The Cult of Rohesia: Emilie (2/3)

It's finally happened. Dora's dead. Michelle is struggling to try and lift her on her own. She won't let Nicolas help. "I told her I'd do it," she says. "Emilie, can you help?"

The conversation Mark and Michael were having barely an hour ago about Dora having feelings for Michelle comes to mind. "Girls only, huh?"

Nicolas stands aside and crosses his arms. "She should have been in the last cohort."

Michael giggles, and Mark looks uncomfortable. "Why's that, Nicolas?" Michael asks.

Nicolas winces and stares intently at the door (away from Michael). "Let's just say she would have been in good company."

But why did he wince? No one said anything disrespectful about Auntie Cathy, or Auntie Ronnie. Louise looks confused, too. Is he keeping something else to himself? Even I have to admit he still hasn't told us much about what comes after all six of us have died.

I don't hear the rest of the conversation because I'm holding Dora's legs up while Michelle does her best to carry (rather than drag) her up the stairs. It doesn't take us much longer than when Michael and Mark died and I had to help Nicolas. Once we've got Dora on the couch, Michelle sits on the floor.

"Aren't you going to eat with us?" I ask.

Michelle shrugs. "I promised Dora I'd stay with her body."

"Because she's in love with you?"

She smiles quickly, then lets it go. I'm not sure it was really a smile. "You think so, too?"

"I don't know. That's the best explanation I can think of for her wanting you specifically to carry her and watch over her corpse."

Mark was texting someone earlier. Was it Michelle? In fact, he sounded a little hesitant when he asked Michael whether he thought Dora was attracted to her. Maybe it wasn't initially his question.

"It was more that she didn't—" Michelle stops in the middle of her sentence.

"Didn't want Nicolas moving her?" Since she doesn't like him touching Michelle.

"Or Michael. Maybe Mark, too, I dunno. She only mentioned Nicolas and Michael by name. But she called herself paranoid for it, too. I think she was just scared."

I'll accept that. "In that case, keeping an eye on them is as good as keeping an eye on her."

Michelle blinks at the floor, then shrugs and stands up. "Good point." I know it was. She follows me back to the dining room.

"So what's next?" she asks Nicolas once we've all got meals in front of us.

Nicolas frowns at his plate and sighs. "What do you mean, what's next?"

"You've mentioned visions and rites but you haven't gone into much detail," Michelle says.

Nicolas says nothing. The twins are both looking at him, but neither of them will say anything, either.

Michelle takes a bite and waits long enough to chew and swallow for Nicolas to answer. "So?"

He won't look at any of us. "You're right. I haven't gone into much detail."

Michael starts giggling again. It's not like how he usually laughs when something's funny. It's not nervous, though, I know what that looks like coming from him. Maybe he's annoyed?

"We can't do whatever it is we're supposed to do next if you won't tell us," Michelle says. "I thought that was what you were here to do?"

"We can go over it Sunday, when Dora's awake," Nicolas says, still not looking at her. He pours himself another glass of wine. Is it his second, or third? It would have to be his second, I think. Louise always has two bottles ready. One is, of course, already empty. It's hard to see how much is left in the other one from where I'm sitting.

Months ago, Michelle would have kept questioning Nicolas. We would have spent all of dinner listening to them go back and forth. You'd think they were having fun, but other than continuing the discussions, they didn't act like it. At any rate, it looks like she's already given up. No, she's looking at me. I don't know what she expects me to do. Michael is looking my way, too. I raise my eyebrows questioningly at him. He shrugs and takes a bite of Louise's lasagna.

Is she why Nicolas doesn't want to go into detail on anything right now? It makes sense in theory, but I don't think that's it. After we've eaten and he gets up, he catches himself on the table. He's had four glasses of wine. I counted.

"I've drunk more than I should have," he says. "Mark, would you greatly mind driving me home?"

How odd. For one thing, I've never heard him outright admit to drinking too much. For another, he can and has slept in Maman's bed. It's not like she's using it anymore.

"Why don't you stay here, Nicolas?" I ask.

He shakes his head. "Michelle will need the bed." But we have sleeping bags.

Has she thought of that, though? "I can sleep on the floor, Nicolas." There we are.

Nicolas scowls and shakes his head again. "Absolutely not." I've never heard him object to either of the twins sleeping on the floor.

"It's fine," Mark says. "You don't live far from here, right?"

"Just down the highway," Nicolas tells him, before stepping carefully toward the door. Is he drunk? Surely he didn't get that way from just the wine. Did he drink before he came here? In that case, he drove here drunk. And maybe that's all right, given that he lives so close—no. No, it isn't. If he drank before coming here, it must not have been much.

The three of them leave together without saying much more. Something is off, but I'm not sure what. Michelle has to have noticed, but she's not saying anything. We help Louise clean up the dishes. Then Louise leaves, too.

<<>>

The next day, Michelle stays in the living room when I go downstairs for breakfast. I eat by myself. I don't mind, but I thought maybe she would. Isn't she hungry? Or maybe she helped herself while I was asleep. That's probably it.

She insisted on sleeping on the living room floor even though there was a spare bed. I saw her backpack laying nearby, too. She must have brought homework. That's good, then. She won't expect me to entertain her.

"Emilie," she says when I pass by her on my way to her room. Upon closer inspection, she looks like a wreck. Or at least, her eyes are red and her hair is messier than usual. Which isn't much, I suppose. It's usually tidy to an extreme. Also, her clothes are wrinkled from sleeping in them.

"What is it?" I ask.

She won't look me in the eye. "Uh, Michael called me last night."

He called her? But he should have known I'd be awake. And if it wasn't something specific to Michelle, then why does she want to tell me about it? "And?"

"He said—uh, Nicolas told him and Mark something about the rites we're supposed to perform."

"And?" What might that something be, Michelle? I'm not telepathic.

Michelle squeezes her eyes shut and sighs. "He said he and Mark have to have sex with Nicolas during the rites for them to work."

I snort. I couldn't have stopped myself. "I thought they had to participate in the rites? How can they do that if they're off somewhere else having—"

Eugh. I just had the most disgusting thought. But surely Nicolas and Mark or Michael having sex right in front of the rest of us isn't what Michelle meant to imply—

"It didn't sound like they'd be somewhere else."

I sit down on the arm of the couch and try to think this through. I don't want to think about it at all, but it's clearly necessary. Michelle wouldn't make a joke like this.

Michael might, though. Maybe he was joking and Michelle didn't realize. That would explain why he told her and not me. He'd know I wouldn't find that funny. Though I can't imagine Michelle finding it funny, either. Maybe the pleasure is in her reaction.

That must be it. "You're sure he wasn't teasing you?"

Michelle shakes her head. "He wasn't."

"What makes you say so?"

She closes her eyes and shakes her head again. "I just—it's hard to explain. All I can really say is he sounded pretty serious. Has he texted you or anything? Maybe you should call him."

"Why?" Either she's sure he wasn't teasing, or she isn't. If she's sure, then why would I need to verify it?

"I—look, he said some kind of alarming things. I don't feel comfortable repeating them."

I'm at least as close to him as she is. Why can't she tell me? "You mean other than the sex part?"

She nods, but won't say anything else. I'll wait ten seconds just to be sure.

That's ten seconds. I'm going back to my room. It's time to text Michael. He calls back within minutes.

We talk for a while, but after he hangs up, I realize it was only about the rites. And a little about the thing he's apparently told Mark about now, and maybe even Michelle, but still won't tell me. Not until tomorrow, when we'll see each other in person.

Maybe he told Michelle something entirely different. Maybe she simply overreacted. I can't really draw any conclusions until tomorrow. But at least that's a specific time limit, which is more than I've ever gotten out of him before.

<<>>

It's Sunday afternoon. I brought Michael to my room the second I saw a chance for us to slip away. If we wait much longer, Mark will be the only one left in the house, and I want to hear whatever Michael's secret is from him alone.

"Okay," he says, as soon as I've closed the door. He seems to understand that we're short on time. "Our dad has dementia. Younger-onset. Started around when he was forty. It's genetic. There's a decently high chance the same thing will happen to me and Mark. Questions?"

"What exactly does dementia entail?"

Michael tips his head back and sighs impatiently. I don't enjoy being treated like an idiot, but even I can tell he's under stress. I'll let it slide.

"Uh, basically, part of his brain is atrophying. Like, he doesn't have much inhibition, so he yells at people and says whatever the fuck comes to mind. Has trouble walking. Wouldn't leave the house much even when he didn't. He puts things in his mouth that he shouldn't sometimes, too. It's—uh—he's a mess. Put it that way. And there's no cure. If we stop aging around when we hit forty, though, that should probably stop the dementia, too. Or at least, it had fucking better. That sounds reasonable to you, right? Nicolas said we wouldn't get sick at some point. I'm pretty sure."

“What if the symptoms start before you stop aging?”

“It happens gradually at first,” Michael tells me. “Like, in hindsight, we think it started around when he was forty. But no one really noticed anything was wrong until he was forty-three. And it took another few years after that to get the right diagnosis. So as long as any atrophy—atrophicay—whatever stops when we hit forty, it shouldn't be a major issue.”

"Then yes. That sounds correct." I lean against the door because I don't want to take the time to cross the room and sit on my bed. I don't want to get caught off guard by anyone checking in on us, either. "But you said you told Mark about that, and he still doesn't want to do it?"

Michael shrugs and looks at the floor. "I mean, he still hasn't decided for sure. We'll see."

I don't know what to say. He was right: there's nothing I can do. And it isn't good knowledge. But it's better than not knowing. "That must be frightening for you."

Michael chuckles, then looks at the bed like he thinks he might sit down. But then he walks towards me instead and leans next to me with his back to the door. I appreciate the warmth. "It is, but it also isn't. I mean, I had a back-up plan. Either way, I know I'm not going to get dementia. So it's fine."

So many problems with those sentences. For one, Nicolas will still die. That isn't fine. But I can't expect Michael to see him as family yet, I suppose. For another, he just said before there was a high chance he would inherit the dementia. So how can he know he won't get it? "If your back-up plan is so good, why not let Mark in on it?"

Michael inhales sharply. His whole body tenses up. For now, I'll look away, to let him have some dignity. But he isn't saying anything. And he's still tense. Now I feel him trembling.

I look over just in time to see him choke back a sob. His face is blotchy and red. His eyes are brimming with tears. "Michael?"

That didn't help. In fact, I made it worse: the sobs are coming through. He's still holding back enough that the others probably can't hear him, but I can, and I don't know how much more he can hold in. I stepped away before I could even think about it. To get a better view of his face?

No. I was uncomfortable, that was all. I can't just ignore him, though. Now that I'm not next to him, he's sliding to his feet, back still against the door and the wall.

"Michael, what's wrong? What did I say?"

He holds up one finger and struggles to hold more sobs in. His face is soaking wet, though. His body shakes. What did I say? I said something wrong, but I don't know what. How am I supposed to know what not to do again if he can't tell me what I said wrong? I might have been a little angry at him before, but he's the last person I want to hurt like this. After a few excruciating minutes, he calms down a little.

"I can't," he manages, shaking his head. "I can't."

"You can't what?" I ask.

He keeps shaking his head. "I can't let him in on it."

"Why not?" What could possibly render it less effective if more than one person participates?

"I just can't," and then he has to pick between holding back his sobs and speaking. He chooses to hold in the sobs.

I give him a minute. "Why can't you tell me?" I'm not even angry. I just want to know. I've never seen him cry like this. I don't think I've seen anyone cry like this.

Nicolas, maybe, but whenever he started to cry after Thomas died, I left him alone. I always told myself I was letting him have space, or dignity. In hindsight, I probably just didn't want to have to see him like that.

"I just can't," he repeats. "Please don't make me tell you."

I sit in front of him. "It's that bad, huh?" I can't deny him what he's asking for. If it's worse than what he's already told me, maybe I don't even want to know what it is.

He nods and keeps shaking and sniffling.

"Is there anything I can do?" I ask.

"Hold me?" he whimpers.

That much, I can do.

<<>>

On Tuesday, I get a message from Mark. "I decided to go through with the rites. Thanks again for calling me yesterday."

I told him about the conversation I had with Michael on Sunday. I'm still not sure I should have. But I remembered the way Michelle was acting on Saturday, and wondered if Michael said something to her that gave her the same impression I got.

I only told Mark what was actually said. If he also came to the conclusion that Michael plans to kill himself to avoid getting dementia, then we must be right.

Will the three of us always be like this? Is it Michael as an individual complicating things, or is this simply what happens when you have more than one close friend? Is that why people have best friends?

I hate secrets. Especially the ones no one said were secrets that still feel dangerous to speak of.