Part 28
Andy knows they're not going out to buy clothes or anything else this evening. She feels drained after everything that's happened and, damn it all to hell, she needs to process all this. "Resurrection? Surely this is…you said you were drunk?" She turns to Miranda who still sits on the armrest next to her. "I know. I said I'd keep an open mind, but this…is…" Her voice falters.
"You can accept that I'm more than two-hundred and fifty years old, but not this." Miranda moves over to the couch. She's pale, but her eyes burn like blue fire.
"That's just it." Andy looks at the page before her. "You've had all those years to take things in, little by little, and I have been spoon-fed it over a few days. I feel like I'm losing my mind!" She flings her hands in the air. "Then there's the fact that I'd much rather jump your freaking bones than try to find who's out to kill you!"
Miranda gapes and then the corners of her mouth turn up. Chuckling, she slumps against the backrest. "Now, there's a complaint I can understand."
Andy is appalled at how she just spoke to Miranda, but Miranda's reaction makes her giggle. "This is a bit ridiculous, isn't it? I mean, people talk about May-December romances, but this…" She points at Miranda and then at herself. "This is—"
"Ridiculous." Miranda has stopped laughing, but the smile is still in place. "We approach all this from such different viewpoints. I try to protect you—from myself and those who are out to harm me—and, at the same time, I desperately want you to believe me. To understand. It's all asking too much. I know this."
"I just need some time to grasp things. This, what did you call it, ledger? This ledger is shock full of journal entries and theories, and facts, and it's like opening a book that leads me into another world. The thing is, I want to be on this journey with you, to help you. My brain just can't keep up, even if my heart does." Andy grips the ledger harder.
"You did speak of romance. And now your heart," Miranda murmurs. "Do you have any idea how painful the presence of hope is to someone like me?"
"What do you mean?" Andy can't bear the physical distance between them. She takes the ledger and moves over to the couch as well, sitting down close to Miranda. Close enough for their thighs to touch.
Miranda places a gentle hand on Andy's knee. "Hope is what we live for. Right? But I stopped taking such chances more than a century ago. I vowed to never fall into the trap of wishing for things that would ultimately shatter me. You see…you have to be selfish when you live a life like mine. You only have yourself because eventually, everyone else dies. And before that happens, when they age in the way you're supposed to, they see that I don't. They realize that something's wrong, that I've lied about something essential. So I have to leave them—unable to stay and care for them during the last years of their existence." There was only anger and sorrow written on Miranda's face now.
"Okay, so there's a major difference when it comes to us then," Andy says and leans her head on Miranda's shoulder for a few moments. "I already know. You have informed me more than you've done with anyone in ages. I go into this with my eyes open, even if I admit I don't know every single intricate detail." She opens the ledger to the page about resurrection and begins to read. "August 14, 1959. Circumstantial Evidence of Resurrection."
Miranda's grip around Andy's knee grows firmer.
"Perhaps it is the booze talking, but all the facts I've collected, have put me on a new path when it comes to the sisters, Trudy and Caroline. To understand what sets them apart, I have to tell the story of how the plague hit us." Pausing, Andy takes Miranda's hand in hers. "Tell me if it gets too much, okay?"
"Very well." Miranda's voice shows little emotion.
"We left London for Liverpool in April 1770, Mother, Father, Corinne, and I, and I remember it was raining. The stagecoach was a nightmare, as the weather was so poor. The horses had problems on parts of the road that had suffered mudslides, and at one point, Father and another gentleman had to go outside and help push it out of the sludge. It took us one extra day to reach Liverpool, six days instead of five, and everyone was relieved when we finally reached the inn. My parents had taken potential delays into considerations and we had two days to rest before we were to go aboard the Fortune.
The ship was crowded with families with children, women, men. We were assigned small quarters, which really only consisted of a hard bed with a drape for some remnant of privacy. We had to sleep in there, all four of us, but we made do. The journey would end up taking thirty days. In the middle of the Atlantic, the first person became ill. Nobody knew why, or what it was, but soon I heard the adults call it a plague. High fever, a rash, loss of appetite, were the first symptoms. The ones who died did so after having been ill for five to seven days. They were all adults or boys. The little girls who got sick, like me, all made it, but it was strange, the adults said because we were the sickest of everyone. We didn't even seem to breathe. My mother kept saying how she was certain I had passed away on the tenth day. I was rigid, cold, and my eyes wouldn't close. She didn't want me to ever learn of this, but Corinne told me after I begged her. So, nine little girls cheat death on the Fortune, and it slows our aging process.
Some facts are indisputable. No girl that had entered puberty was affected this way. No under the age of three either, as far as I know. We all went through the mock-death experience, wherein one case it went so far, my father said they had to stop a family from performing a burial at sea for their little girl.
What if we were in some suspended animation—a fake death—and what if something happened to us then? To our brains? To our entire system? Who knows what type of virus, bacteria, fungus, or parasite this was? Perhaps I could find out if I allowed for medical science to draw blood and examine me? The thing is, of course, that they'd be much more likely to put me away in a psychiatric ward and throw away the key. I'll be damned if I'm going to spend eternity—quite literally—in such a place."
Andy stops reading and just stare at the text for a moment, before turning to Miranda. "And now you wonder if Trudy and Caroline might have survived being hung in much the same way. Being fake dead, and then waking up again? But even so? Why would they come after you—and why now? It's been a while."
"It has. And your questions are valid. These two hated the rest of us. They didn't want to 'conform' and they apparently blamed us for the fact they were arrested and tried for their crimes. According to the woman who wrote me poste restante, they swore to take us down with them. Back then I thought, what if they meant it? What if that became their agenda—if they survived the hangings?"
"It's a theory. And I don't blame you for grasping for straws." Andy puts the ledger away and pulls Miranda into her arms. Feeling rigid at first, Miranda then melts into Andy, pulling her legs up under her. "We'll figure it out. We're going to run our errands in the morning and also visit the library. Why don't we order room service and then catch up on some sleep? It's been a long day."
"It has." Miranda seems reluctant to move. "I don't think I've ever felt this…lost? It's as if I know exactly what to do one minute, and flailing the next."
"I mostly flail. What I do know is that we need to eat. Let me order us something." She kisses the top of Miranda's hair and walks over to the desk that holds the binder with the menu and the phone. Miranda sounds uninspired when ordering her food, but Andy's relieved that she's going to eat at all, as it appears Miranda has reached some limit. Hopefully, it's temporary. They'll need to be able to focus tomorrow.
After their meal, Andy rolls her shoulders, so tired she's aching all over. "I'm going to get a hot shower before bed." She eyes the king-size bed, thinking it's a good thing she's exhausted. That way, she'll fall asleep instantly and not pine for Miranda half the night.
"Go ahead." Miranda is tapping on her burner phone, some of her focus back after the meal, apparently.
The bathroom is beige and white. The only pop of color is the small bottles containing shampoo, conditioner, body wash, and body lotion. They sit on the counter, a bright aqua. Instead of a bathtub, which is the norm in most American hotel bathrooms that Andy's seen, there is a large glass shower stall. She gets the water running and soon the steam fills the bathroom. Undressing, she washes her underwear with hand soap, removes some towels from the rack, and hangs her bra and panties to dry. Andy steps into the shower and closes her eyes as the warm water pounds at her shoulders. She moans and tips her head back. Feeling the spray hit her face and soak her hair. She's brought the small bottles with her and now she starts by lathering her hair. The scent is pleasant, on the fruity side, and she is just about to flip open the lid to the body wash when she hears Miranda's voice.
"I'm exhausted, Andrea. Mind if I join you?"
xxxxx
Continued in part 29