The Deal
By vallen
- 250 reads
The Deal.
She had to choose between her children. Emma's hands were frozen just
as Emma's heart was frozen and all the warmth in The Old Mans face as
he backed out and locked the door could not bring the slightest thaw to
her frozen thoughts. How did she get here? The parchment in front of
her was stained yellow and looked as if it might crumble at any moment
yet she knew it would last forever. Her hands were shaking from cold or
fear or some other emotion that she could not name. The simple fact was
she had no option but to choose. The flickering light from the torches
on the cold stone walls around her seemed to be laughing, mocking her.
Of course there was a price, you never get something for nothing,
didn't The Old Man tell her so the first time he came to her door? Were
not all the clues there in that first moment? If only she had not been
too buried in her grief to noticed them.
She could picture that day. A pleasant breeze had finally cleared the
clouds that had persisted for the three weeks prior. Her daughter,
Sophie, and her husband, Peter, were in the garden. Sophie with her
nose in a book as always. Emma could remember the irritation she felt
at the sight, always reading, never talking and laughing, just reading,
alone, solitary, not like her sister, Jane. Peter asleep in the deck
chair, nose slightly pink from the sun, nothing to worry about, it
would be brown by tea-time, Peter never burnt, Jane had been the same.
Emma shook her head, always full of Jane. Jane, who had slept straight
through almost from the first night. Jane, who's instinct had always
been to laugh before anything else. Jane, whose smile would melt any
anger in an instant and reach out and take your forgiveness even before
you knew you'd offered it. Jane who at 5 years old had been taken away
so cruelly, so quickly, that the accident, the hospital, the funeral,
all seemed to blur into one day. Emma's second only-child, Sophie, was
born two years later, but it was never the same. Second-Sophie, who
cried more than Jane ever had, who's laugh was not quite as cheerful,
who's achievements never as bright. Emma blamed herself, she thought
that somehow the darkness in her heart had been so overwhelming that
Sophie has absorbed it from the womb. So she would always be second
best, Second-Sophie.
The doorbell had gone about midday. The Old Man, with his brown coat
and his trilby hat, (she suddenly realised for the first time what
strange things he was wearing on such a hot day) had looked into her
eyes; penetrating her soul and sending a shiver down her spine. Those
eyes, deep, deep reservoirs of black and green and blue and grey that
swirled and swayed until she felt seasick from looking but was unable
to turn away. He told her he could end it, the pain, the emptiness, the
feeling of loss for Jane, but that everything came at a price, what
would she be prepared to give up? He had talked about Jane at great
length; the softness of her hair; the dimple in her cheek; the time she
had cut her leg and laughed at the pretty colour of the blood; the time
she painted the patio doors, because she wanted stained glass windows;
and the last time, when she had squeezed her mothers hand in hospital,
never managing to open her eyes. The doctors telling her Jane was gone,
telling her to sign, telling her it was time to make a decision. Emma
had tears rolling down her face, and the pictures and sounds of Jane
had filled her head, until she did not know how long she had been stood
at the open front door with The Old Man gone and somehow the distant
knowledge he would be back. When she had decided.
Peter thought she'd gone mad, it wouldn't be the first time. She'd had
a breakdown after Jane had died, stayed in bed for months, curtains
closed, shut out everything but the pain. Peter had been patient, cared
for her, called in friends and family and doctors, until he looked
tired and old and she was scared she'd lose him too. So, she got up.
That's when she'd agreed to try again. But really she was still in that
bed, eyes closed, willing herself into the graveyard, into the coffin,
so her poor little girl wouldn't have to be alone. I'll never leave
you. I'll never leave you. She had promised! So when Peter hadn't seen
The Old Man, hadn't heard the doorbell, he though she was imagining
things, or that some sick cult was playing with her grief to get money.
No, she'd explained, The Old Man doesn't want money, he wants to help
me, he wants to stop my grief. She argued so hard to make Peter believe
in The Old Man, to understand what he was, what was advocated in his
eyes, that she knew he was genuine, he meant it, and he could do
it.
She forgot, or ignored the nagging doubt, the one the said the price
might be too high, what price was too high for your child's life? What
mother wouldn't give up everything for one more day? She'd stamped it
out, pushed it aside, just like Sophie. Sophie, who had never cried too
much, or laughed too little. And if Sophie was quiet it was because of
her, because she's pushed her aside, because she'd blamed her, blamed
her all her life for not being Jane, for not taking the pain away, for
not filling the empty space. Sophie had always got top grades, never
stayed out late, never fought back or screamed. Sophie had accepted,
had forgiven, had continued to love her no matter how many times Emma
had made it so clear that it just wasn't good enough, Sophie would
always be second to Jane.
Slowly her vision cleared and the grey stone room with its grey stone
walls and two flashing video screens came back into focus. The Old Man
had brought her here. There was a musty smell in the air, the smell of
death and decay. The Old Man had stayed with her for a while,
apologising for the cobwebs and the bad light, holding her hand until
she stopped shaking and managed to listen to 'The Deal'. Then he'd left
her, left her to work it out, to make her final decision. Dust, settled
for years, had been disturbed where she'd crashed about the room,
screaming, crying at the unfairness, demanding to be let go, to return
to her husband. But the only way out was to sign and every time she
threw something if she closed her eyes it was back, as if it has not
been touched. Only the dust remained disturbed, filling the air, like
oxygen depriving smoke, so she couldn't breathe and her chest felt
tight and she crawled on the floor howling. But the door remained
locked and no one answered her calls, her cries. She was left crumpled
in a heap watching the flashing screens, watching life, happiness,
freedom, all the things she knew she'd never have again. Losing Jane
once was bad enough how could she sign her away again, but Sophie had
paid so dearly already, and she was alive, now, in the real world, in
the sunny garden far away from this self-imposed nightmare from which
Emma would never awake.
One screen showed Jane, playing happily, Jane as she was, five years
old laughing, running around the garden chasing bubbles as Peter
laughed so much he could not blow more. The other showed Sophie,
reading, passing lemonade she had made because Emma had mentioned she
missed her mothers homemade. Lemonade Emma had not even touched. She
could almost reach them, almost hold both her babies at once, almost,
but not quite. The only thing she could touch, really touch and effect
was the parchment, two almost identical pieces about a foot long, one
with Jane written at the top, the other with Sophie. The names shone
out, as if written in liquid, in blood, in their blood. That couldn't
be. They were there, on the screen, alive, healthy.
She had to choose, Jane or Sophie, Peter wouldn't know, either Jane
stayed dead or Sophie was never born, only Emma would know, always
know. But there was no way back now, she had agreed to come, agreed to
consider the options. She had to choose had to sign one of the pieces
of paper. Her hands were like ice and the flickering light from the
torches on the cold stone walls around her seemed to be laughing,
mocking her as she bent over the parchment and signed her name.
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