Royally Matched
Page 13

My mother’s always been soft-spoken, genteel. It’s how she was raised. But quiet shouldn’t be mistaken for weak. Sometimes the most steely resolve is asserted silently.
Stanhope, our butler, takes my coat, shaking off the raindrops that had started to pour down. Mother guides me toward the dining room with her arm around my lower back, the familiar scent of lilies surrounding her. “Tell me, how are things at the library?”
“Awful.”
“Awful? That doesn’t sound right. What happened?”
We join Penny at the table, where she taps at her mobile, texting, and over the first course, I recount my tale of woe. Though our weekly dinners are informal, Penelope is dressed to the nines in a royal-blue cocktail dress that flatters her fair skin and light blond hair, swept back in a gentle knot. She always did like to play dress-up and at twenty-three, she’ll still take any excuse to glam out.
Unlike other mothers in our station, mine has never pushed me to marry well or date—Penelope dates enough for both of us.
When I finish explaining about the presentation, Mother says, “My poor girl. What are you going to do?”
“I don’t really have a choice. I’m going to have to present at the symposium and pray I don’t vomit on the audience or pass out.”
Penny grins, still gazing at her mobile. “Maybe you should cordon off the first few rows, just in case. You can call them the splash-zone seats.”
“That’s helpful, Pen, thank you.”
She looks up. “This could be good for you, you know. Force you out of your comfort zone.”
“The same could be said about your upcoming military service, Penelope,” Mother comments.
In Wessco, every citizen, male or female, is required to serve two years in the military.
Penny dramatically slouches back in her chair, throwing her arms wide like Christ on the cross. “It’s not the same at all! I’ll be a terrible soldier—I’m not cut out for all that marching and climbing and sweating.”
She checks her glittery manicure to make sure she hasn’t chipped a nail from just talking about it. “I tried convincing them to let me serve my time in the WSO.”
The WSO is the Wessco Service Organization—they put on shows and entertain the servicemen. And Penelope has always dreamed of stardom—she’s too short to be a model, but certainly melodramatic enough to be an actress.
“That’s much more my bag. Sparkly outfits and dancing. But, it’s against orders, they said.”
“Yes,” I smirk. “The military likes to have their orders followed. They’re funny like that.”
She sticks her tongue out at me.
Before I can decide which obscene gesture to respond with, thunder claps so loudly outside, the china and crystal rattles on the table.
Rain batters the windows and, seconds later, another boom bursts over the house—this one shaking the walls. A shelf gives way, sending decorative plates and figurines falling to the floor, exploding into shards, like tiny glass grenades.
I close my eyes, but it doesn’t matter—everything goes gray.
I come to gasping. It’s always the way it happens, as if I’ve been held underwater just until I’m on the cusp of drowning.
“There she is,” Mother coos from the chair beside me, while Penelope rubs small circles on my back from the other side.
“It was a long one this time,” Penny says with concern. “Over ten minutes.”
And the familiar shame tightens and squeezes inside me.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“None of that, now,” Mother chides, pressing a cool, damp cloth to my forehead.
“Let’s go into the parlor, Mother,” Penelope says. “Sarah will be more comfortable on the sofa.”
I nod, not concerned with missing the rest of the meal—I think we’ve all lost our appetites. My sister helps me stand, and though my knees are shaky, I give her a smile.
“It’s all right. I’m all right now.”
As soon as I’m seated in the parlor, the downstairs maid, Jenny, puts a glass of brandy in my hand. I sip it slowly.
“I’ve been reading about a new meditation specialist, Sarah. I think you should make an appointment with him,” my mother tells me. “He’s a Buddhist and rumored to be very good.”
Temporary dissociative fugue state is what the doctors call it. Rooted in stress, anxiety, and trauma, triggered by loud noises, most often breaking glass. But it’s inconsistent. There are times when I can hear the sound and have no reaction at all; other times the echo of a single dropped glass in a restaurant can cause me to “blink out.”
It’s not as bad as it could be—for some it can last days or even weeks, and the poor people afflicted wander and act in ways they have no memory of when they come to. My episodes last anywhere from a few seconds to a few minutes. I don’t move or speak—it’s like I’m just gone . . . dead, but still breathing. I’ve tried medication, but it doesn’t really help and the side effects are unpleasant. I’ve tried hypnosis, therapy, acupuncture . . . but they’ve also been mostly ineffective.
“All right, Mother.”
We enjoy our drinks in silence for a few minutes and then Stanhope enters the room.
“There is a visitor, Countess.”
“A visitor?” Mother looks toward the rain-drenched windows. “Who would be out in this mess? Has their car given out?”