I laugh. “The tin is vintage. I found it online. The cookies are fresh.” I open the tin to reveal rows of Oreos. “We walk until we finish them all, remember?”
“I hate you.”
“I love you.” I repeat those three words until his tears subside and his body relaxes. I know I made him this way without his consent. I hate myself for it. I tried to justify what I did for years. I would remind myself that I had no idea if it would even work until I burned that page. I couldn’t be sure the magic would work twice.
But Iwantedto make him immortal like me. Of course I did.
My desire is my guilt.
He accused me then of being like his father.
I worry I’m like my own father. Greedy. Insatiable. Cruel. The thought sickens me.
“Why did you do this to me?”
“Because I love you.” I know that’s no reason. Love is everything. Love is also not enough. I lift my veil so he can see the sincerity in my eyes. “And because I thought... You said that if we could live in another world, a better time—”
He pushes me away from him. “Over a century and your argument hasn’t changed one bit.”
“It’s not an argument. I know what I did was wrong. But at the time I thought... that you would thank me.”
“Thankyou? For cursing me?”
“For making your wish come true.”
“You and your silly fantasies. That’s what I thought it was when you asked me if I would choose to live in a different world with you. A fantasy. It’s like if you asked someone if they want some superpower. Like the power of invisibility. Of course they’ll say yes, yes, a million times yes, because they don’t think it’s areal option. They haven’t pondered what it truly means. Just like you didn’t think of the implications of what you did to me.”
“I know that.” I don’t dare say more. I know myself well enough. I’ll say the wrong thing.
“You didn’t have anyone you loved when this happened to you.” There’s a new cruelty in his voice as he says this.
“What?”
“You didn’t have toleaveanyone. Your mother was dead. You despised your father. You had no other family. No friends. Youdidn’t stop to think of what it meant for me. Never seeing my mother again. My brother.”
I step closer to him. “Youhatedyour brother!”
He backs away from me. “Everyone hates their sibling at some point. You robbed me of the chance to resolve our issues. My nieces are both dead and I never met them. I don’t know their children. I have nothing. You took it all.”
“You’re right. I was never loved.” I pause. “Maybe I envied you. The love you had with your mother. It was so pure. Maybe I did what I did because I wanted pure love so badly.”
“So you admit you were selfish?”
Of course I was selfish. Still am. Greedy for love. For a life of meaning. I know how much it hurt him to leave those he loved behind. Brendan—believe it or not—was readmitted to Harvard two years later. Became a dean at the university. Lived and died single. He never exposed what Harvard did. No one did. The secret court wasn’t discovered until 2002. There were two more Harvard suicides after Cyril. Eugene Cummings checked himself into the university’s infirmary after being questioned by the secret court. Took an overdose of medicine. Keith Smerage died by suicide in 1930 by inhaling gas. Just as Cyril once did. I think of Keith often. He made it to New York City. Appeared to have a good life. Yet the ghosts of his past won in the end. Edna remained a lifelong activist. She lived long enough to see the Daughters of Bilitis, the Mattachine Society, Stonewall. Long enough to see homosexuality removed from the American Psychiatric Association’s list of mental illnesses. But she passed before Harvey Milk was murdered. Before AIDS. I hope she died feeling hopeful about our collective future. Passed into the next world feeling the sheer terror of optimism.
“Say something!” His lips curl defiantly. “You summon me back to London, and you can barely say a word to me?”
“I’m sorry.” I bite my lip. Keep my head down. Looking at him when he’s angry at me is too painful. “I’ve tried to grow. To truly see myself. Which means accepting the unforgivable thing I did to you.” I take a deep breath of cold air. It feels like the distant fog enters my body. Becomes one with my thoughts. “And yet, I beg your forgiveness. You forgave me once.”
“And I was proven wrong.”
“Were you? We were happy, weren’t we? Living with Lily and Maud. Dancing. Music. Brixton. The Blitz. Pearl’s. It was our time.”
“Until it wasn’t.” He closes his eyes. I wipe the tears from his cheeks. His skin still as youthful as ever.
“Until it wasn’t.” A melancholy echo. I know all too well what I put him through. The escape. The loss. The grief. The fear.
“Do you forgive yourself?” He’s never asked me this before.
