She looks at me like what a question. “The only journey that matters in the end, Daughter of Noelle.”
“Retinol?” I whisper.
“The soul. A journey of the soul, of course.”
And the white jellyfish in my palm quivers.
10
Afternoon the next day. I’m in Mother’s car with Tad driving to the antiques dealer downtown. Tad’s driving because I seem… a little out of it, he says, looking concerned. Well, it’s understandable. Grief is a journey, isn’t it? Winding, unexpected dips and turns and circles. He keeps the Beach Boys at a respectful volume. “God Only Knows” filling the dark jaguar with so much splotchy sunshine.
“Shouldn’t take long. You’ll like this guy. Buddy of mine. He’ll give you a great deal.”
That’s right. This is what this is all about. Selling Mother’s things. Mother’s antique chest, now in the back seat. Her lamp shaped like a lady in a red dress. Her statue of a British butler holding out a tray. Le petit homme, she used to call him. A painting I always loved that is just a dirt road to a dark house in the woods. All about to be sold by Tad. Handsome young Tad, who has no idea of death or loss.
I stare out the windshield. How did it become afternoon? Did I do my morning ritual? I touch my face. I did not. Pretty sure I didn’t do my night ritual, either. Marva says if you must skip the morning, so be it, but the night ritual is crucial for barrier repair. How could I fail to restore and replenish? Am I sitting here now, without my overcoat for the face, my skin dirty and exposed and unprotected from the light of day? The last thing I remember is sitting across from the girl-woman in black, the small white jellyfish pulsing in my palm. She took it from me, tipped it into a tiny glass box of water. And then her hands were on my forehead. I was shivering at her cool, soft touch, a tear dripping down my cheek inexplicably. She watched it like it was miraculous. Would Daughter of Noelle like to go on a journey?
And what did I say again? What words did I splutter nervously into her beautiful, waiting face? I’ll think about it, I said. I feared she might be angry. She wasn’t at all. She was still smiling. Maybe just a slight crack in that. A hair of a hair of a hair.
And then she walked away from me, around the aquarium tank. It felt terrible, her walking away from me, my face suddenly untouched. I wanted to follow but I couldn’t because my shoes kept me nailed in place. Instead I looked at her through the tank, standing on the opposite side. She was looking at me, too, right through the blue-green water. Still smiling like all was well, like my thinking about it was fine. Then a red jellyfish darted between the two of us and hovered there. I could still see the girl-woman through its translucent, pulsating head. What I saw made me gasp. Suddenly she looked very old. Much older than Mother. Maybe Grand-Maman’s age before she died. Maybe even older. Gnarled was the word that came blazing into my mind. My nightmare of age and death in one face. I couldn’t stop staring at her thin mouth, her eyes like black pits, the sunken, shriveled cheeks etched with so many folds and lines, like she was melting right before my eyes. I could see the skull behind her sagging flesh, beaming at me. Then the jellyfish drifted away and she was herself again. The beautiful maiden once more from my child’s dream. Smiling just like she was before. Maybe more widely now. All those white teeth.
Think about it, she said through the tank, repeating my words. You do that.
“Well, here we are,” Tad says.
I see we’re parked on a street in front of a crooked-looking house. A weathered sign out front reads ANTIQUES in an antique-y font.
“It looks closed,” I say. It really does. All the windows are dark.
“Oh, it’s open,” Tad says, grinning. He already looks like he’s having a ball. An old man’s face appears in the shopwindow above the sign. Tad waves, and the man frowns and disappears. “That’s Al,” Tad says. “Good guy. Super knowledgeable.” Such magic in the world of Tad. Such faith. His eyes are literally shining with it. I wonder if this is how I look when I watch Marva. A flush creeps into my neck, my cheeks.
“Tad, did my mother ever talk to you about Rouge?”
He looks at me. Just for a second something flashes darkly in his eyes. Like a cloud passing quickly over the sun. It’s there and then it’s gone. And then: “Rouge,” he repeats like a question. Too much of a question. He squinches up his face like he’s confused. “No? Never heard of that. Rouge, huh? Is that French or something?”