Rosalie

A Kindle Single

The Olivia Chronicles

Angelic Rodgers

Copyright © Angelic Rodgers, 2016

All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This is a work of fiction.

Rosalie

The tip of a chair.  It seemed like such an insignificant event, and it would have been, had Rosalie not just stepped off the edge of the seat, her feet sure in their journey into air.

The dreams had never stopped. This would surely silence them, she thought, as she tied the rope and stood on the ladder to reach the beam.  She looped it twice, then a third time, wanting to be sure it was secure and wouldn’t slip.  She’d bought plenty of rope for the job, and she’d been practicing knots for some time now.  She was confident in her ability to tie not only the knot that would secure the rope around the beam, but also the one that would slide swiftly, ending in a jerk that would snap her neck.  Surely then, she thought, the dreams would stop.

For as long as Rosalie Garnier could remember, she’d had the recurring dream of the ghost children.

The scene was always the same—night, among the trees. It would start pleasantly enough, the light of the moon streaming down through the branches of the Southern Live Oaks, illuminating her way.  Off in the distance she would see movement and a flash of white, and then she would see the children—all girl children—gliding through the trees.  They made no sound, and as they moved toward her she wanted to run, but her feet wouldn’t move, as if the ground had risen around them, sucking at her feet and ankles, keeping her frozen there, transfixed.

The ghost children kept gliding, moving swiftly yet taking forever to reach her.  Then, and only then, could she see the faces of the young girls with no eyes and gaping mouths opened as if in a silent scream.  The silence was deafening and their hands grasped toward her, grabbing empty air in front of Rosalie.  Their agony overwhelmed her, and she always woke up screaming and sobbing for them.

The night before, she’d woken as she often did from these dreams, sitting up suddenly, covered in sweat.  Her breath caught in her throat, her own hands outstretched to meet those ghostly hands.

The dreams were partially why she never allowed Auguste Bellot to stay with her; the other reason was that she feared what her mother would do if she had such easy access to Auguste.  Rosalie managed to keep his identity a secret, as much as she could keep anything from her mother, Marie, up until Vivienne was born.  Her mother had spotted him at the Christening and the ruse was up.  They’d argued about it, but the birth of a child offered some protection for Auguste.  That he was rich and married, and thus not too much in the way, actually helped.

Even when Vivienne was not yet a year old, sleeping in her crib in the corner of Rosalie’s bedroom, she never stirred when the dream came.  Rosalie wasn’t sure if she ever cried out in her dreams or if Vivienne was just so used to her mother’s nightmares that she didn’t wake from them.  During her pregnancy, Rosalie feared the dreams were prophecy, that her child would be stillborn.  Far from it; Vivienne was not only born alive and healthy, she thrived.  Rosalie marveled in Vivienne’s perfection.  She had hoped since the baby was fine the dreams would stop, but they intensified after Vivienne was born.  Her only comfort was that Vivienne was the best baby—she was never colicky and she’d slept well from the start.

Rosalie’s dedicated her life to ensuring Vivienne had opportunities she herself never had. Marie, Rosalie’s mother, groomed her to take over in the family business.  She was educated, but not in any formal way.

New Orleans Parish schools had been slow to integrate and Marie used that to her advantage, keeping Rosalie close to her, citing fears over what might happen if she sent her child to school during all of the fighting and chaos over integration.  By the time Rosalie was three, Marie had taught her how to read and ensured she was fluent in French and English.  Her clients were also among some of the most finished and refined women in New Orleans and they enjoyed helping Marie teach her beautiful daughter. Their own daughters supplied reading lists and homework examples, and Rosalie often would work beside those daughters while her mother did their mother’s hair and saw to their other needs.

Marie was a powerful Voodoo Mambo; in the tradition of the Maries in her family before her, she ministered to the sick and to those who needed guidance.  Her skill with making charms and gris-gris was well known throughout the city, and her services were highly prized.  She was happy that her own daughter was forming bonds with the young women whom she would later serve, just as Marie served their mothers.  These were the friendships that Marie wanted Rosalie to cultivate.

Rosalie was smart and she learned all that she could.  Her cultivation was successful, and it is what drew Auguste Bellot to her.   He saw her first at Mass, taking Communion.  She was sitting a row up from Auguste and his wife.  He noticed her as she stood, her back to him.  Her hair was carefully styled. She had long, good hair wound into a glossy chignon.  He wondered how long it would be if he took out the pins and ran his fingers through it.  At that moment, she turned to the side, and he saw her face and thought she glanced his way, but she was soon moving toward the aisle.  He felt his wife nudge him, impatient that he was daydreaming and not paying attention to the movement of his own row.

He’d been content to watch her walk ahead of him, a few people separating them as they moved toward the priest.  She wore a cute hat that matched her blue dress.  As she reached the priest, she turned and he caught a glimpse once again of her in profile.  Her skin was clear and the color of caramel.  She closed her eyes as she offered her tongue for the wafer, and Auguste wished he were the man before her.  He grew flustered and drew his gaze away from her.  He placed his hand on his wife’s shoulder, trying to ground himself.

Once he was seated again, he tried to stay focused and not obsess about her.  She looked young, but not that much younger than his wife.

Rosalie didn’t know her father.  Her mother had a shrine dedicated to him, but he had died when Marie was pregnant with their only daughter. There were no photos of him and Marie together, not even wedding photos.  Marie kept one black and white portrait of him as a young man on her altar.  Rosalie would stare at it for hours sometimes, wondering what her life would have been like with a father.

“Child, stop staring at that picture and come help me in the kitchen.”  Marie called to Rosalie, pulling her out of her fantasy of a life with a father who bought her sno-balls and took her to Grand Isle to let the warm gulf waters splash around her ankles.

Marie was a stern mother, one focused on providing for her child and also teaching her child her trade.  Marie cut and styled hair, but she also had a side business as a confidant and Voodoo practitioner for her customers.  Like her mother before her and spanning back to her famous relative—the fabulous Marie Laveau—Marie spent her days concocting charms and gris-gris bags for clients who desired their own children, relief from an abusive boss or husband, or true love.  She was in the kitchen cooking alongside the woman who did her food preparation, adding herbs and other powerful ingredients to bottles to infuse oils for her magic.  Rosalie got up from where she sat, slowly shuffling to the kitchen. Marie didn’t turn to look as her daughter crossed the threshold; she merely said, “Come here and watch what I am doing.”

Rosalie sat on a high stool to the side of Marie’s workspace.  She knew better than to ask about her father. Marie had told her the story only once, and she did so only after telling her daughter that she must listen carefully and remember because she would not tell it twice.

Marie had been quite young when her own father died, not still a child, but barely a woman.  Roland Garnier had been a family friend, and he was a good decade older than Marie.  When her father died, her mother withdrew a great deal, taking on the rusty black garments of the ever-grieving widow.  Without her husband, she had no use for the outside world.  Roland worried about his friend’s widow, and he was soon making frequent visits to the Garnier house, where Marie still lived with her mother.

“We fell in love.  Yes, he was older than I, but he cared for me very much.  I could not marry him so soon after my father’s death, but sometimes babies don’t wait for marriage.  Just like sometimes, fathers don’t wait for their daughters to be born before they die.”

That was the story Marie told Rosalie.  And, Rosalie knew better than to ask further.  She wished her grandmother, who still lived in the house with them, could be trusted to tell her more, but she was a mere shell of a woman these days.  Rosalie could see fear in her eyes when Marie would go help the nurse care for the older woman.  She’d had a stroke shortly after Rosalie was born and had lost her power of speech as a result. No therapy seemed to help.  She was despondent most of the time, and she loved her grand daughter dearly.  Marie limited their time together and scolded her mother about fawning over the child too much.  “You are too full of grief; you will make her melancholy.” Marie would come fetch her daughter, pulling her from the elder Marie’s arms.  “She needs sunshine and fresh air, not to be up here, clutching your dusty black skirt and weeping.”

And in the moment that Rosalie stepped off the chair, she stepped into the sunshine.  Her true mother was there, along with all of the ghost children. This time, they ran to her, their eyes smiling and their mouths open in laughter.

Thank you for reading this short story. The character in this story, Rosalie Garnier, also appears in my series The Olivia Chronicles.  You can purchase the first two books in the series, Blood Sisters and Brigitte’s Cross on Amazon in Kindle format.  Preorders for the third book in the series have also begun and that book, Zamani, will be released on 4/29/16.

Reviews are encouraged and appreciated!

You can keep up with the series and order signed paperbacks at www.oliviachronicles.com and you can keep up with Angelic at www.angelicrodgers.com