Homecoming

by Amber Benson

It hadn’t been worth it. She was never getting out of there.

  * * *

  She woke up the first time underwater. Eyes bulging from lack of oxygen, she screamed, but no one could hear her, the sound muffled by the water.

  * * *

  She woke up the second time in a hospital bed, all kinds of tubes and sensors protruding from and attached to her body. She reached up and tried to yank them out, but a loud beeping from one of the machines brought in a cadre of nurses. One of them held up a long, evil-looking syringe.

  She screamed, and the nurse descended on her, jamming the needle into the fleshy part of her upper arm. She continued to struggle for a few more seconds, but then the drugs took effect and, sedated, she drifted back to sleep.

  * * *

  She woke up for the third and final time still in the hospital bed. She calmly opened her eyes and took in the strange new environment without comment. It was either that or get stabbed with another needle.

  The first thing she noticed was a bouquet of white daisies sitting on the nightstand to her right. The flowers looked fresh. Like someone had only just sent them, knowing somehow that she was about to wake up.

  “Well, look who’s back in the land of the living.” It was a new nurse, or at least Eleanora didn’t recognize her.

  The nurse smiled pleasantly from the doorway and, noticing Eleanora’s gaze fixed on the bouquet, came into the room, retrieving the card nestled inside the flowers.

  She leaned over the bed and placed the small, square card in Eleanora’s hands.

  “Here ya go,” the nurse said, continuing to smile down at her.

  “Thank you.” Eleanora’s voice was cracked from disuse. “How long have I been here?”

  The nurse, a plain-faced woman with short blond hair, thought for a moment, then said, “Two weeks, I believe.”

  It was a staggering amount of time.

  “Oh,” Eleanora replied—and she felt lost, like something was missing inside her.

  The nurse patted her arm, then began to busy herself changing Eleanora’s bedclothes. She watched the woman work for a few moments, then turned her attention to the card. Flipping it over in her hands, she found nothing written on the white envelope. With trembling fingers, she unsealed it and discovered a handwritten note and a newspaper clipping nestled inside.

  She set the newspaper clipping aside and went for the letter first, a creased fifty-dollar bill falling into her lap as she unfolded the cream-colored stationery.

  She read the note through once and then immediately reread it.

  “From your sweetheart?” the nurse asked.

  Eleanora jumped, so intent on the letter she’d forgotten the nurse was even there.

  “Uhm, yes, my sweetheart, yes.”

  But the letter and flowers had come from a complete stranger.

  The letter read:

  My Dearest Eleanora,

  I saw the enclosed Los Angeles Times clipping about the atrocities perpetrated against you, and knew you were the one I’d dreamed about. There is a place for you in California, if you want it. Use the money I’ve included with this letter and buy a train ticket to Los Angeles.

  There are sisters waiting for you.

  I’ll know when you are coming.

  Your friend,

  Hessika

  Eleanora waited until the nurse was gone to unfold the newspaper clipping Hessika had sent her.

  It was about a botched exorcism attempted by a group of lay pastors in Massachusetts. The article said the girl, Eleanora Eames, had almost died—Eleanora began to shake as she realized how close those men had actually come to killing her.

  Of course, the article did not name Eleanora’s tormentors, but her high school yearbook picture was right at the top of the clipping.

  She read on and saw that as of the writing of the piece, the pastors had not been charged for the crime—and Eleanora doubted they ever would be.

  The newspaper article should have made her feel ashamed, but it didn’t. She was tired of being a victim. She’d experienced enough pain for one lifetime, and she was done with letting bad things destroy her. She wasn’t going to allow anyone—not Mimi, not Mitchell, not those horrible men—to make her feel bad about herself ever again. She was in control of her life now, and no one was going to touch her heart.

  She slipped everything—the letter, the money, and the clipping—back into the envelope and set it on the nightstand beside her bed. At least now she knew where she was going.

  She just needed to do a few things before she disappeared.

  * * *

  There was no one home when Eleanora let herself into the house. Mimi didn’t lock her doors, didn’t feel the need to in such a small town where everyone knew everyone else and your neighbors looked out for you, as you did for them.

  She closed the back door, and the screen slammed loudly against the doorframe. There was a dish in the drying rack and a glass in the sink, but otherwise the kitchen was spotless.

  As she crossed the room, she heard the squeak of the linoleum underneath her feet, and it made her sad to think this would be the last time she was ever in this room. She touched the top of the worn wooden table, remembering mornings spent with Mimi and Papa, eating oatmeal with brown sugar and a dollop of peanut butter. While they ate, Papa would tell her stories about when he was a little boy growing up in Boston—before he met Mimi and married her and came to live in Duxbury.

  Papa had so many stories. Many were about his best friend, Ignatius. How they were like brothers and spent time at each other’s houses getting up to all kinds of trouble. The stories made Eleanora wish she had a sibling, or a best friend.

  She remembered making dinner with Mimi each night. Eleanora chopping the vegetables while Mimi did the heavy lifting, the two of them working in quiet synchronicity to get the job done.

  Mimi making Eleanora’s birthday cake each year. Yellow cake with chocolate icing, and Eleanora allowed to lick the icing bowl clean—the only time anything so decadent was tolerated in their house.

  These were the memories she wanted to keep with her, the good things from her childhood and adolescence that needed to be tucked away for remembering. The bad things could be lost forever, burned up and forgotten.

  She passed through the living room on her way to the back stairs and realized the whole house smelled like Mimi’s pungent homemade lemon-beeswax wood polish. She used the banister to pull herself up the sloped stairway, ascending each step as quickly as she could. She didn’t want to be tempted to stay and wait for Mimi to come home. Better—and safer—to get out before her grandmother returned.

  Besides, what could she say to the woman who’d raised her: Why did you do this to me? Why did you let me almost die?

  She doubted if Mimi even understood the magnitude of what she’d done—and she’d never have to answer for it because she hadn’t actually physically committed the crime.

  Eleanora shrieked as she opened the door to her bedroom and found Mimi sitting on her bed, waiting for her.

  Her Mimi looked shriveled, a husk of her former self. The flesh below her cheekbones had collapsed in on itself, and her jowls were slack. Heavy bags pulled at the skin below her eyes, dragging down her lower eyelids and exposing their raw pink interior.

  After taking a moment to calm herself, Eleanora said, “You look awful.”

  Mimi stared back at her, then said, “You should never have been born.”

  “I don’t think that’s true,” Eleanora said, standing her ground.

  She could see her mama’s star quilt resting on the seat of the rocking chair by the window, but her mama’s Bible—the only other thing she’d come to take—wasn’t on her bedside table.

  “And what would you know about it?” Mimi asked.

  “I know that you’re just like me,” Eleanora said. “You ha
ve powers, too.”

  Mimi pointed a gnarled, arthritic finger at Eleanora, her arm shaking with rage.

  “Don’t you dare say that about me, sister. Don’t you dare!”

  Eleanora advanced on the older woman. For the first time in her life, she was going to let Mimi know exactly what was on her mind.

  “I let you abuse me. I let you tell me I was possessed by the Devil. All because you were too cowardly to admit there’s something special about us—”

  Mimi shook her head, not wanting to listen.

  “—no, no, no . . . you don’t understand, sister—”

  Eleanora grabbed Mimi’s wrist and shook it.

  “Listen to me, goddammit!” she screamed.

  “I won’t hear the Devil’s words from your mouth—”

  Enraged, Eleanora snapped, slapping Mimi across the face. All she wanted was for her grandmother to shut up.

  “You . . .” Mimi whispered, shock written across her face.

  “I’m sorry I hit you,” Eleanora said—but that was a lie. She wasn’t sorry. It felt good to finally have the upper hand for the first time in their relationship. “I am not the Devil and I don’t consort with him. I never have—and you know this.”

  She waited for Mimi to respond, but the old woman continued to rub her cheek, massaging the spot where Eleanora had slapped her.

  “Mimi?” Eleanora said.

  “I never touched you,” Mimi whispered. “In all the years I raised you, I never laid a hand on you.”

  Eleanora gritted her teeth. Mimi was insane. That was the only explanation. How else could she sit there and say what was so obviously untrue?

  “You boiled me like a Cape Cod lobster, Mimi,” Eleanora cried.

  “I was saving you,” Mimi said, unshed tears in the corners of her eyes. “I did it to make sure you were in heaven with me, child.”

  Eleanora shook her head.

  “No, Mimi—”

  “Yes,” Mimi interrupted her. “Don’t tell me my own mind, sister.”

  The truth of Mimi’s words sank Eleanora’s heart like a stone, and she fell onto her knees, the long skirt she wore swirling around her. She stayed on the floor, her body shaking as she was overwhelmed by emotion. The years of suffering washed over her like acid, stripping away the flesh until there was nothing left but bone.

  It was true, then. All this torture was because Mimi loved her.

  “I believe you, Mimi,” Eleanora whispered. “And I forgive you for the evil you did to me—but I will never forget. I can’t stay here with you anymore.”

  “I know that, sister,” Mimi said, nodding. “Neither of us will see another New England winter.”

  It was an odd thing to say, but Eleanora let it pass.

  “Why do you hate our gifts so much, Mimi?” she asked, closing her eyes to keep from weeping.

  “You don’t know what I know, sister. If you did, you wouldn’t ask me that question. You wouldn’t dare . . .”

  Mimi’s voice trailed away and Eleanora opened her eyes.

  She was alone in the room. Mimi had gone.

  She sat up, her knees creaking as gravity, unseen, pressed down on her—and there, as if by magic, she found her mama’s Bible on the bed, propped up against her pillow. She picked the book up, feeling its heft in her hands, then walked over to the closet. She took down a small valise—something she’d been given in childhood by her mama but had never used, and placed the Bible and some clothes inside the stiff leather case. She added the star quilt to the top and closed the lid, unsurprised by how few possessions she owned.

  Holding on to the valise’s metal handle, she went back downstairs. She was tempted to leave right there and then, but something drew her to the tiny room off the back of the kitchen: Mimi’s bedroom.

  Her grandmother had lived within the confines of an almost monastic cell. There was a twin bed with a white lace coverlet, a nightstand and bedside light, and a rocking chair turned so it faced the window. A polished oak armoire in the corner of the room contained the meager contents of Mimi’s wardrobe.

  The stench hit Eleanora as soon as she opened the door, the foul smell of released bowels and decomposing meat filling her nostrils. The smell of death had been contained by the closed bedroom door and masked by the pungent lemon wood polish—but now it was free.

  She fell back against the doorframe, tears running down her cheeks as she sobbed into her hand, fingers pressed against her mouth and nose. She didn’t know how long she stood there, staring at the corpse, but when she was aware of herself again, she wiped her face and walked over to the bed.

  Mimi lay on her back, arms crossed over her chest—and all Eleanora could think was that the woman had even died in an orderly fashion.

  She reached out and closed Mimi’s eyes, lowering the lids with her fingers, then leaned down and kissed the old woman tenderly on the forehead.

  “I hope you and Papa and Mama are happy together in heaven,” Eleanora whispered.

  And she truly hoped to God they were.

  She left the house, closing the door behind her, and never looked back. Valise in hand, she walked down the road for a bit, the sun beating down on her thin shoulders, her body gaunt from its time in the hospital.

  After a few minutes, a battered red pickup truck came down the road, passed her by, then slowed down and pulled to a stop on the shoulder. She ran to the truck and threw open the passenger door, climbing inside.

  “Thank you, sir,” Eleanora said as she settled the valise at her feet.

  “Where you headed, then?” the man asked, pulling at the tab of his overalls so he could scratch his chest.

  “I’m going to California,” she said, which earned her a raised eyebrow. “But I’d be much obliged if you could take me as far as Boston.”

  He grinned at her, his ancient face grizzled with stubble, and pulled at the brim of his cap.

  “Well, now, Boston I can do you.”

  She felt the gears rattling under her feet as he released the clutch, and then they were off.

  Eleanora stared out the window as they drove, but her eyes were not focused on anything she saw. Her gaze was turned inward.

  I will not cry, she thought as she remembered Mimi’s body lying on the bed, so pathetic and alone in death . . . and in life.

  Why did her love have to be so cruel?

  I will not cry, Eleanora thought.

  I will not cry.

  I. Will. Not. Cry.

  Lyse

  Lyse woke up on the living room couch, hot tears running down her cheeks. She wiped them away and sat up, her head fuzzy from dreaming. Someone—probably Eleanora—had lit a fire behind the mesh screen of the fireplace, the last embers glowing bright orange before fading into a smoky ash. Lyse stared into the dying coals, her mind awash with images from Eleanora’s young adulthood. Her great-aunt’s personality quirks made so much sense in light of what Lyse had just discovered about her. She’d gleaned pieces of Eleanora’s unhappy past from things said in passing, but she would never have guessed the truth.

  She stood up and walked over to the window, staring at her reflection in the glass. Her hair was disheveled, her mouth turning down at the corners. She looked emotionally beaten, her eyes shadowed by exhaustion. She was more than ready for bed, but still her brain kept spinning.

  She moved away from the window, feeling listless and unsettled by Eleanora’s story. Like she’d intruded on something private that wasn’t hers to see.

  What am I supposed to do? Lyse wondered, sitting down on the couch again. What does she expect from me?

  It was the strange immediacy of Eleanora’s story that bothered her. She’d never experienced a memory that wasn’t her own—and that was what this felt like. Like she’d been right there with Eleanora, experiencing everything Eleanora experienced while it was happ
ening—even though she’d never been to Duxbury, never seen the house where her great-aunt grew up, never met Mimi or Papa. How could she? They’d been dead long before she was born.

  And there was something about the story, some small detail that didn’t sit right with Lyse. She couldn’t put her finger on it yet, but there was something off about what she’d seen. She looked down and realized she’d been compulsively rubbing her hands together as though trying to keep them warm.

  The old clock on the mantel chimed once, the sound making Lyse jump. As tired as she was, she knew she wasn’t going to be able to sleep—her mind was too keyed up—and she really didn’t want to moon around the bungalow, waiting for the sun to come up.

  When in doubt, go outside, she thought.

  She could sit on the deck and look at the stars, or get some bread from the kitchen and feed the fish in the koi pond. Eleanora’s carp were huge, ancient creatures that trolled the bottom of the pond all day long, looking for food. At thirteen, Lyse had been fascinated by how friendly and aware they seemed whenever she fed them. Like they were sentient blobs of color that only magically turned into fish whenever the smell of food was in the air.

  She looked down at her nightclothes and decided that she wanted to get dressed. If she wasn’t going to sleep, maybe she could feed the fish, then go for a walk. It would be like old times, Lyse wandering the Echo Park hills while everyone else was sleeping. Back then she’d been a lonely kid, going to school elsewhere in the city, an expensive Westside private academy paid for out of the money left to her when her parents died. A social pariah, she was teased and tormented by the other children. She’d learned to ignore the pain of not fitting in, spending her time roaming the hills or hiding out in her bedroom—safe under Eleanora’s roof.

  She went to the kitchen first and grabbed a slice of bread from the refrigerator, then tiptoed back to her room, not wanting to wake her great-aunt.

  The clothes she’d worn earlier in the day were still in a wet pile on the floor. She stepped over them as she shucked off her sweatpants and slipped on a pair of jeans from her overnight bag. She stuffed her long hair into a ponytail, ignored the makeup in her purse, and dug out a red hoodie from the closet. She put it on, reveling in how comfortable and warm it made her feel.