Veronica is dying. The soon-to-be dead girl lies pallid in her baby pink sheets, entombed in her girlhood crypt. The acrid smell of roses is a headache that makes her feel like her skull is being pulled open like a ripe tangerine. Elsie, the florist that she loves dearly, has brought a bouquet every day since she’s gotten sick. The flowers form a boundary around her bed. Some time ago, Aunt Margaret came into her room complaining that the house no longer had any vases before dropping the bouquet on the floor. Veronica told her she was sorry, but she didn’t think Aunt Margaret heard it, so she made a mental note to repeat it the next time she came back.
Sunlight filters through the pale curtains, and Veronica would like to ask Ronan, the cousin she loves dearly, to open them, but she doesn’t have the strength to call out for him. She rolls over to the end of the bed. Her body feels like it’s being dragged down by the weight of ten other ones. She peers over the edge. One of the bouquets has withered. The white flowers have turned brown, and they bow their heads in resignation. Petals litter the floor.
Her fingers curl weakly around her blanket, and she pulls it down just enough for her to disentangle herself from the sheets. She rotates her body so her feet dangle off the side. She slides until she touches the floor and almost knocks over a vase in the process. Her knees immediately buckle and hit the wood floor. The vases tremble.
On all fours, Veronica picks up the fallen petals. The floor is cold. One strap of her nightgown has fallen off of her shoulder. She keeps trying to push it back up, but it insists on mocking her. Slowly, but surely, she makes her way around the bed. She puts the petals back in the vases she thinks they belong to, trying to give back to the flowers all their lost parts.
A sharp pain pierces her chest. She starts to cough. Her body aches. It’s as if her body is trying to expel something from her but doesn’t know what it’s trying to get rid of. When her body finally realizes that its attempts are futile, she’s curled onto her side, with one hand clutched to her chest.
She’s pushing herself back to her knees when the door opens.
“Veronica!” Ronan is at her side in an instant. He wraps one of her arms around his shoulders and hauls her back to her feet. He gently sits her back down on the bed. Her head lolls forward before she grasps at the strength she has left to lift her head up to look at him. How could she not? He was as good as the sunlight. His eyes are wide — almost owlish — with worry. He inherited all of Uncle Xavier’s gentleness, both in the softness of his features and his disposition. Aunt Margaret was all sharp and severe lines. She looked the least like both Veronica and Ronan.
“Sorry,” Veronica whispers. “The flowers were making a mess.”
“You could’ve called me,” he protests. He pulls the blanket down and helps arrange her back inside of it. “You need to rest so you can recover.”
“I know.” Her gaze lands on the curtains again. It only takes a moment for him to catch on. He opens the curtains. When he moves away, a sparrow is sitting on the windowsill. It cocks her head at her. The birds have always known her. She nods privately to the sparrow, to tell it she’s doing fine, though it lingers there for a little longer before it believes her and flies away. “Thank you. When is the new moon?”
“Four days.” He leans over and picks up the bouquet Aunt Margaret dropped on the floor some time ago. Without water, the flowers have dried up. She feels an overwhelming sense of empathy towards them, these beautiful things that weren’t given a proper chance to live. He examines them with a strange look on his face. “It doesn’t matter. The seance has already been called off.”
“I’ll be recovered by then.” Veronica hasn’t missed a seance since she became medium. Her people needed her. She was their vessel for death, just like her mother was before her. Her mother was powerful, like Veronica, and like Veronica, her mother was more susceptible than most to human ailments. She once told Veronica that it was because their kind belonged more to the other side than to this one. Her mother was always dying and coming back to life.
Veronica was too.
“It’s supposed to be for Lottie.” This time, the ache in her chest is duller. Pains of the soul always hurt more nonetheless. Lottie was Mara’s mother. Mara always looked so sad around this time of year, at the end of winter, when everything except her mother came back to life. Veronica doesn’t say that part out loud. “The new moon is on Lottie’s birthday.”
“The commune agrees that it’s for the best.”
“Even Aunt Margaret?” At that, Ronan falls silent. “I understand her. I want nothing more than to do this for Mara.”
“You can’t be there for her, or for any of us, if you aren’t healthy. We need you to get better.”
“Of course I will.” She always did. Nothing galvanized her like love. If they needed her to be healthy, then she had no choice than to be healthy. It didn’t matter that this is the worst she’s ever felt. It didn’t matter that despite losing track of time long ago, she knew that this is the longest she’d ever been sick. She was their medium, and therefore, she was their miracle worker. She was born to bring what was dead back to beautiful life.
She holds her hand out to Ronan, who takes it and gives it a squeeze. He circles around to the side of the bed where her nightstand is, where there’s a glass of water and a bowl of steaming porridge crowding up against the rest of her trinkets. He must’ve come in with it, and she was too occupied by her own pain to notice his kindness.
He settles on the edge of the bed and feeds her. The porridge warms her insides and is a relief from the constant chill tormenting her. She runs her fingers over her arms, an attempt at soothing the gooseflesh there. Ronan tells her that Hanne is teaching them about the stars in class. Sometimes when stars die, they become black holes. No matter, not even light, can escape a black hole. She supposes that means the black hole cannot escape itself. She mourns a death like that, a death that is eternally nothing.
Even without closing her eyes, she can imagine their cozy little schoolroom so clearly, and everyone in their rightful places: Mara and Allan in the front two desks, and her in the row behind them, between Lain and Ronan. It wasn’t a still image, either. All of them existed perpetually in motion. Perpetually full of life. She sees Mara twirling her pencil between her fingers and Allan carving something she can’t see into the wood with a whittling knife. She sees Ronan frantically trying to write every word Hanne says and Lain’s much more relaxed notetaking pace.
She aches for all of them. Knowing that they were only a short walk away only made the feeling gnaw at her more ravenously. If she could bleed herself of her affliction to get back to them quicker, she would.
Veronica can only manage half the bowl before nausea devours her appetite. The worry on Ronan’s face is evident, and her reassuring smile is weak, but it’s enough to convince him to go. He takes the rotted bouquet with him.
She sleeps again. It’s a small blessing that the only time she ever sleeps well is when she’s ill. When she wakes up again, the sky is dark. No moonlight visits her tonight. It’s late, and still, she smells coffee. The room she’s spent her entire life in looks unfamiliar. All her furniture looks like a mere impression of itself.
A cold draft moves through the room, caressing her cheek and trailing down her neck. She burrows further under the covers. She can’t breathe, so she comes up for air. When she does, there’s a figure standing over her. The scent of coffee is stronger now. Someone else — Elsie, her mind supplies — liked it. Veronica didn’t. Even so, he doesn’t move. She shuts her eyes and opens them again, and he’s still there, an apathetic expression on his face.
He had the warmest smile, Elsie once told her. She doesn’t remember when exactly. It was a long time ago. The weather was milder and wetter and the dirt clung to her bare feet like a friend who didn’t want to let go of her.
Her heart thumps erratically in her chest. She loathes it. She shouldn’t be scared of this man. She knows him. She never met him while he was alive, but she knows him. Elsie has told her so much she has no choice except to know him. Yet the pit in her stomach tells she’s terribly afraid. No matter how many times she sees the spirits outside of the seance, she’s never gotten less afraid. When she channeled them, she ceded control of herself to them. During the seance, she never experienced them as separate from herself. When they visited her at other times, it made her feel strange, like a fragment of herself had left her and made her emptier.
“I’m sorry,” she croaks with her eyes closed. She can’t look at him. She can’t look at herself either. She’s ashamed. “I’m sorry, Robert.”
He leaves her be.
The sight of Lain at her door makes Veronica sit up so fast that the world momentarily blurs. Lain puts down the tin she’s holding on the nightstand and moves to help her, and Veronica raises a trembling hand to stop her. She leans back against the headboard. Even with a pillow between her and the wooden frame, it’s still uncomfortable. Nevertheless, it would have to suffice. She slept for most of the day, and the sky was already getting dark again. At least with the curtains open, she could watch the sky turn pink and yellow before losing its color.
Lain brings the desk chair beside the bed and sits down in it. The chair sits outside the border of roses. “How are you feeling?”
“Wonderful, now that you’re here,” Veronica answers earnestly. Lain laughs. Her laugh is a melodic trill, and whenever Veronica heard it, she always found herself searching for the source. Veronica herself has always been soft spoken. Even her loudest laughs often felt like a whimper. She’s perhaps spiritually incapable of causing a ruckus, which she was content with, because she was also easy to startle.
“Sickness hasn’t made you any less sweeter.” Lain smiles. Veronica wishes she could manage one back. Lain’s bright countenance is at odds with the moody shade of purple she’s wearing.
“I rarely see you dressed in dark colors,” Veronica comments. The smile on Lain’s face falters, and Veronica maneuvers to save it. “I’m just surprised. I would expect to see Mara in that.”
The mention of their dear friend is enough to illuminate Lain again. “You’re right. Maybe she’s been rubbing off on me lately. I can only pray it goes both ways.”
Veronica can only hope so too. Mara had been different when they were younger. She was much less icier. Over time she became quieter and suddenly, she was always elsewhere. Not physically; Mara never ventured outside of the commune. But she’d try to go as far as the boundaries of their territory would allow her. Even when she was among them, it was as if her soul went somewhere else. When and why it returned to her remained a mystery to Veronica. Perhaps Mara was dying a dozen little deaths just like her. It deeply troubled Veronica, but Mara was the one of the only people in the commune she felt like she didn’t know how to talk to. Not anymore, at least.
Veronica tries to swallow. Her throat is dry even though Ronan has kept her hydrated every day. Lain is still looking at her expectantly with her back as straight as a needle and her hands folded in her lap, waiting for Veronica to continue the conversation on her own terms. She would like to ask further about Mara. A prick of sadness in her chest makes her think better of it. She turns her attention to the tin. “You brought something for me.”
“My mother and I made your favorite.” Lemon raspberry cookies. Veronica’s own mother loved them too. Veronica liked to think she was like her mother in more ways than she’s currently aware of so far. Because her mother was medium and often unwell, the time they got to spend together before she passed away was scarce, though Veronica carried her mother’s mediumship lessons with her. Lain’s mother carried all the other memories of her. The two of them were incredibly close in life. When she gets well, she was going to ask Lain’s mother if she ever visited her mother the same way Lain was doing now.
It was incredibly generous of them to bake for her. What a pity that the thought of eating sweets was currently unappealing. “Thank you. I’ll eat them later.” She thinks about the rest of her family. Aunt Margaret has never had much of a sweet tooth, but Ronan and Uncle Xavier would enjoy the cookies.
“Are you sure?” She drags out the sure. There’s a playfulness to it, as if they were children again, and Lain was tempting her to sneak out of sight of the adults. “Ronan told me that you haven’t been eating much.”
“It’s not on purpose—” A particularly violent cough wracks her body. She wilts forward. Her back aches. As she straightens, she wants to say that if she could help it, she wouldn’t worry any of them like this. “I’m sorry you have to see me like this.”
“I wanted to see you,” Lain insists. “It’s not as if I’ve never seen you sick before.”
“But this is…” This time, it’s only Veronica’s own inability to express what’s in her heart that cuts her off. This is worse. She’s been left alone for long enough to know that much, and yet, she couldn’t really be sure of her own judgment. Every time someone came into her room, it was to reassure that she would overcome this. She was instantly saner whenever another person was at her side, so how could she not trust Lain’s easy faith in her? Still, there’s a voice inside of her that doubts it. The guilt drowns it out. “Lain, I…”
Lain nods to her. Go on, it tells Veronica. Silence breathes between them. Lain has always let it. Veronica uses it to study her face. Even in this weather, Lain still had color in her cheeks. There’s still clarity in her blue eyes, so unlike the lake outside, which always freezes over and becomes opaque, its depths rendered inaccessible. Maybe that’s why Veronica fishes the doubt out of her head and politely sets it in front of her. “I don’t know if I’m going to be okay.”
It’s Veronica’s turn to let Lain go quiet. Every moment she remains quiet, however, is another moment that Veronica has to listen to her body instead. She can feel the way it’s at war with itself, and being medium has always been like this, but now it felt like both sides were growing more desperate to cease the fighting. There would be a victor soon, one way or another. She’s tired. She can’t quite recall when she began being tired.
She spares a glance down at her chewed up fingernails. Her hands are trembling. She grabs her right hand with her left to stop it. Lain hasn’t noticed.
“Veronica.” Lain tilts her head and sighs. She’s always said her name so enthusiastically, and now, she sounded disappointed. Veronica suddenly feels self-conscious under her considering gaze. “You’re medium. There is nothing you can’t do.”
You’re wrong. The words barely have time to form in her behind before she’s stamping them down. She doesn’t want to fight with her friend, not when she was finally right in front of her. Veronica regrets bringing it up at all. Why dwell on a possibility that hasn’t yet come to pass? It didn’t help either of them.
“You’re going to get better and stronger. You have all of us to take care of you.” Lain points to the floor, at her ever-growing rose garden. Some time between last night and right now, as she teetered between sleep and waking, she was vaguely aware of Ronan bringing in a fresh bouquet and refilling the rest of the vases with water. “Elsie’s always believed a dose of springtime is good for your health. And I believe. Don’t you?”
“Yes.” Never mind the pain pinching the bridge of her nose and squeezing her temples. It would be worse if it were earlier in the day, when it was brighter and the light could overwhelm her. She couldn’t resist appreciating Elsie’s overflowing generosity, no matter the weariness taking root of her bones as a result of the roses’ constant presence. “I suppose my illness has made me a little loopy.”
She thinks of Robert’s form towering over her. How inhuman he looked. They always looked like that. It made her wonder if perhaps she had been dreaming. If so, she couldn’t fathom her own brain rendering the dead with such a coldness. She’s never told anyone about the ghosts. She doesn’t even know if they visited her mother too.
Lain’s face is kind and open, and yet Veronica cannot bring herself to tell her, too afraid of how it would be received, and if it would shatter that peace Lain always seemed to carry with her like an essential accessory. “That’s why you have to rest, dearest Veronica.”
Lain reaches for the tin and opens it. “Do you mind if I take one?”
“No, of course not, go ahead. You made them.”
The cookies are shaped like flowers, with bright red jam acting as the center. Lain happily eats one. Some of the jam gets onto her fingers and she licks it off. She makes a satisfied hum around her fingers. Veronica can only assume the cookies are tantalizingly good. Lain confirms this for her. “I know you said you’re not hungry, but you have to have one. For me. Pretty please?”
“Okay.” Veronica concedes easily. One cookie couldn’t hurt her. Lain holds the tin out to her, and Veronica’s hand curls around one. She ignores the pain that flares up in her joints. She bites into it, making sure to get some of the jam as well. It’s sweet and tart and on any other day she would’ve adored it. Today, though, there’s a pang in her jaw. Her mouth fills with saliva as it tries to override the overwhelming taste. The roses continue to permeate her very being. She thinks about what Aunt Margaret said, that sometimes too much of a good thing is as dangerous of an excess as too much of a bad thing.
Lain is watching her with such anticipation that she fights her way through finishing the cookie with smaller bites. Veronica smiles. “It’s good.”
The other girl looks euphoric. The revulsion she felt moments earlier was now so distant it might as well have never happened at all.
Later, after Lain has left, Veronica vomits up raspberry gore and shortbread.
The sky is a rousing shade of blue when Allan visits her. He stands at the threshold outside of her door, hesitant, his posture drooping and his hands hidden in the pockets of his dark navy letterman jacket. It belonged to his father at seventeen, the same age that both Allan and Veronica are now, but Allan still struggles to fill it. Veronica does too, yet it never bothered her the way it bothered him. The few times he let her wear it, it only felt like she was being smothered by a warmth and comfort much bigger than herself.
“Come in.” So he does. She pats the space on the bed next to her. He crinkles his nose at the roses before settling on the bed. His feet are still on the ground, so has to twist his body to face her more.
It’s a relief to have him so close to her again. The last time they had seen each other, they had fought. He left her shivering by the lake. The memory makes her heart twist, like someone is trying to wring all the blood out of it. Winter had never been so cold. Remembering it makes her tremble, and she can hear the wind howling again, its raucous grief. The words that they said to each other back then didn’t matter anymore to her though, now that he was here again. He came back for her.
Veronica tips forward until her forehead kisses his back. She doesn’t have the strength to properly embrace him, so this is enough. It has to be. He smells like the pine trees they’ve spent their entire lives around. The scent of the roses has no intention of leaving, but if she focuses enough on him, she’s convinced the headache will subside.
“I missed you,” she murmurs. He doesn’t respond. “How are you doing?”
“Fine.” He leans forward and leaves Veronica untouched. He has his elbows on his knees with his hands dangling in the space between them. “This weather drives me crazy. Everyone’s acting dead.”
“They’re not, though.” Veronica drags herself to the side of the bed, so she can sit next to him. She can manage on her own for a pitiful amount of time before she has to lean on his shoulder. Her arm is pressed against his. Even with the long sleeves of this nightgown and his jacket in the way, she can still feel his heat. Now they’re more properly fastened to each other. “And spring’s almost here. Your father will be his usual charming self again.”
Allan doesn’t mention his father by name. He doesn’t have to. It always came back to him. His father, whose voice could fill even the biggest of rooms, is the only family he has left. His mother climbed into another man’s car five years ago in the dead of night and never looked back. No one tried to understand why she did it. She was gone and that was it. Yet Veronica couldn’t help her curiosity, not when Allan used to talk about how much love there was between them. She has to believe him. There’s no way his father would have undergone such a drastic change after she left them otherwise.
When he starts to run his fingers through her hair, she sighs into the familiar sensation. Her hair reaches her waist and hasn’t been shorter than that since she stumbled upon a picture of a princess in a storybook on Aunt Margaret’s shelf years ago. It was nestled between thick books with cracked spines and summaries that made her little head spin. Allan has always been partial to the look. He used to get her attention by giving her locks a tug. Time has made him less rowdy and more capable of the consideration he shows her now.
“After it gets warmer outside, and I get better—” The latter statement rolls off her tongue much easier than its opposite. “—we’ll be able to spend more time in the sun with everyone, and it’ll melt the last remnants of their winter lethargy right off.”
“Everyone,” he repeats. There’s no bite in it, just a hint of exhaustion.
“You know what I meant.” Veronica’s duty had to come before all else. Her relationship with Allan could never be exposed. They had gotten skilled at stealing moments alone together, and a small part of her didn’t think it was enough. The bigger and more mature part knew that it had to be. Allan understood yet struggled to accept it. It seemed that the Allan who knew the rules of the commune and the Allan who loved her were often in contention. She knew it was wrong that she liked the secrecy of it all. She was irredeemably greedy for wanting something to keep for herself.
“I do.” She doesn’t have time to be relieved that he so readily agrees before he continues. “It’s just that spending time together will be impossible with those two lurking around every corner.”
“Mara and Lain are your friends too.” It startles her to see him talk about them in this manner. There weren’t many kids their age born and raised in the commune. Of the others, Ronan was often with Uncle Xavier, and Cecily was brought in late. For as long as Veronica can remember, it’s been her, Mara, Lain, and Allan. Her childhood was full of happiness because of all of them, in spite of the growing pains that came with adjusting to mediumship. She was often bedridden or even unconscious for days after her first few seances, and even after awakening, it would take until the next one for her to feel anchored in herself. Mara, Lain, and Allan were some of the only real things she could root her life in at that time.
“Lain’s a vulture.” Allan scoffs. Veronica might have refuted that statement, if she could only understand its implications. All she knew is that it unsettled her. “And Mara’s just mean.”
Veronica can’t argue with that either. She’d never say it out loud. She wouldn’t even explicitly agree with it. “She wasn’t always like that.”
“Yes, she was.” Allan’s confidence gives her pause. She pulls away from him. He starts to pick at the frayed threads at the ends of his jacket sleeves. He can’t let his hands stay idle for long. His eye catches the conch shell, a gift from Mara, on her nightstand. She doesn’t miss the way his jaw clenches.
“You’re also being—” Mean. The word sticks to her mouth. She wants to wash it out. All she can do is replace it with something nicer, in hopes it will overpower the taste. “You just don’t understand.”
“First they’re my friends, and now I don’t understand them?” His voice is so level she must be imagining the venom in it. After all, her own senses haven’t been the most trustworthy lately.
“I’m not doing this with you.” She ignores the way her head feels heavy now that she has to support her own weight. “I love them too much to listen to you talk about them that way.”
“I know.” Allan shakes his head. “That’s why you decided to stay here, after all.”
Him dredging up their last fight hurts more than anything her own body could do to her. “That doesn’t mean you matter less to me.”
Her relationships with Mara and Lain would always be different. They had all been girls together. Allan couldn’t fill that space in her heart, the way that Mara and Lain couldn’t fill the space she had for him too.
“You chose to stay.” When he says it, he looks like his father, the way that his words demand the attention of every living creature around them. She reaches for him then thinks better of it. “Lower your voice, please.”
“Why?” In spite of the question, he speaks quieter, this time. “Are you afraid that they’ll hear? That they’ll find out you wanted to—”
“Stop.” There’s no force behind the word. All she can hope is that he listens to her anyways, and he does. “Leaving was a silly dream. It would’ve never worked. I did what was right for the both of us.”
She thinks of Gail and spending afternoons at the library in town during her monthly excursions with Allan. She and Gail would sit close together at a table, their knees knocking together as Gail told her in a hushed voice about all the places she’s been before. Veronica liked her tales about the ocean the most. It struck both fear and curiosity within her. It’s because of Gail, this ill-advised friendship with an outsider, that she had begun to think of a life beyond what was supposed to be her life. Even worse, she brought Allan into it too.
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes,” she agrees. “But I know life here. And everyone I want is here.”
“You chose them.”
“I chose all of you.” She needs him to understand, to know her. She looks in his face for any sign of empathy and only finds him stony-faced. He’s so far away, even though he was close enough to touch. He reminds her of Mara and her cloudy eyes. She wonders when the two of them became like this and why she hadn’t noticed. If she had been more observant, more caring, she could have prevented it. “I only want everyone to be happy. If leaving would truly make you happy, then…”
“Would you forgive me if I did?” His hands stop fidgeting. He is still. Time has stopped, and he’s waiting for her to answer, to put the universe back in motion.
Yes, she would say, if she could tell him anything except for the truth. She blurts out, “Never.”
Even the thought of it makes her feel so unlike herself. She could crack open, and out of the crevice would climb out another version of herself, its face disfigured by rage, forever ugly. She tried so hard to never be angry or ungrateful. She had no reason for any of those unruly emotions. But no one could make her angry like he could. Sometimes it was as maddening as the ghosts.
He nods. It feels like a storm breaking. “Good.”
Allan opens his arms to her. She crashes into him. He takes the force of her beautifully. His arms wrap around her. She knows they are unrelenting. Her eyes flutter close. She feels the feather light touch of lips against her forehead. She is less afraid of herself than she was before. She hears him make a comment about how cold she is, and she can’t feel it anymore. All she can feel is his body heat, his proof of being alive.
When no moonlight comes knocking at Veronica’s window, she knows it’s the night of the new moon. In the darkness she feels less than herself, more shadow and void than a girl. She should be with everyone else, in the community hall, enclosed by ruddy wood walls and a circle of candles. This seance would’ve used black ones that smelled like dark chocolate, Lottie’s favorite. By this time, she would’ve already become Lottie. In actuality, she is still Veronica, and Veronica is weak.
Perhaps she would be stronger if she could keep any food down, but her body has become less and less agreeable as time has passed. Though Ronan doesn’t say so whenever he comes to bring her meals, Veronica knows Aunt Margaret must be tearing the kitchen apart trying to find something that her stomach wouldn’t immediately reject. She hasn’t seen her aunt or uncle for what feels like a long time. Ronan might’ve told her how they’re doing, as he still talks to her as he feeds her; it’s just that his voice sounds so far away that it’s hard for her to grasp any of it.
The smell of roses is distant too — Ronan might’ve taken the dead ones away and thrown them outside so they could decay at home.
There’s a knocking sound from somewhere around her. It’s so soft that it must be coming from inside her anyways. Then it comes again, no sharper.
“Come in.” She can’t tell if she’s said it out loud or not. It’s only when the door opens that she can believe it’s the former. “Allan?”
The figure steps out of the darkness’ maw, and it’s Mara. She’s dressed in all black. The shadows cut her face into sharp shapes. Her arms are crossed. Her fingers dig indents into her own arms. “Not Allan.”
She doesn’t move any further into the room.
“Mara,” Veronica says. The shape of the other girl’s name is concrete. She is aware of the way her mouth creates it. “It’s good to see you.”
“Lain and Allan told me I should come.” Mara stumbles over the words despite the simplicity of the statement. Perhaps she wants to say more. She’s incomprehensible without any light. Veronica wants her to come closer and knows she can’t ask that. Allan’s cruel words about Mara are stuck in her like a blade. Neither of them speak. Neither of them move. Veronica would if she could.
“Happy birthday to Lottie,” Veronica manages. Even in her sorry state, she can’t lose her grip on this. “I’m so—”
“Don’t.” Mara sighs. She shuffles. She might turn to go. It would be so easy. She ultimately decides to stay. “I don’t need that from you today.”
“You’re upset.” At this, Mara scoffs. Veronica knows better than to take her dismissal seriously. Mara’s always been good at keeping a straight face. It’s the rest of her body that betrays her. Her sadness and anger always manifested in restlessness. If Veronica was healthy, Mara would be speaking to her mother right now. Mara’s feelings were a sensible reaction.
“I’m not upset about the seance.” Mara turns her head to the side, towards the conch shell. The shadows on her face slide and shift. It seems unnatural. “I didn’t really want… Any of it, in the first place.”
What is it you want from me, then? The question is the clearest thought she’s had all day, yet she cannot bring herself to ask it. It would be futile to ask her, and even crueler to push her, on a day like this. The nights when Mara would sleep over and offer her heart up to Veronica freely until the sun rose were from another life. Back then, they were both small enough to fit the both of them in Veronica’s bed.
“I don’t know why I’m here.” It’s such an honest admission that perhaps she hadn’t meant to say it out loud. Veronica knows not what to do with it. She can’t help Mara figure it out. “When you’re sick. Really sick.”
“I’m—” She lifts a hand to clutch at her chest as a cough overtakes her. There’s a sharp stabbing pain in the center of the chest. She grasps uselessly at a wound that doesn’t exist. “I’ll be alright.”
“Will you?” Mara’s insistence on disagreeing with those around her could often be endearing. Right now, however, it frustrated Veronica that she refused to concede on this front. Mara couldn’t believe in Veronica right now, and that meant she couldn’t believe any of them. Veronica doesn’t know how to help her. Mean, echoes in her head. No, she decides. Just stubborn.
“Yes.” This was simply the way of the seasons, and thus the way of nature itself. That’s how her mother once explained it to her. Everyone went through winters. Veronica, due to her spiritual inclinations, was just prone to particularly harsh ones. This would pass. It had to. Even if Mara didn’t need her help, others in the commune did. She wasn’t one to break her promises. “Thank you for your concern.”
That’s what this skepticism had to be. Mara wasn’t as open as Allan or Lain, but she had her ways of showing care. Even if she doesn’t acknowledge Veronica’s gratitude. “I should get going.”
“So soon?” Veronica tries to turn her body to the side, but it’s so heavy, as if someone cut her open, stuffed her with rocks, and stitched her back together.
“Lain and Allan told me I should come, so I came,” she repeats. Veronica feels as if she’s heard it a million times. “I did what I came here to do, so…” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “The roses are giving me a headache.”
“They’re gifts.”
“I get that, but—” Mara takes a deep breath. Veronica isn’t sure whether her eyes are open or closed when she says, “I should get going.”
She already said that before. The repetition should’ve anchored these statements more firmly in Veronica’s mind. Instead, they only made her wonder if the world beyond her door even existed anymore. Perhaps this Mara was a figment of her imagination, and Veronica’s ailing mind could only give her a limited amount of dialogue. Was this Mara — the Mara that was upset and doubtful and could never stand too close to her — how Veronica saw her? She hears Allan’s voice in her mind too. Perhaps he had tainted the image of her.
After all, Veronica had found herself wishing Mara would visit her, if only to see if she would. Here Mara was, her fulfilled dream, and yet Veronica couldn’t trust it. So Veronica doesn’t tell her to stay. Mara lingers for a moment longer, as if she wants Veronica to tell her to stay (is that Mara too?). Then she simply nods to Veronica and sinks back into the shadows. The door shuts without a sound. She doesn’t hear footsteps.
Veronica anticipates the springtime. Her heart runs out of patience before it comes.