by Reiss Susan
I was so surprised by my attorney’s polite attitude that I pulled the phone away from my ear to check the caller ID. Yes, it was him. Had he had a personality transplant?
Stop it! I ordered myself. He's not supposed to be a friend. He needs to be tough, so I get the compensation I deserve. Be nice!
“Thank you for asking, Mr. Heinrick. I’m doing quite well. And it is probably time for you to call me Emma. After all, you’ve seen my most intimate medical records.” I suspected that I’d made the man blush.
He cleared his throat. “Well, I— Yes, I suppose I have. Are the physical therapy sessions working well for you?”
“Yes, sir. I feel stronger every day. The therapist said I am doing well.”
But the recovery isn’t fast enough for me.
"I'm glad, but there's no reason to rush things. Your return to normal activities should be tempered." He stopped and cleared his throat. "I want you to progress, of course! But…" His voice trailed off. I knew he was thinking about the case and the proposed settlement amount. "You're not planning on going back to work yet, are you?" A tinge of worry was in his voice.
"No, not at all. I'm still taking some painkillers that don't make me behave well for little children. Also, I don't have my strength back. It will be a while, I'm afraid."
He tried to hide his relief by clearing his throat. “Tell me, how are you spending your time? Resting all day, I suppose.”
“No, I get out and about. I don’t need a long afternoon nap anymore.” I paused, feeling unsure if I should let him in on my secret. Then, I figured, he was part of my life, at least for the time being. It might even improve our interaction. “Mr. Heinrick, I decided to do something while I’m here that I’ve wanted to do for a very long time.”
“And what is that, Emma?” He was tolerating me as an uncle humors a little girl. When I didn’t answer immediately, he repeated, “Emma?”
"I'm going to write a book." There it was. I found myself holding my breath for his reaction.
“A book?” he burst out. “What kind of book?”
“A story for children.”
“Oh, a book for children. That’s all. You—”
“What do you mean, that’s all?” My back straightened as my defenses went up.
“Well, I—”
“Writing a book for a child shouldn’t be something slammed together.” I was climbing on my soapbox about something dear to my heart. “A children’s book deserves the best effort of the writer and I…" I wanted to say something more about writing a book, one a child deserved.
“Yes, yes, I understand. But I wasn’t talking about the quality of the book. I was thinking about money. You don’t expect to make a lot of money from writing this book, so if you want to do it as a hobby, that’s fine. It won’t have a bearing on the case or the settlement amount.”
I was right. His priority was money. There was no reason for him to see my lack of confidence in my writing skills. Let him make the case, get the settlement, and I'd say good-bye.
“Now, my dear Ms. Chase. You must consider that your brush with death and all the mind-altering drugs they’ve given you have taken a toll. Please consider. Sit back and read a book. Don’t write one.”
Bravo, Mr. Heinrick, I thought. Your bucket of ice water certainly hit the mark.
“Thank you for that thought. I will keep them in mind. And now, I’m sure you have important things to do. Thank you for calling. Good-bye.”
I should have felt a certain level of satisfaction when I ended the call, but I didn’t. He had stoked the flames of self-doubt I’d been battling. I promised myself that I wouldn’t discuss my goal with a naysayer. I hoped I could put a copy of my book in his hands someday. Of course, to do that, I needed a story and that was eluding me.
I touched the horn to let TJ know I was finished with the call. He walked back to the truck and got in.
“Let me guess,” he said, starting the engine. “That was your favorite attorney.”
“How did you know?” I feigned surprise.
"Well, your clenched fist was a giveaway. Forget about that guy and let Mr. Saffire and me take care of things on this end for now.”
Relieved, I leaned back in my seat. TJ might have put his finger on the reason why I had no patience with Mr. Heinrick. He was the active connection with the accident that had almost taken my life, caused daily pain, and changed the way I lived. No wonder he had become a target of my wrath, though he was a pompous…
I saw TJ’s quick look of concern. “You look all done in.”
I rolled my eyes. “Do you say such flattering things to all the girls?”
“No, I mean it. What with the move and physical therapy, you—”
I couldn't let him finish. There was one more thing I wanted to do before we leave the town center. "Could we please make one more stop? Please. I promise to stay in the truck. You could go in and purchase two little items for me."
He looked at me from the corner of his eye, filled with suspicion. “You don’t need some girly-girl thing or…”
I stifled a giggle. “No, nothing like that.” He breathed a little sigh of relief. “Stephani said there’s a craft store by the Amish Market wherever that is. I want to get a calligraphy pen and a bottle of black ink.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Are you taking up calligraphy now? You’ll have internet access soon.”
“No, it’s nothing like that.” I tried a sweet voice to persuade him. “I only want to try something.”
He shook his head as he put the truck in gear. “I swear I’ll never understand women,” he muttered almost to himself. “She’s exhausted, but wants to stop for a pen and some ink.”
He might not have approved, but minutes later, he handed me a paper bag with the items I wanted in it. He reminded me in typical easy-going TJ-style that he’d promised to make my life on the Eastern Shore as easy as possible. And he did.
I laid my head back and watched the passing countryside, planning my next move with Daniel.
Chapter Twelve
“The first use of a form of the word witch was in c. 890 in the Laws of Alfred and referred to a man who practices witchcraft or magic.”
—The Oxford English Dictionary
Riding along in comfortable silence, we drove past sun-kissed fields of corn and dark green soybeans. The beginning of an idea—about the Civil War, the divided state of Maryland, and life on the plantation—started forming. It was no wonder that after so much enforced rest, my brain was ready, eager to tackle any kind of problem. I snatched a pen sitting in the center console and started making notes. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught TJ trying to steal a look at what I was writing. Not ready to share any information about Daniel, I tucked the paper into a book.
“Yes?” I asked, sounding like the teacher who’d caught a boy with his hand in the cookie jar.
“I was wondering what you’re scribbling. Something for your book?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, it is.”
“That’s good,” he said with a look of pride on his face. “I guess it helped that we went to the library. Research must be important when you’re new to novel writing.”
I bristled a little. It had been years since anyone had said I was new at something. No, that wasn’t exactly right. It had been years since I started doing something so new that I didn’t feel qualified to tackle it. Words didn’t scare me. My minor in college was English because I’d always dreamed of writing a book for children. And now was the time.
“You’re doing that thing again. Does your neck or throat hurt?”
"What?" I looked down and saw that my fingers were touching the hollow of my neck right where my necklace should have been. "No, I feel fine. It's just…" A sigh bubbled up from my toes. "Six years ago, I taught my first kindergarten class. Some of the mothers knew it was a dream come true for me. At the end of the year, the children—and their mothers—gave me a necklace with the initial "C" pendant for my last name to comme
morate the event. I wore it every day." My breath caught at the memory. "Sometime between the accident, flight to shock trauma, ICU, and surgeries, the necklace disappeared and I miss it." I took a deep breath. "I guess you think it's a little childish. After all, it's only a piece of jewelry."
“No way,” TJ declared. “It celebrated a major accomplishment in your life. Knowing it was there must have reminded you of your strength and determination. That’s what has gotten you to this point.”
“And where am I? At Square One with both my writing and my walking.” How pathetic.
He shook his head thoughtfully. “No, I wouldn't say that. You’re probably at Square Two or Three with your walking. Getting set up with the new therapists was a big step… ah, no pun intended.”
I laughed and felt grateful. Since the accident, I’d lost my sense of humor and fun. Almost constant pain and the difficulty of getting around could do that to a person.
“And what I said about being new to writing, I didn’t mean to insult you. The fact that you’ve started the work, well, you should be proud of yourself. For what it’s worth, I’m happy to support you.”
“Is that why you told Catherine to invite me to her writing group?” I conjured up an evil smile.
He winced. “I was only trying to help. There are a lot of talented and experienced people here who had amazing careers before they moved to the Shore. Some of them are still doing surprising things.”
“Do they have internet access?”
“Well, it’s funny you should mention the internet,” he said, eager to change the subject. “I checked with the telephone company and the installer may show up tomorrow afternoon.”
“That’s wonderful.” I sat up at hearing the good news. The sudden movement tweaked my leg and sent pain shooting through my body.
“Are you okay?” Worried, he pulled to the shoulder and stopped. “What can I do?”
“Nothing, nothing at all. I’ll take a pill when I get home. It’s a good thing Maria had me take one this morning before we left. I have to be more diligent about the pill schedule.”
“You’re starting a lot of new things. Don’t let it get you down. You’re on the right track.”
I covered my eyes, hoping I could hold back the tears. Then I remembered a conflict with the schedule. “I have another P.T. appointment tomorrow. We didn’t do a full workout session today because they needed to do evaluations. How am I going to be there for the telephone installer?” Things were getting complicated again.
“No problem. That’s why you have Maria. I’ll let her know after I take you back to the Cottage.”
“Thank you,” I whispered as I leaned my head back and considered this farmer/ handyman/philosopher. “Do you think you might be able to take me tomorrow again?” One of the hardest things for me to do was to ask for help.
"Sure, I have to check out a few things, but I can do that on the way back if you don't mind a detour?"
“It’s an early appointment.” I decided to push my luck. “Think we could go by the library again, please?”
He looked over at me. His eyes crinkled as he smiled. "Is this what it's like spending time with a budding writer?"
I gave him a shrug with one shoulder. “I guess.”
“It depends how early this early appointment is. Is it your early or my early?”
“What do you mean?” I was confused.
“On the farm, I’m up by five o’clock, maybe earlier. During harvest, I barely see my bed.”
I clutched my throat as a joke. “Five o’clock? In the morning? No, we’re not doing that. The appointment is definitely my early…8:30.”
“Ha! Middle of the afternoon.” We laughed easily together. “Don’t worry, we’ll work it out.”
When Mr. Saffire hired TJ to fix the house, I wondered if he chose him because he’d fix me as well. I sighed, hoping I had the energy to deal with two new men in my life—TJ and Daniel.
Back at the Cottage, TJ waited until I was inside. It felt good to lock the door and let the Cottage wrap its comfort around me. After taking a pill, I went directly to the desk, hoping to find another letter from Daniel. In a way, I was relieved there was nothing there. I still hadn't decided how to proceed. The library books fit on one of the desk's shelves like they were meant to be there. They all looked intriguing, but I pulled the book about legendary lore. It felt good to nestle into Uncle Jack's recliner. In moments, I was asleep.
Hunger pangs woke me about sunset. One ice cream cone did not make a satisfying lunch. Groggy, I went to the kitchen, convinced that dinner would be peanut butter and jelly. How wrong I was. Maria had left a treasure map of small slips of paper identifying the foil-wrapped and glass-covered dishes in the fridge: Meatloaf, mashed potatoes, peas, two crab cakes, green salad and dressing. Pitchers of lemonade and sweet tea sat on the top shelf.
Bless you, Maria. You are an angel. I wish you’d included dessert.
I should never have underestimated her. A plate of beautiful chocolate brownies sat on the counter. While dinner heated up in the microwave, I nibbled on a small piece of brownie that brought back a sweet memory. Uncle Jack always said one should never take a chance and always eat dessert first. Especially if it was chocolate. We only did that when my mother was not around. She would have yelled at us. Once the microwave dinged, I sat down to a feast with the book about Shore folklore for company. It took only a moment to realize that this was the happiest, most content I’d felt in the months since the accident.
Making the arrangements to sublet my condo, packing up most of my things, and moving down to the Eastern Shore, doing those things wasn't easy, but, at this moment, I was certain it was worth the energy. It sounded trite, but I felt it was meant to be. Months earlier, when they loaded me into a medivac helicopter, I got a glimpse of the tangled mass of steel and chrome that was once my car. At that moment, a spark of spirituality flared inside me. I couldn't have survived that impact without divine intervention. I didn't credit any organized religion, but I knew it was something greater than me. I'd whispered a thank-you in the quiet of my heart. I still had that feeling.
Feeling grateful for the here and now, I didn’t leave a crumb on my plate. Maria was a miracle in the kitchen. If I kept eating like this, I’d blow up like a blimp, but I didn’t care. It felt so right to have one more brownie. I poured a tall glass of milk to go with it. The pages of the book flipped to another section that was about the creek outside my window. When I saw the chapter heading, I swept my eyes over every part of the kitchen. Why did the book fall open to that page? Was the spine cracked at that place or had a ghostly hand given it a little help? It wasn’t a good idea to read about creepy goings-on after sundown while sitting in the Cottage all alone, but I was curious. I sank into the chair and began to read about Virtue Violl, the witch who once lived across the creek from the Cottage by the Lone Oak. It was tedious to read a story reproduced with old spellings, like an f for an s, but I tried.
In the year of Our Lord 1712, a woman named Virtue Violl of Talbot County lived on the Point of land at the far end of the landowner’s property, well beyond the Lone Oak that stood alone, as if it had scared away all the other trees. The new landowner did not need it. He had acres and acres of good soil to till so that the crops would take care of his family and add silver to his purse. Using his spyglass, he could observe the place where the old woman lived.
It was not a house. It was a hovel with slanted walls that barely held up a dilapidated roof. A strange light often appeared at night, moving around the Point. People believed she was signaling the dead.
I soon found I didn’t have the energy to concentrate. Skimming it, I learned that Virtue was arrested for being a witch.
I closed the book, hoping to contain the disturbing story between its covers. I didn’t want to look out to the point across the creek where the woman once lived. Did the people who lived nearby blame every bad thing that happened on that old woman? I guess life would be so much easier if
you could blame someone else, especially if you believed in witches and ghosts.
My smile faded. Believed in ghosts. Until a few days ago, I would have dismissed that notion out-of-hand. If I couldn’t see it, feel it, touch it, it wasn’t real to me.
Until Daniel. I could see, feel and read his words on paper.
My crutches thumped as I went to the writing den. I took the letters down from the cubbyhole and slid the blank sheet aside I’d put on top to hide the letters underneath. I slid first one blank sheet then another and another. Had I dreamed it all? Was Daniel a product of a drug-fueled imagination? I checked the front and back of each sheet again. Blank. I moved a sheet off the short stack from the cubbyhole. Blank. Blank again.
Then there was a page with the words, Dear Emma, written at the top.
I was so relieved that I fell into the large leather desk chair. I hadn't dreamed it. I wasn't losing my mind. Once my breathing returned to normal, I picked up the letter and began to read it again. But no! This wasn't the letter I'd found only yesterday morning when I'd met Daniel. It was the letter that had appeared this morning on the desk. I leafed through the other sheets quickly. No, the first letter was not there. I examined the inked lines of his most recent letter and they seemed slightly faded. Then I realized what was happening.
Daniel’s words were evaporating.
I spread out the sheets on the large writing area of the desk. I ran my fingers over every one of them. The surfaces were all smooth.
If the pen didn’t leave a scratch on the skin of the paper, I reasoned, perhaps the ink has not disappeared completely. Maybe there might still be a ghost of the words left there.
Methodically, I held up one piece of paper after another to the light of the lamp, hoping to see a trace of Daniel's writing. Page after page, there was nothing but an ocean of white. As I was about to lower the last sheet, I thought I saw … something.
I scooted the chair closer and removed the lampshade. The light was blinding. Uncle Jack must have needed the wattage to see as his eyes grew tired. Squinting at the area close to the top, I could make out a broken line of curves, the curves that formed Daniel’s first words to me.