In the bath after a good hard cry, Vanila began nodding off as predicted. By the time he was out, he was as good as asleep. He’d nod when spoken to, but when asked to raise his arms to get into his nightclothes, he just wobbled listlessly. By the time he was in his room, he was well off into dreamland.
“He’s sure a quick sleeper,” Yulan remarked.
“His nighttime crying was a nightmare, but he certainly transitioned smoothly to sleeping alone.”
“He’s quick to perk up after waking too. The complete opposite of me.”
“I think he took after me in that regard.”
Given that their child was asleep in the adjoining room, it was a mystery why they felt the need to speak in whispers. The door to Vanila’s room was half-open, but still, there was no way they’d talk loudly enough to wake him.
“Vanila resembles you so strongly, Vio. I feel like there’re fewer things you don’t have in common.”
“Chesuit said the same. He said Vanila acts just like I did at his age.”
“That’s right—Chesuit was with your family all that time. I wish I could’ve seen you at that age.”
Violette giggled. “Well, I can’t say much about my personality, but I looked exactly like Vanila. Our hairstyles were a little different, but otherwise…”
How was it that, in that regard, she remembered her younger self so vividly? She’d hardly been self-aware at Vanila’s age. Even her memories of clinging to Chesuit’s feet were from when she was a bit older. Anything before then was pitch-black, as if the lights were out.
What’s my oldest memory…?
“Vio?”
Violette gasped under her breath. “Sorry… My mind wandered there.”
“It’s all right. Something on your mind?”
“Not exactly… Just trying to remember my oldest memory.”
“Oldest memory?”
“Right. Do you have an oldest memory, Yulan?”
“Hmm… Probably moving in with the Cugurs. I think that was the age when I had my audience with the king too, but I’m not sure which was first.”
“Were you the youngest person to have an audience with him?”
“I don’t remember. Anyway, it was top secret.”
“Too bad,” Violette replied. “My oldest memory is from when I was about Vanila’s age.”
It was a memory of a little three-year-old girl who still wanted to be coddled by her mother…and the day she was turned into a boy.
“My earliest memory is my mother…cutting my hair.”
The smile on her mother’s face as she held the scissors was still vivid in Violette’s memory. She’d sat in a puddle—she’d probably wet herself out of sheer terror—and sobbed as her mother happily hummed a tune and cut her hair. Once it was all over, she was forced to look at herself in the mirror.
Her mother had relied on her memory of Violette’s father to create the haircut, and there was no way an amateur hairstylist like her would be capable of such a feat. Violette’s pristine part was now messy and rough; the “hair” of a scarecrow bowing its head in a field looked better than hers. She could still see her own face in the mirror, wet with snot and tears.
It’s the same face as my own son’s. That was me—the spitting image of my father.
“Just thinking out loud,” she added. “I’ll forget about it by tomorrow.”
Yulan just sat quietly with her.
“When I look at Vanila…I sometimes get chills,” she added.
My beloved son looks so much like me. A boy who looks like me… Like my father…
“When I imagine what might’ve happened if my mother were still alive…”
She would’ve snatched Vanila away from Violette by literally any means necessary.
A chill went down Violette’s spine, her fingertips quickly losing warmth. She’d only been set free because she was a girl. Her mother had cast her aside because she’d matured into a woman. As a girl, Violette could never make her mother’s wish come true.
But if she were a boy…if she were Vanila…it was clear what that cruel woman would have done.
“I know exactly what would happen,” Violette answered herself. “She’d turn him into my father…into a version of Auld who’d shower her with all the love she wanted.”
It was more than merely bone-chilling. If you’d tried to make your daughter your surrogate husband, you certainly couldn’t justify taking your grandson by blood. But if luck favored her, they would’ve lived “happily” ever after as a family of three…end of story. That was such such a realistic fantasy, a sort of sick thought experiment, that Violette’s fingertips trembled—and were clasped by a pair of big hands.
“But…at the same time, I feel relieved,” she continued.
The inexpressible hatred that enchained her entire being sickened her. The unpleasantness assailing her was a hundred times worse than when she’d directed her hatred at herself. The horrifying what-if that swirled at the back of her mind was unbearable, although it would never come to fruition.
“I’m so happy…” She spat the words out on a heavy breath, colored with just as much resentment as relief. “I’m so happy that my mother died…!”
She’d thought that many times but knew she mustn’t ever say it. She believed doing so would be taboo. It was the moral, logical thing not to utter it. All life should be respected, so death should never be celebrated. She knew that. It was because she knew it that she felt guilt toward both her father and grandfather.
But whenever she looked at Vanila, the thought returned against her will. She was glad she’d never had to let her mother see her son. She was glad she’d never had to take her son to meet her mother. She was glad that evil woman was no longer on this earth.
Those were her true feelings, unmistakably, undeniably. Naturally, part of her condemned herself for being so immoral. But the reality that Vanila was safe was much more important to her. Since her baby had been saved from evil’s clutches, Violette would proudly, contentedly walk the unrighteous path.
“I’ll forget by tomorrow,” Violette repeated. “I’m just thinking out loud.”
After a long beat, Yulan said, “Me too.”
“You’re going to think out loud too?”
“That’s right. I’ve thought the same thing as you…every day of my life.”
The feeling Violette had on Vanila’s behalf, Yulan had on Violette’s. How many times had he burned with rage, wanting her never to be hurt again? How frequently had vivid, murderous thoughts consumed him?
“I guess that’s something you and I have in common,” Violette said.
“Guess so. But, you know…isn’t that a good thing?”
Through their clasped hands, through her hand on his arm, through her head on his shoulder, their warmth flowed into each other. To share with each other. To complete each other. One heartbeat from two pounding hearts. The two quiet pulses slowly throbbed to each other’s rhythm.
“Don’t they say that the passing years make a married couple an awful lot alike?”