It won’t? Why not?
Nothing saves us in the end, Tom said, stroking my hair. Not gods or shadow gods. Not heaven or the endless Deep. Not blood or cream red as blood. Rouge, as they say.
And he smiled his smile that lit me up.
* * *
In Mother’s blue bedroom, I’m quick and light as a mouse. But not like I was in the garden. Not stiff and afraid and waiting for a yellow square of light to fall across the garden, exposing me. I’m not afraid of being caught, even though Grand-Maman’s not sleeping. I can hear her breathing in the living room. I can hear her still staring in the dark. She doesn’t say, What are you doing in your mother’s room? She gives me all the time I need. To open the jar. To tip the red powder in from the black bag. To mix it with the little golden spoon that’s too perfect. To mix it well by the light of the June moon. To not look in any of the three mirror faces. Tom won’t be there anyway. Just me alone in the glass, though I don’t dare look. Three of me mixing in my white dress stained red from the flowers. And my memory of Tom’s voice in the back of my head like a song.
Now you’ll also want to dust some red powder onto her hairbrush.
Which hairbrush, Tom?
Oh, you know the one, Belle.
And I do know the one. I’m reaching for it just as Tom tells me: The gold one she bought for you that doesn’t even work on your coarse dark hair. So she had to take it back. It works such magic on hers. So let’s see what sort of magic it works now, Tom says as I sprinkle the powder on the brush and my hand not at all shaking.
And then her perfume. A few roses for her dead violets and smoke. Just a sprinkle in her jagged star. Very good, Belle. Now shake it up. Perfect. Oh wait. Don’t go just yet.
Not yet? I say.
No, no, Tom says in my head. There’s one more thing.
What? But I know what Tom is going to say.
The drawer, Belle. Where Mother keeps her lacy hideous things she wears for her Creeps. The red ones with the little garters hanging down. I open up the drawer. The scent of Mother’s skin hits me. I smell it through the roses. Powdery. Sweet. So familiar. How she held me in the night when once I woke up screaming from a bad dream. Oh Belle, she whispered. Dreams aren’t real, remember? Dreams are just dreams. The powdery sweetness enveloping me then like now. Making the tears in my eyes sting.
I don’t know, I tell Tom, shaking my head. Will it kill her?
Belle, what am I, a monster?
I think of Tom’s burning kiss, his cold, sticking touch. His insistence that I call him Seth—why Seth when he looks just like Tom Cruise except for the red in his eyes sometimes? Suddenly I’m not so sure. But I shake my head no. You’re Tom Cruise, I say.
I feel him smile that amused smile. We’re just giving her a little rash is all.
Will it hurt? I ask him.
Nothing like you hurt. Not even close. It’ll just give her a taste of the hurt you feel. So she’ll definitely know. So she won’t lie to you anymore about wishing she had your face.
Now go on, he says. A little red powder there, too, for good measure. And Mother won’t even notice the red. Because her lacy hideous things are red too. Good. Very good, Belle. His voice is so clear in my head now, so near, like it’s at my ear the whole time. I can almost feel his breath on my neck.
And then it’s gone. And then it’s done. I’ve sprinkled it all. I’ve closed the drawer. Nothing in my hands but red dust. And a pounding in my chest like a petal crushed.
I’ve done it. Which means…
I run back to my room, to Mother’s mirror shining in the corner. I’ll see you on the other side, Tom said. Now that I’ve done what he’s asked, he’ll be there, won’t he? Waiting. Maybe holding roses for me. I’ll step through the mirror and we’ll go to California, where the water will be as blue-green as his eyes. An ocean of Tom’s eyes to swim in. And I’ll be beautiful.
But when I get to the mirror, all I see is me. My stained white dress. My scratches and cuts that look like black bugs in the dark. The bruise of Tom’s kiss is glowing like a strange star on my forehead. Underneath, I’m the same. A seedling in the dirt. My same ugly face full of every ugly thing I have done. Telling it in my eyes of mud and in my pale worm mouth even though no words come out. Tom, where are you? You’re supposed to take me away now, remember?
But Tom’s voice is gone from my head. I’m alone.
I call his name. Tom, Tom.
I knock on the mirror like it’s a door.
Tom Cruise, I whisper. Where are you? Where are you?