Chapter Eleven -Bric
To call myself mesmerized at how the evening plays out would be an understatement. Once I decided on the substance of the note and placed it next to her sleeping body in the library, I went up to the third floor and pulled back the bed covers. I found the little moon nightlight in the nursery and set the timer for ninety minutes, which was as long as it would set to.
I got a little lost in the family who no longer lives here. Who were they? Where did they go? Who owns the house and how the hell are the two of us in here playing this sick little game without them knowing? Objecting?
I made a note to ask Jordan about it the next time we talked, knowing I’d never get that answer. For all I know, this is his house. Maybe he has a family? Maybe he sent them all off on vacation until this little experiment was over? How the hell would I know? I haven’t really talked to him in years. Why the hell do I care?
I convince myself I don’t. Care.
But then I went back down to my basement control room, searched the internet for recordings of songbirds, pumped one through the library speakers at a soft volume, and made myself comfortable while I waited her out.
Her little poem or whatever it was gave me that idea. She was mumbling something about birdsongs. And shivering so hard when she woke up I had an urge to leave and turn up the heat. Not that I had any better idea of which areas all the specific thermostats control, because I didn’t. This room was warm from the hum of technology. I could’ve used some AC down here, to be honest.
But now that the spell is over and she’s either asleep or very good at faking it, I am realizing just how fucking strange all this is.
This woman and I are alone in this house for… well, until she fucking calls it quits, I suppose. And I’ve already broken just about every rule I was given.
I left the basement.
I made contact with her.
Shit, more than contact. I gave her directions. Orders, maybe.
And she followed them.
Is she so lost that a stranger’s commands are better than making up her own mind?
“Huh,” I say out loud. “I guess it’s not that unusual.”
Which makes me wonder what she’ll do tomorrow. She could leave. Walk out that door and call her therapist. Tell her everything I did. I might’ve even have fucked her up worse than she is. Because let’s face it, this chick has issues.
Then there was that fucking rhyme she was chanting. What was that? I’m so damn curious I do a search on the internet.
Birds and wind poem. Birds and wind nursery rhyme. Birds and wind songs.
Nothing.
And then there’s the violin. It seemed to… make her wilt. I didn’t expect that. She’s an accomplished violinist, so one would naturally assume she loves the instrument and would find it comforting. Except it seemed to have the opposite effect.
“Fuck it,” I mumble to myself. “She’s a nutjob.”
I got her to stay a night. Big deal. I don’t even know how much I’m getting paid. I don’t even care. I don’t even know why I’m here.
I do a search for her now, convinced I missed something the last time I searched.
Evangeline Rolaine comes right up on Wikipedia. It’s long enough. Childhood. Parents. First performance at age four. Then a complete list of them in chronological order.
But it’s the section on child prodigies—the internal link that phrase points to, in fact—that consumes me well past midnight.
I get lost in it. The weirdness of them. The claim by alternative types that these kids are just reliving past lives. The fact that almost all of them dealt with some sort of mental breakdown in their teens and twenties.
Evangeline is twenty-eight now. So yeah. Fits.
Then I get consumed by an image search. Pictures of her as a small girl. Then growing up. All of which showcase her prominently with her violin.
There is no trace of a smile after age eight.
I contrast her upbringing with my own. She wasn’t born to a rich family, but she was so young when their fortune changed, she might as well’ve been.
And all that money came from her.
Like those child actors that score a big role and the whole family suddenly goes from dirt-poor Alabama to swanky rich and famous Beverly Hills… it’s a little unnatural.
Not the money. But the illusion that you are important.
Shit like that is a mind fuck because no one’s important to anyone unless there’s some sort of relationship involved. And the relationship her parents were forging with elite insiders was one of mutual gain.
Take the gain away and the relationship goes with it.
This plays out in every economic status—people just see it less when they’re not in the top one percent.
For example, you get a new used car so you don’t have to take the bus to work like most of your other co-workers. Bam. You find new friends based on your ability to give them a ride. Something they want and need. Yes. People use you like this. Almost all of them, in fact. People are assholes like that. They like you for what you have, not who you are.
I can imagine the scenarios her parents went through as they climbed the social ladder. She needed an agent, and after her first performance at age four, I’m sure they came crawling out of the woodwork. There was probably a little battle as her parents negotiated what they needed versus what they had. More appearances and money went up against a little girl with God-given talent.
Once the agent was secured they needed more access to even more influential people to keep what they just got. The cycle continued. The family rose on the shoulders of little Evangeline. The money poured in as her talent grew. Her face was everywhere, her talent undeniable, her youth intoxicating until the vultures who only wanted her for what she could give them became flocks circling overhead waiting for her to die. It was only a matter of time before what they saw down below was exhausted and they took their final meal.
And… she broke.
She was too young to know why. She was too innocent to understand how. She was too trusting to rebel until…
She wasn’t.
The court records for her emancipation are fascinating. Since she was petitioning for adult status, they were never sealed. It’s a simple public records search that gives me more insight into her psyche than should be allowed. I feel a little dirty just reading them.
But I can’t stop.
After that she sold her violin.
Ah…this is the defining moment in her life, I realize. Her amazing career rose to a crescendo and that breakdown in the library was the encore. A moment when something lost might’ve been found again, and wasn’t.
I do a search for the Stradivarius she sold at auction twelve years ago, but the buyer was anonymous.
It was a ridiculous dream of hers. An inevitable downfall. Because whoever bought that violin would not sell it without global fanfare. She’d have known if it was sold. It would’ve been in magazines and on the news as one of those general interest stories.
She had to know the violin in the library wasn’t her Stradivarius when she walked in there.
Still… she hoped, didn’t she?
And felt the loss all over again last night.
I sigh for her. So close… and yet not close at all.
Gazing up at the monitor, I ask the sleeping girl, “Do you want it back, Evangeline?”
Not the violin. It’s gone. She’s never getting that back. Certain things are just not for sale and that violin is one of them. Even money like mine can’t buy that back. Not that I would. (What a freak fucking thought.) She wants herself back.
I feel sorry for her. I see her vulnerability splayed out before me like a banner in the wind. I relate to it a little, I guess.
The loss, maybe. She lost herself much the way I lost myself all those years ago.
And the sadness. Though I’m not a sad guy. More indifferent than sad. But I can relate to her. The way she was used. The way she gave up what she loved to find her own way in the world. The courage it must’ve taken to drag herself over to this house and let a stranger watch her.
Why?
I press Jordan’s contact on my phone. He picks up on the first ring. “Yup,” he says.
“Why?” I ask.
“Why what?”
“Why is she here?”
“Why do you care?”
“I just do.”
There’s a prolonged silence after that. I let it hang there.
“She’s got issues, man. And she wants to get past them, that’s all.”
“But why now?”
Jordan sighs, long and loud. “Don’t ask questions, Ix. I don’t really have answers anyway, but even if I did, I don’t think you need to know.”
He ends the call after that. Leaves me hanging like the silence I left him in a few moments before.
I set my phone down and watch her. It’s my job, right? So I watch her. The way her leg sneaks out from under the covers when she gets hot. The way it slips back under when she’s chilled. The way her body occasionally thrashes, like she can’t get comfortable. The way she keeps her eyes closed, either asleep and doing all this unconsciously or just squeezing them shut to keep the world away.
I have the pen and notebook in my hand almost unconsciously. The pen writes of its own accord. Sharp-edged letters printed out in my own hand run across the page like a horse racing for the finish line.
I read it over and over again, then tear the page off, fold it once, and print her name on the front, just like I did earlier.
I have no second thoughts as I get up, punch in the code to unlock the door, and exit my room.
I think of no one but her as I walk across the basement, ignoring the flashing lights of Pac-Man and the digital song of Centipede, and climb the stairs to the main floor.
As I walk down the hallway towards the grand foyer, my attention never falters. I don’t see the chandeliers or the intricate ceiling of the once-ballroom. I take the stairs two at a time, my hand sliding along the smooth banister, and never once compare it to the banister of my childhood.
On the second floor I don’t look right, towards the bedrooms of forgotten children. I see only the open stairs that lead up to the master on the left. My feet know where to go. Know to step lightly as I climb once again, hand on the railing, head tilted up, eyes focused on the double doors ahead.
I don’t even stop when I get to them. Don’t hesitate at all.
They must open for me, like all this was meant to be. Because I’m in her room. Watching her, not on the flat screens of my control room, but here, in person.
If I care if I wake her, it doesn’t show. Because my boots are allowed to thud across the hardwood until they land on the soft rug in front of the bed and go silent. There’s a moment when I imagine myself leaning down to brush the hair out of her face so I can see the contours of her cheekbone. But that passes.
I leave the note on the bedside table and retreat, confident that this is the right way forward.
I’m helping her, I decide, making my way down to the second floor.
She needs this, just like she needed that last note. She’s here for a reason. She wants to get better. She’s strong, and willful, and none of that has helped her so far.
But I can help her.
I know it.
I see what she needs and I’m gonna give it to her. And she’ll accept it because she’s practically my prisoner. She’ll accept it because she won’t be able to stop herself. And when the day comes when she does walk out of this house, healed, and focused, and put back together…
It will be because I didn’t follow directions.
Sleep comes easy when I get back to my room. I strip down to skin, get under the covers, and dream of all the ways I can help her.
All the things I can make her do.
All the holes I can fill inside her.