Page 48 of An Immaculate Deception

It’s a dungeon. You’re keeping your mother in a dungeon. There are still torture devices lurking in the corners. How could you do such a thing?

I glance over my shoulder at the iron shackles and chains in the corners. The instruments lie in the edges of my vision, and though I have been ignoring them, I’m always aware that they’re there. They have a gravity to them, a dark aura, like a demon hovering in the corner, watching me. I shudder at the horrific cruelty of slavery that so recently touched this land.

“It’s only temporary,” I repeat as I turn up the dial on the lamp, and the flame grows.

You’re not sorry. You like it here.

I am silent. Because she’s right. I do. I can speak without risk of being overheard. I like the isolation. I can even spill the water without worrying about making a mess.

And what if I wake up in this dungeon? I shall be terrified.

“The door is not locked. There is no need to lock this door since no one ever comes in here. You could simply walk out.”

You should have told that chambermaid about me. You keep me hidden from everyone, as though to erase me from the world. Are you ashamed of your mother? Will you be glad when I die?

Sometimes—and guilt overcomes me at the confession—I want to shut off her voice, but I can’t.

“It is only that the servants can be such little spies,” I say. “The thought of telling them about your condition makes it so permanent. And why should I? It’s none of their business.”

I remember the exact moment when the chambermaid saw us. I was speaking with Mother while giving her a sponge bath. The door was only slightly ajar. I thought the maid was gone for the day. I saw, out of the corner of my eye, movement from the dim corridor. When I looked up, I saw a figure staring. Eyes blazing gold, shoulders raised to her ears, mouth agape, and a feline posture. She was so still, she looked like a painting on the wall. A vicious creature. I almost dropped the rag. I didn’t say anything, and a moment later she vanished.

That was it. When she did not show up to work the next day, I had a feeling that she had misconstrued what she saw, but I did not imagine the degree of her error. Nor that she would go to the police about it.

That chambermaid is going to tell everyone that you kidnapped a woman and are keeping her a prisoner in the house. And that at night you strip her naked and do unspeakable things to her.

“But that’s not true. It’s not true!”

For a moment I can only hear my own shaky, unsteady breathing and the faint crackling of the flames. Then Mother’s voice comes again, low as a whisper: But it’s not so far off from the truth, is it?

I clamp my hands over my ears, shake my head.

Because deep down you want to do terrible things. You heart is darkened by sinful cravings. You’ve even imagined yourself carrying out heinous acts. You think that God doesn’t know or doesn’t see it, but He does. Sinful thought always turns into sinful action. You nurse these thoughts before bed and upon waking. And one of these days, you’re going to do it.

“No.” I shake my head. “No, no…”

One of these days…

One of these days…

That night, lying in bed, I think of the terrible things. It is the only way I can sleep these days, by imagining myself doing terrible things and how good it would feel. I am not the one thinking the thought; rather the thought is thinking me, seizing me until it wears itself out. At times I am shocked at myself and how I could entertain such wickedness—other people do not, I am sure—but I would never act on it.

29

A week later, I’d been out running errands in town and arrived home just past dusk. As the servants leave at sundown, I expected the house to be empty. Yet as I reach the second-floor landing, I hear a woman’s humming.

I freeze. I listen. Could it be my imagination? Then I hear it again. I follow the sound, and it leads me to Mother’s room.

I can hardly believe it. She must have awakened in the senzala, then made her way into the house and up the stairs to her room. And now she’s in there, humming. I am beside myself with joy; Mother is back.

I hesitate just outside her door, which is slightly ajar. The humming is eerily upbeat. I’ve never heard Mother hum before. Could she be sleepwalking? I have never known her to sleepwalk, either. There is a levity to the tune that seems unlike her. I recall something else Doctor Amado said by way of warning: Even if she does wake up, she may not be the same.

I gently nudge the door open and step forward.

She sits at the vanity facing the mirror, with her back to me. She is powdering her face, unaware of my presence. Her hair is pinned up so that the back of her neck is exposed. Small ornate hair clips I have never seen before are tucked into her hair. Her things are spread out on the walnut vanity: pearl earrings, sparkling bracelets, ruby necklaces, and powders I could not name. Her arms, knuckles, and earlobes are adorned in gleaming pearls and bright gemstones. Even more disorienting than that is the lavish dress she has on. Not any of her normal gray dresses, but an extravagant golden-red evening gown with details of lace. Red high heels. Golden rings and bracelets. As if she’s going to a ball.

I freeze with dread. Mother has woken up mad as a hatter. Or perhaps it is her ghost I am looking at; she’s died and now her spirit is humming and putting on jewels. If I were to go to the senzala now, would I find her corpse lying on that chaise longue?

She picks up a rouge. I step forward and my heart stops in anticipation of seeing her reflected in the mirror. It is then that I see her face.