by Lisa Unger
Eloise could feel Schaffer’s sadness, his desperation. And something else, something darker. A childish wanting, an inability to release.
“I see,” said Eloise.
“Would it help if I brought you something of hers?”
Eloise was about to say no. But Ray said, “Sure, that would be great.”
“Are you going to be able to help me, Ms. Montgomery?”
“I’ll do my best,” said Eloise. She beat a hasty retreat after that. Something about him was suffocating. Out on the street, she felt her breath return.
• • •
Meanwhile, The Burning Girl would not be ignored. Eloise had promised Agatha that she would tell the girl to go, that she would be firm. And she’d tried, she really had. But after a few days of fires in her house, Eloise finally got in her car and drove. What choice did she have?
When Miriam came to answer the door, she didn’t seem to recognize Eloise at first. The young woman had that vacant look of fatigue that all new mothers had. In the thrall of little ones, all personal needs neglected or delayed, young mothers were a special breed of givers.
Eloise remembered so vividly when her girls were small. There was almost nothing else in her life—just the kids and the house. These days, women wanted to work, too, wanted to achieve something. They had educations and grand expectations of their lives. Eloise had never wanted anything but a family and a happy home, which used to be normal but was now something laughable. The stay-at-home mom had somehow become an object of (subliminal) disdain. As if the job of raising children wasn’t an important vocation, as if it was something one should subcontract like the cleaning of your house or yard work. No, these days, you had to earn or be valueless.
“Miriam,” said Eloise as the woman stared at her blankly through the screen. “Do you remember me? Eloise Montgomery.”
“Oh, Eloise!” she said, her face lighting with recognition. “Of course. I’m sorry. I’m such a mess.”
The young woman cast an exhausted but loving glance down at the cooing infant on her hip. “Ella’s so fussy.”
“Ah,” Eloise said. “I remember those days.”
“I don’t think my older one was ever this cranky,” she said with a smile. “But he was a baby such a long time ago now. You forget, don’t you?”
The doughy, sweet baby was transfixed with Eloise, her big eyes staring, a little drool gathering in the corner of her Cupid’s bow mouth.
“You do forget,” said Eloise.
Miriam held the door open for Eloise, who walked inside. The house was tidy, plain. Eloise expected to see The Burning Girl there. But no.
Miriam offered coffee. But Eloise declined, and they sat on matching plaid love seats, facing each other over a coffee table.
“So,” said Miriam brightly. “What can I do for you, Eloise?”
The baby fussed, and Miriam shifted her onto her thigh, bouncing her a little in that way that babies seem to like. Little Ella smiled at Eloise, and Eloise felt such a sudden grip of longing and sadness, she had to look away from the child.
Eloise didn’t know why she’d come exactly, and she had no plans about what to say. But she just wound up telling Miriam about the girl she’d seen. Eloise only knew how to be direct.
She could see by the pallor that came over Miriam that the young woman knew exactly who Eloise was talking about.
Miriam didn’t say anything right away. And Eloise wondered if she should just leave. Then:
“I saw her for the first time in the woods out back,” Miriam said. “I used to take a walk back there while my boy was napping. We’re so isolated here; it always seemed safe to do.”
Miriam told Eloise how she saw the little girl dancing through the trees and followed her to a graveyard on the property that edged their property.
“I looked forward to seeing her,” said Miriam. “It was a hard time in my life. We were trying for another baby. I had stopped writing. And I had suffered a number of miscarriages. I was struggling with depression. She was a bright spot.”
Eloise nodded, made all the right affirming noises.
“Then I made the mistake of telling Nick about it,” she said. “He flipped out.”
“Why?” asked Eloise.
“I don’t know,” said Miriam. “He was afraid, I think. He wanted me to stop going out there. And I did. Shortly after I stopped, I became pregnant with Ella.”
Eloise got a flash vision, a quick view of the woman leaning over the bathtub, and her heart started to thump. She heard a child crying. But then it was gone, as quickly as it came. She’d broken a sweat, though.
“Are you all right?” Miriam asked. “Eloise, what is this about?”
“I’m fine,” Eloise said. “Sorry.”
Miriam stood and handed the baby to Eloise. “I’m going to get you some water.”
People were always rushing off to get Eloise water. Was it just a way to get away from her and the uncomfortable nature of the things that happened to her? Ella came to Eloise easily, gave her a big gummy smile, some soft gurgles. Oh, how fat and fragrant she was, what a bundle of raw energy. Eloise wanted to nuzzle her but settled for holding her around the middle, balancing her on her lap, and giving her a bumpy little ride.
“Aren’t you precious, Ella?” she asked. “Aren’t you the sweetest thing?”
Ella released a happy squeal.
“That’s a compliment,” said Miriam, placing the glass on the table in front of Eloise. She lifted the baby off of Eloise’s lap. “She usually fusses.”
Eloise had loved her baby time with Emily and Amanda. She remembered so vividly their wonderful little baby bodies, their tiny hands and belly buttons. She remembered Alfie walking and walking them when they cried, giving them their baths, the midnight feedings. They were so worried all the time, hoping they were doing everything right. No one tells you that those years are the easy years. Physically harder, more exhausting, sure. But easier in every other way—you hold them in your arms, you can kiss all the hurts away. Their needs are so simple.
Eloise watched Miriam unselfconsciously give Ella her breast. She felt better watching them, natural and beautiful, at one with each other. Agatha was wrong. Everything was going to be fine.
“Miriam, if you see her again,” said Eloise, “you have to tell her to go away. Tell her you can’t help her.”
She hadn’t planned to say this. But, yes, this was what she had come to say. She had to pass along Agatha’s advice to the person who needed it most. She felt that blessed rush of relief when she had done what she was intended to do.
But Miriam’s eyes traveled to the window, and Eloise heard the sound of a car in the driveway, then a door slamming. A moment later, the door opened quietly. Nick walked in, holding a bouquet of flowers and a small plush bear. He moved carefully, obviously trying not to wake the baby if she was sleeping.
“Hello?” he called quietly. “Where are my girls?”
“In here,” said Miriam. Her face brightened with love; she instantly looked ten years younger.
As soon as Nick saw Eloise, the happy expression he wore dropped into a frown. She knew the look of angry skepticism. The people who didn’t want to believe were the most hostile. Those who wanted to believe were open, accepting. The ones who didn’t believe at all might be mocking, or humoring, or just dismissive. But the people who were afraid that she might actually be what she said she was, and were afraid of what that might mean? Well, they could be downright dangerous.
“What’s going on here?” he asked. He walked into the room purposefully and took Ella from Miriam.
“Nick,” said Miriam. “Relax.”
“What are you doing here, Ms. Montgomery?”
“She just wanted to talk,” said Miriam. “About the girl in the woods.”
Nick blanched. He handed the baby back to
Miriam.
“Why don’t you take her upstairs and put her down. It’s time for her nap, right?”
“Nick,” she said. Miriam glanced at Eloise apologetically.
“Please, honey,” he said. It was gentle, not bullying or bossing. No, he wasn’t that. He was a man acting to protect his family. The baby started to wail then. Babies were such keen receptors, especially for their mothers’ feelings. Miriam was going to do what Nick said. She always did; Eloise could feel that. She trusted him more than she trusted herself.
“Eloise, I’m sorry,” said Miriam. She offered a little eye roll that said: “Men! What are you going to do?” Then she took the baby upstairs; Eloise could hear her comforting Ella as she climbed the steps. Then a door shut.
“There is no girl in the woods,” said Nick. He put down on the table the tulips and bear he’d been carrying, and crossed thick arms across his wide chest. He was a big man, with a thick head of ink-black hair, handsome in a rugged way. “You know that.”
Eloise said nothing. She rose and picked up her bag. Some people you could talk to, some you couldn’t. There was no point in arguing. Stubborn was the worst thing you could encounter in her line of business.
“My wife,” he said, “is not well. Surely you can see that.”
He moved toward the door and held it open for Eloise. How often had that happened to her, that she’d been politely asked to leave? Quite a bit. She didn’t take it personally. She had a job to do, and she tried to do it to the best of her ability. But she had come to realize that you can only help people who want to be helped.
“If you see her again, Nick—” And he had seen her. The fear coming off of him was electric. He’d probably been seeing her and denying her all his life. “You need to tell her to leave. Tell her that no one here can help her.”
He sighed. “This is toxic,” he said. “Stay away from my family, Ms. Montgomery. I’m telling you to leave. No one here can help you.”
She didn’t generally let people get to her—but she rankled a little at his words. She mostly just felt sorry for people—so fragile, so afraid, so desperate. She had an endless well of compassion for the suffering of others, having suffered so herself. She searched for something to say but finally just stayed silent.
“We don’t have any money,” he said. “If that’s your angle.”
But she was human, after all. Sometimes she got mad. She stopped at the threshold and looked at him. She tried her best to be withering. And she was gratified to see him bow his head in shame.
“You think I want your money?” she said. “I came here to help you.”
“I don’t want your help,” he said softly. “Miriam’s too fragile for this. I’m just barely hanging on to her.”
She wanted to tell him that that’s precisely why she was so vulnerable to The Burning Girl. But he was a closed door. The girl in the woods had never been able to get to him. And Eloise wouldn’t get to him either.
“Stay away from us,” he said when she crossed onto the porch. He closed the door softly.
Eloise walked to her car. She looked up to see Miriam and Ella in the upstairs window. Miriam waved a hand, offered a wry smile. The Burning Girl smoldered beside them.
• • •
Eloise went home and called Agatha. Agatha’s personal assistant, Amber, told Eloise that Agatha had “her meetings” this week. Meaning that Agatha was seeing the people who were waiting to speak to their departed loved ones—looking for closure, forgiveness, to finish what was unfinished, all the things of which sudden death had robbed them. Some people were looking for lost things, answers to questions, to unbury secrets. Once a man was looking for money he knew his father had hidden in the forest. According to Agatha, he’d found it and given her a 10 percent finder’s fee, as per their arrangement.
Agatha had encouraged Eloise to get into this area of the business, as it was very lucrative. But Eloise had zero interest in money. She’d made enough to meet her needs, leave money for her family when she passed on.
Furthermore, Eloise couldn’t imagine constantly sitting across from so much suffering. It was hard enough working with Ray, who handled most of the client interface. She was still unsettled even from her brief visit with Tim Schaffer. And it was hard enough dealing with visions, which were getting more and more draining every day. She didn’t want to look into the face of grief over and over again. She saw it enough when she looked in the mirror.
“Is it an emergency?” Amber asked now. “I can have Agatha call you between sessions.”
“No, no,” said Eloise. “It can wait.”
“Okay,” said Amber. Agatha said that the girl was an empath, someone very attuned to other people’s feelings. And Amber sounded unsure that Eloise was being truthful. “Call me if you change your mind.”
Eloise promised that she would. Eloise didn’t think it was an emergency. Or was it?
She went upstairs to her bedroom to lie down. Her encounter with Nick had drained her. She was tapped into the family in some weird way, and this experience was different than any other she’d had. She didn’t like it. For some reason, as she lay on her bed, it made her think of her first conversation with Agatha.
• • •
Agatha had just turned up at her doorstep one day. Eloise had watched as the chauffeur-driven Lincoln Town Car pulled into her driveway. She’d thought, “Oh, God. Now what?”
Eloise had had a hard couple of weeks as she approached the second anniversary of Alfie’s and Emily’s passings. She’d been inundated with requests after she led The Hollows PD to Tommy Delano in her first high-profile case. She had no idea how to manage any of it. Amanda had been acting out, doing poorly in school. And Eloise’s visions were coming hard and furious, but she had no way to make sense of them. She was frazzled, confused, not dealing with things very well at all. She would get Amanda off to school in the mornings, come home, and then get into bed with the blinds drawn, the phone unplugged. She had stopped answering the door altogether. It was Eloise’s first bout with depression. She had no energy reserves to fight off the darkness. Would it swallow her whole?
Eloise hadn’t answered right away when Agatha rang her doorbell, hoping the woman would just leave. But then she began to knock, gently but insistent.
“Ms. Montgomery,” Agatha called through the door finally. “I know you’re in there. I can feel your despair. I’m here to help you, dear.”
Eloise had leaned against the other side of the door and was overcome by a powerful wave of relief, that same blessed feeling that comes when a migraine disappears. She’d opened the door a crack, and the older woman smiled at her.
“I don’t want anything from you,” said Agatha. “I promise I just want to help you find your way.”
“Why?” asked Eloise. She was suspicious now of everyone. She’d never been that way before. “Why do you want to help me?”
“Why do you do the things you do?” Agatha had asked. “This is our calling, to help the people who need us. For better or worse, this is our thing. You know that, I think. You can feel me, can’t you?”
Eloise could feel her. Agatha’s power was enormous. It swept in with her as she entered and filled the house. She jingled, smelled of flowers. Her clothes flowed around her when she walked. Eloise showed her into the living room and offered her a drink, which Agatha declined.
“So where does it come from?” Agatha had asked that day. “Your mother’s side or your father’s side?”
The question took Eloise aback.
“Neither,” she said. “This happened to me in the accident.”
“No,” said Agatha with a smile and a gentle shake of her head. “That’s not how it works. These abilities are not acquired. They are inborn.”
Eloise had objected. But Agatha was immovable.
“You may not have had access to your gifts be
fore the accident,” she said. “But trust me, they were there, lying dormant. If you went back into your genealogy, I’ll bet that one of your female ancestors was burned at the stake as a witch. Or she was some weird recluse, or a palm reader, or whatever.”
Eloise had experienced her usual desire to shut down when she talked about her origins. Her upbringing had been harsh and joyless. Her mother had died shortly after Eloise’s birth, and the truth was that Eloise knew almost nothing about her. Eloise had one photo, her wedding dress (which Eloise had worn at her own wedding), and an old stuffed bear that Eloise had carried around until it became embarrassing and slept with it long after that. She still had it; Bear sat on a shelf in Emily’s old room.
And her father had been a silent, unaffectionate man. He’d provided for Eloise, never abused her. On the other hand, he never even seemed to notice her. It was her aunt Beth, her father’s sister, who cared for her mostly.
But Eloise learned early, as all motherless children must, to take care of herself—she learned to cook and do the laundry, clean the house. Once she learned to read, she spent her life in books—reading of places better and lives more interesting than her own.
She was lonely in a deep and total way. But it wasn’t the kind of loneliness one noticed. She simply had never known anything else. But it was probably why she married so young and started a family as soon as she could. Her father died while she was in college, just a year before she and Alfie married. He left her some money, but few memories of any kind of love at all. After that, Alfie’s parents became her parents. They loved her, and for the first time in her life she knew what it was like to be part of a family. She didn’t tell this to many people, but she told it all to Agatha.
“What about your aunt Beth?” asked Agatha. “Didn’t she ever tell you anything about your mother? Anything about either family?”
Beth, too, was gone. She’d moved to Santa Fe while Eloise was in college. Their contact dwindled, and then she’d disappeared altogether. One day, Eloise tried to call and the phone had been disconnected. A birthday card Eloise sent was returned with no forwarding address. Eloise had tried to find her, had even managed to track down an old roommate. But the girl hadn’t been kind, told Eloise that some people just didn’t want to be found. Which Eloise knew now was true.