Part 23 (1/2)
This morning Ethan visited you soon after Emily and the girls had left for the day, and he told you in no uncertain terms that your suspicions were accurate: Emily is becoming one of them. People don't tell you things, but you are aware that secrets are rising like distant thunderclouds. A new name for Emily and new names for your daughters. When were they planning on telling you? It is possible that Emily already is one of them. Just look at the plants that have appeared in your greenhouse. Her greenhouse. The girls' greenhouse. Ethan tried to rea.s.sure you that all of the pain you are experiencing will stop once Ashley gets a playmate-your guilt, too, will melt away-but you told him you would rather live with the pain and the guilt and the debilitating sense of failure. He reminded you that it wasn't a question of character. It was a question of strength. And he was stronger. The fact was, someday the two of you would do it together. It was inevitable. Think back to the evening when Molly Francoeur was over for dinner and a playdate. Or that night when you tiptoed up to the third floor with Tansy's knife. You would do it, he told you. You would.
Meanwhile, outside the house the birds dart among the trees-the evergreens and the maples and the mountain ash alike-and savor their return to the north. Even the geese are back now. But at least they have the kindness to steer clear of your yard.
You have three more steps to repair on this back stairway when you hear someone calling for you from the front hallway, a woman, and you believe it is Reseda's sultry voice. So, you adjust the collar of your denim s.h.i.+rt, smooth your hair, and emerge into the kitchen.
”Well, Reseda, this is a surprise. Lovely to see you,” you say. You hadn't realized how sunny it had become while you were working in the dark of that back staircase.
She stares at you in that slightly odd, inquisitive manner that had led you to presume initially that hers was a mind that tended to wander. You have since decided that nothing could be further from the truth. It's almost as if she can read a person's mind. But of course she can't. No one can really do that.
”What home improvement am I interrupting this morning?” she asks. She is wearing a waist-length black leather jacket and jeans.
”The back stairs. I have no idea if we'll ever use them, but you never know. A fire exit, maybe. So, I'm repairing the scarier-looking steps.”
”Do you have a couple of minutes?”
You motion toward the deacon's bench where once the family cat would sleep, and Reseda unzips her jacket and sits.
”I don't know if I've told you, but I am very, very sorry about Desdemona,” she says. ”That was her name, right?”
”Thank you. It was a bit of a blow,” you admit, taking the ladder-back chair across from her. You wonder: Does she think you killed the cat, too? It's so clear that Valerian does. And Anise. And, perhaps, even your own family. And yet you didn't. At least you don't believe that you did. These days, you seem capable of almost anything.
”Cats-and dogs-poison themselves all the time. It wasn't your fault,” she says evenly.
”Thank you. You want some tea?” Somehow you know she doesn't drink coffee. Did you learn this when you were at her house for dinner, or is it merely a suspicion that all of these herbalists prefer tea?
”No, but you're kind to ask. I want you to tell me something.”
”Sure.” You realize you have folded your arms across your chest. You try to casually bring them onto the kitchen table.
”Tell me about the voices,” she says.
”The voices?”
”Who are you talking to when you're alone?”
”Good Lord, what makes you think I talk to anyone when I'm alone?”
”One of your girls told me.”
You pause, your stomach turning over once. This is devastating news. You had no inkling that they had seen-that they knew. ”And both know?”
”Yes.”
”How long have they known?”
”I couldn't say. But they seem to comprehend you are experiencing something rather different here from what you were enduring back in West Chester. Is that accurate?”
You feel the first twinge in your side, the first indication that Ashley is near.
”Yes. It's this ...”
”This house. I know.”
He shakes his head. ”I'm not angry at you because you didn't know ... but you and that Sheldon character sold us a house with a body in the bas.e.m.e.nt.”
”If I could do it all over again, I would never have allowed you to buy this place. Never. I would have stopped Sheldon from showing it to you. That's the truth. I'm sorry,” she says. ”But the voices-”
”The visions,” you say, correcting her. ”I wish it were voices only. Then you could diagnose me a schizophrenic and drug me accordingly.”
”But the visions do not involve Sawyer Dunmore. It may have been his bones in the bas.e.m.e.nt, but he's no longer here. You've never seen him.”
She is watching you, and you find yourself swallowing uncomfortably. ”No. Never him.”
”There were children who died on Flight 1611. Is it one of them?”
You nod. ”Ashley Stearns.”
”Who else?” she asks. ”Are there others?”
”Yes.” The word catches in your throat and the syllable grows elongated.
”How many?”
”Two-plus Ashley.”
”Do you know what they want?”
You see in your mind the knife by your bed, and then you have to close your eyes against the first migraine-like spikes of pain along the top of your head and behind your eyes. Ethan is coming, too.
”Do you want to get some aspirin?” she asks when you remain silent.
”Maybe in a minute,” you answer. Then you take a deep breath and tell her in as reasonable a tone as you can muster of your visits with Sandra Durant, the PR executive who liked orange marmalade, and of Ethan Stearns, the father with the serious guns for upper arms who is so angry at the death of his daughter. And, of course, you tell her lots more about Ashley. That child, it seems, is the reason why your own family is in danger. Someday, when it all becomes too much, you may savage one of your children with the knife you keep by your bed. But you don't tell Reseda that. It is impossible to say such things aloud. Instead you finish by murmuring, ”I had never believed in ghosts. But they're real, you know. Either that or I've lost my mind once and for all.”
”They're real,” she agrees simply.
”You believe in ghosts?”
”I do.”
”You've seen them?”
”I have.”
”The thing is ...”
”Go on.”
”The thing is, they were my pa.s.sengers and they died when my plane was brought down by a flock of geese. There were thirty-nine people who died. Why those three?”
”Versus your first officer or the flight attendants or anyone else who was...o...b..ard?”