The Cult of Rohesia: Michelle (3/3)

I'm hugging Nicolas because he's warm and I'm so cold. He's hugging back, too. Even stroking my hair. Is this real, or am I still—

No, I think this might be real.

Where was I?

I was dead.

I can't describe it. Already, my memories have mostly faded away. I remember a kind of dim grey-whiteness. I think it was cold, too, but it didn't bother me then, so I didn't really notice. Or maybe I'm only just feeling it now.

It must be early Sunday morning. Did Nicolas wake up before me on purpose? Or does he just have trouble sleeping? Maybe it's normal for him because he's so old.

I'm surprised he didn't push me away. Still isn't, either. Actually, it's a little weird. He lets me let go of him. I can see Mark or Michael sitting on the living room floor behind him, watching us with his legs still in his sleeping bag.

"You want tea or coffee?" Nicolas asks me.

"Tea," I say. He heads for the stairs.

"It's weird, isn't it?" Mark asks me as soon as he's gone. It must be Mark. Michael would sound—I dunno. Bouncier? And he'd probably be asking me how I felt instead of talking like he knew what it was like.

I nod drowsily. I'm going to have to sit up if I want to drink tea, aren't I?

Mark sits next to me once I've made room on the couch. He's warmer than me, too, so I lean on him. He understands why. Can probably feel me shivering, if nothing else.

We sit in silence until Nicolas comes back up the stairs and sits on my other side. There's honey in the tea. I burned my mouth on it, but I don't care. Even just having the warm mug to hold is an improvement.

"Three out of six," Nicolas murmurs while I drink. "How do you feel?"

"Cold."

"It'll pass," he says.

“Um, by the way?” Mark says. “Your parents know you're here.”

My heart thumps so suddenly it hurts. “They what?”

“Did you come here against their wishes?” Nicolas asks. He sounds as surprised as me.

“You saw what Mom was like last month. I didn't think I'd be here past dinner, so I just told her I was going out to eat with some friends.” Which was technically true.

“We texted her you were staying with Delia on Friday,” Mark said. “But then Saturday night she wanted to know where you were, but we forgot to keep an eye on your phone, so when she didn't get a reply she called Delia's mom. And then by the time we did check your phone she was threatening to call the police so we panicked. And Emilie called her pretending to be you.”

Nicolas sucks his breath in. How did he not know about all this?

“Which was a dumb idea, I know.” The tips of Mark's ears are turning pink. “Anyway, your mom knew immediately it wasn't you, so I talked to her instead and talked her down. Or at least, into not calling the police. But she wanted you to go straight home as soon as you could.”

I check my phone. My inbox is flooded with messages.

“Interesting that you all chose not to mention any of this to me before now,” Nicolas says.

“Sorry. It was just—it was late when you got here, and probably none of us wanted to think about it anymore, and we were already pretty sure Michelle's mom wouldn't do anything.”

“I thought you lived here?” I ask.

“I don't, but if this is the kind of thing that happens when I'm not around, maybe I should consider moving in.”

I go downstairs to call my mom. I'd rather eat first, but if I save talking to her for when I'm actually home, it'll be harder to escape her bad mood. Better to see how she reacts from a distance. It takes a few tries for her to actually pick up the phone.

“Michelle?” Sounds like I woke her up.

“Hi, Mom. Sorry about the others. I'm up now.”

“Honey, we need to have this conversation face-to-face.”

I shake my head even though she can't see me. “I'd rather have it now.”

She sighs into the receiver. “Why? Why can't you come home?”

Of course. Even if it's really me, that doesn't mean no one is eavesdropping or telling me what to say. “I'll be home soon, but I want to eat breakfast first, okay? I'm starving.”

“When? When will you be home?”

Ugh. “Soon?”

“If you're not here by 5:35,” she says. “I'm calling the police.”

Fuck. It's 5:20. “God, Mom, I'm fine!”

“Michelle, I'm not kidding.”

“5:40, okay? Just in case there are traffic issues.”

“5:40 on the dot, Michelle.”

She tricked me into negotiating. I hate it when she does that. “Okay, fine, I'm coming!”

When I get home, she's in the middle of making chocolate chip pancakes. Those were my favorite when I was little. Dad's up, too, sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee. The conversation is tense, but not as bad as I expected. They're still not going to budge as far as me going back to the house goes. No knowledge—in fact, probably nothing at all—can justify the perceived risk to my safety to them.

“Look, you know where I'll be, now,” I tell them. “You know who to call the police on if I go missing. I'm old enough to make my own decisions, so you're going to have to be happy with that.”

They obviously aren't. Dad's tapping on the table the way he only does when he's really frustrated, but at least he's ready to give in. I've made that point at least three times already. Mom tries again to argue around it, but after I say “I don't have anything else to say” for the fifth time, she finally lets me go to my room without protest.

<<>>

May was only the beginning of a rollercoaster summer. In June, Michael died, and Mark didn't take it nearly as well as Michael did in March. Then in July, Dora didn't show up because police came in the middle of Thursday night to arrest her mother. She spent the weekend trying to locate her and set up an appointment to visit. Meanwhile, Nicolas died, and he didn't wake up at sunrise on Sunday like the rest of us. Then Michael managed to lure Dora back to the house by claiming I was dead. She was understandably mad about that, but Nicolas woke up right after she got there, so I—urgh.

I want to just say it was justified and leave it at that, but it leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Why would she care more about me than the others? We text now and then, but it's not like we're close. And how did Michael work out that he could use that as leverage? He barely knows her.

She looked so betrayed. And I can't say she's wrong. I didn't know what Michael was doing, but he did it right under my nose. Dora doesn't have any reason to believe I wasn't in on it.

And then, on top of all that, I accidentally went to her band's concert earlier this month. They were opening for a band my friend likes. I didn't even recognize her until she came up to me between sets. She didn't have her glasses, her hair was teased to hell and back, and she'd smeared pretty much the entire upper half of her face in black makeup. So that was an awkward time all around.

But she started talking to me again. Even said she'd give me a ride to the house next month. So obviously, she's coming today.

And yet, Nicolas looks flabbergasted when we walk in. Crestfallen, even. I don't think I've ever seen him this emotional. Shouldn't he be happy he won't have to worry about us having a repeat of last month?

"Something wrong, Nicolas?" I ask.

He doesn't even look at me. "I didn't think you'd come back, Dora," he tells her.

She grins at him. “You want me to leave?”

“Nonsense,” he says. It's clearly a lie. “Stay.”

“We can go, Nicolas,” I tell him. “It isn't too late.” I'm teasing, of course. Was that mean of me? Maybe it kind of was. I don't think I made things any worse by saying it, though. Besides—I don't like the way he's acting tonight.

Emilie's wine glass shatters on the floor.

<<>>

“So, uh—” I can't help it. I have to ask. “What made you change your mind? About the house.”

It's September. Dora really did pick me up from the bus station in Ottawa. This is my first time coming back home since I started classes in Montreal. And now, for the first time ever, I'm alone with Dora.

She bites her lip and watches the road. “Uh, curiosity?”

That's not it, though. Or at least, not all of it. This is why I didn't just ask her over text. “So it wasn't about Nicolas claiming you'd have visions that'd show you how to get your mom out of jail?”

She laughs. It wasn't funny at the time, but the unlikeliness of it kind of is in hindsight. Even Nicolas, barely conscious that Sunday morning in July, hedged his claims heavily. “Yeah, right.”

She turns my question back on me. My answers are the same as hers, except I mean them. The conversation drifts to other topics, then peters out. We ride in silence for a few minutes.

"Hey, uh, Michelle?" Dora asks when we're about five or ten minutes away.

"What?"

"What was it like? When you died."

I think back to when it happened to me, and how I could kind of tell it was going to happen. And she knew I knew. She asked me the week after how I knew when to move my wine glass out of the way.

She must be feeling the same way. “It was mostly like being asleep? Except I was kind of cold and stiff when I woke up. I could move and stuff, though. It wore off pretty quickly.”

She takes a deep breath. "Okay. So, uh, if that happens to me this weekend—I know this probably sounds paranoid of me, but can you make sure no one messes with my body while I'm out? I don't want Nicolas or Michael carrying me, either.”

“Sure?” I wonder why Mark is okay but Nicolas and Michael aren't. Doesn't really matter. Emilie and I should be able to manage. She seems pretty strong.

“Thanks,” she says.

A nasty thought comes to my mind. No, not nasty, I mean, there's nothing wrong with girls liking girls or whatever. I actually can't think of anyone that I wouldn't be weirded out to learn was attracted to me. I'm sure I'm wrong.

Mark probably wouldn't feel comfortable giving me the reality check I need. Definitely don't want to ask Emilie. If I ask Michael, I'll never hear the end of it—

Got it. I'll text Mark. "Does Michael think Dora likes me? Don't tell him I asked."

He texts me back just as we're pulling into the driveway. “Yes.” Fuck.

<<>>

"I was gonna commit suicide, you know."

I feel like a rock suddenly teleported into my stomach. It's around midnight. I'm at the house. Dora's dead. I was trying and failing to fall asleep on the living room floor, when Michael called. From Nicolas's house. Because Nicolas finally deigned to tell him and Mark what he'd been leaving out all this time. Which was, frankly, alarming enough. But this? What am I supposed to say to this?

Fuck. I've just been sitting here, thinking. I don't even know how long. Gotta say something so he knows I'm still here. "What?"

"Before Mark got ahold of me," he says. "I was planning to kill myself on my thirty-fifth birthday."

Okay. So suicide is not imminent. I guess that's something? "Why?"

Sounds like that was exactly the question he wanted to hear. "Our dad has younger-onset dementia." Like he was waiting for permission to tell me or something. Now the words are tumbling out. "It's genetic. Started when he was about forty. It's not going to happen to me."

I think I'm starting to get it, but I still don't like it. "So, what, you think the rites would protect you from the dementia? That's why you're going along with it?"

"Bingo."

"What about Mark, though? Did you—does he know?"

"He knows nowwww," Michael says in a sing-song voice. Sounds pretty ominous. Or maybe he's just drunk.

"I'm guessing that didn't go well, either."

"No. No, it did not."

"Do you—" Gah. I can't come get them myself. I could use Dora's car, but—no, no, I don't think she'd like that. She trusts me. I don't want to fuck that up. Maybe Emilie drives. "Do you know if Emilie can drive? I can hand you over to her. Maybe she could come pick you guys up."

"No," Michael says immediately. "Mark's already gone to bed. Plus our grandparents are probably asleep." He pauses. "Uh. I guess I'd better let you get back to sleep."

Un-fucking-likely, but I'm not about to pass up a chance out of this conversation. "Yeah, I guess you'd better. G'night."

<<>>

"Michelle? What's going on?"

It's my mom. I must have woken her up with the running. We're standing in her home office. It's around one in the morning. I just used one of her throw pillows to put out a fire on her desk from a candle she forgot to put out. The jar broke and the wax went all over.

"These aren't safe, Mom!" I say—no, I'm yelling. Raising my voice isn't gonna help. Gotta stop. "I know your friend's trying to be eco-friendly and all, but these jars aren't meant to withstand that much heat for so long. That stuff she put on top for aesthetic or whatever caught fire, too."

It's October. We just did the rites for the first time. I don't want to think about it, or how this is the first time Mom's seen me since she and Dad dropped me off in Montreal in August.

I can tell from her face she's holding back. She looks like she wants to yell, too. I brace myself just in case, but nothing comes. Why is she looking at me like that?

"Aren't you cold in that dress?" she finally asks.

The ritual robe. I'm not wearing anything else besides underwear and shoes. I was probably supposed to take it off and change. There wasn't time. "Uh. No. It's fine."

"Why don't I make us some cocoa?" she finally says. I think she's realized any explanation for my actions is going to take some time.

I don't want to go into it. "That's okay. I should probably get back to my friend's house."

She frowns. Does she realize it's the third weekend of the month? "Your friend's house? Who're you staying with?" Most of my friends from high school also went away to college.

"Uh. Emilie." I don't think I ever actually mentioned Emilie's name to her. She might not make the connection.

"Really? Have I heard about her before?"

I shake my head. "Don't think so. Uh, we're going to a concert in Ottawa tomorrow." That's a lie.

"Well. Have fun. And next time you're in town, maybe drop your poor parents a line, okay? Come visit us when we're not trying to sleep."

"I'll do that." Or at least, I'll try. I can't believe she's not questioning me more about the candle. Maybe she doesn't want to know. At any rate, I'm not going to question it.

When I turn Dora's car into the long driveway from the highway, I notice weird shadows and bumps on the roof of the house. We all saw Mark sprint out the front door and climb up the fieldstones on the outside of the house, then pull himself onto the roof. That was almost as bizarre as what he left behind him in the basement. I still kind of want to go get a closer look, but Nicolas told us not to, and his tone made it sound like there'd be dire consequences if we did. Anyway, that definitely doesn't look like one silhouette on the roof now. More like two or three. Did he get the others up there, or did they find a different way to join him?

I definitely shouldn't be going up there in my ritual robe, though, so I head straight in. Dora and Nicolas are sitting on the stairs, both looking a little dazed. I thank Dora and give her back her car keys.

"Everything all right?" she asks.

Not really, no. But I know what she means. "Barely. My mom almost set the house on fire. I got there just in time." And that was only because I saw it in a vision during the rites. I head upstairs before she can ask me anything else and it turns into a conversation. I need something in my stomach. And my street clothes.

When I come back downstairs, they're still in the same place. I'm surprised Dora is willingly spending so much time so close to Nicolas. The Dora from last spring probably would have gone outside and seethed the entire time she had to wait. No, she wouldn't even have waited for me. She'd get in her car and leave as soon as possible. I'd have to get a ride from Mark the next day or something.

There's a step between them, so I sit on that. It's a little crowded, but as long as I sit on the other side of the step, we're not shoulder to shoulder. I make it work. "Did you see a way to get your mom out of prison?" I ask Dora.

She snorts. "Technically, I guess. I saw enough to rat her friends out. The ones who helped with the arson. Which, of course, the police tried to get her to do, but she wouldn't. So I doubt she'd be happy if I used it as a bargaining chip to try and spring her, either.”

Even so, there's no doubt in my mind that she'll come back whenever we're supposed to do the rites again. We sit in silence. I sip my tea. Nicolas sips his wine.

“If I asked you two not to come back next time,” he asks, eventually, “would you stay away?”

What an odd question. “Are you?”

“No,” Nicolas says. He examines the stem of his wine glass. “But would you?”

My mind drifts back to the rite. For me, it's just an image. An intrusive one. But an image nonetheless. For Nicolas, it was—I can't imagine. I really can't.

“I would,” Dora says. And I'm pretty sure she means that as a kindness.

Nicolas nods. Maybe in response to Dora, maybe because he's falling asleep. “Michelle?” he asks, after a few seconds.

“Why are you asking?” I say.

He laughs, once, sharply, and takes another sip. “Doesn't matter. All it would take is one of you.”

“That applies to you though, too, right?” I ask. “You've got as much of a choice as we do.”

He smiles. I can't tell if he's shaking his head “no” or tipping it thoughtfully back and forth. “Yes, but I mustn't do that. It would be my fault, then. I won't be the one to break the chain.” Nicolas takes another sip. “I refuse.”

“For Jeanne?”

Nicolas watches what's left of his wine. Shakes his head. “Jeanne's dead, Michelle. She can't care anymore, one way or another. I'm alone. And yet, she and the others still live, in my mind. And I can't bear to let them down. Isn't that silly?”

I don't know what to say to that. From the sound (or rather, silence) of it, neither does Dora. I think back to when he taught us (that is, all of us but Mark, and Michael next month) our part in the rites. All we have to do is stand in place and chant.

Last month, it seemed like Mark would duck out. Or at least, that was what I was expecting. Michael seemed to think so, too. So when Dora and I left, that Sunday after she'd woken up from being dead, I thought it was the last time I'd see Nicolas. I told him I was glad I'd met him. He said he felt the same. And that was it.

I let go of him so easily. It seemed so inevitable. And in hindsight, that scares me.

“You're not alone,” I tell him.

Nicolas smiles half-heartedly in acknowledgement.

I didn't get through to him. “I mean it, Nicolas! You're not alone.”

“Well, no,” he says. “Technically not. Not right now.” He's trying to shrug me off.

“Emilie will miss you if you die,” I say.

“She'll get used to it,” he says. “Did you know she never cried, when the others passed? It'll be the same with me. The only reason she doesn't want to lose me is because I've always been there. It would be like a piece of furniture breaking. A shame, but nothing she couldn't move on from.”

That can't be right, but I don't know Emilie well enough to refute it. Dora's right here, I can't speak for her. And I don't dare bring up either of the twins.

“I let you go once, Nicolas,” I finally say. “And I regret it. I'll never do it again.”

He laughs and pours the remainder of his wine in my tea cup. “You're going to need more than pretty words if you want to hold onto me.”