Not that this would stop me. “Then the writer must not only be a man of letters,” I began. “But an incorruptible—”
A scream cut off my words. In a household of children, I expected a degree of disorder. But what we heard was a shriek of pure terror.
And then it went chillingly silent.
I bolted from the parlor, Angelica close on my heels. We raced upstairs, cries and pleadings reaching us before we’d made it to the nursery. But inside, I found myself momentarily confused.
My five-year-old Lysbet sat in a ball on the floor, her head buried in her knees, sobs making her little shoulders heave. Meanwhile, my eldest daughter knelt on a tiny bed, tightly holding a pillow flat to the coverlet. And trying to make sense of the commotion, I planted my hands on my hips. “What in heaven’s name—”
A child’s desperate, choking gasp stole my words, my breath, what was left of my heart as I realized what was happening. Tiny feet kicked out from under the sprawl of Ana’s skirt. A terrifying understanding dawned, and I lunged for her.
It was all I could do to wrestle Ana off the bed, off my three-year-old boy whose raw, desperate gasp for air sounded like sandpaper rasping across a rough plank of wood. I had Ana by the arms, but at twenty years old she was strong and in a state of raving frenzy, screaming and fighting. It was left to my sister to comfort my poor red-faced Little Phil.
Meanwhile, Ana flailed at me, so strong in her fury, it was as if a demon possessed her. I struggled to reason with her, much less defend myself from her blows as she dragged me to the floor. “Ana, please. You’ll hurt yourself, my love. Please.”
“Je ne vous connais pas!” Ana spat at me.
My sister helped me pin her namesake’s shoulders to the floor while I held her wrists down. Sympathy carved a frown into Angelica’s reddening face as Ana struggled. “She said she doesn’t know you.”
And in that devastating moment, I finally faced the reality that my beautiful daughter was lost—to me, to herself, to time itself.
The loss had been a steady one, like a tree losing its fall foliage one fiery leaf at a time, so that you didn’t notice the falling away until the tree was nearly, and suddenly, bare.
When the fight bled out of Ana and her muscles went lax, she curled against my sister’s knees and sobbed. “He’s an imposter, Aunt Angelica,” Ana wailed between hitching breaths. “If he goes away, the real Philip can come home.”
“If who goes away?” Angelica asked, rubbing my daughter’s back.
“Little Phil!” Ana cried. “He stole my brother’s name and his place in our family. And the real Philip wants to come home to us.”
I cupped my hand to my mouth, believing it entirely possible that I might be ill. I hadn’t ever thought Ana could be a danger to the other children. I’d even relied upon her to look after them. But now my beautiful, talented daughter had tried to suffocate her youngest brother . . . to bring back her oldest.
Dear God. Dear God, no more.
It was true that I’d had a double share of good fortune and blessings in my life, but had that happiness not yet been repaid many times over in grief? When I recounted all the losses—my sister, my son, my mother, my husband, my father—I wanted to scream at God that my ledger must now be balanced.
Seeing me near to breaking, Angelica nodded to the door. “Go. Take the little ones.”
Dragging myself off the floor, I was a disheveled wreck—bruised, tendrils of hair askew, a tear in my sleeve. I righted myself and ushered Little Phil and Lysbet into the hall, grateful beyond measure that the rest of the boys were at school. “Are you hurt?” I asked my little boy.
“No, Mama,” he said, being brave despite his quivering lower lip. I pulled him into my arms and held him tight against me in gratitude. Then reached for Lysbet and cuddled her, too.
“This can’t go on,” Angelica said, later. After she’d finally calmed Ana, who’d fallen into a troubled sleep, my sister had locked the door to her room. But when she put the door key beside me where I stood, staring out at a bleak winter world, I shuddered, hearing my husband’s voice.
They will lock her away.
Angelica’s hand rested upon my shoulder. “You’ve done all you could for as long as you could, Eliza. My niece needs more care than any one person is capable of giving.”
But years of charitable visits to hospitals and almshouses had left me with a horrifying knowledge of the conditions. “I cannot tolerate the thought of Ana . . .” I shook my head and searched for another answer, another way. What kind of mother cast out her own daughter?