Slaves to the Spirits

Chapter 16

Elisabeth wasn't surprised to see Sister Constance and Ms. Porter standing stiffly near the front door as she came downstairs in the morning. She expected it after last night. In fact, she liked to think that when she left to go to bed, Sam ran into the kitchen to call them urgently, wanting to see her files and disregarding any semblance of consideration for the late hour. If she scared the Uleys, maybe they would send her back, and then she and Alexander could wait out the days until her eighteenth birthday someplace safe, without strangers wanting to replace her dead parents.

"Elisabeth," Ms. Porter greeted, her eyes narrowed into slits as she appraised her raggy pajamas. "What's this I hear about you causing trouble for this lovely couple?"

"Why do you sound shocked?"

Sister Constance reached out to touch Ms. Porter's shoulder, shaking her head as she smiled. "We came for a reason," she reminded. "To discuss the placement of the two children, not to start arguments."

Ms. Porter sighed, nodding, clearly upset that her fun had been spoiled. Elisabeth imagined that she would have liked to have a reason to yell at her. She recognised the desire lurking in her eyes as she turned away and towards the Uleys, the tiny spark of a flame dancing in her gaze as her eyes passed over her.

"We should sit," she said, and the four of them moved off towards the dining room. She paused as she came to stand near Elisabeth. "You come too," she told her, looking at her sharply, before gliding past.

Elisabeth sighed, stealing a piece of bacon from the stove Emily had turned off in a hurry and eating it quickly. She followed the group and sat beside Sister Constance at the dining table. She wasn't looking forward to the discussion she knew awaited, but hoped that by the end of it she would be free.

Sister Constance wore her habit to house calls, and somehow it made the whole thing worse, more formal. It felt as though it was about something greater than Elisabeth or the institute or the state. It was like God was peering into Elisabeth's soul whenever her green eyes came to rest on her face, smiling gently through disappointment - what a lovely failure, He must have thought, such a shame, such a waste.

"Whatever you are thinking," she said, reaching out to take up her hands in her own, "is trouble."

She held Elisabeth's hands gently in her own, calloused palms pressed against her soft and younger skin, like one might hold a baby bird. She didn't squeeze. Her grip was like being wrapped up in tepid water, soothing, peaceful. Elisabeth could have drowned in her embrace.

"What good has thinking done for you these past years?" Her eyes sparkled like two emeralds set within her weathered face, an amused curve of her lips hinting at humour.

Elisabeth smiled.

Ms. Porter rolled her eyes from across the table, shifting in her seat to dig out the manilla folder from her leather handbag. "She's right," she said. "Leave the tricky part to the professionals. You have a nasty habit of making a mess of things."

Sam and Emily entered the room, and Ms. Porter quickly leaned back into her seat, smiling widely as the two sat.

"Thank you for coming on such short notice," Emily said.

"I'm glad you called," Ms. Porter said, leaning in eagerly. "Now, what would you like to talk about first?"

"Lucy, you know that's not-"

"Oh, shut it," Ms. Porter waved off Sister Constance. "Nobody cares for your outdated way of things, your subtle and gentle approaches. They want the juicy bits, the bone-chilling facts." Ms. Porter turned to look over at the couple, smiling widely as she tipped her head to the side. "You do, don't you?"

"Uh," Emily hesitated, "just… whatever you all think is important. Whatever we need to know to be the supporting family she needs."

Elisabeth thought she was dead. She thought she had died and gone to some strange place, stuck forever in her perpetual suffering.

Ms. Porter looked equally shocked. "I-" she stammered. "You… what?"

"Maybe we should go through her file." Sister Constance reached for the folder containing her information. "We can talk about her history and go from there."

Elisabeth changed her mind. She wasn't dead. At least, if she was, this was hell. "Can I not be here for that?"

"You're not leaving," Ms. Porter said. "You seem unstable, and there's no way I'm letting you out of my sight until we finish. So you relax and settle yourself in for a nice long wait."

Elisabeth listened as Ms. Porter explained in gruesome detail the circumstances of her parents' deaths, how she had been left traumatised by the evils committed in her childhood home. She told her history as though it were a bedtime story, with an excitement that wasn't reasonable, a glimmer in her eyes that Elisabeth couldn't discern, a lilt to her voice that seemed strange and inappropriate.

"Our darling Elisabeth and her brother both grew up in a broken home," she began in a storyteller's voice. "Their lives were riddled with a deep hopelessness, a desperation that seeped into their bones, and an innate fear of men."

"Not true." Elisabeth smacked her head on the tabletop.

She didn't need to look up to know that Ms. Porter had sent her a nasty glare, no doubt to keep her from interrupting the tale she believed was her right to tell.

"The man they called their father was a drunk," she continued. "He would often come home after a night at the bar and hit his wife or yell at the children."

"That's awful," Emily gasped. Even though Elisabeth had closed her eyes, letting the darkness that dwelt behind her eyelids take over, she still had the urge to roll her eyes at the dramatics her life seemed to inspire.

"Alexander wasn't his child, you see," Ms. Porter said. "He was a child of infidelity, sharing the same mother as Elisabeth but not the same father. When he found out he wasn't his, he was livid."

"Livid," Elisabeth repeated, chuckling. "Good word. Nice touch." She heard someone tut at her.

"He killed his wife in cold blood," Ms. Porter said. "He took an axe from the toolshed and attacked her one night while she was up late, waiting for him to come home."

Elisabeth heard Emily suck in a sharp breath, the soft murmurs of her husband as he tried to calm her. She felt sick. This was her trauma, her life, and they were telling it like some fictional tale around a campfire, crying along with her as if they understood.

"Both Alexander and Elisabeth saw her dismembered body on the living room carpet, but it was poor sweet Elisabeth who found her father hung from the ceiling of his bedroom. And on the walls, written in blood, were the words…" She paused for dramatic effort. Elisabeth heard the groan of the furniture as she leaned closer and whispered, "I am free."

The chair creaked again as she leaned back slowly, no doubt impressed with her performance, but Elisabeth cringed inwardly at the lie she had told. She remembered Ms. Porter telling her that she didn't need to worry about the past. She snuck into Sister Constance's office one night and stole her file, falsified some information, slipped it back into the filing cabinet.

I'm doing you a kindness, she said to her, you don't want Alexander to grow up with the consequences of what happened that night, do you?

Elisabeth shook her head. No, ma'am.

Ms. Porter stroked her hair caringly, smiling down prettily at the younger girl. Her face was rounder back then, her skin glowier, her eyes wide with fear and a childish naivety she had outgrown.

Try to make some friends here, Ms. Porter told her. You're a sweet girl, I know you can do it. It will make the pain easier to bear.

Elisabeth nodded. Yes, ma'am.

Good girl. Ms. Porter pulled her black gloves back on, plucked up her sunglasses from a nearby table. She liked to tell everyone they were a designer brand but Elisabeth knew they were fake. Her mother had real ones. She stole them, but that wasn't the point.

Are you leaving? Elisabeth asked her, the terror in her voice poorly hidden as she held her younger brother close to her chest, voice wavering.

Ms. Porter paused by the door, smiling gently. I have places to be, she told her, and I won't stay here with you forever. I'm not your mother, Elisabeth. She nodded her head down the hall, jerking her chin towards the drab insides of the house from which Elisabeth could hear childish squeals of delight and the low quiet hum of bored conversation. Go make some friends. She smiled gently, pushed her forwards a little. Go on, dear.

She smiled widely until Elisabeth turned hesitantly, and watched her continue into the common room, disappearing behind the door with one last look of terror directed to the older woman.

Ms. Porter walked out the door, and was never quite so pleasant again.

"So you see, their tale is truly one of pain and suffering," Ms. Porter said. "Growing up in a home filled with such sins; infidelity and lust, domestic violence, murder. We can hardly expect them to be unscarred."

"Can I leave yet?" Elisabeth groaned into the table.

"You can sit up," Sister Constance said, "and deal with this like the adult you will soon be."

Elisabeth forced herself to sit upright, folding her arms over her chest.

"Why did you lie last night?" Sam asked her.

"What did she say?"

"That she killed her parents," Mr. Uley said, before focusing on her again. "Why did you lie, Elisabeth?"

She shrugged, avoiding eye contact. Telling the truth wouldn't help her get out of this house, and lying would only create more problems. "The rest of it was true."

Mr. Uley looked away from her. His eyes darted between Sister Constance's worn face and Ms. Porter's easy smile. "What do you recommend?"

"Euthanasia."

"Lucy!" Sister Constance scolded, horrified. "How dare you come into this house and speak like that!"

"It was a joke." Ms. Porter shrugged off her anger. "But. we must know their faults so that we may correct them."

"And what are the faults of these two poor unfortunate children?"

Ms. Porter smirked, turning towards Mrs. Uley. "Can I smoke in here?"

"No."

She pulled out a cigarette anyway, ignoring Emily's protests, and placed it between her lips as she searched her bag for her lighter. "Their faults? Well, birth, I suppose," she said around the cigarette, looking over at Sister Constance. "Do you really believe people become bad over time?"

Silence greeted her.

Her eyes flickered up. "Well, do you?" she pressed, glaring sharply around the table. "Elisabeth?"

Elisabeth met her gaze levelly, ignoring the irritation simmering away in Ms. Porter's eyes. "Yes," she said. "I do."

Ms. Porter shook her head as she laughed and continued to dig around in her purse. "No, dear, all bad people are born bad," she corrected, pulling out a little plastic lighter and flicking it to light her cigarette. "Sometimes it just takes a while for them to realise it."

"Mrs. Uley said you can't smoke in here." Elisabeth snatched the lit cigarette and dumped it in Ms. Porter's coffee.

Her caseworker looked up at her with wide eyes. "Elisabeth," she gasped, "what dreadful manners!"

"You can't smoke in someone else's house."

"You're an insolent little-"

"Ladies," Sister Constance interrupted, voice stern. "Enough."

Neither apologised, instead refusing to look at each other.

Sister Constance took another long moment to glare at the both of them disapprovingly, before turning her attention back to the Uleys. "I would recommend therapy, Mr. Uley," she said calmly, "but Elisabeth is… not very fond of the idea."

"I'd rather drown in a lake," she said, jerking her head towards Ms. Porter, "and I'll gladly take this one along with me."

"Elisabeth," Sister Constance scolded, and the girl withered under her stare.

"We don't want to force Elisabeth into doing anything she doesn't want to," Emily said.

"Patience," Sister Constance said, "is the most important virtue to practice."

"If you want to die unaccomplished, then sure," Ms. Porter said, "but sometimes you just have to force things."

Sister Constance gave the Uleys a pointed look, shaking her head as she smiled. Elisabeth cringed at the foolish analogy she knew was approaching - it was the same comparison she drew every time. "To have a daughter," she began, and Elisabeth felt her eyes sliding to the back of her skull, "is to have a delicate rose growing in your garden."

"Oh my g-"

"You must gently nurture it if you want to to watch it bloom," Sister Constance continued, ignoring Ms. Porter as she rubbed her temples almost aggressively. "If you're too forceful it will wither, and you will be pricked by its thorns too."

"This is why you need to resign," Ms. Porter sighed. "Old age is making you loopy. Nobody cares for your silly little analogies."

"Nobody cares for your hairstyle either," Elisabeth muttered, leaning back in her chair so that it rocked on its back two legs, "but I think that's rather obvious, don't you?"

"Why anybody would want to keep you in their home is beyond my comprehension!"

"Well, why you're unmarried isn't beyond mine!" Elisabeth countered. "You're a bitch and nobody could ever love you!"

Ms. Porter's jaw dropped, her eyes widening, and there was an awful moment of silence that followed.

"Elisabeth, apologise," Sam said sternly.

"No," Elisabeth refused, "I won't. She's a bitch and everybody knows it."

Ms. Porter said nothing as she stood up. She just glared at Elisabeth, probably wishing she would spontaneously combust, as she snatched up her things. She stormed out of the room without another word, and seconds later Elisabeth heard her car engine start.

The group sat in stunned silence, the Uleys staring at Elisabeth, Sister Constance staring at the surface of the table, and Elisabeth refusing to look at any of them.

"Do you have a phone I could use?" Sister Constance asked after a long moment, her voice frail as she scooped up the papers from Elisabeth's file, sweeping them into the manilla folder. "I'm afraid that we came together, and since she left…"

"I'll call you a taxi," Sam said, standing from the table and leaving the room.

Sister Constance didn't speak to Elisabeth when she left, didn't say goodbye. She realised she had never been so disappointed and disgusted with her before. Elisabeth watched through the window of her bedroom as Sam walked her out to the taxi, as Sister Constance climbed into the back seat, as Sam leaned into the passenger window to hand the driver some money.

She watched as the car pulled away, drove off down the street, and Sam turned around. His eyes met Elisabeth's through the window. He stared at her for a few long seconds and then ducked his head, walking up to the house. She heard the front door slam, and then nothing for the rest of the day.

Though nobody had said it, Elisabeth knew that she had been confined to her room, shunned and thrown into the equivalent of a timeout corner. She knew from the way that Emily did not call her down to lunch, but rather brought up a plate of mac and cheese, and a can of soda sometime later.

She tried to sit on the edge of the bed, to engage with Elisabeth, to talk to her, but she would have none of it. She stared back at her blankly, her gaze empty if not curious, wondering silently why she was even bothering.

Emily left each time she came with the same result. Crippling silence.

She sought comfort in her kitchen, an escape from the twisting in her gut, the warning she got before a storm. Leaning over the sink, she watched as cold water ran over her hands and down the drain, seeing only the absent look on Elisabeth's face when she had entered her room, the lack of recognition as she stared at her. It was like looking into a void, a bottomless pit. There was something haunting about her total resignation, the hopelessness of being trapped in a room according to nobody's command but her own.

"Should I be worried?"

Emily jumped as she heard the low rumble of her husband's voice beside her, hand fluttering up to her throat as she gave him a weak smile. "I didn't hear you," she said, turning off the tap and drying her hands on a nearby tea towel.

Sam hummed, snaking his arms around her waist and dipping his head to press a kiss to her shoulder. "Well, you know what they say…"

"I really don't."

His arms tightened as he began to assault every inch of exposed skin within reach with small pecks. "That's good," he said, "because neither do I."

Emily laughed, pushing away his arms. "You're so weird," she snorted. "Behave, and maybe I'll make fried chicken later."

He held up his hands in surrender and went to sit on the other side of the counter, resting his elbows on the clean benches as he leaned forwards. He watched his wife with keen interest as she moved about the kitchen, reaching into cabinets and then into the depths of the fridge for things he honestly had no idea how she transformed into deliciousness.

"Are you staring?" Emily raised an eyebrow as she placed all the ingredients on the bench, pushing up the sleeves of her jumper.

"Maybe."

"Remember I'm the one with the knife," she said, smirking, "so you better behave."

"Sorry, Mrs. Uley," Sam muttered, ignoring the dramatic eye roll her wife offered him. She was over him calling her that, but for him it still held the same sweet ring as it had the first night he called her that. He watched for some time as she chopped fruit with an increasing level of agitation - an exercise that she had begun carefully became something reckless quickly, and the knife hitting the chopping board loudly had every muscle in his body taut and ready to spring over the bench. "What are you thinking about?"

"You."

"Liar," he snorted. "Tell me what's wrong."

She took a deep breath and put the knife down, much to Sam's pleasure. "It's about what Ms. Porter said."

"Why do you care what she said? She's-"

"I know," his wife said quickly, "but she must have some qualifications and she must know something. What if…"

Sam cocked an eyebrow as Emily hesitated, silently prodding her to continue.

"I mean, do you think Alexander will remember it?"

He sighed, frowning as he shifted in his seat. "No. He was too young."

"But it must have been traumatic. What if he does?"

"Then we help him," Sam said easily. "We help both of them. That's our duty."

Emily nodded, looking down at the cutting board. "You're right," she said, swallowing. "I just… it must have been so horrible for them to find their mother like that. And Elisabeth…"

"All we can do is try our best."

His wife huffed in frustration, turning away from him. "Why haven't I seen any of the pack raiding my fridge recently?"

"I may have told them to stay away for a while."

Emily frowned. "Our home is theirs too. You know how it goes, Sam."

"I know. I just thought it might be better until they both settle in."

"I don't think that's going to happen," Emily told him, smiling sadly as she kicked the fridge door shut. "I think they need something normal in their lives. A dinner party."

"Babe, I have some bad news." Sam stood up, coming around the counter to stand behind her.

"And what's that?"

His hands came to rest on her shoulders as he leaned forwards to whisper in her ear. "There's nothing normal about our lives," he murmured, hot breath hitting the shell of her ear and sending a wave of tingles down her spine. "If they need normal, we're not it."

He reached over her to steal a piece of sliced apple, dodging the hand she swung at him with jokingly. He rushed out the kitchen grinning, happy to hear his wife laughing for the first time all day.