Here is the next portion, with more to follow as it comes to the hand. I do not know when these things occurred, but it seems apparent that at least some of them transpired some time ago. Still, I have hopes I can glean something from these writings, and I have hopes for this girl.
My mother lived about five hours away from me in one of the wealthy and newly trendy parts of Atlanta. In truth, she had two other houses in the U.S. and my grandmother had another four here and in other parts of the world, but she always came back to Georgia, being fond of referring to it as “home base”. So it wasn’t overly surprising that I got lucky (yes I know) and she answered her condo’s phone on the third ring. Like usual, the phone call began with an awkward exchange of pleasantries, but I pushed through it quickly and told her I wanted to come see her. The very next day. That I had some things I needed to ask her about.
I could hear the measured consideration in her silence, but when she spoke her voice was even. Of course I should come. But if I could try to get there by one for lunch, as she had dinner plans and still needed to make some arrangements for some function she was sponsoring the following week. I agreed I’d get there as soon as possible, and was going to launch into some kind of farewell, but I heard the line click as she hung up.
When I arrived that afternoon, I checked in with the front desk of the building and waited as they called up to verify that my mother was expecting company. Moments later, a large man in a blue blazer stepped out of a nearby elevator and approached me. He looked strange in the coat and dress pants he wore, his hard features and cold blue eyes framed by close cropped blond hair and an air of barely restrained violence. I looked at the breast of his blazer and saw his company’s logo stitched in small, inconspicuous lines of silver thread—Tattersall Security. He gave me a nod and perfunctory smile as he reached me, identifying himself as the head of my mother’s security detail. I thought about asking questions, but decided to save them for her instead.
He led me back to the elevator and we went up to the penthouse area, which was comprised of the top three floors of the building. A couple of other men that were clearly security stood near the entrance to the area, and as we went from room to room I saw another couple of members of household staff that I didn’t recognize. This also seemed a bit strange, as she had kept the same housekeeper and butler/valet since before I went to college. Then we were outside again on a large patio, my mother sitting at a table frowning over a laptop.
It had been awhile since I had seen my mother, and I again found myself amazed at how beautiful she was and how young she looked. At 58 she looked half her age, with rich, honey colored hair that tumbled down past her shoulders and cradled her perfect features—large gray eyes, an elegant nose perched above wide and curving lips that always seemed to be on the verge of laughing, which was odd, as I had rarely ever heard my mother actually laugh.
Still, she was a striking woman, and her effect on most men and some women was as clear and palpable as it was effortless. Yet despite that, I don’t know that she had ever dated or been with anyone since my father had died when I was 17. Whatever her flaws, I think she truly loved him, and I think losing him broke something in her. While we had not been the closest before that, it was after he died that I felt the wall between myself and my mother harden into something that was far denser and cold to the touch. That cold distance was never more obvious than when I was with her in person, feeling her gaze weighing me in those moments before she spoke.
“Good to see you, Eliza. Please come give me a hug.”
I did as I was bade and then sat down across from her. She went back to the laptop for a moment and then closed it with a snap. “So to what do I owe the visit? Not that I’m not glad to see you, but I have to admit it was unexpected.”
During the drive down I had debated how to broach this discussion, and ultimately I decided that direct was best. I knew that my mother knew what was going on, or at least knew a lot more than I did. There was no way she had lived with this for so long and not figured out at least some of it. So my plan was to launch into it with little preamble and keep at it until she gave in and told me what was going on. I was about to open my mouth when she spoke again.
“Wait, that’s a lie. And it’s unfair to you. I know why you’re here. You’ve got the luck now, don’t you?
Got the luck. The phrase was a succinct but apt description of the situation, and it struck me that it almost made it sound like “the luck” was a disease. Which maybe it is. All I said was, “Yeah. I do. What is it?”
She smiled, her bright winning smile that was compelling even knowing it was wholly disconnected from anything she was actually thinking or feeling, and reached forward to pat my hand. “Well, it’s just that, isn’t it? It’s luck. Our family, the women in our family, have always been lucky. Just like you used to say growing up.”
I pulled my hand back, frustration sharpening my tone. “It’s not just luck. Or at least not normal luck. I’m not stupid and you need to tell me what’s going on.”
She frowned at my tone and raised her hand. “I didn’t say it was normal luck. And you’re my daughter, obviously you’re not stupid. But it’s also not something you should worry about or that you can control. When women in our family get to a certain age, it just…kicks in. And yes, it takes getting used to. And you have to be careful to not be too…showy with it. But at the end of the day, it truly is a blessing.” She gestured around to all her wealthy surroundings, as if to say the proof was in the pudding.
“It hurts people. You know it does. It’s like us being more lucky makes other people around us less lucky. Don’t act like you don’t realize that.”
My mother’s eyes grew harder as she leaned towards me. “Grow up. Yes, I realize that. I also realize that the world is a hard fucking place and it doesn’t need me or my luck for bad things to happen to good people. And beyond all of that, what choice or say do I have in it? Are you wishing bad things on people? Are you getting people hurt or killed? No. You’re just living your life, and if something outside your control gives you someone else’s luck or however it actually works, because it may surprise you to know I don’t have all the answers, then what am I to do about it? Kill myself? Ruin my life because I don’t deserve to be happy? What exactly would you have me do?” Her voice had raised and cracked at the last, and we sat in silence for several seconds. This was more emotion than I had seen from her in years.
“I’m sorry. I am not accusing you of anything. I just…I’m scared. And I feel…something watching me all the time now. And I have this.” I lifted my pants leg to show the brand above my ankle. It had paled some, but it was still visible in the afternoon light. It reminded me of a yin-yang symbol that had been broken along its curving center and straightened out into a single serpentine line. I looked up to see my mother looking at my leg with an expression that was a mixture of distaste and fear.
“Yes, the marks. They will happen once a year, typically around the time of your birthday.” She was wearing shorts and lifted her legs up for me to see. I could only see the faintest ghosts of marks on her legs. They seemed to go side by side in rows to the extent they could be seen at all. “You can get them removed with a laser. When you were little I had to use makeup and stockings, but technology is a wonderful thing. I can give you a referral to a good surgeon that won’t ask questions.”
“But don’t you wonder what it is? What we’re a part of?”
She looked tired now, sitting back in her chair with a sigh. “Not really. I’ve lived with it for 28 years, taken the bad with the good, and any curiosity died out a long time ago.”
I was going to ask another question when something struck me.
“Is this what happened to Daddy?” I blurted out the question before I thought about how it sounded, and my mother looked like I had struck her in the face. Her eyes began welling up as she stood up from the table, fists and jaw clenched.
“Get out.”
Within seconds a slab of a bodyguard was at my elbow, gently but firmly guiding me back through the condo to the elevator. My own vision was watery and I rode back down in silence. In the weeks since I haven’t talked to my mother again, despite repeated attempts to apologize or explain myself.
But that wasn’t the worst of it. I went to the gym, and a guy lifting weights in the back started screaming when his feet slipped off the leg press machine and his knees were crushed by 500 lbs of metal. I started taking walks in a local park, which was nice and soothing. Until I realized that at least once a week I saw a dead bird or squirrel near my path.
The worst was the fire. I was walking to the bank around the corner from work when I heard a siren. Then two, then three. As I turned the corner, I saw smoke billowing out of a fourth floor window. Decades earlier it had been a large department store, but a few years back it was converted into expensive apartments. These apartments were now ablaze, and I could hear a woman shrieking from the top floor.
At first I couldn’t tell what she was saying, but then I made it out. “Save. Baby. Catch her.” By now I could see that she was burning. I could see as she tossed an infant out the window, a lash of flame reaching out, chasing the child, setting it alight. It didn’t cry, and I tell myself it was already dead from the smoke. But I think I saw it moving for a moment when it struck the concrete below. When I got back to work later that morning, I ran to the bathroom and vomited.
Usually very social, I found myself becoming more isolated, partially out of fear that the more someone was around me the more likely it was that they would get hurt. Externally my life continued humming along smoothly at every turn. Despite my self-exile, I found fast friends and helpful strangers at every turn. Despite my depression, I actually felt better physically. I swear, I think I started looking better too. And I would notice these good things, even appreciate them at times through my numbness, but it didn’t help me feel less alone.
Then my grandmother came to visit. She had just gotten back from her time in the U.K. and wanted to check in on her favorite granddaughter. Per our standard joke, I pointed out I was her only granddaughter, and she laughed and gave me a hug.
She fixed us a delicious dinner out of the motley groceries I had at the moment, and we ate slowly while we talked, with most of the conversation about her travels or my work. She was the opposite of my mother in so many ways, and I had always been close with her even though her constant movement meant I would sometimes go long periods without seeing her in person. I had debated whether to ask her about what was happening to us, not wanting to ruin the first fun I had had in months, but when I did she just smiled and nodded.
“I wondered when you’d ask me about it. Your mother told me you had spoken to her. She’s not thrilled with you at the moment, either, though that will pass in time. But I’m glad you asked me.”
I felt myself wince at the mention of my mother, but I forced myself to press ahead. “So can you tell me more than she did?”
The woman nodded, her normally bright and mischievous eyes growing more serious. “I can. Not necessarily because I know more, but your mother…she has trouble talking about it. I wonder if she doesn’t lie to herself about some parts of it.”
“What parts?”
She folded her hands with a sigh. “When I was young, younger than you, it came on me. It had been on my mother and her mother before that. Farther back than that I don’t know, and I don’t know how it started or where it comes from. But from my experience, what I’ve learned, and what I’ve observed with your mother and now you, this is how it works.”
“It comes on you some time between 15 and 30, or that seems to be the case. And once it starts, it lasts for thirty years. Not the luck part, once you get the luck its yours forever. But the rest, the feeling something with you, the marks, the people around you getting a raw deal, that just…stops. And honestly, the bad luck for others seems like its way worse for the first few months after it starts. It seems to, well, stabilize to some degree. I’m not going to say people don’t still get hurt more than normal, but its nothing like it must seem to you right now."
“Right now, it is heightened, and right now, you are also very sensitive about it, so you assume every slight misfortune is connected to you. I’m telling you it’s not. The world is a hard place and it doesn’t need you or your luck for bad things to happen to good people.”
I frowned at that. “That’s what Mama said.”
She smiled. “Well, she’s got some sense after all.” She paused and then shook her head. “I need to be honest and tell you the whole thing.”
I felt my stomach lurch. “What’s the whole thing?”
“Well, for one thing, I’m not an only child, at least not technically. Neither is your mother and neither are you. We were all twins. As far back as I could find, the women have always carried twins, but only one child ever survives childbirth. Always a girl, and always the only child the woman ever has. I don’t know why that is, just that it is.”
I felt like I was going to throw up. “So all those babies…”
“I know, honey. I know. Best not to dwell on it, as it can’t be helped. But some things can be. Let’s go on in the living room and I’ll tell you the rest of what I know.”
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Credits
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