by Mary Gray
I remember!
I remember how he loved to play cards. How he was the quietest man in the room, until you got him talking.
He was soft-spoken, yes, but intelligent. And patient! And ... always, always hard to read. I can see him even now, holding back his secrets in that picture on the page. On his shoulders, he holds the weight of the world, but he would never admit that he does or say it that way.
He’s the epitome of class and understated conversations, and I miss him. I don’t know how to explain it, but he made me feel understood. Safe. I’m glad I’m not already in a session with Calhoun, because impressions are coming faster than a movie reel, hurtling toward me at full speed.
I have to get outside.
Wrenching open the door, I hold the magazine between my teeth. Once I’m out in the open air, I bask in the cold. Yes, I remember how he looked when he said he closed a deal. What kind of deal? I don’t remember. But that powerful look of satisfaction wasn’t quite as charged as when he spent quiet hours alone with me.
Where was his office?
Cars zoom past, and I remember the feel of his scruff on my neck. The tender warmth of his whiskers. The truck he used to drive. A navy Dodge Ram—almost identical to the silver one right in front of me. Though his was a Longhorn Edition, stately letters printed on the tailgate.
A man walking alongside me on the sidewalk has WT’s same light-brown hair, but it’s missing the red tint WT’s had when the sun hit it just right.
Plus, yes. As we continue walking along, I see that the man is walking a dog, and it seems like WT had a dog or his friends had a dog or ... Oil. The article said he found oil. And he was the heir to a cattle baron. He found oil on the estate. What was the date on the magazine? I flip it over. Last year, January. Did I already know him then? Why did I leave Calhoun’s office? The doctor could corroborate facts. All of this. Anything.
Spinning around, I sprint back toward Calhoun’s office as a man in a dark suit emerges from the doors I just vacated. Crewcut hair, pinched features ... the FBI agent!
Luckily, he’s pulling out his phone and doesn’t seem to have noticed me. He says something about Calhoun—and I think the police—but my stomach gurgles as he strides the opposite way from me.
Good. Good, good, good. Now I can talk to Calhoun about what I just remembered—without the pressure of the feds, taunting me.
I heave open the door, breathing in a sigh of relief.
By Natalie’s vacant expression, though, I know leaving—even for just a moment—had been a mistake. “Oh, I’m sorry, Gemma.” She’s gathering a pile of scattered papers. “I thought you left for the day.”
I release a breathy laugh. “Sorry.” I gather my wits by leaning against the counter. “I’m ready to see Doctor Calhoun now, please.”
But Natalie does this forced, crazy-eyed giggle, like she’s afraid I’ll bash her head into her desk for crossing me. “I’m sorry, but Doctor Calhoun had to leave for the day!”
“But ... before he said he would see me.” Could this have something to do with the agent? My stomach squeezes for the tenth time, and on Natalie’s desk, I accidentally knock over a wood-crafted Christmas tree. While I attempt it set it back up, my hands won’t stop shaking.
“Look, Gemma. I’m really sorry.” Natalie’s doe eyes dart to the door where the agent just left. “Would you like to schedule another appointment?” She scrambles out of her roller chair toward a counter. “I can offer you some coffee. Or cookies!”
But this isn’t a moment to be sidetracked. I point to my name on the clipboard. “I need to see Doctor Calhoun. Today.”
“He might have another opening tomorrow!” Natalie scurries back to her chair and wheels across the tile to her computer. Her perfectly manicured fingers clickety-clack over the keyboard. “Oh.” Her smile freezes in place. “I’m sorry, but it appears he doesn’t have any other openings for three more weeks.”
The Santa clock ticks so loud, holes are being drilled into my brain.
I’ll grab the whole stack of magazines and shake them in her unhelpful face.
I remember him. I actually remember what WT looks like, and Doctor Calhoun—he will help me recollect everything.
Natalie rises from her chair. Accidentally knocks over the same wood-crafted Christmas tree. “Here.” She frantically hands me a half-assembled plate of cookies. “Chocolate chip—your favorite, right?”
I push them back. Tear out of there before I do something questionable, even for Tansy.
17
William Thomas Hardin ran cattle and managed the money he gained from finding oil on his estate. He was born and raised in this town, and, for years, his family hosted parties at his home each and every Fourth of July.
Estimated to be worth tens of millions, my husband continued to build his business, while relying on a few key players, namely Dwayne. Dwayne took charge of the ranch and cattle side of the business. But as I linger on my bridge, I can’t seem to push through my mental barriers to remember any other interactions between WT and me.
I want to know how we met. What our relationship looked like. I’m not mentioned in the article, which makes sense, since Grammy said we were married in February. But when was our first kiss? What did we do on our first date?
I can’t seem to remember any of it. All I have is this ripped-open, gaping feeling in my gut, and it’s weird, because it wasn’t there before. Crazy as it sounds, I can feel it—I know he loved me.
Tansy must be hiding the details. Is this a power thing? Maybe she’s jealous of our relationship. Doesn’t want to go down memory lane. I did see how messed up she got when we ran into Dwayne.
By the time I make it home, it’s five minutes after six thirty. I deposit the trip’s fourteen days’ worth of groceries on the kitchen counter and march straight to the hallway mirror to hold up the magazine.
“I see him,” I say. “I see him, Tansy!”
She takes exactly fourteen seconds to blink.
I shove the magazine into the mirror. “I see him, but I don’t remember anything.”
She runs our fingernail down the surface of the mirror. “I told you ... I’ve been holdin’ onto our memories. For safekeeping.”
“Well, this is me telling you that I don’t want to be safe!” It’s like—it’s like I can still feel the warmth of his scruff on my neck. See the way his naked back dipped in just above his jeans. “Show me.”
Tansy smiles this spooky, Cheshire cat smile that I could smack off her face. “My needlepoint awaits.”
“And I have a crater in the side of my head that’s about to explode.” I slap the table. “Explain!”
With our left index finger, Tansy scratches the mirror again. I’d overpower her, but maybe if I’m still for a moment, she’ll eventually give in. Scratching a set of “Xs” and “Os” in the mirror, she simply says, “No, my little Loveday.”
“What?”
“You think yourself clever, a detective, and Loveday was the greatest female detective of the Victorian age.”
Anger practically boils from my veins. “Remember how scared you were before? When we crawled under the desk because somebody came over? I want to help you not be scared anymore. But I can’t do that unless you talk to me!”
Tansy’s face goes so pale, I’m afraid she’s hyperventilating. “You” —seemingly unsure, she breaks eye contact with me— “wouldn’t like what you see.”
“I don’t care!” I slap our palm against the mirror, triggering a hairline fracture along the cool plane. Leaning in closer, I study Tansy’s pupils to make sense of what she’s hiding. “I need you to show me a memory.”
“You won’t like it,” she says in her waif-like voice.
“What are you so scared of?” I knock my knuckles against the mirror. “And don’t even think about making up something fake.”
She purses our lips, seemingly resigned. “I’m not a magician. I can show you the past—who we were with the illustrious WT, but it will come with con
sequences. You don’t remember how effortlessly successful he was, G!”
I gesture to the expensive crown molding and the crystal chandelier above our heads that’s worth more money than most people see their whole lives. “You say that like it’s a bad thing!” Leaning closer, I press my forehead into the glass and close my eyes.
There’s a war waging on the other side. Tansy fiddles with the granite wall: to show me or not to show me? My gut says, she really doesn’t want to show me.
Breath hitching, she grabs me by the scruff of my consciousness and lobs me to the darkest corner of her mind.
18
Tansy’s mental world is so full of crisp color, it looks almost fake. In this dream—this memory—leaves are still fastened on the trees, and the holly bushes out front are so neatly manicured and trimmed, Hardin Mansion almost looks like a different place.
Periwinkle azaleas round out the flower beds; purple heart juxtapose Texas sage. A man in a simple brown sweater trims a rose bush, and he hums a country song I think I should recognize. WT—he’s built like a bear, with wide shoulders and a chest that looks like he could prop up a car without even trying. His eyes are currently downcast, though, so it’s hard to see his face.
He’s examining flower after flower—meticulous hands trim dead pieces before the stems can become too unruly.
All at once, he glances up at me.
Neatly trimmed facial hair marks off a pleasant face. His kind eyes smile, and my entire world warms. I smile from where I sit on an herb-potted porch, reading. On my lap lies a book—The Baker Hotel Hauntings—and the trance between us flickers. Butterflies glide through the air while the heady perfume of the azaleas beg me to join him with his pruning.
Tansy abruptly pulls our hand from the mirror, severing our connection to the past—my one magical memory. “I decided to give you something to hold onto before ..." She purposely doesn’t finish the sentence, alluding to something sinister that wasn’t even there. She’s lying to me!
“Bring me back!” I slap the mirror. “I’m sure the avalanche won’t happen. Tansy, I’ve never felt more contented or peaceful in my life!”
Tansy cuts me a suspicious look with narrowed eyes. “You really do believe you can handle this.” She spreads our lips into a smile that says she knows for certain otherwise.
I slap the mirror harder. “You haven’t given me any reason to believe differently. Show me more.”
She grinds together our molars. “If I left things up to you, we’d have at least sixteen other alters by the morning.”
“That’s not going to happen! Now, put me back inside!”
Tansy lifts our chin and frowns with this unexpected disdain. “If it were up to you, we would only be livin’ in our memories.” She slips on a pair of bracelets from my shorts pocket I didn’t even know I was carrying. “You haven’t figured out how to move on with our life.”
I’m about ready to punch something. “How can I move on if I don’t even remember what happened in the first place?”
Tansy has us break away from the mirror and practically floats toward the kitchen like our spirit’s separated from our body. She passes an old blue vase, and I try to snatch it—maybe smash it to gain her attention—but she glides past, a ghost from Hollow’s Eve.
“I’m sure you understand how I might be exhausted, G.” She edges up to the stove that’s covered with a milky layer of grease. “You’re insisting on breakin’ down the glories of what I’ve built. Remember our Third Rule? Do Not Discuss Our History.”
“But I’ve been accused of murder! How am I supposed to defend myself if I don’t even remember what happened?”
She grabs the teapot from the stove with a practiced ferocity. “You should be thankin’ me. I have given you a bright, happy memory. You would do well to show your appreciation, my sweet.”
The buzzing in our throat tells me she’s begun humming a minor-keyed version of the song WT hummed while pruning. She turns on the water, and I try to clamber up to stay awake, but, with a swift shake of the head, she sends me crashing down a craggy cliff I didn’t even know I was on.
I squirm, spin to find my footing, but I’m falling through the chasm of her throat. She swallows, and I sink.
19
After all that’s gone on, Grammy’s the only person I know who can help me. There’s Francesca, but I’d like to keep her separate from the drama in my life. Sure, I know a little bit about her personal life—and she, mine—but getting my hair done is the one time I almost forget anything’s wrong. I pretend I’m not me for a second, and she makes me look like any other stranger I’d rather be.
So I do that, and it feels great. I go to Grady Dean’s and load up the shopping cart with two dozen cans of soup and all the delightful packets of lemon chamomile tea.
Luckily, an ad at the back of WT’s magazine tells me the location of the library. And the library—just around the corner from the grocery store—has computers. Computers mean search engines, and with a little digging into the local theater guilds ... I strike gold and find Grammy’s name.
With her name, I’m able to look her up in the county tax records.
And her home address is right there.
I’m practically a private eye.
Now that I know that Grammy lives just south of the cemetery, I know exactly where I’m going. If I had a car, it’d take me five minutes to drive. But I don’t, so I walk, dropping off the cans on the porch along the way.
Taking a shortcut, I crunch over the neighbor’s winterized grass and side-step all the fallen willows along the creek.
The sun’s already going down by the time I reach Grammy’s. I suppose it’s only a few minutes before I’m supposed to return home to Tansy. But I purposely stride up Grammy’s porch steps. Pass a pair of potted poinsettias and a red and yellow metal rooster with an open, chatty beak. It’s the tire swing, though, that hooks its iron claws inside my brain.
“You’ll do what you’re told.” On a tree branch, Edgar wrenches up the chain.
I nurse a black eye and a wrist that throbs from when he just shook me.
He heaves the chain higher. “Never. Again. Question me.”
I don’t know what I did or what he thought I saw, but I remember that the old me kept my eyes fastened on the horizon, hoping Grammy would come home and rescue me.
Now, though, a tractor weighs down the grass near an ice-frosted windmill that shudders in the wind, about thirty feet high. I clutch my shivering arms. Way to forget your coat, G.
Another cold snap warns me that maybe I don’t want to go down memory lane. Maybe it’s too dangerous, too icy. But I haven’t come this far to tuck tail and run the minute things get scary. Plus, the good’s mixed in with the bad in anybody’s past.
Trudging up the remainder of the steps, I smile at the thought of having a real discussion with Grammy. Luckily, Tansy won’t interfere. No way will she come out so far from home. There are perks to our arrangement. I’ll admit it this time.
After I knock on the front door of an old ‘30s style house with broken shutters and a stone chimney, uneven footfalls greet me from the other side. Grammy emerges through the dim, her slight frame offset with the bright blaze of hope in her eyes.
“Gemma!” She raises her aged hand and waves for me to enter.
I peel open the screened door and find a shelf of books and a crooked antenna attached to a TV. Two forest green recliners hunch on either side of a table, and one boasts a mess of yarn not unlike Tansy’s.
The TV stand’s covered by a pile of remotes while Edgar catches up on his latest crime show and biography. Grammy silently knits, while I look for excuses to escape to my room for a moment of peace. I pour over books—on history. Edgar says reading fiction is a ‘colossal’ waste of time, so he lets me check out any nonfiction book I like. I study both the American and French Revolutions. He ensures that I know the wars he and his friends might have fought in, earning awards, accommodations, and the like.
/>
I rebel by studying the Victorian Era. Prince Albert’s Great Exhibit in the Crystal Palace becomes a huge inspiration of mine. Unable to help it, I pour over scientific wonders like the Koh-i-Noor, the world’s largest diamond that was displayed there for weeks.
Grammy sews a prom dress that looks like something that would have been worn by the queen—full skirt, an exorbitant amount of lace. It even poofs up when I sit in the car with my date. Edgar, in the background, scowls, insisting that I wear something more American next time.
He buys me used books about all the Civil War generals, claiming there’s a good reason why Buford and Hancock’s names are crossed out with red ink. Is there something he wants me to decipher? I feel like he’s indoctrinating me ...
A knitted project has come to be in my hands—a hat with a hole on top for me to slip my hair through and into a top-knot. It’s perfect. Simple. The yarn has the perfect amount of flex when pulled tight.
“You were always so talented,” I tell Grammy.
“You wouldn’t learn,” she teases me.
“Maybe I would have if you weren’t such a bad teacher.”
“Never did see a more hopeless student.”
“Hey!”
Grammy smiles, sending a rush of happiness and warmth through me.
Suddenly, I remember the endless piles of books on my dresser, my bed, the floor—uneven piles encroaching on the doorway. Dog-eared pages meet dried-out highlighters. I forgot to cap them when I got sucked into an event in history. “I guess I was too busy reading.”
Grammy taps the side of her temple. “A true savant, if you ask me.”
I blush, knowing that’s a lie. Still, I want to know more of the past. Did I play sports? Was I in band? Maybe I was the student body president. Heh-heh, wouldn’t that be great.
No doubt sensing my questions, Grammy quickly says, “I just finished baking.”
Without another explanation, she limps around the corner to a kitchen with chicken wallpaper and shelves with black and white cow figurines. There’s a hominess about it, but it doesn’t match her interests. From the sleek lines of her clothes, I’d expect more of a modern kitchen. This whole house is Edgar’s domain.