You Let Me In - Camilla Bruce Page 0,6

Sunday dinner it was Mother who poured the wine, letting it slouch off the rim and down on the table. Her lips were crusted with crimson. There were chicken and mashed potatoes. Caramel pudding for dessert. In this memory, I am eight years old.

“Eat,” she wheezed at me. Her eyes were shiny and blue. They reminded me of the stained glass window at church. The one with Mary and the baby, the color being the only likeness. The pearls around her neck swung back and forth between her breasts; cool white globes, shimmering and hard.

Father asked: “What has Cassandra done now?”

Mother lifted her hands in exasperation. “Well, look at her! Look at that hair. Why couldn’t she at least try to comb it before church?” In truth, I had given up on that hair. Pepper-Man kept twisting it at night, braiding it and curling it, licking it even, with his long, black tongue.

“What does it matter?” Father’s eyes were bloodshot, his tie all askew.

“People will think I run a zoo,” said Mother. “They’ll think I have no control over my children.” Her hand shook as she fetched the salt.

“There is nothing wrong with Cassandra’s hair,” said Father.

“Nothing wrong? It’s a wilderness. And it’s not just the hair. Her clothes are stained and her knees are bruised. Why can’t you ever be neat, Cassie? Why do you always have to ruin everything?”

“Cassie is bad,” said Olivia, only five then. Her feet under the table shot out and hit those bruised knees.

“That’s right, Olivia.” Mother’s voice went sweet but not warm; she stretched a linen napkin between her fingers, pulled until the fabric strained. “Promise me you’ll never be like your sister.”

“I’ll never be like my sister,” said Olivia. Her neat braids were tipped with velvet bows.

“Maybe she’s waiting for a bird to come flying and nest up there.” Mother’s voice verged on hysteria; she was looking at my hair again. Suddenly she laughed, or cried, it was hard to know the difference.

“Maybe not so much wine,” tried Father.

“Maybe I wouldn’t need all this wine if she could only behave!” She didn’t look at me at all.

Ferdinand, seven at the time, pushed his food around on his plate. “I don’t feel well,” he said. “May I be excused?”

“No,” Mother snapped, “you may not be excused. You may stay put and eat your pudding.”

Something dark entered Father’s gaze. “Go on,” he said to Ferdinand. “You may be excused.”

“What?” cried Mother. “He did that very same thing last Sunday—”

“And you drank too much wine then, too, and picked on Cassandra, just like you’re doing now.”

“Well.” Mother rose from her chair, the napkin fluttered to the floor. “Someone has to discipline her.”

Father started to laugh then. It was a deep and scary sound, like those first rolls of thunder on a warm summer’s day.

V

So, what is this to you, you may ask? This isn’t the story you expected. You were expecting a repenting sinner’s last confession. Expecting me to cry on the page, admit my wrongdoings and beg your forgiveness. Instead you get this: childhood memories. I am sorry about that—sorry to disappoint, but the truth of it is, I cannot recall a world without Pepper-Man in it, and him being in it was the beginning of it all.

We will get to the bodies eventually.

* * *

I remember elementary school as a string of days of aching belly and sleep deprivation, a fear that my classmates or teachers would somehow see through me and figure out how I spent my nights. See it and punish me, like Mother did. You’d think it would make me shy, wouldn’t you? Think it would make me seek out the shadows, but it didn’t. It made me angry.

It wasn’t easy to blend in with a companion like Pepper-Man. The other girls in S— were sensible creatures stuffed in ruffles and lace. They had well-groomed hair and polished manners. Much like Olivia: good to the core. Mother was most adamant I kept quiet about it all: my visits in the woods, the sharp nibs at my flesh, and the gifts of bones and feathers that I got. I was never to speak of, draw, or in any other way express my wraith’s existence.

“They’ll think you’re mad,” she told me. “They’ll think you’re mad and then they’ll lock you up.”

I didn’t want that, of course, so I tried the best I could to abide by her rules. But it wasn’t easy. I was straddling two worlds: the one everyone could see,