different now. I feel strangely light in a lovely way, but also empty. Too empty, perhaps. I touch my cheeks. They are dry of tears. Before I changed, myskin was not this smooth, this poreless—white china. Sometimes it broke out in small red spots. My eyes were not this dry. But luckily we are in Paris. The city glitters around me like a huge jewelry box, like a thousand candlelit perfume bottles on black velvet, and I pretend the shine is due to the reflection of my imaginary tears.
“Yes,” I say. “I am all right, William, although I hardly know the meaning of the words.” All right for whom? For what?
A few days later, we receive a telegram.
I stare at the paper in my hand.
Regret to inform you. Stop. Carl and Christine Elizabeth Emerson. Stop. Death in automobile crash. Stop. Return at once. Stop. Condolences. Stop.
Stop stop stop.
I look at William. He is watching me closely. The paper in my hands does not tremble.
“We will go immediately,” he says.
When William and I return home for the funeral, I wear a black veil over my face, not to hide the tears but to hide the fact that there are none.
I think of how, before Charles died, my father would let me come up the tower to watch the stars. He told me all the names of the planets and constellations.
He said, “The ancient gods haven’t left us. They are just waiting up there, waiting to return when they are most needed.”
“Will I ever see them return?” I asked when I was six. “I want to meet Venus!”
“No, Charlotte. I believe it will be many lifetimes from now, when our planet is in great danger. In our lifetime the planet will still be safe.”
He had no idea that his only daughter might live to see the planet in such danger, in such need of divine intervention from Mars and Venus, Jupiter and Neptune.
My mother dressed me up as Venus once. She mademe a wreath of purple Jacob’s ladder and mountain laurel. She sewed me a robe of purple velvet. Charles was young enough then to let her dress him up as Mars, in a toga and laurel wreath. He liked the cutout bow and arrow our mother made him. She played her harp, and I danced, and Charles ran through the house sounding his war cries.
I think about the fact that I left her when she could hardly rise from her bed, hardly feed herself, so that I could go to Europe and become a monster.
There is only one consolation. I am a little relieved, standing in the cemetery in my veil in the rain, that my mother and father did not have to live to experience the loss of both their children. Although I am here in body, I realize that the Charlotte they birthed and raised and loved is gone. A pretty monster—who would have frightened her parents because she never aged past seventeen, a creature who has no tears for them, for anyone—stands in her place.
Manbattan, 1925
After my parents’ funeral, William takes me to New York City. I am wearing the latest fashions from Paris—a Chanel cardigan that William bought for me, Chanel No. 5 perfume to cover up my uncanny scentlessness. We stay at the Plaza Hotel, a building designed after a huge French chateau, with a statue of Pomona, Roman goddess of the orchards, in the fountain. Our suite is decorated in white and gold. The bathroom floor is inlaid with mosaic tile. Baccarat crystal chandeliers light the lobby. We dine at the Palm Court on damask-covered chairs, under a stained-glass ceiling, at white linen and crystal covered tables.
Sometimes I sit at a table with a candle burning before me and try to write the way I did before William came. I want Charles to come back to me through the words, but he never does. It is as if my ability to create has been spirited away with this new life. I go to my room and look at myself in the gold-framed mirror. The flawlessness and perfect pallor of my skin still fascinates me. I still check my undergarments for blood every few weeks, but I have ceased to bleed. The implications of this have not fully dawned
“Yes,” I say. “I am all right, William, although I hardly know the meaning of the words.” All right for whom? For what?
A few days later, we receive a telegram.
I stare at the paper in my hand.
Regret to inform you. Stop. Carl and Christine Elizabeth Emerson. Stop. Death in automobile crash. Stop. Return at once. Stop. Condolences. Stop.
Stop stop stop.
I look at William. He is watching me closely. The paper in my hands does not tremble.
“We will go immediately,” he says.
When William and I return home for the funeral, I wear a black veil over my face, not to hide the tears but to hide the fact that there are none.
I think of how, before Charles died, my father would let me come up the tower to watch the stars. He told me all the names of the planets and constellations.
He said, “The ancient gods haven’t left us. They are just waiting up there, waiting to return when they are most needed.”
“Will I ever see them return?” I asked when I was six. “I want to meet Venus!”
“No, Charlotte. I believe it will be many lifetimes from now, when our planet is in great danger. In our lifetime the planet will still be safe.”
He had no idea that his only daughter might live to see the planet in such danger, in such need of divine intervention from Mars and Venus, Jupiter and Neptune.
My mother dressed me up as Venus once. She mademe a wreath of purple Jacob’s ladder and mountain laurel. She sewed me a robe of purple velvet. Charles was young enough then to let her dress him up as Mars, in a toga and laurel wreath. He liked the cutout bow and arrow our mother made him. She played her harp, and I danced, and Charles ran through the house sounding his war cries.
I think about the fact that I left her when she could hardly rise from her bed, hardly feed herself, so that I could go to Europe and become a monster.
There is only one consolation. I am a little relieved, standing in the cemetery in my veil in the rain, that my mother and father did not have to live to experience the loss of both their children. Although I am here in body, I realize that the Charlotte they birthed and raised and loved is gone. A pretty monster—who would have frightened her parents because she never aged past seventeen, a creature who has no tears for them, for anyone—stands in her place.
Manbattan, 1925
After my parents’ funeral, William takes me to New York City. I am wearing the latest fashions from Paris—a Chanel cardigan that William bought for me, Chanel No. 5 perfume to cover up my uncanny scentlessness. We stay at the Plaza Hotel, a building designed after a huge French chateau, with a statue of Pomona, Roman goddess of the orchards, in the fountain. Our suite is decorated in white and gold. The bathroom floor is inlaid with mosaic tile. Baccarat crystal chandeliers light the lobby. We dine at the Palm Court on damask-covered chairs, under a stained-glass ceiling, at white linen and crystal covered tables.
Sometimes I sit at a table with a candle burning before me and try to write the way I did before William came. I want Charles to come back to me through the words, but he never does. It is as if my ability to create has been spirited away with this new life. I go to my room and look at myself in the gold-framed mirror. The flawlessness and perfect pallor of my skin still fascinates me. I still check my undergarments for blood every few weeks, but I have ceased to bleed. The implications of this have not fully dawned
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