Faithful Read Free Page A

“You’ve made my life miserable.”
    Mama looked up then, her own eyes red and full. “I’m so sorry.”
    “Really?” My voice caught. “Good! If you are, good!” I wanted her to hurt. “So do something. Make me believe you’re sorry. Act normal. Like everyone else. Be a mother.” Fury rose in me again, thinking of what I’d missed, what she’d missed. I lashed out, wanted to hurt her out of spite. “And you can start by getting rid of that.” I raised the dripping paintbrush that was still gripped tight in my fist and pointed it at the easel, at her current painting, at the drifting forms from the pits of hell.
    Mama looked from me to the paintbrush to the painting, horror dawning on her as her eyes moved. She stood and went to the painting, and when she turned to face me again, she was lost. Possessed. “Oh. But . . .”
    “Mama! Get rid of it!” My voice pitched to a shout as she stood frozen, staring at me. “You can’t, can you? That painting means more to you than I do. If you love me, really and truly, you’ll get rid of it. You’ll get rid of all of them, and never paint another.” I swept my hand, the brush splattering the room with slashing strokes. “But you don’t really love me, do you.” My tongue was a whip. “Fine.” I threw the paintbrush across the room, heard it clatter against the wall, turned my tear-blinded eyes away, and ran.
    I ran to my tower room and sobbed on my bed until my face was raw and swollen. I heard Mina, dear Mina, my nurse, come into the room. She touched my shoulder softly, tsk ing and muttering in German. On most days Mina was my comfort, my soft shoulder, but not that day. I pulled roughly into myself and spoke into my pillow. “Go away,” I muttered, and she did.
    I lay on my bed until the sun cast long red rays against the far wall and bathed my room in flaming streaks of dusky light. My door opened again. I thought it was Mina coming to ready my room for the evening. I clenched my pillow tighter to my body.
    But it was Mama. She sat next to me as I lay sprawled, the bed creaking softly. “Maggie? Maggie? It’s done. I did as you asked. I got rid of them. I threw them all away.”
    I turned and looked at her. She’d pinned up her hair, and was dressed in a simple white shirtwaist and blue serge skirt, her cameo fixed at her throat. She looked like Kitty’s mother, like so many mothers in Newport, like the mother I wished her to be.
    “I’m so sorry.” She stroked my hair, separating the strands with her fingers.
    I twisted away from her and spoke into the spread, my voice muffled. “I just want you to be normal. Please.” I shook, my stomach heaving with agony, and my heart welled with my selfish need for her.
    “All right.” Her voice trembled, but she said it.
    I lay still while she stroked my hair, her hand so soft it might have been a bird. I wanted everything to turn out right. I wanted to believe that my mama wouldn’t disappoint me again.
    I turned back to her. My eyes were swollen; tears still welled and slid down my cheeks and into my hair. I reached up to touch her cameo, as I had when I was little, running my fingers blindly over and over the carved face on its surface. My voice came out in a whisper. “Will you be here for me, Mama? Please, Mama?”
    She sat silent, looking at the great window of my tower room, looking at the red sunset, the purple and blood-threaded sky, her face in profile to me. “Yes.”
    “Promise?” I touched her fine, porcelain cheek.
    “Yes. I promise.” She bent down to hold me.
    I hugged her and didn’t looked at her face again. I was afraid of what I might see there.
    I should have looked.
    I rested my forehead against Ghost’s neck and forced myself not to think further into the past. I heard the mindless chatter of the stable hands, the clap-clop of hooves on brick, the soft, fluttered exhale of a passing horse. I pressed into Ghost, felt the cameo push against my throat. If I’d looked into