The deception of Dr. Skinner no longer stings so sharply, is now tainted not with sadness and longing but with hatred and anger. Though that betrayal seems almost nothing compared with the one orchestrated by her own family.
She stares into the cauldron of coffee, thinking of the three witches in Macbeth and how her life seems to be spiraling out of control as quickly as his did. The last few days have torn Alba’s history apart, splintering her memories, fracturing her sense of self. Half her genes were provided by a man named Albert. She is a cuckoo, a cliché, the product of illicit love and lies, of her mother’s affair with some penniless poet, kindled over their shared love of A Room with a View.
At least now she understands why she loves books so much, why she’s always dreamed of being a writer. But how could she not have known? How could she not have sensed it? How could she see sounds and smells, ghosts and auras, and not see herself? And how did anything else matter when she couldn’t see where she came from, when she couldn’t see the truth of who she really was?
When Stella appears in the sink Alba looks up from her coffee and tells the ghost the details of every letter, every poem, every moment and line of her mother’s love affair. Stella sits silently and listens to it all. She feels the fury in Alba’s heart as though it’s in her own chest, but it doesn’t worry her. Not being blessed with breath or life, the ghost is also relieved of some of its more irksome qualities: fear, guilt, loneliness, the need to stop those you love from feeling any pain. She knows that Alba needs to feel it before she can move on.
The only thing that balances Alba’s shock and sadness at the discovery of her paternity is her happiness at the rediscovery of her mother. Since Alba fled Ashby Hall, Elizabeth has visited her daughter every evening in her dreams. They talk and hold hands and walk across the world, sometimes spending the night at the Sydney Opera House or outside the Shaolin Temple or at the bottom of the Grand Canyon. But most of the time they sit on the roof of the King’s College chapel, watching Cambridge while it sleeps. Alba had feared that leaving Ashby Hall would mean leaving Elizabeth behind, so the first night she appeared, Alba was so surprised and delighted to see her mother that she woke herself up. But she is so used to the nocturnal visits now that she closes her eyes expecting them. In the morning Alba can never remember what they talked about, but she always wakes feeling lighter and brighter than when she went to bed. That feeling lasts until she opens her eyes and stretches and remembers the fact of her absent father again.
All of a sudden, a warning whistles through the pipes and the kitchen door bumps open. Stella disappears and Alba looks up to see Carmen walk in. She doesn’t sashay this time, and her clothes are tight but not bright, her hair is pulled back into a bun, every curl contained. She stands behind a chair, her hands resting on the curve of the wood. “It’s okay if I sit?”
No, Alba wants to say, I’d rather you leave me and Stella alone. But the ingrained politeness of a private education overrides her impulses, and she slips into good manners and nods.
“I am very sorry for your mother,” Carmen says softly. “I think not to bother you, I know you like to be alone, but . . .”
Alba looks up, surprised.
“But I hope still maybe we can be friends.”
Alba looks more closely at Carmen. Purple bruises still linger under her dress, seeping into the air and staining her aura. Alba has no idea what’s happened to her housemate but the dark shadows hovering over her heart are unnerving. Uneasy under the intense stare, Carmen breaks the silence.
“I hope you will come to my bar,” she says. “I know you do not love the music, but I just want you to see . . .”
Alba feels a twinge of guilt, remembering her lie. Carmen’s eyes are so vulnerable that, for a moment, Alba wants to help her. She nods.
“Really?” Carmen asks, delighted that she can finally put her plan to release the passions buried deep within Alba into action. “When will you come? Tonight, tomorrow?”
“Okay,” Alba says, knowing