the windows in St. John’s Church. She had gone to St. John’s, not certain what she was expecting, but definitely not the old Portuguese worker who only stared at her with a puzzled expression while she looked at the window, numb and grieving for everything she had lost.
Not caring who saw her, she turned and fled, riding her bicycle home, dropping it in the front yard, running inside the house, closing the door to her room behind her. She lay stretched across the bed, sobbing, when her brother came in and put his hand on her back. “It isn’t true,” he said. “They’re not dead. I know.”
Carol looked up at him, wide-eyed in disbelief. How could he say such a thing now?
“It’s a lie,” he repeated.
Carol wanted to hit him, to lash out and make him feel some kind of pain. He was so stupid! She started to turn over, intending to grab his wrist and push him away when a sudden and seemingly adult insight came to her. Alan was too young to understand this tragedy so he simply denied it. If Carol had never seen her mother’s body in the casket, maybe she would have made up the same kind of story as Alan’s.
She relaxed and pulled her brother down on the bed beside her. “They’re somewhere together,” she agreed, drying her eyes, struggling to keep them dry, thinking that at least what she’d just said wasn’t really a lie.
Alan knew for certain that his cousin and Stephen weren’t dead because he dreamed of them almost every night. Although he often tried to speak to them, he always failed. But after he’d shared brief vivid pieces of their life together, he knew they were hiding somewhere far away, somewhere only his mind could take him.
He didn’t know why they were hiding or how he was able to see so vividly the places where they lived. He didn’t question their truth or tell anyone because nobody would believe him.
III
Telling Hillary Dutiel that her father had died was difficult for Rachel Austra. Telling her how he had died was even harder. But, to Rachel’s surprise, explaining where Stephen and Helen had gone, and why, was simple because Hillary already knew most of the important facts.
“My mother told me that Senhor Austra was a young man when she met him. When I came here he was still a young man. I was curious. I listened to stories the glassworkers tell. I thought that if they were true, then perhaps Helen was the same sort of creature as him.”
Rachel smiled, closemouthed. She had only told Hillary that Stephen and Helen did not age like normal people. She had not explained why, at least not yet. Now Hillary was explaining for her.
Hillary continued, “One night when Helen . . . had sex with my father, I pretended to be asleep and then I tiptoed to his door and I watched. I saw her cut him on the shoulder and swallow the blood.”
“Did you tell anyone?” Rachel asked, alarmed.
Hillary shook her head. “I wouldn’t. Senhor Austra has always been kind to me, and Helen too.”
So the girl had simply known she must keep her knowledge a secret! Rachel was stunned by Hillary’s intelligence. “And so you think they are vampires?” Rachel asked.
“No! Those things are evil,” Hillary insisted.
Convinced the girl was ready to hear it, Rachel told her the rest of the Austra story—how they lived forever, why blood and the emotions carried in it sustained them, even the family’s own conjecture that they originated someplace other than earth.
“Where do you come from?” the girl asked without the slightest trace of fear.
“We don’t know. Francis—the oldest of our race—has no memory of a time before earth.”
“Why are you so much like us?”
“We aren’t. Not inside.”
“But Helen is.”
“Helen is different from me as well as from you.”
“Where did she come from?”
Rachel could tell the girl the details of Helen’s strange creation but that wasn’t what the girl had asked. Rachel, who could give her no answer, shook her head and said
Not caring who saw her, she turned and fled, riding her bicycle home, dropping it in the front yard, running inside the house, closing the door to her room behind her. She lay stretched across the bed, sobbing, when her brother came in and put his hand on her back. “It isn’t true,” he said. “They’re not dead. I know.”
Carol looked up at him, wide-eyed in disbelief. How could he say such a thing now?
“It’s a lie,” he repeated.
Carol wanted to hit him, to lash out and make him feel some kind of pain. He was so stupid! She started to turn over, intending to grab his wrist and push him away when a sudden and seemingly adult insight came to her. Alan was too young to understand this tragedy so he simply denied it. If Carol had never seen her mother’s body in the casket, maybe she would have made up the same kind of story as Alan’s.
She relaxed and pulled her brother down on the bed beside her. “They’re somewhere together,” she agreed, drying her eyes, struggling to keep them dry, thinking that at least what she’d just said wasn’t really a lie.
Alan knew for certain that his cousin and Stephen weren’t dead because he dreamed of them almost every night. Although he often tried to speak to them, he always failed. But after he’d shared brief vivid pieces of their life together, he knew they were hiding somewhere far away, somewhere only his mind could take him.
He didn’t know why they were hiding or how he was able to see so vividly the places where they lived. He didn’t question their truth or tell anyone because nobody would believe him.
III
Telling Hillary Dutiel that her father had died was difficult for Rachel Austra. Telling her how he had died was even harder. But, to Rachel’s surprise, explaining where Stephen and Helen had gone, and why, was simple because Hillary already knew most of the important facts.
“My mother told me that Senhor Austra was a young man when she met him. When I came here he was still a young man. I was curious. I listened to stories the glassworkers tell. I thought that if they were true, then perhaps Helen was the same sort of creature as him.”
Rachel smiled, closemouthed. She had only told Hillary that Stephen and Helen did not age like normal people. She had not explained why, at least not yet. Now Hillary was explaining for her.
Hillary continued, “One night when Helen . . . had sex with my father, I pretended to be asleep and then I tiptoed to his door and I watched. I saw her cut him on the shoulder and swallow the blood.”
“Did you tell anyone?” Rachel asked, alarmed.
Hillary shook her head. “I wouldn’t. Senhor Austra has always been kind to me, and Helen too.”
So the girl had simply known she must keep her knowledge a secret! Rachel was stunned by Hillary’s intelligence. “And so you think they are vampires?” Rachel asked.
“No! Those things are evil,” Hillary insisted.
Convinced the girl was ready to hear it, Rachel told her the rest of the Austra story—how they lived forever, why blood and the emotions carried in it sustained them, even the family’s own conjecture that they originated someplace other than earth.
“Where do you come from?” the girl asked without the slightest trace of fear.
“We don’t know. Francis—the oldest of our race—has no memory of a time before earth.”
“Why are you so much like us?”
“We aren’t. Not inside.”
“But Helen is.”
“Helen is different from me as well as from you.”
“Where did she come from?”
Rachel could tell the girl the details of Helen’s strange creation but that wasn’t what the girl had asked. Rachel, who could give her no answer, shook her head and said