“But what about Kyle? From what I’ve heard, you were only pregnant once. He’s claiming he is the child you bore and that his father was Isaiah Boudreau. Are you saying he isn’t your child, and that I am?”
“No, that’s not what I’m saying. I understand this is going to come as a shock. I promise that I’ve done all I could do to protect you and Kyle. He goes by Isaiah now. That was his decision, not mine.”
“You were pregnant twice? Both times you gave birth to Isaiah Boudreau’s child?”
“No. I had one pregnancy. It was difficult. I won’t lie to you. I nearly died.”
The car was moving slower along a less traveled lane.
She went on, “That was what he wanted, for me to die, my children too. I was a reminder he didn’t want. He was wrong. You see...even evil intentions can produce good.”
I had the memory of Rett telling me that I was good, that evil doesn’t always produce evil; it can produce good. My stomach twisted as I spoke. “He raped you.” I didn’t ask the question. I knew the answer.
Jezebel smiled as she lifted her chin. “Good for you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“No, you do. You understand because you’re a woman. It took your brother a long time to come to the realization that the two of you were not conceived in some make-believe rendition of a fairy tale. The Brothers Grimm understood what fairy tales were, not what Disney has transformed them to be. The tales they wrote were dark and unnerving because that’s what life is. As women, Emma, we must know that truth deep in our souls. The charms I left you were to protect you because I wasn’t there; the O’Briens were gone. I couldn’t leave you alone, so I offered you to the spirits to protect as I had done since before you were born.”
I wasn’t noticing the increased darkness or the dense foliage beyond the car’s windows. My attention was focused on the woman speaking.
“Women like your husband’s mother, they chose to ignore or maybe they refused to see the darkness. Either way, those women aren’t better for it. They spend their lives with blinders on that limit their opportunities.” Her smile grew as her blue eyes opened wide and she stared into my gaze. “I should have known it would be my daughter who would fulfill the prophecy.”
I was still trying to comprehend what Jezebel was saying about being conceived; the spirits’ protection, fairy tales, and dark realities were beyond my current understanding. “I’m your daughter.”
Jezebel nodded.
“Kyle isn’t your child.”
“The two of you shared my womb.”
She was saying we were twins.
The car bounced as the tires left pavement and drove over uneven packed earth.
“No,” I said in response, shaking my head. “Kyle’s older. Eight months. Our mother never explained it. Once I learned I was adopted, I assumed he was the biological child of the O’Briens.”
Jezebel sighed and waved her beringed fingers. “I’ll share more. We’re almost home, and I need to rest.”
The trees opened enough for sunlight to enter. An old large plantation-style home came into view. I held my breath as I took it in. The architecture reminded me of the Old South as if it would be depicted in a movie. Trees filled the landscape, momentarily blocking the view. As we got closer, I felt the chill from earlier as a sense of foreboding settled into my bones.
“You see,” Jezebel said, “I rarely go out among so many souls. It’s so loud hearing their pleas. However, I’d come to the conclusion that if I wanted something done right, I needed to be present myself.” As the car came to a stop, her eyes closed and opened, and she took a deep breath. “This is right, Emma. It’s what the spirits wanted all along. It has taken twenty-six years and four months, but now, I feel the relief that has been missing from my soul.” She waited until the driver came around and opened her door.
He hadn’t said a word, and his silence continued as he offered his hand for her to step out.
Jezebel’s fingers curled, gesturing for me to follow.
I pushed the gift she’d given me into the pocket of my slacks.
As Jezebel stood upon the ground, golden bracelets that must have been up in her sleeve in the car jingled from her wrists. Her colorful long dress unfurled in the humid air and combs with colored jewels glistened in her long gold hair. Her appearance reminded me of a priestess in the French Quarter.
Once we were both standing on the packed-dirt driveway, Jezebel reached for my hand.
Before she could speak, my focus went to where our hands were connected. Her multiple rings glistened. That wasn’t what had my attention. It was that despite the oppressive heat around us, Jezebel’s hand was ice cold.
When I tried to pull away, her grip tightened. “This is where you belong,” she said.
“I don’t...”