to light and guard

chapter five

When Lana awoke the next morning, morning light gray through the window, she was nestled in the crook of Mary Eunice's body. Spooning with a damn nun. I can cross that off the bucket list. Their hands had clasped around her chest, and she worked to lift Mary Eunice's arm without waking her. As she slid from the bed, she replaced her body with a pillow for Mary Eunice to hug. This would go much more smoothly if she managed to escape while Mary Eunice slept; she could leave a note, and Mary Eunice would never suspect otherwise.

Of course, she had prepared a lie, but she didn't want to lie to her face, didn't want to pin that dishonesty upon her sleeve, didn't want to insert the secret in their friendship. Lana had so few people who she trusted intimately and totally. The thought of violating the honesty, the faith, that she and Mary Eunice had established so far made her belly ache. She closed the door to the bathroom to block the light and brushed her hair and her teeth, touched her face with makeup to add a little color to her gray complexion. Nervousness quelled in her chest. This nightmare will be over soon. She pinched the sides of the counter and gazed at her reflection in the mirror, scrubbed clean by Mary Eunice. Her tired eyes, drawn lips, made her wonder if the nightmare would ever end, or if she had found the transitional period between one frightening moment and the next.

Pulse quickening as the seconds ticked onward, Lana left the bathroom and picked through the chest of drawers in silence to find an outfit. Mary Eunice had rolled over, back to Lana, and drawn the covers up over her head; none of her golden hair appeared from beneath them. She looks cold. Lana worried her lower lip as she slipped into a pair of pants and a long—sleeved shirt. What if she has a nightmare? What if she faints again? She took the notepad off of her nightstand and scrawled a note.

"I have an appointment this morning. I'll be back by noon. Keep the door and windows locked." Lana nibbled on the back of her pen while she considered what else to add. "If there's an emergency, call the operator. Stay warm." She signed her name and placed it on the nightstand where she hoped Mary Eunice would find it when she awoke. A horrifying vision slinked into her brain—a shadowy man sneaking around the house, busting in the door, stealing a defenseless Mary Eunice or stabbing her or raping her or all of those things—Oh, for god's sake, Lana, chill out. A large lump budded in her throat, and she forced herself to leave the bedroom without stealing a second glance back at the sleeping woman. Nothing would hurt Mary Eunice while she was gone, and if she lingered on those suppositions, she would only upset herself.

Rain pattered on the rooftop, another bleary day, and Lana hesitated in the hallway to look at the pictures mounted on the wall. Mary Eunice had dusted them and changed the frames of the ones that had cracked; she could see Wendy's face clearly, if cast in darkness. "I wish you were here now," she whispered. Wind assailed the side of the house. Mary Eunice doesn't like storms. But Lana had resigned herself to this operation, had promised herself that she would not carry Bloody Face's child, and she had promised Wendy, too. What kind of lover was she if she lived in this house that they had bought together, that they had shared as partners, and birthed the son of the man who had skinned Wendy's corpse and stolen her teeth? "I love you."

The wind and the rain outside ate her whispered words. The temperature of the house had dropped, and a cold shiver trickled down her spine. Lana ripped herself from the picture of Wendy and, arms wrapping around her middle, headed up the hall into the living room.

Mary Eunice sat on the couch, on the edge of the cushion, hands in her lap and face pensive. Lana halted in her tracks, and her breath tightened in her throat. "Sister," she greeted. Where did you come from? "I thought you were asleep." Chasing the stiffness out of her voice was a struggle. Her toes curled into the carpet. "I—I have an appointment—"