You Let Me In - Camilla Bruce Page 0,40

Two sides of the same Cassie-coin. It all depends on which side you look at.

I could see them both.

* * *

I could stop here. I would like to stop here. I am old now and tired. I’m thinking I should stop typing now and let the past be. But then you would still have questions. Questions about the body in the woods, questions about what happened later—those other deaths that occurred … I guess I owe you some answers about that. The “family tragedy.” The violent end. Somebody ought to know what really happened.

And so I keep writing—and you two keep reading.

XVI

We had lived together for twelve years, Mr. and Mrs. Tommy Tipp, in that small brown house on the outskirts of S—. We had even bought a lawnmower from Father’s firm, which Pepper-Man-in-Tommy pushed around in the garden every Sunday, toweling off perspiration with crumpled-up T-shirts and drinking cold beers on his breaks. I would watch him through the windows sometimes, making roast and salads in the kitchen, using freshly picked vegetables from our own patch. I was quite the housewife, back then. When I felt particularly inspired, I even made raspberry and blackcurrant spreads, canned fruits and mixed herbal teas.

I grew sated in those years. My hips rounded and my braid fell long and thick down my back, looking all lustrous and healthy—Pepper-Man loved it, played with it for hours. Those were my years of milk and gravy.

Pepper-Man-in-Tommy was the perfect husband; I never had to worry that he would stray or leave me. The two of us were so strongly entwined, so mingled and as one, separation seemed impossible. Still does.

I remember that first day at our new home, when we carried the things from the white room inside; the cardboard boxes of books I had long since outgrown, the wicker chair, the fairytale pictures—how out of place it all seemed on the vast, wooden floor of our new living room. I placed it all in the attic, and the attic is where it still is. You can have a look for yourself; I had it all moved when I came here. The white room is neatly boxed up above your heads—all those bitter nights.

I had decided I wanted to be like the rest. Be like those other—good—women. It was easier that way, you see. Being different is hard and takes a toll. The rest of society is always pushing, herding us strays toward what it deems natural and decent and safe. Easier then to give in, I figured, pretend to be like everybody else. Even with a dreary reputation like mine, it was still doable, I believed, if I built those walls strong enough and painted the backdrop of my life in loud and cheery colors. Maybe if I kept my head down and dazzled all of S— with my pretty illusions, they would all think me happy and well adjusted, and I could at last get an ounce of peace.

Time to create. Time to explore. Time to walk between the worlds.

I didn’t write professionally yet, that came later, after the trial. I dabbled in it, though, and painted and worked on some other arts as well.

My masterpiece from that time was doubtlessly my life. In that respect, I was no different from other young women. Every choice I made—from picking out a sofa, to choosing a profession for my man—was a measured move, a careful staging. Those four walls, that husband and that car, everything was calculated and carefully thought through. It had to appear solid and true to the world, you see. Every young wife can relate to that. If you can make your life a piece that fits neatly in the puzzle, you are all set and bound for that bland brand of happiness that people think they crave. Just look at your mother, Olivia did it too—she always excelled at it. Unlike many other girls, however, I didn’t build my doll’s house or raise those pretty screens to hide some petty mundane blemishes—alcohol problems, a lack of love, or a crushing, bottomless debt.

I was protecting rather than hiding.

Protecting my other life; the one that brought me endless joy; steeping my faerie tea, running through the woods, spending days on end with Mara in the mound.

So, you see, no matter what your mother thought at the time, or what she has told you, that I was “well for a while,” that things were peachy back then, she was wrong.

She didn’t know me at