*
In one of the fairy tales Luke used to tell when he was Hansel, a king and a queen ruled together in every life, without knowing that, each time, one of them was destined to kill the other. He told me it was an old Native American legend, but when I Googled it, years later, I never could find anything to confirm the truth of that.
I think about his fairy tales as I fidget on the plane. He would make up hours’ worth of stories about the damned king and his queen, telling me of their ridiculous adventures, which always took a turn for the macabre at the end. Sometimes, they would kill each other, and on other occasions, one of them would die for the other in far-fetched sacrifices.
At the time it seemed funny. Creative. I was too young to wonder what the stories meant to Luke, if anything.
As I get off the plane at the Denver International Airport, and make my way to my rented Civic, I think I understand the stories—somewhat, anyway. Death and sacrifice are part of Luke’s own story. His life has never been normal. Like the fairy tale characters he made up to entertain us, Luke himself was always courting someone as a child. Trying to convince a family of his charm, so they would keep him. At one time, he signed on for a gang where initiation meant murder. I don’t know if he knew that at the time, at the age of 13, but maybe that’s how far he was willing to go to get some kind of family. His own family? Maybe he fancied he’d been sacrificed. Left at a public altar as atonement for some sin. Which one was it? Drinking? Drugs? That theme of abandonment had repeated itself throughout his life so far. And how many lives he’d had. A new one for each home he’d been in.
A little known piece of information about “Mother’s House” and “the fairy tale children” is that Mother had a camera in my room, and Luke’s as well. Both were mounted near the ceiling, small and undetectable from the rugs we paced. We never knew that we were being watched. But somewhere, in the basement of some FBI building, are months’ of footage of Luke and I, living through our private hells. Almost two years ago, I was contacted by a journalist from a Boston newspaper, who said she’d been investigating “Mother’s House” for years, and asking if I knew of “baby K.” or “the plans mentioned in Hansel’s journals.”
I called her a bitch and hung up, and the answer was no. I had no clue. I think that’s why it made me so infuriated.
The next day, she’d called back. “I read once that you thought he wasn’t real, or that your doctors thought that. There’s video of him—and you. He killed her for you, Gretel. I can show you some of it, if you can do an interview with me.”
I hung up again. That night, I took an Ambien to try to get to sleep. Six months later, I was seeing three different doctors to get Xanax.
My hand rubs my right pocket as I slip into my car and turn myself toward downtown Denver.
It’s a Wednesday afternoon. Tomorrow morning is a special meeting of a fundraising arm of the Dave Thomas Foundation at the Four Seasons Denver. Unless Raymond lied to me, Luke is there already.
The hotel is a highrise in the bustling heart of the city. I give my rental to the valet and clutch the duffel on my shoulder as I walk inside.
My mind is a mess. I’m so nervous about seeing him again, I’m struggling to think of a way to get the hotel staff to tell me his room number.
“Why do the king and queen always encounter each other? Is there a reason for it?”
I hear his voice through the wall, even though I can’t see his face. His hand is in mine, and I can’t both look at him and touch him. “I don’t know,” he says mystically. “Maybe it’s fate.”
“Do you believe in fate?” I ask.
“Do you?”
“I don’t know.” I chew my lip. The answer seems so important, and I feel stupid trying to decide. “I guess I’ve never thought about it. I don’t know what seems better to me. Accidents or things that are pre-arranged.”
“By God?” he asks.
“Or something,” I say.
His hand flips over, so his fingers can dance under my palm. “I guess it depends on the things.”
I stroke his thumb. “What do you mean?”
“If the things are good, it would be more fulfilling to think of it as fate,” he supplies.
“And if they’re bad?”
“Then accidents.”
I rub my face against his hand and kiss his fingers. “I think I’m going to have to go with fate.”
He steps out of the elevator a couple of seconds later. He looks breathtaking in slacks and a pale pink dress shirt, with the sleeves rolled up, exposing his muscled forearms. His dark hair is neatly groomed, his hazel eyes alight. Balanced on the palm of one hand is a pink, square, cardboard box. His eyes flit to the cake box as he strides into the lobby. When he lifts them up again, his gaze smacks into me.