Let’s Get to Know Gemma!

  Gemma started work as my lady’s maid in the spring of 2016, the same year Mother released her fifth full studio album, Apples, Rapist, Oranges. As previously mentioned, she was nine years old at the time. It occurs to me now that I don’t know anything about Gemma’s family. ASK GEMMA ABOUT HER FAMILY SOMETIME! Her favorite food was apples. She always had at least two with her, and if she got stressed, which happened when Vernon would slam doors or act unseemly, she would pull an apple from her smock pocket or her tote and begin to crunch on it. By the time Gemma turned thirteen, Vernon banned apples because he said he couldn’t stand the sound of her chewing on them. After that, Gemma’s favorite food was bananas because they don’t make any noise.

  Postmarked December 3, 2024

  A Picture of Trees with Spanish Moss

  Dear Jane and Henry,

  Thank you for the picture you sent through Vernon of your funny faces! I will never tire of seeing you be so silly and playful. Please don’t lose that when you “grow up”! We are in Athens, Georgia, today and tomorrow. I love it here. The more I drive around the country, the more I want to put us ALL on a bus and show you all the amazing places there are! I love you. See you soon, I hope! Yay! Love, Mom

  LESSON FIVE: WALKING IS GOOD FOR THE DIGESTION

  Today is Sunday, December 22, 2024

  I’ve been walking for more than fifteen minutes and I’m pretty sure I’m free to do as I please. Vernon rarely announces that he’s taking a nap. I took the opportunity. I even brought my Salinger book, should I find a nice place to sit and read the next chapter.

  The temperature has dropped to below freezing, but it’s sunny. The weather looks good for this week, which is great because Mother might be coming home tomorrow. If Vernon allows her. Since The Christmas That Changed Everything, he hasn’t allowed it.

  One time before she was locked up, a snowstorm kept her away from us for Christmas Day. Finch came instead. She hadn’t been invited and was living somewhere far-off and exotic at the time, but when she heard Mother couldn’t get home, she said, “Someone has to pretend to be your mother!” and made her way to our house in record time.

  Look. Vernon may have fooled me with his stories of Mother’s feeble-minded control and latent ability to make us all miserable while she wasn’t even there, but no one ever fooled me into thinking Finch was mother material.

  She is a collector. She collects information, mostly, by pretending to care. Here’s an incomplete list of things she collected from me before I stopped trusting her: Everything Mother ever told me. Details about my dates with suitors since I started dating. (Even the kissing and touching, which makes me feel weird even thinking about it.) The list she compiled from all the witch trials about the things me and Henry hate about Mother—always rewarded with ice cream or something stronger. During The Great Ignoring of 2019, I once told Finch that I enjoyed seeing Mother cry.

  I am aware this list makes me look diabolical. I was diabolical. Because it was the only way to stay safe once she and Vernon formed their team.

  I do not know my aunt Finch outside of the house (do I know anything outside of the house though, seriously), but if I was to guess, she is a terrible gossip—the kind who concocts great stories and passes them through thin lips in order to control the listener.

  Why else would she tell me and Henry that Mother wanted to kill us? Why else would she tell Marta that Mother thinks she’s dumb? Why else would she tell Vernon that Mother tells her secrets that should be kept between lovers? I have stumbled upon so many home movies of Finch transporting her own concoctions between family members, it has kept me from the three main memories I’m looking for.

  My one special birthday—the day I turned five.

  The stabbing scene, though I know it happened in the cameraless kitchen, I also know what led up to it and what happened afterward, which happened in other areas where cameras are, so it’s in here somewhere.

  The times Mother told me I was ugly when I cried, which Finch tells me about constantly, but I do not recall.

  There are nights I cry over what I find—watching young Vernon chase young Mother through the house while he yells things like, “You’re such a bitch! Stop so we can talk!” or “You’re overreacting. I was just kidding!” or “I’m going to call all my friends and tell them what an asshole you are!” It feels worth it, though. I know so much more about everything. I know about Milorad’s 2:00 a.m. gardening. I know that Marta sometimes has a tall dude with cool hair sleep over. I know that Gemma has never arrived through the front door. I also keep finding videos of Finch suddenly appearing in various rooms in our house, late at night while we’re sleeping. She rummages through drawers and cabinets downstairs over and over, looking for something she never finds.

  Witchcraft

  I’ve been walking an easy twenty minutes now and my fear of getting caught is gone. I’m wearing a pair of mittens that Gemma knitted for me. They are a pale shade of purple—and soft. I’ve wiped my nose with the right mitten twice now, so there is snot freezing on the thumb area.

  The air feels right in my lungs. Crisp. It’s as if I am waking up. I feel very much alive when I see the enormous oak tree. I think it may be more than a hundred years old. I have an inescapable need to hug it.

  I read a book last year about trees and how they communicate with each other and help each other and how they have communities just like us. Better than us—no tree is trying to hurt other trees. I try to focus my positive energy on the oak tree as I climb through the bars on the fence. Mother taught me about energy when I was little and I’ve always believed in it, even when Vernon told me that it was witchcraft.

  Now I hope it is witchcraft.

  The music builds from a high-pitched sound in my head at first.

  EXT. BIKING AND WALKING TRAIL / IN THE WOODS—AFTERNOON

  The BAND members are dressed like trees. JANE is dressed as a witch. Costumes made out of foam.

  Song: “Can a Girl”

  Composer notes: A sort of punk waltz. 3/4 time. Fast, but clear.

  JANE

  CAN A GIRL FALL IN LOVE WITH A TREE?

  CAN A GIRL FALL IN LOVE WITH A TREE?

  OAK TREE, BE MINE. SHARE WITH ME YOUR SUNSHINE.

  I AM TIRED, TIRED OF ALWAYS BEING ME.

  CAN A GIRL HOLD YOUR HAND?

  CAN A GIRL HOLD YOUR HAND?

  OAK TREE, REACH OUT. LET’S BE TOGETHER.

  I AM TIRED OF THIS BLAND, BLAND WORLD.

  THE RULES ARE BOGUS.

  THIS IS MY MAGNUM OPUS.

  SET ME FREE, SET ME FREE, SET ME FREE.

  FINCH

  Jane!

  Jane holds her hand out for the band to stop playing. She takes off her guitar and hands it to a ROADIE. Then she puts on her winter coat again.

  “Jane!”

  It’s Finch this time. She’s in her blue puffy parka that makes her look silly. She knows it. This is why she never wears it.

  “Get back here!” she yells, as if I’m running. But I’m not running. I was dancing, I guess. I don’t even know if I was singing the words out loud or what. I climb through the fence and walk toward her.

  “If you were mine, I’d lock you in your room at this point.”

  I ignore it.

  “Did you hear me?” she asks.

  I make my way slowly and don’t answer her. She is not in any way intimidating in the silly blue parka.

  “If you were mine, I’d make sure you couldn’t get out,” she mumbles as she turns back toward the house.

  There are birds on the trail ahead. They start chirping in a rhythm…they start making a melody. The band—my band—comes out, dressed as birds.

  EXT. BIKE AND WALKING TRAIL—AFTERNOON

  The music continues as Jane grabs a guitar that’s being handed to her from the woods by a random hand.

  Jane is now dressed as a tree. The band members are dressed as birds. Bluebirds, to be exact. Costumes are made of mostly foam. Some feathers.

  JANE

  If I were yours?

  FINCH

  If—

  JANE

  If I were YOURS?

  FINCH

  If—

  Jane jumps from the biking and walking trail up to the stage where her bird-dressed band awaits.

  INT. SMALL IMAGINARY PUNK CLUB INSIDE JANE’S BRAIN—LATE NIGHT

  JANE

  One, two, three, four!

  Jane steps up to microphone onstage.

  Song: “If I Were Yours”

  Composer notes: A very fast 4/4 time.

  JANE

  IF I WERE YOURS, IF I WERE YOURS

  I’D BE A WHOLE DIFFERENT PERSON NOW.

  I’D BE A BITCH, LIKE YOU, AND YOU WOULD SHOW ME HOW

  TO HOLD ALL MY INSECURITIES INSIDE TO ACT AS FUEL

  TO BE SO CRUEL, TO BE EVERYTHING YOU EVER WANTED ME TO BE.

  IF I WERE YOURS, IF I WERE YOURS

  I’D BE A LOT LESS CHEERFUL.

  THE PRINCIPAL WOULD CALL AND YOU’D GET QUITE AN EARFUL

  ABOUT HOW I BLEW EVERYTHING I HAD.

  HOW I CAN’T STOP SPREADING RUMORS.

  HOW MY HATE SPREADS LIKE A TUMOR.

  THE REFLECTION OF YOU WOULD BE SO MAD.

  YOUR MIRROR NEVER LIES.

  ENSEMBLE

  IF I WERE YOURS, IF I WERE YOURS

  EVERYTHING WOULD SURELY SUCK.

  IF I WERE YOURS, IF I WERE YOURS

  I WOULDN’T GIVE A TINY FUCK.

  IF I WERE YOURS, IF I WERE YOURS

  EVERYTHING WOULD FEEL BAD

  ALL THE TIME—

  LIKE YOU, LIKE YOU, LIKE YOU.

  Jane kneels onstage.

  JANE

  IF I WERE YOURS, YOU’D PARADE ME OUT

  IN PUBLIC—TOY DOG ON A LEAD.

  IF I WERE YOURS, YOU’D BUY ME ICE CREAM

  THEN OPEN MY BRAIN AND FEED

  YOU WANT TO KNOW EVERYTHING IN MY HEAD

  BUT IF IT DOESN’T MATCH YOUR NEEDS, YOU WANT ME DEAD.

  AIN’T IT FUNNY HOW YOU WANT TO BE JUST LIKE ME?

  YOUNG, PRETTY, SMART, AND FREE?

  BUT YOU DON’T SEE HOW THAT GREEN LOOKS SHIT ON YOU!

  SHIT ON YOU, SHIT ON YOU!

  ENSEMBLE

  IF I WERE YOURS, IF I WERE YOURS

  EVERYTHING WOULD SURELY SUCK.

  IF I WERE YOURS, IF I WERE YOURS

  I WOULDN’T GIVE A TINY FUCK.

  IF I WERE YOURS, IF I WERE YOURS

  EVERYTHING WOULD FEEL BAD

  ALL THE TIME—

  LIKE YOU, LIKE YOU, LIKE YOU…

  Music stops, crowd screams.

  END SONG

  JANE

  Thank you! Thank you!

  Jane bows and curtsies.

  EXT. THE HEDGE SURROUNDING THE LARGE VICTORIAN HOME—LATE AFTERNOON

  When we walk across the croquet pitch and the lawn, Finch speeds up and heads toward the main house in her blue parka. I peel off to the pool house.

  I walk in the side door, and Milorad says, “Do not open the door!”

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “Brutus is out,” he says. He’s crouched down behind the tiki bar with a brick in his right hand.

  “Won’t that kill him?” I ask.

  “I do not care,” Milorad says.

  “Calm down. We’ll set a catch-and-release trap, like always.”

  Milorad stands up and puts the brick on the bar. He sighs. Shakes his head.

  Milorad’s phone rings. He puts it on speaker while he washes his hands. It’s Vernon. “Jane, please come to the dining room. Milorad, you and Marta will be eating with us tonight. We’ll be ready in about fifteen minutes. Wash up.”

  Neither Milorad nor I reply. Vernon hangs up, and I head out the sliding door and onto the patio while Milorad dries his hands and says he’s going to change his shirt.

  Postmarked December 6, 2024

  A Picture of a Gold-Domed Building, Montpelier, Vermont

  Dear All,

  This town is so small and so sweet and the people are so cool! It’s cold again, but not as cold as Minnesota was. There’s snow on the ground, though. Is it snowing yet with you? The next two weeks are all New England, Michigan, and New York City. Then I get to come home for a whole week! I miss everything about home. Well, almost everything. I can’t wait to hear about what you two are doing. Vernon, don’t work too hard! Love you all, Mom/Mina

  The Rules

  “What’s your excuse this time?” Vernon asks, not even looking at me.

  “Walking is good for the digestion?” I say.

  “You’re grounded.”

  “Oh, please,” I answer. “What does that even mean?”

  He ignores me. We all tear into our food. Once the appetizer is finished, Marta leaves the table with our small plates and comes back with the next course.

  The camera is recording Vernon as he says, “If your mother were to come home for the holiday, things around here have to be better. Better behavior all around.”

  “I’m doing great,” Henry says. “I don’t know how I could do any better!”

  “You cry over algebra,” Vernon says, not looking at Henry.

  “Mina hates crying,” Finch says.

  I lean and whisper to Henry, “Mother will love you even if you cry over algebra.”

  “What did you just say?”

  Henry says, “She told me Mother will still love me if I cry over algebra.”

  I am not shocked. The boy is brainwashed.

  “Well, I may as well tell you,” Vernon says, “she’s decided not to come home again for the holidays. She’s sending presents in her stead.”

  Henry’s jaw tightens. I inhale slowly and sigh. He looks at me and my jaw tightens, too.

  “This can’t be her choice,” I say. “She loves us very much.”

  At this, Finch laughs, “Ha!”

  “Are you implying our mother doesn’t love us?” Henry asks.

  Finch gets a grip on herself. “Of course not. She’s just so very busy, I guess.”

  “She does send her regrets,” Vernon adds.

  “I’m sure she has a lot of those,” I say. I stare right at him.

  The rest of dinner is as you’d expect. There are reminders.

  Vernon says, “Just in case your mother does decide to show up unannounced, we need to go over the usual rules.” In my librettist’s mind, I picture him with a flip chart on a stand and a pointer.

  Never touch the attachments on the System or its remote control.

  Never open or unlock the doors on the System tubes or capsule. This is for your own safety.

  Mother will take all her meals in solitude. This is her request.

  “That’s not true. If she were allowed to come home, she’d want to eat with us,” I say.

  “Jane, please shut up,” Vernon says.

  This is when I pull out the postcards from my sweatshirt pouch. More than fifty of them. The ones Vernon has been hiding in the bookcase. “Mother sends us a postcard every day, Henry. Sometimes two,” I say.

  Henry says, “Really?” and leans over to read them.

  Vernon leans vigorously across Henry and grabs them from my hands and puts them on the table next to him. Henry looks at the pile while Vernon speaks more rules at us.

  Mother will not be allowed to play music in the house. Nor will anyone else.

  No leaving your rooms until Vernon is awake and out of his room.

  “Wait a second,” I say. “Some days you don’t ever come out of there!”

  “I’ll be up around eleven or so every day.”

  “I wake up at six!” Henry says. “What am I supposed to do for five hours?”

  Vernon shrugs, arches his back a bit, picks up the pile of postcards. “What do you usually do?”

  I answer, “We hang out in the kitchen with Marta and when Mother is home, Mother. It’s quite pleasant. We’ve never conspired or anything unseemly like that. She stays in the System.”

  “I miss her!” Henry blurts.

  “We all miss her,” Vernon says. “Of course.”

  Finch raises her eyebrows as if to say she does not miss Mother.

  “Okay,” Vernon says—he’s standing next to the fireplace in the adjacent sitting room now—“I can be flexible.” He turns to me. “But, Henry, if your sister tries to take another walk, then we have to stick to Rule Number Five.”

  “I don’t see what’s wrong with taking a walk in the fresh air,” I say. “It is good for the body. And the mind. During times like these, especially.”