The Cult of Rohesia: Emilie (1/3)

“There has to be something we can do.”

Nicolas is dead. We—Dora—deviated from the dinner ritual. I don't think he's coming back.

I don't dare check the state of his corpse. What if it's already decomposing? What if it stinks up the couch and we have to throw it away? How do you even throw a couch away? It wouldn't fit in my mom's car. Or Mark's. I think Thomas had a pickup truck. Nicolas must still have it, somewhere.

The couch isn't the problem. It's Nicolas. Or rather, not-Nicolas. It's his absence. I don't mean the lack of his presence. It's fine if he's unavailable for a few days. Or a week. It's fine if he's been unavailable for a week and now it's Sunday and I have to go to his house and drag him out of bed and nag him into making himself presentable and going to church with me, because appearances must be kept. It's fine if he's a crying ugly mess who's nothing like the auntie/uncle I grew up with.

Because he still was. And he was alive. But now he's not. And what if he never comes back?

“Emilie, there isn't. I know how you feel, but we have to wait until Sunday,” Mark tells me.

“You don't! You don't know how I feel! You still have your grandparents!”

This discussion is becoming unproductive. No, worse. I don't think any of us has anything to say that should be said right now. I should go outside. Mark tells Michael not to follow me. He doesn't.

I know I'm not being fair to Mark. He's right. But I can't stand to do nothing. That's why I'm going to the family graveyard. Maybe they'll have some advice. And if they don't, at least I won't be able to say anything I'll regret to Mark or Michael.

It's a beautiful Saturday evening. July. We had a late dinner, but it's still bright and warm out.

“Nicolas? Are you out here?”

I know he isn't. It usually takes people a few months after they die to start turning up here. Or at least, to start talking back. Then again, Thomas is here, so maybe Nicolas is, too. If only temporarily.

Oh, no, what happens if he sees Thomas but then comes back to life?

He hasn't ended himself yet, but he's mentioned it a few times. I hope he only says things like that to me so I can tell him not to. I hope it helps. But I wonder if maybe it's only because he's losing his self-control.

“Thomas, what do I do?”

He's not answering. Is it because he's busy? Or because there's nothing to say?

Or maybe it's because my mind is busy. I lay in the grass and close my eyes and try to fall asleep. When I open them again, it's because I'm cold. It's dark, too. I guess I succeeded.

What was I thinking before I woke up? I know I thought it was still light. I was playing with some other kids. I was a kid, too. The others were my siblings who died before I was born. They didn't die young, but that's how they usually look to me.

And then Maman called us inside. And she said something to me.

“Are you going to invite your friend Dora over?” she asked.

So that's what we have to do. We have to find a way to get Dora to come here. I guess I could have thought of that on my own.

It seems impossible, though. She wouldn't respond to anything Michelle said, yesterday. Wouldn't even answer her phone. And she despises the rest of us. Maybe Michael will have an idea.

I find both of them still at the dining room table. Drinking lemonade. On their phones. Not really saying much, or at least nothing I overhear in the minute it takes me to get from the stairwell to the dining room. They're sitting across the table from each other and it's making them look like mirror images.

“We're going to need to get Dora to come here,” I tell them. “Tomorrow morning.”

Mark nods. “Michelle, too, right?”

I nod back. It makes sense. “Any ideas how?”

“Maybe Michelle knows enough to work out where she lives?”

“I bet we'll be able to figure out something that doesn't involve kidnapping,” Michael says. “But not tonight.”

Mark scowls. “I never said we were going to kidnap her.”

Michael looks at me and shrugs. We all know that's probably what we'd have to do if Dora was being resistant enough that we'd have to physically track her down.

<<>>

“Don't say that,” I tell Nicolas. He's awake, but not in a good mood. He just told Dora she shouldn't have come, after all the trouble it took to get her here.

Actually, that turned out to be easy enough. Michael simply told her Michelle was dead, and she came running. The trouble started when she got here and realized he'd lied. I don't know whether it was smart or stupid to pick a fight with Michelle instead of him. Smart because she won't be able to get under Michael's skin. Stupid because arguing with Michelle solves nothing, and once she gets started, she isn't one to let someone else have the last word.

"Jeanne and Thomas aren't here to care,” Nicolas tells me, like a four-year-old whose parents are somewhere else. “I'll say it all I like.”

He goes back to Dora, who's switched to taking out her anger on him since Michelle left. I suppose if that's all she's looking for, it was indeed smart to pick a fight with Michelle. And from the looks of it, maybe Nicolas needed an outlet, too. He's laughing and being sarcastic.

It's all very irritating to listen to. I lean against Michael and squeeze my eyes shut, like I could close out the sound along with my vision. Are they always going to be like this? It's like Nicolas and Michelle and Dora get along best when they aren't. They bring out the worst in each other.

Things calm down a little when Michelle comes back upstairs. There's some tense back-and-forth between her and Dora, but not like before Nicolas woke up. Dora leaves. Michelle doesn't want to stay much longer, and Mark was the one who drove her out here, so he and Michael leave with her.

“Have you had breakfast?” Nicolas asks me when they're all gone.

“No,” I tell him. We've switched to French.

“You must be hungry.”

He throws off the blankets and walks, a little unsteadily at first, toward the stairs. By the time we're in the second floor hallway, he's back to normal. In the kitchen, he pulls out a skillet and a carton of eggs.

I don't need to tell him how to make mine. Instead, I go straight to making us toast and pouring myself a glass of orange juice. We eat in silence.

“Are you up to driving yourself home?” I ask when we're both finished.

“Of course, Emilie. You don't need to worry about me anymore,” he says. “It would be more trouble if I left my car here.”

I know he didn't mean it that way, but that “anymore” still bothers me. “Stay safe, okay?”

“Of course.”

He hugs me after we finish cleaning up the dishes. It's because my mother no longer can. And possibly because the last time he tried to tell me everything would be okay, I told him he was lying. That he wasn't okay.

He really wasn't. I wish I hadn't said anything, though. The silence is at least as bad as the lies.

<<>>

"What's wrong?" I ask Louise once Nicolas's out of the kitchen. Whatever it is, it can't be worse than last month when he was dead.

I think he went to the bathroom. He came to help us make dinner today. Usually he doesn't, or he says he means to but only gets here in time to help dry the dishes from cooking. He even brought the wine himself this time. We planned the meal around it. He almost seemed like his old self.

But Louise keeps frowning whenever she forgets we can see her. "This bottle of wine is more than fifty years old," she says.

I'm not sure what that's supposed to mean. "And?"

She sighs and throws the dish rag she was using to wash a measuring cup in the dish water. "Emilie, he's clearly been saving it. Why is today a special occasion?"

Is she annoyed he interfered with her menu planning?

I must look visibly confused, because Louise continues. "Giving away prized possessions can be a sign of suicidal ideation. I wish I could be happy to see him happy, but given the chances of that girl showing up to dinner today, I can only assume it's because he thinks he's going to die soon."

"That girl" means Dora. Louise hates her, but loves Nicolas, so she keeps helping us cook dinner for the group. As far back as I can remember, she spent lots of time with us. She liked talking to my mom especially—usually about history, sometimes politics.

"Her questions are endless," my mom used to say, affectionately. And I liked to listen to them, because Louise would always wonder about things I never even thought about, so I learned a lot because of her. Sometimes I wish she were my age and we could have her in this cohort instead of Dora. Then maybe I wouldn't have to worry so much about Nicolas dying.

When Dora comes into the dining room right behind Michelle later that evening, I can tell Louise was right. Nicolas looks crestfallen.

"Something wrong, Nicolas?" Michelle asks after she sits down.

"I didn't think you'd come back, Dora," he says, more or less ignoring Michelle.

"You want me to leave?" Dora asks. Her tone makes my blood boil. She knows what will happen if they do. And yet, she sounds happier than ever. Surely this isn't just about her mother anymore.

"We can go, Nicolas," Michelle adds. "It isn't too late." Whatever's going on between those two, I don't like it. Each of them acts like they hate the other. Except when they don't. Even Michael isn't quite sure how she and Nicolas really feel about each other.

Louise is as angry as I am. I can tell by how she was throwing pieces of bread on our plates instead of giving Nicolas the basket to pass around. It helps, but it's not enough to make this bearable to sit through any longer. So I don't.

<<>>

I can't remember what I was thinking about before I noticed Michael sitting next to my bed, watching me. Nor can I recall anything unusual happening after I took my last sip of wine. It feels like I fell asleep. Oh, and I suppose I am a bit cold, in spite of the blankets on top of me and the August heat that I know has to be there but can't feel.

I'm on top of the comforter but under at least two throw blankets. Presumably, I haven't moved for the past day and a half. It ought to be Sunday. Michael is leaning against the side of the bed with his arms and head on the mattress. He's awake, but barely.

"This is really happening, isn't it?" I say.

"Is it?" Michael asks.

"Dora will come back next month." If she came back this weekend, there's no reason to think she won't come back again. I wonder how long it'll take for her to finally die?

"And what then?"

What indeed. I suppose I should be glad he doesn't ask me for information about the house very often. He's asked questions, of course, but taken my word for it when I said I didn't know much about what my mother and Nicolas and the others really did together.

I heard nothing about any "rites." All I knew was my mother and her friends were very old, and knew strange things sometimes, and I would be like them after Maman died, which would happen when I turned seventeen. She was always very certain about that date, but would never tell me why.

That, and the door at the end of the first floor entryway was always locked. Always. Still is. And no one would give me an answer when I asked about it. I can only assume that has something to do with all of this.

I've told Michael that already, though. "Are you afraid?" I ask him.

Michael takes a deep breath and looks away. Then he shakes his head. "No. Not of the rites, at any rate. If anything, I'm scared it'll all turn out to be some kind of—I dunno. Prank?"

"Why would they carry on with it for so long?" Months for Michael. Years for me and Mark. Wouldn't it be odd, if the foundation of our relationship turned out to be a prank our families decided to play on us?

"Not prank. Uh, like, I dunno. A scam, maybe? Or maybe that's too harsh,” Michael says. “I'm worried Nicolas's promise won't come true. The one about living a long life and not aging after forty."

"Because you don't want to be wrong?"

Michael shakes his head. He looks like he wants to say something. And he isn't.

"You don't want to age? You want to live to be over one hundred years old?"

He nods, but still looks like he's holding something back.

"What aren't you telling me?"

He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. Then Mark knocks on my door, and Nicolas follows him in with a mug of tea with milk but no sugar. Exactly the way I like it. I still can't shake the fear I'll lose him, too.

<<>>

In September, Mark starts taking classes, and Michael starts working at the surplus co-op where I've been keeping the books for the past few years. (Officially, we always used to say it was Maman because I was a minor, but she taught me how to do it when I was fourteen and gradually let me take over until she wasn't even checking my work.)

Sometimes I pick him up after his shift ends and we make dinner together at the house. Today is one of those days. The sky is heavy and grey with waiting rain.

"You still haven't told me what you were hiding the morning I woke up from being dead," I say once we're on the road.

"Hiding? What do you mean?"

"Do you think I'm stupid, Michael?"

He sighs. "Okay. Fine. You're right. There's something I haven't told you. But I haven't told Mark yet, either, so I need you to wait a little while. I promise there's nothing you can do about it, okay?"

"Not okay." Not in the least. "When are you going to tell Mark?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. I'm waiting for the right moment. It's not—it isn't good knowledge, Emilie. He'd be happier not knowing."

"Ignorant happiness is false happiness."

He chuckles, but it can't be because he thinks it's funny. "That's not how happiness works, Emilie. It just is, no matter what the reason."

"Well, can you at least tell me what it has to do with not aging past forty?"

"Hmm." He looks out the window for a few minutes. I assume he's trying to figure out the right way to word it. "I don't think I can. You already kind of hit the nail on the head. If I tell you any more than that, it wouldn't be fair on Mark."

"What's going to happen after you turn forty that's so terrible?"

He laughs, but it sounds afraid. "I've already told you too much. Don't tell Mark about any of this conversation, alright? Not until I've told him."

"I don't keep secrets from Mark." And he doesn't keep them from me. It simply isn't done.

Now Michael really looks scared. I can hear his breathing grow ragged from him trying to control it. "Can you at least promise me you won't tell him unless he asks? I really can't screw this up, Emilie. I don't want him to hate me."

I didn't know he could get nervous like this. "You need to tell him. If it's this serious, then it shouldn't be a secret."

"I know. I just—look, it's hard, okay? I'm doing my best. Please believe me when I say I'm doing my best."

We're at the end of the driveway. I take the key out of the ignition. "I'll believe you when you tell him. And me."

He closes his eyes and takes a slow, deep breath. "Okay," he whispers. "Okay. I'll trust you not to tell him unless he asks. And I'll earn your trust, too. It's going to be fine." I don't know if he's saying that last part to me or himself. And I wish there was something I could say so he didn't feel so afraid. But the more I get out of him about this secret, the surer I am it mustn't be kept.

I suppose the best I can do for now is drop it.

We make pasta and alfredo sauce for dinner. When I first started cooking with him, it was incredibly unnerving to watch him throw together ingredients without measuring. Even more so that Mark didn't see the problem. I can only hope it was because I usually caught Michael before he could do anything irreversible. But he's getting better at measuring. And last week, he even convinced me to let him prove he didn't need measurements. We made soup that time, so maybe it was just because the recipe was forgiving, but it didn't turn out bad.

Mark has an evening class tonight, so he won't be joining us. It begins to rain while we cook, but that only makes it nicer to be inside where it's warm and dry.

“Someone brought in their craft stash today. Two grocery bags full of yarn, if you're looking,” he tells me while we eat.

“Was it Mrs. Hebert?” I ask.

“I think? Looks about seventy? Really short? Long grey hair in a braid over her shoulder?”

“Sounds like her. It wasn't even her whole stash, then. She bargain-shops all year, sorts all of her supplies by what year she bought then, then dumps off whatever she hasn't used in five years every September.”

“Wow. If she's so organized, how does she always end up with so much extra stuff?”

“I suspect she puts more time into bargain hunting than actually making things.” Not that I have any right to pick on her. I've certainly benefited from her habits over the years.

“She did take a look at the craft section right after dropping the bags off,” Michael tells me. “Bought an old stained tablecloth with a floral pattern. Said she was going to make reusable grocery bags out of it. Give them to her grandkids for Christmas.”

“That's Mrs. Hebert. You might see that tablecloth back in five years.”

That gets a chuckle out of Michael. He doesn't give the implication that he'd still be working there in five years a second thought. Probably didn't even notice it, but I like to think that he can see himself still working there in five years. After all, by then his trial period would be past, and he'd be one of the owners.

And he'll still need to be here anyway, if our cohort continues the way the last one left off. So there's no reason not to stay here and keep working at the surplus store. I suppose he could move to Ottawa, especially if Mark does, to be closer to his college. Mark is probably too thrifty for that, though.

Maybe Michael would persuade him. I don't think Rohesia is nearly as big as the town he lived in. “Do you miss California?” I ask. Maybe I shouldn't have.

“I'm gonna, once it gets cold again,” he says. “But not enough to go back.”

“There's not a lot to do in Rohesia,” I say, even though he already knows. I say a lot of stupid little things around him. He never acts like any of it's stupid. Maybe that's why.

“But you're here,” he says. “Besides, it's pretty. And any time I want some big city convenience, Ottawa's just a half hour away.”

I can never tell if he's genuinely flirting with me, flattering me for his own sake, or just saying whatever pops into his head.