Secrets of Redemption Box Set

by Michele Pariza Wacek

  Oh God, I had to stop. I threw myself into the cleaning, dusting, washing, and scrubbing. I was even able to ignore the pain in my head and my clogged sinuses, which I was sure I was making worse with all the dust.

  From below, I heard a door slam. “Becca?” Chrissy called.

  I sat back, ran my hand over my forehead, and promptly knocked something over, hearing it clatter as it fell. “Up here.”

  I heard her footsteps heavy on the stairs, and turned to see what had fallen. Some old photographs had spilled out of a carved wooden box with a rose on the lid, along with what looked like an old diary, yellow and brittle, and a heavy gold locket decorated with a jeweled rose. The petals looked like they were made with rubies and diamonds, the stem from emeralds. It was gorgeous. And instantly disturbing.

  Where is my locket?

  I rubbed my temples, trying to shut out Mad Martha’s voice. This couldn’t possibly be her locket. Could it?

  Suddenly, I realized Chrissy had nearly reached the top of the steps. I quickly swept everything back into the box and hid it behind an old table just before she stepped into the room.

  She wrinkled her nose and looked around. “Wow. What a mess.”

  I half-smiled. “Yeah it is.”

  Her eyes fell on the paintings set up in the corner. “Your aunt painted?”

  I paused. I wanted to say “yes” and bundle her back downstairs before she asked any more questions. But instead, when I opened my mouth, I found myself saying something else entirely. “No, they’re mine.”

  She almost looked impressed. “Really? Can I see?” She started walking toward the stack of paintings. I had to scramble to my feet to intercept her.

  “Not now. Okay?”

  She stopped, the expression on her face a mix of hurt and anger. “What? Am I not good enough? Only your friends can see them?”

  Careful Becca. I didn’t want to make the same mistake I did when she first heard the name Becca. I took a deep breath. “It’s not that I mind you seeing them. It’s just I’m not ready to see them yet. Can you understand that?”

  She paused, looked at me, and then back at the paintings. “Yeah. Okay. Whatever.”

  I tried to hold back my relief. At least for the moment, I’d managed to avoid a fight. “Did you need anything?”

  “I’m making lunch. Do you want any?”

  “Um, sure.” I was surprised. She hadn’t offered to cook or pitch in since the night she got drunk. I wondered if this was her way of burying the hatchet.

  “Okay, give me fifteen minutes.” She turned to head back down the stairs.

  When she was gone, I looked to where I had hidden the box. I wanted to examine it more closely, but it didn’t feel like the time. Maybe after I ate. Eating would probably help my headache from getting any worse as well, keeping it from going beyond the dull pain it was at that point. I took a moment to blow my nose.

  I headed to the bathroom to clean up and swallow a couple ibuprofen and a decongestant, and then went downstairs. Chrissy was just putting the finishing touches on tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches with tomato and bacon. It smelled wonderful.

  Along with taking care of lunch, she even made an effort to have a conversation with me, finally sharing a bit about her new friends. Even though a part of me was suspicious of her motives, her dad was coming home tomorrow, and maybe she thought it would be a good idea to get on my good side. I pushed that thought away.

  It didn’t matter if her motives weren’t completely pure; this was still a good sign. It was something to build on.

  After lunch, I offered to clean up, so she could go join her friends. But before I did anything, I wanted one of the cookies she had made a few days ago. I opened the lid of the sunflower cookie jar only to find it empty.

  A sense of dread uncurled itself in the pit of my stomach. The night before, there were still plenty left. What happened? Did I move them and not remember?

  Chrissy breezed in as I was opening cupboards and peering into pots. “What are you doing?”

  “Looking for the cookies,” I said, picking the lid off the slow cooker. “Do you know what happened to them?”

  “They’re gone.”

  “What?” I jerked my head to look up at her, and ended up banging my head. “Ow. Gone? What are you talking about? There were a bunch left last night.”

  She shook her head. “No, there wasn’t. I only saw two last night and I ate them.”

  I got to my feet, rubbing where I banged my head. “But that’s not possible. I remember …” my voice trailed off.

  Did I actually remember all those cookies? Was I sure?

  Chrissy was staring at me, concern and alarm mingling on her face. “Becca? Are you okay?”

  I shook my head, as if to clear it. “Yeah. I think so. I’ve also noticed things in odd places, like my keys and the coffee. Have you noticed anything?”

  She shook her head, her expression turning suspicious. “Why would I touch your keys?”

  “I didn’t say you did. I was just asking if you knew anything about things not being where they belong.”

  “You always blame me for everything,” she shouted, as she flounced out of the kitchen. “It’s not my fault,” I heard her yell as the back door slammed.

  “I’m not blaming you,” I said to an empty kitchen. “And why would I think it was your fault?” Sighing, I rubbed my head.

  It was only later when I realized she never did answer the question.

  ***

  The first thing I did when I returned to the studio was check to see if the box was still where I had left it. It was. As much as I wanted to take a closer look at the contents, especially that locket, a part of me still felt like it wasn’t quite the right time. Instead, I finished cleaning the worst of the dust and grime. I also decided to keep the windows open to continue airing out the room. Eventually, once I cleaned out the boxes and other junk, I could turn the space into something really nice. Maybe it could be my office and studio, combined. I could move up the files and herbs from The Magic Room, too, and it could be a fabulous work place for me …

  Wait a second. What was I thinking? I wasn’t seriously considering getting back into painting again, was I? Never mind my aunt’s herb and tea business. When would I have the time? I still had a ton of things to do to get this house ready to put on the market. Besides, chances were high we wouldn’t be here long enough for me to turn this space into anything other than storage for all the boxes in the garage.

  I vigorously dusted my hands together, like I was brushing all traitorous difficult thoughts off of me, and focused instead on collecting the cleaning supplies and cleaning myself up. I needed to turn my energy to the next day, and Stefan’s homecoming.

  I brought the rose box with me as well. After I had showered and changed into fresh clothes, I sat on my bed with the box in front of me.

  Where is my locket?

  Opening the box, I took the locket out. It had a rich, heavy feel to it. I ran my finger over the beautifully-etched diamond and ruby rose.

  Still beautiful. And still somehow disturbing.

  My logical mind argued with me. How on earth could a locket “feel” disturbing? It was a locket. It didn’t emit “feelings.” And it certainly couldn’t feel that way just because it was probably Mad Martha’s.

  Could it?

  Another part of me, a deeper part, knew why it felt disturbing.

  That part knew the truth.

  Cold prickles of fear covered my body. I was having trouble breathing.

  “It’s just a locket,” I tried to tell myself. But the fear didn’t go away. If anything, it just got worse.

  Moving slowly, feeling almost like I was in a dream, I gently opened the latch with a small click.

  Inside there were two pictures—a man and a woman. The man I didn�
��t recognize, but the sour-looking woman with her hair in a bun wearing a buttoned- up, high-necked dress was a dead ringer for the woman in my dream.

  Mad Martha.

  Chapter 26

  For a moment, all I could do was stare at that picture. Yes, it was definitely the woman from my dream.

  That locket is more powerful than you can imagine.

  I wanted to run screaming out of the room. Actually, remembering Daniel’s story about Redemption, I wanted to run screaming out of the house, out of the town. Oh God, what were we living with?

  Instead, I forced myself to pick up the pictures in the box. They were yellow with age, the edges curled under. More pictures of the woman in the locket, holding a baby, holding a baby with a man behind her—the same man from the locket, the woman sitting on a chair with the man and a young girl beside her, a baby in her lap.

  I turned one of the pictures over. “Martha, Edward, and Helen, February 1910” scrawled in a spidery hand.

  Mad Martha was real.

  Until that moment, I realized a part of me had thought none of it was real—not Mad Martha, not Nellie, and certainly not the ghosts. I didn’t even believe in ghosts.

  Did I?

  Gingerly, I picked up the diary and carefully opened it. The same spidery handwriting covered the brittle, yellow pages. I carefully flipped through the book, glancing at the entries.

  The house is whispering to me again.

  I dropped the book in horror. Oh God. It really was Mad Martha’s diary. I didn’t want any part of it.

  On the other hand, it also meant I was in possession of the truth. Did I actually have a written account of her madness in my hands?

  Would I finally find answers to what was happening in the house?

  I picked up the diary, intending to read it downstairs with a pot of tea. Even though my headache had nearly drained away, thanks to the food, medicine, and shower, I thought some tea would hit the spot. First, though, I needed to hide the locket and the pictures. The last thing I wanted was for either Chrissy or Stefan to find them, before I had a chance to get to the bottom of everything.

  But finding a hiding place was more difficult than I had first anticipated. There weren’t that many places I could hide the box that I could be reasonably certain Stefan wouldn’t stumble across. I finally decided to shove it in a pocket of my suitcase, which I then pushed to the back of the closet.

  Downstairs, while the tea brewed, I searched for a book I could hide the diary in, if Chrissy surprised me while I was reading it. I settled myself with my tea and my phone on the couch in the family room—close enough where I could hear Chrissy come in either door.

  January 2, 1913

  Edward gave me a new diary for Christmas. “A new diary for a new beginning,” he said as he handed it to me. I hope my smile didn’t look as fake as it felt.

  I know he means well. And he’s trying to understand. But it’s hard for him, especially when I don’t understand myself what’s happening.

  Ever since Edward Jr. was born, I haven’t been myself. I can’t bring myself to touch him. How can this be? I’m his mother. I have to take care of him. I love him.

  So why do I feel like if I touch him, something bad may happen to him? That I may hurt him?

  I must be a terrible mother.

  There he goes, crying again. And Helen is fussing, too. I’m just so tired. I don’t know what to do. I just want to go to sleep.

  I stopped reading. Did Mad Martha have postpartum depression? Or was I jumping the gun?

  It certainly sounded like it, just from that first entry, and if she did, it might very well explain why she went mad.

  I went back to reading. There were a number of pages—dated throughout most of January—detailing how depressed she was, how she couldn’t cope. What a nightmare it must have been back then if she really did have postpartum depression.

  January 28, 1913

  Edward told me today he was hiring a new maid to help out. Her name is Nellie. She’s young, Edward told me, but she’s strong and eager to help. She’ll be able to take over a lot of the maid duties, so Gertrude can focus all her attention on Edward Jr. and Helen, instead of trying to do both jobs. She’ll be starting tomorrow.

  He smiles as he tells me, but I can see the tension and disappointment behind it. He’s unhappy with me. I’ve let him down. As both a wife and a mother.

  And, instead of feeling relieved that he’s getting me more help, all I want to do is crawl back into bed and cry. I’m so disappointed in myself. My mother, God rest her soul, would be so upset if she knew this is what I had turned into. This is not who she raised me to be.

  What kind of mother can’t pick up her infant son? What kind of monster am I?

  January 29, 1913

  Edward didn’t tell me how pretty Nellie is. With her soft, doe eyes, creamy skin, full, luscious lips and silky brown hair, she reminds me a little of myself at that age.

  I’m not sure how much I like that. None of our other help looks like her—Cook is soft and round with thick, heavy features, and Gertrude is all sharp angles with a hooked nose that reminds me of a bird’s beak. We have one other servant who runs errands and pitches in wherever she’s needed. I can’t remember her name now, but she is a scrawny, ugly, little thing with red hair and freckles. A hard worker though.

  But this Nellie …

  I better go lie down and stop this nonsense. Supper is in a couple of hours and I need to look my best. Edward got me more help; he would think me most ungrateful if I don’t make an effort.

  I sipped my tea. The setup certainly lent itself to Edward having a bit of a dalliance on the side. If Martha really had been consumed with postpartum depression, the doe-eyed Nellie may have been too much temptation. He certainly wouldn’t have been the first man to have had an affair with a maid.

  Not that that excused his actions. But, all the pieces were starting to make an awful lot of sense.

  I went back to reading. From the start, Martha had been suspicious of Nellie, and the relationship never improved.

  February 23, 1913

  Today, I walked into the drawing room only to find Nellie and Edward standing in the corner, way too close. They jumped apart when they saw me, and Nellie quickly left the room, mumbling that Gertrude needed her. When I asked Edward, he laughed at me, told me I was imagining things.

  I know what I saw, but he’s insistent. Asking me how would I know what I think I saw? I still can’t touch my own child. Do I really know reality from fiction?

  He has a point. I still can’t bear to be even be in the same room with my infant son, much less hold him like a good mother. But why won’t Edward meet my eyes? And why are my instincts screaming that he’s lying?

  March 2, 1913

  Why am I not getting better? No matter how much I rest, I just feel sicker and sicker. I don’t know what’s going on with me. Today, I was looking for Cook to make me tea, and I found Nellie in the kitchen. She seemed startled to see me. What was she doing in there? And where was Cook? There’s something not right going on here. I must be more vigilant.

  March 10, 1913

  I think Nellie is poisoning me. She brought me my tea today, and I had only drunk half of it before I was hit with a raging headache and had to go lie down. As I headed off to bed, I passed one of the bedrooms and saw Nellie rocking Edward Jr. Why was Nellie rocking my baby? Where was Gertrude? I must talk to Edward about this.

  March 11, 1913

  I’m so upset I can barely write. I just told Edward what I suspected—that Nellie is poisoning me, but he only patted my hand and told me I needed my rest.

  Rest? She’s the one making me sick! But when I said that to Edward, he patiently reminded me I was sick before Nellie got here, that, in fact, Nellie was hired because I was sick.

  But, why was she rocking my
son then? He sighed and called for Cook to make me some tea.

  I’m so confused now. Have I been sick that long? That can’t be true. Did Nellie sneak in and poison me so we would hire her? Maybe I better lie down after all.

  Why doesn’t Edward believe me?

  March 22, 1913

  The house is whispering to me again. Edward still refuses to believe me. I know something is going on between them.

  April 3, 1913

  I had another raging headache today. I struggled out of bed to find Cook myself. I don’t trust Nellie anymore. I know she’s doing something to me. I know it! When I was walking to the kitchen I saw the four of them—Edward, Nellie, Edward Jr., and Helen, together in the garden. They looked like a family.

  And that’s when it hit me—Nellie wants to replace me. She wants my life.

  She wants me dead.

  As I stood there, watching them, my mouth hanging open, I heard the house whisper. “Yes, Martha,” the whispers said. “Now what are you going to do about it?”

  The back door slammed. “Becca, I’m home,” Chrissy called out.

  I quickly slipped the diary into the other book, stuck it in the bookcase, and stood up. She bounded into the family room and looked at me suspiciously. “Why are you in here?”

  I smoothed my hands over my shorts. “So, this room is off limits to me?”

  She took a step back, her expression uncertain. “Well, no … but you’re never in here.”

  “First time for everything,” I said briskly. “I’ll go start dinner.”

  She moved back into the kitchen. “I can cook if you’d like.”

  Something jangled in the back of my head—something that felt like a warning. I think Nellie is poisoning me. “I can do it,” I said quickly—maybe too quickly. Her eyes narrowed.

  “What, don’t you trust me?”

  I opened my mouth, the words, “Why are you asking me if I trust you—shouldn’t I trust you?” threatening to fly out. But, at the last moment, something stopped me.

  The part of me that felt like asking that would be a very bad idea.

  “I just wanted to give you a break. Your father is going to be home tomorrow, and I know he prefers your cooking to mine. But, what if we cooked together?” I forced a smile on my lips.