend. Apart from Lon.’
Her smile’s still forced, but it feels realer this time. I try to smile back. But Lon is more important than her family. Her blood.
‘OK,’ I tell her. I can’t think of anything to say to that. I don’t want her to only have Lon to lean on. She needs to know we’re here for her as well. I’ve been reading up on how to support people in abusive relationships. Scrolling through the Internet for tips. Mostly it’s just be there, be there, be there.
I walk in silence. Catlin is smoking a cigarette. The orange spark of it fox-bright. A burning thing. I wince. She speaks of Lon.
‘He doesn’t like when people bring it up. The Helen thing. It makes him feel persecuted. He comes across as confident, Madeline, but he can be quite sensitive deep down.’
She takes a long drag. We’re at the bus stop. The smoke is blue-grey and it hurts my eyes. There’s something strange about it. The way it curls. The air is sharp today. I feel the bite of cold and pull my coat a little tighter round.