The buzz in the air turned electric as soon as she said it. There was a knowing in her eyes.
“What?” My lips moved, but I couldn’t hear myself.
She knew. She knew I was sick.
Maybe Mason had called her, or maybe walking in to see the chaos of the sitting room only confirmed the suspicions she already had. She’d been watching me so closely, especially over the last six months. I’d thought she was worried because of Gran, but that look she was giving me now was saying everything she wasn’t. It was finally out—this thing we’d all been tiptoeing around.
“I thought I’d be ready when the time came,” she said.
She stared down at the picture in her hand with an expression I couldn’t read. Nostalgia? Affection? Sadness? When she turned it over, her eyes lingered on the inscription longer than necessary. Was I imagining it, or were her hands shaking?
She swallowed. “But I don’t know that I am.”
I was trembling despite the warmth that filled the house. Every muscle was jumping beneath my skin, my stomach twisting like I was about to fall, and keep falling.
“You’ve seen the door, haven’t you?”
The trembling stopped then. I felt a cold stillness bleed through me. “What?” This time, I did hear myself say it.
She stood, the photograph still pinched between her fingers. “How many times have you seen it, June?”
I instinctively found the shape of the locket watch beneath my shirt, squeezing it so hard that its edges bit into my palm. I wasn’t sure anymore what we were talking about, and it didn’t matter how long I stared at her face, I still couldn’t read it.
“Why are you asking me that?” My voice was unsteady now.
She lifted a hand, reaching for the picture of my mother on the table beside her, but it stopped midair, like she was reluctant to touch it. Then it was almost as if she couldn’t help herself. All at once, it came to me. Whatever all of this was, whatever it meant, Birdie knew.
“She said you’d come asking questions.” She spoke softly.
I straightened, jaw clenching. “Who?”
“Margaret.”
As soon as she said my grandmother’s name, a sinking feeling woke inside me. I was suddenly terrified of whatever Birdie was about to say. That warmth in her voice and that sparkle in her eyes looked different to me now, as if I could feel at my very center that what was about to happen would destroy everything.
Her mouth twisted, deepening the wrinkles on her face, and her eyes shined, taking on a shade of blue that was clearer and brighter.
“Who is the woman in that photo, Birdie?” I whispered.
Her eyes flitted up to meet mine, and she suddenly looked like a little girl to me. Like someone caught with something they shouldn’t have. “I have a feeling you’ve worked that out for yourself.”
“Who is it?” The words sharpened to a point.
“It’s Nathaniel Rutherford. And your mother.”
Susanna. My Susanna, I thought. But what did that even mean? There was never a time when my mother had truly been mine.
I shook my head. “That’s not possible.”
It was true. But wasn’t that the exact conclusion I’d already been coming to? Wasn’t that precisely the thought that had haunted me through the long, silent hours of the night? Now that she was saying it, I desperately wanted to be wrong.
“Just breathe, June.” Her hand was suddenly on my arm, her touch like ice.
I flinched, pulling away from her. “What is happening?”
“How much have you put together?”
Put together? Like I’d been sent on a scavenger hunt blindfolded. Like this was a game.
When I didn’t answer, she let out a heavy breath. “I know this is difficult, but I need you to listen to me. There’s a certain way this is supposed to happen.”
“What does that even mean?” I snapped.
“You’re starting to remember.” She searched my eyes. “Right?”
Remember.
I stared at her, my mind twisting. My jaw clenched, biting back an answer. That was the wrong word for this. All of this was wrong.
I put more space between us, grasping at the last shreds of reality I could hold on to. The obvious answer was that this wasn’t real. It never was. The photograph, the marriage certificate, the baptism records, the gravestones . . . it was all one long hallucination playing out in my head. That was it. Maybe I was still in my bedroom, tossing the unopened mail to the bed. There was a very real possibility that none of this was happening.
“This is . . . this is an ep-episode.” My words cracked as I said it. “This isn’t real.” I tried to reason with myself, begging my heart to calm. It felt like the world would go black at any second.
She took me by the shoulders. “You’re not sick, honey.”
I felt myself still, the air in the room growing thin and dry. It burned in my lungs when I drew it in.
“Now, tell me exactly. How many times have you seen the door?”
I blinked. “I don’t know. Three? Four times?”
Her eyes widened. “What?”
“The first time was about a year ago,” I rasped.
“A year ago?” She let me go, her voice rising. “That long?”
“I didn’t want to tell you and Gran. Not when Gran was so sick. I thought . . .”
Birdie pressed a hand to her mouth. She was paler now. “That’s not how—” She swallowed. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to happen.”
“Birdie, tell me what’s going on.”
She crossed the room without another word, disappearing into the hallway. Her bedroom door creaked open, and I could hear a drawer opening and shutting. Then she was back, something pressed between her hands. It looked like another envelope.
“You’re not sick,” she said again. “You, Susanna, Margaret—further back, even.” Her words sped up, warping as I bit down on my lip painfully. “The Farrows are different. You know that.”
The pain radiating at my temples was spreading, my own heartbeat like the strike of a hammer in my ears. But the more she spoke, the more twisted it sounded.
“She didn’t disappear, did she? Susanna?” The words withered on my tongue.
“No. She didn’t.”
I looked around the room frantically, my hand finding the skin inside my forearm and pinching hard. I waited for the walls of the house to dissolve. For my eyes to wake to morning. But nothing happened. I was here, in our home, and I could feel the ground beneath my feet. I could hear the birds singing outside.
I pinched harder. “How long have you known about this?”
That childlike look returned to Birdie’s eyes. “A long time.”
“And what? You and Gran just decided to keep it from me?”
She looked down at the envelope in her hands before she held it out to me.
“What is that?”
“It’s something I’m supposed to give to you.”
I stared at it, eyes inspecting what I hadn’t seen before. It wasn’t one of the brown envelopes from the shop, like the one Gran had mailed to me. It was square and wrinkled with damp, the corners soft and worn.
When I didn’t take the envelope, Birdie extended her hand further. “I give you this, and the rest is up to you. I can’t say anything else. I can’t interfere in any way.” Her tone wavered as tears filled her eyes. But her mouth was set in that straight line again.