Mirror of My Soul

went into her room, pulling both the children with her.”
Komal shook her head. “We were able to keep this out of the paper, out of respect for the family. And I was assured all we spoke of would be in confidence.”
“It will be.”
She inclined her head. “The house got very quiet. She assumed he’d left but she kept packing, knowing she couldn’t stay. She had to get her daughter, both of her children, out of there.
“I imagined it, many times,” Komal added. At her tone, Tyler looked up from the photo of Marguerite at the police station. In Komal’s face he saw the love for the young girl clearly stamped on her features. “The day things could have turned in the right direction for the three of them. David, relieved at last that his mother knew, that his sister would be saved. Marguerite, seeing her mother step forward, be strong as a woman should be to take care of her children, become a warrior if need be to fight and take them to safety. I saw so many cases over the years, cried over them. But this one…
I could just imagine that mother packing, stealing glances at her daughter, seeing the things that hadn’t made sense now making such horrible sense, things she would have paid better attention to if she hadn’t been fogged by drink and despair. The increasing paleness, the weight loss. Wondering, ‘when was the last time I saw either of my children smile?’ Marguerite’s broken eyes. Looking into her eyes and seeing…”
“The distance.”
Komal nodded. “You see it in the worst ones. You know somewhere they’ve shut
down. They don’t seek escape or affection. You sit them in a corner and they simply wait until the next thing happens. They expect nothing. I suspect her mother probably asked Marguerite some questions in those moments. ‘How long has it been going on?’
Did she hug her, hold her, try to touch her at all? Or was she numb with shock, focused on getting them out of that house? As I imagine it, I find myself—absurdly—urging her to hurry, get out, don’t worry about clothes, just get out, get out now. Trying to impact an event that happened years ago. I do know one of the few personal things I got out of Marguerite about that moment was that David sat next to her on the bed as they watched their mother and held her hand. She remembers him saying softly, ‘It’s okay now.’
“He was about at the age I expect he would have either absented himself from
home as much as possible or tried to intervene. Or both. We have a record of him at eleven coming to an emergency room with a broken arm and injuries to his face and mouth. Two of his teeth knocked out. Supposedly a fight after school. Marguerite confirmed that was a lie, that he’d attacked her father, tried to pull him off her. She knew her father would kill him if he tried to interfere. So after that she told David if he loved her, he’d just stay away as much as possible and not worry about it. That they’d 47
Joey W. Hill
just both try to stay away as much as possible. It’s odd they didn’t just run away.
Though she never said, I think that they wouldn’t leave their mother.
“He was devoted to her. School records show they insisted on being in the same classes, spent most of their time together. David had friends. Marguerite was sometimes with him when he spent time in their company but she did not cultivate her own friends. He was her one touchstone to something other than the horror of their home life.
“David was a child’s love but perhaps the only pure, untainted love she had where she gave back as well. And I don’t think anyone’s broken through to her since his death.”
Komal shook her head, rose. “I need to get us some tea, Mr. Winterman. This is a story better told in pieces. Would you like to help?”
“Yes.” He accompanied her, assisting in silence, respecting her need to reflect and gather her thoughts. She chose a tea that smelled of chamomile, probably seeking the calmness it could offer. When they returned to the main room, he carried the tea tray, set it down where she directed and then watched her pour, the careful balancing, the straining, everything he’d seen Marguerite demonstrate.
“You provided her the way to save herself.”
“Isn’t that always an odd word? ‘Save.’” She handed him a cup, began to pour
herself one. “‘Save’ is what The Lone Ranger does, or Spider-Man. Coming out of nowhere to catch the heroine when the villain shoves her off the cliff, or pull her off the train tracks. No one was around to save Marie Peninski. Marguerite Perruquet picked up the pieces and has been trying to reassemble what was left ever since.”
Tyler’s brow furrowed. “I don’t understand.”
“You’ve seen the popular movies where a personality divides because it can’t
handle what’s happened to it? Marguerite Perruquet is strong enough to face what was done to Marie Peninski. She didn’t block it, but she somehow intuitively knew she had to create another name, a person whose shoes she could step into to manage what Marie endured.”
“What happened that night?” He put down his cup, afraid that he was going to
break it with the rage vibrating through him.
“The mother about had the suitcase packed when he burst back into the room. With a gun.” Komal set her own cup back down, added some milk from a small pitcher. “The only way Marguerite could tell this part of the story was by demonstrating it to me with dolls. And because it was in fact that awful, I am going to say it as bluntly as I can, the best to get it over with.” Her fingers held on to the pitcher after she replaced it on the tray, her grip tightening.
“Frederick Peninski put the gun to Marguerite’s head and told