“I used to play there,” Julia said, looking out over the hayfield that was September-yellow. “Daddy wouldn’t let me go in the barn, though.”
“No wonder,” Mitchell said, standing behind her and swatting at bugs. “The cow manure is probably six feet deep. Why in the world would anybody want to have animals wandering outside his house?”
Julia studied the barn. Something was odd about it, there in the stark light cast by the sun’s zenith, the tin roof rusted, gray siding boards askew and pocked with knotholes. The image tickled the back of her mind. But that wasn’t quite right. Her memory of the scene was nearly a negative, of the barn in a colder light. The barn against the darkness.
“Jeez, you’d think they’d buy a lawn mower,” Mitchell said.
Julia bit her thumbnail.
“Now that’s what I call progress,” Mitchell said. He pointed off in the distance, through a gap in the red-leafed maples. Bulldozers and trucks were parked on a large leveled plain of dirt. “The city needs to expand the tax base out this way. They’re running sewer and water at a few hundred a foot, but these crappy houses provide zilch for valuation.”
Julia stared into the black throat of the barn. What? What?
If only Dr. Forrest were here.
“Well, honey, look on the bright side,” Mitchell said, walking away from her to the edge of the lot. “I mean, I know it’s terrible what happened to your father, but at least you were lucky enough to be adopted by wealthy people. If you had grown up here, we probably never would have met.”
The barn. Something from that night, the night of the skull ring and altar.
“Honey?”
The barn, stone, chanting, hoods. Bad people.
A hand touched her shoulder, and she yelped and turned.
Mitchell stood with his hands out, mouth open, as startled as she. “Huh?”
Julia put her hands over her face.
“Jeez, honey, why are you so jumpy? I knew we shouldn’t have come out here.” He stepped toward her. She moved away to the fence.
“Why can’t you leave the goddamned past alone?” he shouted. “It’s no good, and it never has been.”
He adjusted his tie below his red face. “Why in the hell do you do this to yourself? Why do you do it to me?”
She looked away from him, out across the pasture. The barn’s shape blurred with her tears. She felt on the edge of a great rift, her balance thrown, as if one of the earth’s plates were breaking off and carrying her away. She gripped the fence, wanting to hang on to this world. Even with all its pain and troubles, it was the world to which she belonged.
If Mitchell came to her now, hugged her, she would let him. She would hug him back. She would leave this place and its memories, accept the safe life Mitchell offered, give up the senseless fleeing to Elkwood. She would go back to Lance Danner, no, she would get another therapist of Mitchell’s choosing. And with the new therapist, she would only work on the present problems, the day-to-day ones that led forward to the future.
She would never look back. As much as she could avoid it.
“Maybe someday I’ll understand,” she said hollowly. “And someday I can make you understand.”
“Someday,” Mitchell mocked. “Well, we don’t have a lot of ‘somedays’ left, so you’d better make up your mind.”
She started to turn to him, to let him see the tears, but she knew that would weaken him and make him ashamed. Which Mitchell was real, the one that shouted at her or the one that caressed her tears away?
She continued staring across the pasture, at the golden-seeded grass that rippled in the breeze. It was a soft sea, a place that drowned memories. For only a moment. Because the barn floated like a dark ship on its surface.
She heard Mitchell stalk away and slam the door of his Lexus. She gave him a chance to drive away, knowing he wouldn’t. She waited until the continents drifted back together, until the ground was stable under her feet. Then, without looking back at Mitchell, she stepped over the fence and headed across the pasture.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The interior of the barn was dim, even with the door open and the siding planks warped enough to admit slices of light. The support posts and boards were gray with age, and the hayloft floor sagged overhead. The place smelled of moldy hay and the dust from dried manure. Beneath that lay the odor of animal fur, even though the stalls had stood empty for years.
As she entered, the shadowy corners crawled toward her like legless things, dragging memories as if they were sacks of dead animals. Her feet moving across the dirt floor made a sound like the slithering of serpents’ tongues. She shivered even though the air was humid and still. Julia hugged her arms to her chest, afraid to go forward but unable to stop herself.
She had been here before.
The scars on her stomach throbbed.
She knelt, light-headed, as if she were going to vomit. Her ears rang with a high, piercing whine. Her heartbeat doubled its pace.
Panic.
The panic she had fought so hard to overcome. The panic that she’d managed to hide from Mitchell and her coworkers and even, while they were still alive, her foster parents. The panic that rose up and swallowed her on nights when the past drew too near, when the awful fingers came clattering and clutching.
The panic that Dr. Forrest insisted Julia could conquer.
But Dr. Forrest was in Elkwood, eight hundred miles away, and Julia was here, alone, on her knees in the dry crumbling hay. Julia closed her eyes and pressed her forehead to the ground.
The cloak of panic descended, swift and suffocating.
Deep breaths, she told herself, but the thought was only one of many, crowded by death and a hot knife and the man with the skull ring and the cold stone and the bad people around her, the bad people touching her, laughing and chanting, the bad people, watching the blade touch her stomach and the silver slipping into flesh and red drops welling around its tip and the hand with the skull ring and the man with the hood and the face beneath the hood and—
She clawed forward, hands meeting a partition. A splinter penetrated her palm, but she kept her grip and pulled herself up, forced herself to her feet. The tears on her cheeks gathered the dust she had stirred. She sucked in a lungful of dirty air, trying to ignore her rapid pulse.
Panic is only in the mind, came her mental tape recording of Dr. Forrest.
Julia looked wildly about, the square light from the barn door like a great gate to a promised land. She thought of yelling for Mitchell, but she wasn’t sure she could summon enough air, and he likely couldn’t hear her from the car anyway. She pressed her back against the wall and raised her arms, resting them on the top of the half-wall to support herself. She sprawled there like a reluctant martyr awaiting nails to flesh.
Panic is only in the mind, Dr. Forrest repeated.
Julia unclenched her fingers. She willed her hands to be warm balloons, balloons in the sun, balloons the colors of jelly beans. It was working, she was in a park, lying on her back in the grass, she could breathe, the air tasted of sky and life and clouds, except she coughed from the choking dust, crazy, she was in the barn, the barn, THE BARN.
She closed her eyes again.
The bad people circled, the candles flickered, the thick smoke from the crucibles insinuated like gray dragons under the moonlight, and her body was as cold and deadened as the stone beneath her. The man with the skull ring, the High Priest, raised the knife and addressed the rotted goat’s head that hung from the inverted cross.
“Highness of Darkness, Satan, Master of the World, accept this offering from your humble and loyal slaves, that you may continue to give us your blessings,” the deep voice intoned, filling the hollow of the barn. “So mote it be.”
The knife came down, Julia screamed, her breath rushed from her lungs, her body went limp.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
When she awoke, she didn’t know where she was. She turned her head and bits of old hay fell from her hair. The fl
oor smelled of dirt. She looked up, saw the old locust beams of the barn, the square slots cut in the hayloft, the aged tin of the roof in the dim shadows above.
Her heart was beating steadily, only slightly accelerated. Her limbs felt as if they were filled with wet cement. She was sticky from dried sweat.
How long had she lain there?
She checked her watch. Even the act of raising her wrist was a great effort. 3:37. She’d been in the barn nearly twenty minutes.
She blinked away the last wisps of memory and dragged herself to a kneeling position. The panic attacks always roared in like tidal waves and ebbed away in a slow wash, leaving her battered and drenched. This hadn’t been the longest attack, but it had been among the most intense.
She gathered her strength and stood on wobbling legs. The panic could sweep in, could crash down on her, but she wouldn’t let it carry her out to the mad, gray sea. She clung to the tether of Dr. Forrest’s encouragement and experience.
“Panic is only in your mind,” Julia said to herself. The whisper died away among the wooden stalls.
Mitchell.
Hadn’t he wondered where she went? Was he still waiting in the driveway, tapping the steering wheel with his manicured fingers? Or had he driven away, muttering under his breath?
Julia hoped he had gone away. She didn’t want him to see her like this, filthy and unkempt and shaken. A trophy-to-be had to remain nearly perfect at all times, as cool as a drink at the Nineteenth Hole, as unruffled as a damask tablecloth.
But far worse than his dismay at her physical appearance would be his clumsy attempts at pity. Sure, he would brush her hair away from her face, even hug her, probably kiss her forehead, but he wouldn’t invite himself inside her. He wouldn’t caress her where she needed it most, in her spirit or soul or heart, the name and place of it as unknown to her as to anyone.
But it wasn’t Mitchell’s fault. She didn’t allow an opening, wouldn’t let anyone in the secret place where she might be healed with a touch. Dr. Danner and Dr. Forrest came close; they had softened her. But stubbornness or pride or merely the delusions caused by her disorder kept her always alone, always holding part of herself away from the world. Even knowing that ugly truth about herself didn’t allow her to alter it.
She stumbled toward the door, squinting against the afternoon’s brightness. The meadow was like fire, yellow against the backdrop of blazing red trees and the houses that clustered along the fence line. A train whistle sounded, an iron giant rumbling along distant tracks over in Frayser’s industrial zone. The scant breeze shifted, carrying the river-mud smell of the Mississippi.
Julia waded through the tall grass to the fence. Through the trees at the back of the yard, she saw the Lexus still in the driveway. The driver’s seat was reclined. Mitchell was either napping or steeped in a deep sulk.
She glanced at the sky, drawing on the reserves hidden behind clouds.
God, I suppose it’s selfish to beg for a little help when I don’t really believe in you. But maybe just push me a little farther along the path. At least let me walk.
The clouds appeared unchanged, and no shafts of golden light bathed her in benevolent warmth. No calm voice whispered comforting words in her ear, and no squad of angels winged down to rescue her. Yet she felt better from the simple task of reaching out, and the sense of isolation eased.
Okay, if you’re not going to help, at least stay out of the way.
Julia brushed the hay and dust from her clothes, pushed her hair back, and climbed over the fence. She went to the rear of the house and opened the sagging screen door. She tried the knob to the back door, but it was locked. Just as she had expected.
She went to a rear window and looked through the smeared glass. Her old room. An electric buzz raced along the back of her neck as memories came rushing back. Not the bad memories of people in robes, but memories of a child at play, a child who had crawled on that wooden floor, who had sat in the sun with dolls and Chester Bear and alphabet blocks and books she couldn’t yet read.
The room was bare and the closet door was missing. The walls had been painted, were now dirty off-white instead of the sky blue they had been when she lived here. One pane of the window had a piece of duct tape covering a crack. The top half of the window latch was lying twisted on the ledge.
Julia took a barrette from her purse, fastened her hair back, and banged on the pane to loosen the chipped paint. She worked her fingers under the window and lifted. A shower of dust drifted down as the window slid open. She glanced at the barren houses on each side before climbing headfirst through the opening. Her feet kicked wildly in the air for a moment. Then she wriggled through and stood on the floor she hadn’t touched in more than twenty years, letting the window slide closed behind her.
She was inside the room she had been stolen from 23 years before.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Despite her shakiness, Julia felt almost giddy from the exhaustion that came after the crippling anxiety attack. What would Mitchell think if he saw that she had broken into the house? Mitchell worked mostly in property law and knew how to bend the rules in favor of his clients. However, he was very straight-laced about property rights. Visiting a vacant house that was up for sale was one thing, but crawling through a window was quite another.
The floor creaked under her feet. The door was the same, only the knob wasn’t at eye level to her anymore. She put her hand on the knob—
The voices.
In the living room, Daddy and the man that Daddy called Lucius were talking.
Her breath caught, just as it had done when she was four. She pushed the door ajar with a groan of hinges, fully expecting to see the hooded people gathering around Daddy. But this time she saw only the dull glare of the sun on the worn beige carpet.
Julia went down the hall, past the dark bathroom, and turned to the other room. Daddy’s bedroom.
She couldn’t rid herself of Dr. Forrest’s suggestions that Daddy had taken her in there as a child, had made her do naughty things, had touched her in ways that Daddies weren’t supposed to touch. But Julia felt no dread, none of that suffocating shame that she’d suffered while reliving those suggested scenes in the therapist’s office. Still, a mild shiver raced across her skin as she entered the room.
It was as bare as her own former room, the cover plates off the wall sockets, strips torn in the Sheetrock walls. The light fixture dangled from two wires, and the curtain rod had been ripped down and leaned in one corner.
Julia approached the small walk-in closet, much of it in a darkness as thick as night. Shelves lined each side of the closet, and the rod held three rusty hangers.
No skeletons here.
She was about to leave the room when she accidentally kicked a bottom shelf. It rattled on its wooden braces. Julia tucked the toe of her shoe under the shelf board and lifted. It flipped away easily, and Julia saw a small crack in the floorboards underneath. Something, a memory or deja vu or dream fragment, made her pause.
She got on her knees and ran her fingertips along the rough cut in the boards. The flooring was loose. A hollow sound answered her tap on the wood. She took the barrette from her hair and used it like a small crowbar to jimmy one of the boards up high enough so she could slide her fingers underneath. A cool rush of air came from the gap in the floor.
She removed more boards, three segments less than a foot long. The insulation had been pushed away. Her heart hammering, she reached into the crawl space, hoping that no spiders were waiting in the dark. She inserted her arm past the elbow before she touched dry dirt.
Julia worked her fingers around and scraped the block wall of the foundation. Then she raked the powdery dirt with her fingernails. Behind her, in her old bedroom, came the sound of the window sliding open.
“Julia?” Mitchell called, his voice reverberating in the empty house.
She quickly scrabbled in the dirt, cobwebs clinging to her forearm. Her palm brushed across a sharp edge. She dug around it,
glancing behind her as her fingers freed the object. It was a tiny box. She brought it up and wiped the grit from its lid.
The box was carved from soft cedar. A strange shape was imbedded on its top. Julia traced the symbol with her finger. A star?
“Julia!” Mitchell called louder. “Are you in there?”
She didn’t think he would crawl through the window, not with his dogged views on trespassing and his love of his power suit. But Mitchell would keep after her. He must have seen her go to the rear of the house. She wasn’t sure she could disguise her excitement about her find. What if the box had belonged to her father?
“What do you think you’re doing?” Mitchell shouted.
Julia glanced into the dark crawl space, wondering what other secrets might be lying under the soil. She thought of her dream of bones. Did the body really remember what the mind tried to forget?
She stood and went back into the living room, tucking the box into the front pocket of her slacks. She kept her hands in her pockets to disguise the bulge. Mitchell probably would accuse her of stealing if he saw the box, and if she tried to explain it belonged to her, she would have to delve into the past with him. Far easier to act crazy. She hunched her back and tried to look beaten, tired, and disoriented. It wasn’t a difficult role.
Mitchell was holding up the window, his mouth set in a hard line, when she entered her old bedroom. “Have you gone nuts?” he said, with no hint of affection in his voice. “Do you want me to be a party to trespassing? Just think what that would do to my reputation.”
Your reputation is stainless steel, Mitchell. Cold and shiny and beyond tarnish. Just like your heart.
She smiled weakly and looked at the floor. “I just wanted to see the house.”
Mitchell sighed. “Come on, get out of there before somebody sees you.”
Scott Nicholson Library Vol 1 Page 39