Wolfhowl Mountain

by Dian Cronan

  “Sure, yeah,” I say, trying to stop the shaking in my voice, “We went to the funeral – well, we tried. But we aren’t exactly popular in town and we were essentially chased out.”

  “Chased?” Reagan asks dubiously.

  “Kelly Patton’s mother smacked mine across the face.”

  “Why?”

  “She was upset. Her daughter just died. Something like that makes people crazy, doesn’t it?” Officer Reagan’s eyes meet mine at the c-word and I chastise myself for using it.

  “Then?” Reagan prods.

  “We went home. Well, Mom went home. Mr. O’Dwyre drove her because she was so upset. I went home with Beckan and we talked for a while. Mr. O’Dwyre came back, said he put Mom to bed. Then Beckan walked me home.”

  “What did you do when you got home?”

  The taught rope looked new.

  I hesitate as my memory begins to swirl away like fog. I fold my hands together to stop the shaking. “I went to check on my mother.”

  “What did you see?” Reagan’s voice is falling away and I look at him intently, trying to hold onto him with my eyes. “Where was she?”

  A few feet of un-frayed, straw-like material gave way to a near perfect noose. Where had she learned to tie such a knot?

  “She was in the fire room.”

  “I’m sorry, fire room?”

  One slipper on a twitching foot, one lying on the fire-eaten floor beneath her.

  “It’s damaged,” I say, my voice far away. “It was damaged in a fire before we moved in.”

  “Okay. What was your mother doing in this room?”

  My chest tightens and my breath flees my lungs. “Um, she was…she…”

  Fingers jerking at her sides, not reaching up for the tight noose. Tongue lolling between purpling lips.

  Officer Reagan shifts his weight, looks up from his pad of paper. “It’s okay, Rose. Take your time. Take a deep breath.” He reaches out and puts a comforting hand over my shaking hands. He gives them a squeeze before letting go.

  I fix Officer Reagan with a hard stare, the image of Mother now complete in my mind, a sharp photograph at the moment it was lit by flash. When I try to continue, my jaw clamps shut. My lips are glued together. I take a deep breath in through my nose. After what feels like forever, I finally manage to speak through clenched teeth, “She was dying… I – I screamed…” My whole body begins to shake, on the verge of convulsions. The world begins to fade, to get dark. I’m going to pass out again.

  But suddenly the light comes back into the room. Beckan is at my side, a strong arm around my shoulders as he holds me to the earth.

  “I think that’s enough, Officer,” he says coolly. “I arrived right aftah that and then she fainted.”

  Officer Regan looks at Beckan, sizing him up, trying to figure out how hard he can push. “That’s right,” he says. “And it was just you that found her, correct?”

  Beckan nods. “Yes. I – I found them both. It was Rose’s screams that alerted me. Rose’s muthah was still alive. I cut her down and called the ambulance. Now, if you don’t mind,” he says sternly, “I think Rose has been through enough.”

  Officer Reagan, realizing he isn’t going to get anything more from me, nods and puts his notes away. “Thank you, Miss Delaney, for your patience.” He smiles, but it’s a sad smile. “When you’re feeling better, you’ll have to come down to the police station and sign a statement. Just a formality. Give me a call when you’re ready.” He drops a business card on a tray by my bed, tips his hat, and then he’s gone.

  ***

  An hour later I’m dressed in the same dark clothes I’d worn to Kelly’s funeral. I haven’t officially been discharged yet, but a nurse came by with the doctor to remove the port from my hand, which now itches furiously. The doctor explained I need to rest for a few days, drink plenty of fluids, and avoid stress. Yeah, sure. Let me get right on that.

  Beckan leads me through the bright corridors of the hospital, a strong hand cradling mine, Letta trailing quietly behind us. I lean into Beckan, his presence reassuring and calming. I realize he’s the only thing keeping me grounded in this moment. Without him, I might float away, drift like a leaf on the wind for eternity.

  We approach a set of heavy double doors beyond a busy reception area. Nurses bustle around, answering phones, laughing together in a corner, as if everything’s normal. As if my world hasn’t fallen apart. Why can’t they see that the world is fracturing and dissolving away? Soon, we’ll all disappear, fall into the dark and roiling abyss. Don’t they know that?

  Above the doors, painted in black block letters, I read: Psychiatric Ward. No one gets through without a code.

  “Can I help you?” asks a nurse clad in a stark white uniform behind the desk.

  “Yes,” Beckan says, gesturing to me, still clinging to his arm, “This is Rose Delaney. Her muthah, Moira, was brought in a few days ago. She’d like tah see her.”

  “Just a moment.” The nurse turns to her computer and types several commands, her face growing darker with each keystroke. “Delaney, you said?” Her voice is flat, unreadable.

  “Yes.”

  The nurse stands. “Wait here please.”

  Letta sidles up next to me. She takes my other hand and squeezes it tightly.

  After several minutes a loud buzzing sounds. A doctor emerges from the doors, walking briskly toward us. He’s in his late fifties, with close-cropped white hair and kind blue eyes. His thin lips are pressed together seriously, but I can tell he’s a caring man. He’s devoid of anything marking him as a doctor, except for the long white coat. He doesn’t carry a stethoscope, a clipboard of charts, or a pen. He wears a turtleneck with no buttons or zippers. Looking down, I notice he’s wearing worn penny loafers, a shoe without any laces.

  “Rose Delaney?” He says, looking between Letta and me.

  “Yes?” I step forward, finally releasing Letta and Beckan’s hands.

  He smiles gently and shakes my hand. His grip is warm and reassuring. “Hi, Rose. I’m Doctor Fleur. How are you feeling?”

  “Um, I dunno,” I say, suddenly feeling like a specimen under a microscope. Dr. Fleur looks at me intently, appraising me.

  “It’s okay,” he says when I find myself unable to continue. “I understand. So. You’d like to see your mother?”

  I nod.

  “I’ll walk you back to see her, but I must caution you,” he says quietly. “Her condition is not good. Don’t worry,” Doctor Fleur assures me when he sees my anxious expression. “She’s perfectly safe here. But she’s been through quite a lot, as you know. She won’t look or behave like herself. It might be quite a shock for you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, for starters,” Doctor Fleur says, “she told me her children were dead.”

  I walk through the psychiatric ward with Doctor Fleur, forced to leave Beckan and Letta behind – only family allowed here. We pass several doors along the corridor, each locked and sealed with a small, reinforced window at the top. With each step, my apprehension increases. Why did Mother tell the doctors Liam and I were dead? What else has she told them?

  Doctor Fleur finally pauses before a door, identical to the rest. “Here we are,” he says, as if Disneyland is on the other side instead of my mentally unstable mother.

  My heart leaps into my throat. “What’s her condition,” I ask. “I mean, is there a diagnosis?” As if having a name for whatever’s wrong with Mother will somehow make me feel better.

  “She’s in a dissociative fugue state,” he explains, “which is a fancy way of saying she isn’t aware of herself or her surroundings. She has a vague memory that she was once a mother, but that’s where any sense of who she is ends. We’ve also had to medicate her to prevent violent outbursts. When she first arrived, she tried to strangle an orderly and then began ripping at her own throat, so she’s restrained for her safety and the safety of my staff.”

  Well, I was wrong; I feel worse. “Will sh
e recover?”

  Doctor Fleur frowns. He looks me directly in the eye. His voice softens. “Rose, I feel you’re the kind of girl who likes to hear the blunt truth, so I won’t sugarcoat it. In my experience, it’s about fifty-fifty. She might get better with treatment. She might not. And if she does recover, she may never be the same or may suffer memory loss. Based on my observations since your mother has been under my care, it’s quite possible this could be a permanent state for her. However, it’s hard to be sure.”

  I stay silent, feeling my own sense of self slipping away.

  Doctor Fleur pulls a ring of jingling keys from his pocket and, finding the right one, slips it into the lock. He opens the door, motioning for me to proceed ahead of him.

  The room is small and bare, painted a familiar, soothing taupe and has the same taupe ceiling tiles as everywhere else. There are no windows, no chairs, no watercolors of flowers, no equipment of any kind; only a small bed with a metal frame. A frail body is strapped to it, staring at the ceiling.

  Doctor Fleur lets the heavy door close behind us. He gives me an encouraging look and I slowly creep toward Mother. I’m amazed to see a stranger lying before me.

  Mother’s long red hair is dull, almost transparent. It splays out on the pillow like a dying fire. Her arms are bony, held to the bed frame with a pair of soft but sturdy-looking restraints. Her small feet protrude from the end of the hospital-issue blanket, also restrained. She has bruises on her ankles and wrists where orderlies held her down while she fought being restrained. Her neck is raw from the noose. The only thing telling me this empty shell is, in fact, Moira Delaney, are her fiery eyes, still unfocused and staring at the ceiling.

  “You can talk to her,” Doctor Fleur says. “Be careful to keep your voice positive and calm.”

  I approach the side of the bed, Mother’s head tilting toward the noise of my footsteps. Her eyes don’t move, don’t focus on me. I sink to my knees to be eye level with her. I lean forward, struggle to find something to say, and finally settle on a quiet, tentative, “Mom?”

  Mother’s reaction is instant and violent. She lurches from the bed as far as the restraints will allow and hisses at me, “I am no mother! My children are dead!”

  I fall back onto my hands and into the wall behind me. Mother’s still reeling toward me, spitting hate and rage as I stare at her, awed and frightened.

  “She took them from me! My children are dead! I am dead!”

  And then, as if reaching the eye of a storm, Mother calms. Her eyes glaze over and she lays back on the bed, comatose, as if nothing happened.

  I stay frozen on the floor, staring at Mother’s pale face, until Doctor Fleur retrieves me. He gently helps me to my feet and practically carries me from the room, pausing long enough to lock the door behind us.

  ***

  Doctor Fleur deposits me back into the care of Letta and Beckan, apologizing for Mother’s outburst. He bids me a sad farewell and promises to keep me informed on Mother’s condition. Neither Beckan nor Letta ask about Mother and I don’t explain. We make our way silently back to the reception desk near the room I’d occupied, so I can be formally discharged.

  “Now, as a minor, Miss Delaney,” the discharge nurse says, “I can’t release you to your own devices.”

  “What ‘bout me?” Beckan asks. “I’m twenty and I live on the same property with my dad. We can look aftah her.”

  “I appreciate that,” the nurse replies, “but unfortunately the law is clear. I have to release Miss Delaney into the care of a relative.”

  “A relative?” I echo.

  “Yes. Fortunately,” the nurse continues, “your grandmother arrived a few minutes ago.”

  “Grandmother?” I repeat, feeling like a confused parrot as I hand the clipboard of paperwork back to the nurse.

  The nurse gestures to a row of chairs along the far wall. Following her gaze, I see several people sitting in the waiting area, but my eyes are immediately drawn to the small figure in the center row. Calmly, blankly staring at me from behind milky blue eyes is Enit O’Sullivan.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Emily Lenore II

  The ride back from the hospital is quiet. Letta rides with Beckan, following Laura as she chauffeurs Enit and me to their house. Apparently, Enit thought I’d be safest with her and knew I couldn’t be released to her if we weren’t family, hence the lie about being my grandmother. The hospital hadn’t even asked for her I.D. Why Enit thinks I’m safer with her, I’ve no idea, but I can’t go back to the mountain, so I don’t argue.

  I stand in the cramped bathroom of the O’Sullivan’s house. I run the freezing, rust-tinged water over my face several times, trying to wake myself up from this unending nightmare. I gaze into the dingy mirror, trying to take everything in – the shock, the disbelief. My gaunt face stares back at me with its sharp, pale cheekbones, its deep purple circles under dull, listless eyes. I barely recognize myself. Is it possible I’m still Texas Rose? The cheerleader, the confident beauty, the popular girl, every boy’s dream? Does that Rose still exist in there somewhere?

  I’m doubtful.

  “The house has him now.”

  That’s what Beckan told me, his eyes dark and his voice low. He sounded like he was apologizing, as if it was his fault. He explained that after I fainted and the ambulances arrived, along with the police and fire departments, Liam was forgotten in the chaos. His bedroom door, like all the others on the hall save for the fire room, was closed. No one thought anything of it. By the time Beckan remembered him, several hours had gone by and the house had already sealed Herself up. As if She’d finally gotten what She wanted and now no one would be allowed in. The keys don’t turn the locks. The unlocked windows can’t be opened. No one will be allowed to take away what’s Hers this time.

  Liam has become part of Her now, but what does that mean? Is he lost forever? Will he absorb into the walls and become part of Her? Will I ever see my baby brother again?

  Fresh tears pool in my eyes, and a gut wrenching sob crawls from my throat. Liam…

  There’s a soft knock on the door. “Rose?” It’s Beckan. “Are you okay?”

  I take a deep breath to steady my voice. “Yes. I’m – I’m fine. I’ll be out in a minute.” I wait for his heavy footsteps to retreat before crying again, wiping my tears on the sleeve of the oversized white sweater Laura lent me. We’re hardly the same size, for Laura O’Sullivan is heavier and a little shorter, but I can’t exactly reject the generosity. All of my clothes are still up on Wolfhowl Mountain. I’m just glad to be out of the uncomfortable funeral attire and finally in something warm and soft. Laura also managed to find a pair of old jeans that actually fit pretty well with a belt, aside from being a little short.

  After rallying myself and drying my face, I emerge from the bathroom into a narrow hall lined with framed photos, haphazardly hung with zero respect to gravitational forces. Enit’s house is one of the oldest in town, right down the road from Saint Perpetua. It was originally a tiny log cabin occupied by a priest, but was later made suitable for a small family by a mismatching whitewashed addition. Every angle is crooked, every ceiling concave, every floorboard creaky, and the wind barrels through it like a windsock. But it doesn’t feel ominous or dreary. It doesn’t feel like someone’s always watching you, breathing down your neck, stalking you… I rather like Enit’s dusty old shack. It’s cozy in a grandmotherly way.

  I take my time walking down the hall, gazing into the eyes of the portraits. Most of them are of Laura and Adam. Adam even looks happy in the older ones. There are several family shots. It looks like there’s a photo for every year Adam’s been around, which I think is actually kind of nice, except Adam appeared to get darker and sadder with each one. There are almost no family photos of the Delaneys, except for that one up at Wolfhowl…

  I search for younger photos of Enit, curious to see what she’d looked like as a girl. My hopes are high for some old black and white in front of a schoolhouse, a pale fr
owning Enit with her once brown or green eyes peeking out of a small crowd of smiling classmates, dark hair accented with a white bow to keep it out of her eyes, little saddle shoes at the bottom of pigeon-toed feet. But I’m disappointed; there are no photos showing Enit any younger than about forty-five or fifty. I almost give up, but then I retreat to the very back of the hall, outside of a bedroom, and see a small frame containing a yellowed newspaper clipping from 1932.

  “Mysterious child appears, sent to local orphanage,” I read aloud. My eyes rove the paragraph below. It’s short and succinct. The girl, thought to be around fourteen or fifteen, had appeared on a stretch of highway between Bar Harbor and Port Braseham, alone, shoeless, in worn and outdated clothes. She refused to speak, identify herself, or tell them where she came from or where her parents were. It was speculated she was a mentally impaired runaway. She was being placed in a local orphanage until such time as her parents could be located. Anyone with information was encouraged to contact the Hancock County Police Department.

  I read the paragraph again, trying to understand why something so obscure is framed and hung with all the other family photos of the O’Sullivans. Is this a relative, perhaps some kind of genealogy mystery? I let my eyes fall to the small, blurry photo below the paragraph. It’s of a young girl with dark hair. Her eyes are lighter, not quite brown, but perhaps green…

  With a mental click, the puzzle finally snaps together. I’m suddenly incensed, feeling a wild loss of control. I run down the hall and back into the sitting room where Beckan and Letta sit with Enit and Laura. I fly at the old woman, and almost make it to her, but Beckan restrains me, pinning my arms from behind. Letta shoots to her feet, dumping a little china cup of hot tea onto a paisley rug. Laura is on her feet too, standing protectively in front of her mother as I fight against Beckan’s iron grip, leaning forward and spitting like a rabid dog.

  “You!” I scream at Enit as the milky eyes turn toward the commotion. “It’s you!”