Jezebel (26 page)
Authors: K. Larsen
Annabelle
“Let me find out what you hide. Way down there deep inside.”
~ Let Me, Phoebe Killdeer & The Short Straws
Annabelle sat with bated breath waiting for Jezebel’s next line. It never came. Jezebel appeared frozen in time. Her hand clutched her shirt at her chest. Her eyes were blank, staring ahead yet taking nothing in, her expression flat.
“Jez?” Annabelle said.
Jezebel snapped to from whatever state she was stuck in. She shook her head and blinked as if trying to clear away cobwebs. “Yes, dear?”
Annabelle gave her a wide-eyed look, “You kinda zoned out on me there.”
“My mind, it gets . . . what’s the word?” Jezebel wrinkled her face in concentration. “Lost. I get lost.”
Jezebel’s behavior scared Annabelle. Most of the time, Annabelle thought she didn’t really belong in Glenview, but right now she couldn’t deny that Jezebel seemed off. She frowned at her thoughts. She didn’t want Jezebel to deteriorate. She was so full of life, so challenging—it would be heartbreaking to watch her slide into a state of bland lifeless nothing. “It’s okay,” she said and smiled.
“Where were we?” Jezebel asked and gave her a bright, but bemused smile.
Looking to the clock Annabelle observed it was nearing time to leave. “It’s about time for me to meet Mark for my ride home,” she said. Jezebel glanced at the clock before nodding. Annabelle stood and stretched her limbs, feeling the delicious pop in her back as she leaned side to side. She approached Jezebel, bent at the waist and embraced her in a hug.
“Can’t wait till next week,” she whispered in her ear.
Jezebel rubbed a hand between her shoulder blades. “Me either, sweet beet.”
~
***
~
Annabelle sat on the counter humming and swinging her feet as if she were a kid again. Her father chopped peaches for her favorite dessert. With every slice of the knife blade, a portion of the peach fell away revealing orange flesh under the fuzzy skin.
“Belle,” her father called over the music filtering through the speaker. “Take over.” He motioned for her to take the knife from him. She hopped off the counter too quickly, wincing at a hard landing into the reality that she was not a small child anymore, and took the knife from her father’s hand.
Slicing peaches, Annabelle watched from the corner of her eye as her dad flipped a hotcake onto a plate, the action instantaneously followed by the sizzle of a fresh dab of butter in the skillet and a generous amount of batter. Peering over her father’s shoulder, she saw the perfect discs of batter cook. Butter snapped underneath them and looked a little browner than normal. Annabelle silently wondered if her favorite addition, bacon grease, had been added.
She watched as he slipped the spatula under the little rounds and, with a flick of his wrist, revealed golden undersides smelling of butter and ever so slightly of bacon.
Definitely bacon grease.
She smiled to herself and returned to chopping peaches.
“Who taught you how to cook?” she asked as she popped the peach cobbler into the oven.
“My mother.”
“What was she like?” Annabelle asked.
Her father sighed and planted his butt on the seat of a stiff wooden stool at the kitchen bar. “She was like summer,” he started. “Always baking treats, and yelling at me to wash up for something.”
Like summer,
Annabelle thought. What a perfect way to describe someone. Summer felt like warmth and bright skies and cool evening breezes.
“Do you miss her?”
“Sure, sometimes,” her father answered. “Why?”
“Because I . . . I don’t really notice Mom’s absence now.” It was a rotten thing to say but it was also the truth. Her father stared at her a long moment before rounding the island and pulling her into his chest. Annabelle stiffened and held her breath. When was the last time he had hugged her? When was the last time they had any sort of tender moment like this? She wasn’t sure what to do, how to react, so she stood woodenly in his arms.
“You’ll burn the hotcakes,” she mumbled into his chest. He pulled back and gazed down at her for a moment before nodding and tending to the frying pan. Annabelle slumped with relief.
“Plates out, breakfast for dinner is ready,” he called out. Annabelle grinned and set two plates at the bar top. Breakfast for dinner was the best.
~
***
~
Annabelle’s cellphone bleated. It startled her. She found it strange that six months ago she couldn’t go thirty minutes without using or checking her phone for something. But now, finally having technology at her disposal again, she found she didn’t really enjoy it. She’d coveted her phone, her laptop ever since she’d had them, but now scrolling through her newsfeeds on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter and all the other pointless apps she’d used daily made her feel disconnected and despondent. She’d spent the better part of the last four months technology free and had built a different set of values in that short time.
She found she preferred her face-to-face interactions over the anonymity that the Internet offered. She felt connected and alive
in person
now. She stared at the blinking light on her phone and sighed. She really didn’t want to be tethered to it ever again. It served as nothing more than a time-suck these days, and she found it a boring one at that.
Foregoing the notification she switched her phone to silent and tucked it in the outermost pocket of her purse. Whatever it was could wait. She had a living, breathing person to see.
“What’s shaking sport?” Jezebel greeted, an easy smile on her face.
Annabelle shook her head and chuckled. “What’s with all the nicknames?”
Jezebel half-shrugged. “They add flare.”
Annabelle rolled her eyes and set her things down. “Can’t argue that,” she said.
“Did you have decent week?” Jezebel asked.
Annabelle took her seat and smiled. “You know what?” she started, “I did. Great even.”
Jezebel smiled widely and clapped her hands together. “Fabulous, kid.”
“Not to be greedy, Jez, but I’m dying to know what happens next,” Annabelle said, excitement lacing her voice.
“Ah, and we’ve arrived,” Jezebel said.
“At what?”
“At the
good
part,” Jezebel answered.
Annabelle laughed. Indeed they had. She was more invested in the story now than ever. “Please don’t keep me waiting. Please.”
“Greedy little thing aren’t you?”
Annabelle speared Jezebel with a look.
“Is there any Mark news?”
“Stop stalling woman!” she laughed.
“Hmm. I suppose your cheery disposition leaves me no choice but to indulge you. Paris, nineteen ninety-four.”
Annabelle grinned and relaxed in her spot.
Celeste
Paris 1994
April
Celeste’s emotions were raw, the line between composure and tears thin. Thoughts rolled around her head endlessly. Her world had fallen apart in matter of days. The impossible seemed possible and that terrified her. She moved on auto-pilot across the study and sat heavily in a chair.
“Cece,” Matteo called. She waved a hand at him to stop. She needed everything to stop-the noise, the motion, everything. It was spiraling around her like a tornado. She felt dizzy. It was as though she was outside herself, watching. A man she regarded as family was dead. A man who was, so it seemed, actually family. Her husband was clearly having an affair, possibly bringing a child into the world with someone other than her. And now, she was going to have to confront her parents and ask them the most ludicrous question she’d ever conjured: was she adopted? She wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all. She imagined it-a maniacal laugh, one of a woman gone mad.
A large, firm hand clamped around her jaw and drew her head back, her eyes forced upward. Matteo had a cigarette dangling from his lips, a habit he routinely denied still having these days. He must be very frazzled to be smoking in front of her now, indoors no less. “Cece, please,
fiore mio,
what is going on in that head of yours?” he asked. “I know something is wrong. I gave you space but you look . . .
non lo so
-
alla deriva.
”
I don’t know-adrift,
he said.
Celeste felt foolish trying to spare her closest friend from her woes. Of course he would notice.
“Gabriel is sleeping with Monique—I’m
almost
positive. It appears I may be adopted and a close friend just passed away,” she stated robotically. Matteo dropped her chin and sat on the floor beside her chair, head in his hands.
“I’m so sorry Cece. So sorry,” he said softly. The words struck her as odd, almost insulting. She was no weakling who broke under the weight of stress. She straightened in her chair. Bristled.
“I’m not. I’m not sorry at all. It’s not the end of the world. I can talk to Gabriel about it. We will work it out.” Celeste’s mind shut down, denial and avoidance taking root in her head.
“Cece . . .” Matteo tried, but let his thought drop off.
“I can handle this,” she resolved, waving a hand through the air. “All of this.” She inhaled deeply, sucking the air in before pushing it out forcefully. Standing, she strode to the door and picked up a trash bag. “Get up,” she commanded. “There’s a lot to do.”
Matteo gave her a pitiful look. Angst and denial and grief—for her. Wordlessly he stood, snatching the bag from her. “You start there,” he said and pointed to the corner near a closet.
Unable to execute her decision on her own, Matteo’s direction was appreciated and followed. She wandered to the corner, picking up scattered papers along the way. She shuffled through them, deciding what to keep and what should be trashed. She opened the closet door and flicked the light on. Stacked along the left wall were boxes. She tried lifting one and gasped at the weight.
What the hell could weigh so much?
“Need help?” Matteo asked.
“Looks like it.”
Matteo took the box from her arms just before she dropped it. He set it on the floor and pulled the top open. “Framed pictures. All pictures,” he said. He lifted one from the box and dusted the glass off. “Cece look, it’s his wife.”
Celeste leaned over him and took the photo from him while he dug another and another from the box. Dr. B’s wife was stunning. Her long black hair shined in the photo and she had a perfect smattering of freckles over the bridge of her nose. Her smile was warm and bright and her eyes shone with love as she laughed at her husband. Matteo coughed and tried to stick a frame back in the box.
“What is it?” she asked.
“A family photo,” he said slowly. He sounded unsure. Obviously he would know whether or not it was a family photo.
“Matteo, give it here, I want to see,” she complained and reached over him. His hand came down on hers, roughly stopping her motion.
“I don’t think right now’s the time for this,” he said firmly.
Ignoring him she pulled the frame out and gasped. Standing arm in arm, Dr. B, his wife, and a younger woman who was the spitting image of Celeste stared back at her. She ran her fingertip over the younger woman’s face. Dr. B had said she reminded him of someone years ago. Now she understood. Staring back at her through the pane of glass was Dr. B’s daughter. There was no doubt in Celeste’s mind that this woman was her mother. It would be uncanny if it wasn’t. The resemblance was too strong. She knelt on the floor and rummaged through the box further almost rabid in her need to see more.
Picture after picture after picture of Dr. B’s daughter, of his granddaughter- Celeste-as an infant, as a toddler. It was her. She was his. The world fainted left then right in her head. She fought to get air. Dimly in the recesses of her mind she could hear Matteo’s voice. She couldn’t understand his words while she stared at undeniable proof that she was not who she thought she was. She was not Celeste Fontaine. No. She wasn’t even Celeste Fogarty.
She squeezed the frame tightly in her hand. The pane of glass cracked under the intense pressure of her fingers. Blood smeared the glass as it slowly trickled from the cut on Celeste’s finger. She felt like she’d taken a punch to the head and was still clearing cobwebs. She squinted. Opened her eyes. Squinted again.
“Cece . . .
please,
” Matteo begged somewhere far away. A switch snapped in her mind.
“What?” She turned to look at him. Worry etched lines in his face and it concerned her.
“You’re bleeding,
fiore mio,
let me clean you up.” His voice was smooth, gentle and comforting. She looked down. She was. When had that happened? She nodded absently and took his outstretched hand. She couldn’t be getting blood on everything.
Laugh or cry? She wasn’t sure what was about to erupt from her.
Annabelle
“Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind. I feel there’s something’s been left behind. Don’t be scared now and don’t delay, I assure you’ll be ok.”
~ Let Me, Phoebe Killdeer & The Short Straws
Annabelle studied Jezebel. Each fine wrinkle seemed to tell a story. Stories of happiness, sorrow and joy. Jezebel presented herself with so much poise and confidence Annabelle envied her. She wanted to emulate Jezebel’s demeanor.
“Intense,” Annabelle breathed after a long moment of silence.
Jezebel’s face snapped to hers. “Yes,” she stated. “It was, wasn’t it?”
Annabelle nodded her head. “I better get going.”
“Alright kid.”
Annabelle stood and collected her things before wandering down the corridor toward the parking lot. She thought of Celeste and Matteo and Dr. B and Gabriel and wondered briefly if Jezebel was simply an exceptional storyteller or if the story was in fact true. She resolved to Google Celeste Fontaine after dinner. She smiled then, happy that her father and she had started a new tradition. For the past three weeks they had started cooking dinner together. They cooked together, ate together and cleaned up afterward together. It was easy and comfortable and the closest Annabelle had felt to her father in years.
Mark sat on the tailgate of his truck waiting. Upon spotting her, a grin took over his face and Annabelle’s heart took flight. She took him in as she approached. His well-defined jaw, his clear skin and sparkling eyes. The hair that fell in his eyes every so often. The way his forearms flexed as he pushed it out of his face. Never had she felt so continuously elated to see someone. Week after week it never waned.
“Hello there beautiful,” he greeted as his arms wrapped around her. She inhaled his scent as she squeezed him to her in return.
“Hi,” she said. He leaned down and touched his lips to hers in a gentle, tender kiss.
“I missed you.”
“Oh?”
“Don’t play coy with me, you missed me too,” he said. Annabelle smirked and kissed him again.
“I did.”
“What’s tomorrow like for you? I’m off tomorrow and thought we could do something.”
“For you? I’m wide open,” she said.
“Wide open huh?” She swatted his shoulder playfully and nodded. “Good. Pick you up ‘round ten then,” he said and waggled his eyebrows.
Annabelle laughed. “Get in the truck, Romeo.”
~
***
~
Annabelle realized she had no documentation of Jezebel’s and her time together beyond her own memories, and that wouldn’t do. She’d scoured the Internet looking for any truth in Celeste Fontaine’s life. Celeste did exist. She found a marriage certificate to Gabriel Fontaine online. Her parents had owned a pharmaceutical company named FogPharm that was long since dissolved. Beyond that, there wasn’t much for information. Anything before nineteen ninety-four was available but there seemed to be no information or proof of their lives after that point.
As she waltzed into Jezebel’s room she made a note to ask the woman about her findings. But first, she wanted to have a little fun.
“Hey there tiger,” Jezebel said.
“Hi.”
“You look . . . dare I say it, happy today,” Jezebel said dryly. Annabelle laughed at her delivery.
“I am,” she answered kicking off her shoes as she rummaged through her purse. Finding her phone she held it up victoriously and smirked.
“What the hell is
that
face for?” Jezebel asked, a weary look on her face.
“We are going to have some fun,” she started. “I want some pictures of you and me together.”
“Oh, no no no,” Jezebel clucked, looking horrified.
“OH, yes yes yes,” Annabelle answered. She walked to Jezebel and perched on the arm of her chair, leaning her head in near Jezebel’s. “We’re taking a series of selfies together.”
“What the hell is a selfie?” Jezebel balked.
“Okay, it’s like this, we make faces at the camera. There’s duck face, where you make your pursed lips sexy and your eyes sultry.” Annabelle demonstrated the expression while Jezebel laughed at it heartily.
“You look ridiculous!” Jezebel squawked.
“Then there’s sparrow face-open your eyes as wide as possible, and then you make your mouth like a chirping sparrow,” she continued, unfazed by Jezebel’s ribbing. “Frog face is where you stick your tongue out sideways and squint, and fish lips is the duck face move that requires you to suck in a little bit of your cheek. Well, expects you to
completely
suck it in, like you would like to swallow your face until it disappears.” Annabelle laughed trying to demonstrate.
Jezebel struggled to catch her breath as she doubled over laughing loudly. Annabelle snapped a picture, it was perfect. Jezebel’s hair cascaded over one shoulder, her eyes crinkled at the edges and her smile filled her entire face.
“Please,” Annabelle pleaded and gave Jezebel her best puppy dog face.
“You’ll have to explain them again, but why the hell not!” Annabelle squealed and flipped the camera on her phone to front facing before she explained, again, the different faces to make.
By the time they’d run through them all they were both hysterical with laughter. The reel of pictures she’d captured were priceless and it warmed Annabelle’s heart to know that she would always have a piece of Jezebel with her wherever she went.
“My God, child, you should delete those. I don’t want anyone seeing me with any of those faces—ever,” Jezebel said while fixing her hair. She swept it up and off her neck and secured it in a neat bun at the nape of her neck. Effortlessly as always.
Annabelle went wide-eyed. “Never. I’m printing them all and plastering my locker with them when I get to school,” she proclaimed.
Jezebel chuckled and shook her head at Annabelle. “You’re a silly girl, a very silly girl. It’s much better than the bad attitude shithead that first showed up here.”
Annabelle’s jaw dropped before she could think better of her reaction. “You are still a mean old woman,” she retorted.
The two stared at each other a moment before dissolving into giggles again.
“We’ve wasted enough precious time today and there is much to tell you still. Are you ready for Celeste?” Jezebel asked.
Annabelle chugged her water before setting the empty glass on the side table. “Yes. Oh! I have questions—remind me before I go,” Annabelle said.
Jezebel nodded her head and thought in silence a moment.
“Paris, nineteen ninety-four.”