It was here that she felt as if she were moving through an erupting volcano, one that flowed hot and red with pain and angst and anger.
At last, Meg found herself within her own form. She was staring at the woman. She knew now, instinctively, what the game was all about. It was all too clear that no reassurance or validation would hold back the flow of negativity within and from the woman. This was a lost soul. Meg had somehow been one with her, feeling the loss of her family, living her last years in an asylum, hanging herself in a cell—and most of all, never forgetting, never forgiving the loss of little Claude, the killing of his talent and future.
And yet, Meg made the attempt at consolation. She tried to communicate her feelings, her understanding, to the woman.
In a crosscurrent, the woman made known her desires to Meg. She wanted more than validation—she wanted Meg’s full empathy and had for weeks been working to that end. She expected Meg to surrender her individuality, her soul, to her. And the soul of Meg’s fetus would be surrendered to the energy that was Claude.
Meg swallowed hard and fear ran through her like a river. The woman plotted a kind of possession, and Meg’s own holotropic experience told her that such a thing might actually be possible. It seemed a new twist on what Krista had labeled dual unity.
Panic boiled up within Meg. She could only blame herself. She had actually considered this possession scenario previously—and had scoffed at it. And before that, she had deliberately opened herself up to the forces in the house.
She had been a fool and now stood fully vulnerable before something evil and powerful. And what’s more, she had endangered the life and soul of her unborn child.
Why hadn’t she listened to Krista?
All right, I thought myself strong enough to deal with this. Now I will have to prove it.
Meg’s body stiffened as she summoned a reserve she didn’t know she had, wordlessly communicating to the woman now that she would be no party to her scheme. That she would resist. The woman was dead. Her time—and Claude’s—had come and gone. It was terribly sad and tragic—but it was so. She must allow herself and her son to pass over, to experience whatever was next.
The energy that was Claude seemed receptive. Meg sensed that it had been his mother whose own intense goals and regrets held him to the lower realm of the astral plane.
The woman, however, was in no way receptive—and when Meg attempted to underscore her argument, Alicia Reichart let the stakes of the game be known—if Meg didn’t submit to her will, neither she nor her child would live.
Meg’s stomach dropped. She knew now there was no arguing with, no convincing this woman who had died in an asylum, this woman who had waited decades for someone like Meg—and her child—to happen along. There was no saving Alicia Reichart. Meg could save only herself.
“Angels, and ministers of grace, defend us!” she cried.
She heeled about and ran. She felt the heat of anger, the stench of death, at her back, and under her feet the very floorboards vibrated.
The top of the stairs was dark as pitch. Meg stopped, afraid to go down, afraid to fall. She couldn’t see the drop beneath her, but just knowing it was there brought on the old vertigo. She pressed her hands to her belly, her child.
“Angels, and ministers of grace, defend us!” Meg cried, knowing these were not her words, only that some recall of hers had brought them up. “Angels, and ministers of grace, defend us!”
Alicia had moved from the living room, had followed her. Meg could not detect her in motion, however. But with every blink of the eye, the woman appeared closer.
In this instant, Meg realized what the phenomenon reminded her of—a hologram! To watch the woman bearing down on her in this frenetic sort of motion was like looking into a hologram.
Somehow, the ghost of Alicia Reichart seemed all the more dangerous.
Meg’s hand instinctively went for the wall, found its mark, pushed the switch up.
The light above her came on with an explosion. Flames shot out from the hanging fixture and moved in two directions—along the ceiling down into the stairwell—as well as down the hall and toward the figure of the woman.
Meg started down the stairs, holding onto the banister, running, each stair bringing a jolt, knowing even in her panic what a fall could mean for the baby.
At the bottom, she found the door closed tight and fast. As if it had been locked! She looked at the step where she had left the padlock. It was gone. She knew this was the work of Alicia.
Meg looked up the stairway and could see nothing but flames. No escape there.
At that moment, at the top of the stairs, she witnessed a great flare and an explosion that she could only think was the energy that had been Alicia Reichart.
Meg had no time to feel relief. She had to escape—or face her own death. The hall was filling with smoke, and she began to cough.
She saw that there was a door that led into the garage. She turned the knob and the door opened.
Meg stepped down. It was dark inside. She stumbled about in the direction of the front garage doors, metal doors she knew to be broken in their closed position. Kurt had tried unsuccessfully to open them the first weekend. But they were her only chance.
She could smell the smoke seeping down through the floorboards and air ducts. The building would burn to its foundation, just as the old barn had done.
She felt one of the rusty doors and tried it. It wouldn’t budge. Hunching over, she tried to move it with the strength of her shoulders and hips. Its locking apparatus was rusted solidly in place. If Kurt had been unable to open them, what hope did she have?
The smoke was thickening now. She could hear the voracious roar of the fire above her. The materials of the coach house were like tinder that had dried for ninety years. Pockets of the fire were beginning to break through the floor and lick at the underside of the floorboards. How could fire move so rapidly?
Meg knew to get down on the cement floor for the best air. She did so and crawled to the other door. Its lock moved! Thank God!
Yet the door did not lift.
She was starting to choke now.
She prayed to hear sirens soon, prayed that some neighbor had seen the flames.
From her lying position, she pushed at the door.
It held firm.
When she took her hands away, she felt warm liquid running down her right hand. She was bleeding, cut on metal that had partially rusted away.
Ignoring the cut, she thought that enough of the weakened door might give way, allowing for an escape. Meg maneuvered her body so that her feet pressed against the door’s bottom. She kicked out. Again and yet again.
So rusted was the door that metal fragments began to fall away.
Lying on her back, through the smoke she could see the flames fully digesting the floorboards above her and spreading to the joists. The heat would soon be as deadly as the smoke.
How long until the boards and timbers started falling in on her—trapping her—killing her as surely as little Claude had been burned to death on this spot?
She could see now that the hole in the bottom of the door was big enough to get her head out—but would her shoulders fit?
She had no choice but to try. There was no more time to turn her body around and kick again. This was her only chance.
Lying on her back, Meg pushed her head through, taking in the clear night air, and tried to squeeze through the lacework of broken and rusty metal, ragged metal she felt cutting into her shoulders and upper arms. She thought she heard sirens.
With a great effort, she pushed her shoulders through, the metal ripping through her blouse, tearing at her skin. Slowly, slowly, she moved with caterpillar-like movements out of the burning building.
As she felt herself losing consciousness, someone gripped her arms now and dragged her away from the building.
Her first thought was that it was Kurt.
“Meg, hold on, for God’s sake! The ambulance is here.”<
br />
Before descending into a welcome oblivion, Meg realized the voice was not Kurt’s.
It was Wenonah’s.
TWENTY-FOUR
Meg knew that she was in a hospital bed before she opened her eyes. She had worked in a hospital too long not to recognize the smells and sounds—even in the middle of the night. Not to mention the hardness of the mattress and coarseness of the linens.
She sensed, too, someone sitting vigil nearby. She could hear the almost imperceptible breathing rhythm. She knew who it was. She pretended to sleep, putting off the strain of communication for the time being, preferring to let her mind drift, then find focus in good time.
Was the boy all right? She sensed nothing wrong there, and he moved in her womb—she thought—as if to reassure her.
Meg felt quietly victorious. She had met her nemesis—the ghost that stood between her and happiness in the house—and she had triumphed. Only now did she realize what a terrible gamble it had been. She had positioned herself against the unknown and non-physical world and into the bargain she had put her unborn at risk. Knowing what she knew now, she would never attempt it again.
Alicia Reichart had suffered a horrific tragedy in the death of her little Claude. And she wasted years of her life in mourning and regrets—and the negativity did not end with death. She somehow held on to her son’s soul, too, holding him back from ascending to the next astral realm, keeping him tied to her own hell.
Nonetheless, Meg realized that she still held a great empathy for the woman. It had become a part of her. She would not try to rid herself of it. She would instead store it away deep within her—and come to forget it. She prayed that little Claude had moved on—but she doubted she would ever know for certain.
Meg’s body was bruised and torn, yet she felt a kind of serene happiness that stemmed from something more than victory over Alicia. She had taken away from her experience with the woman two things: the awareness of time and energy lost on things irretrievable and the ability to reevaluate her own life.
For twenty years she had been full of regret for a love that had not been meant to be. All that was over now. Forever. Later, she would think the drugs she had been given fired her imagination, for she thought of her love for Pete passing from her now, becoming a kind of balloon of pale pink, imagined severing a string that anchored it to the ground, imagined releasing it into the air.
Not with regrets. With relief. With a blessed happiness.
As the balloon ascended, receding from sight, becoming smaller and smaller, disappearing, Meg became ebullient. She felt free—was free—for the first time in twenty years.
She had let go.
She could feel the warm tears streaming down her face. She thought back to her meeting with Dr. Peterhof—Krista—and the holographic theory. Meg felt more content than she ever had. She was but an image in a hologram, but her future felt as boundless as the universe that held that image.
Meg felt her tears being brushed away. She opened her eyes.
She found herself staring into two blue pools.
“What is it, Meg?” Kurt asked. “Are you all right?”
She smiled. “Yes.”
He squeezed her hand. “Forgive me for leaving you behind. I was stupid. I never understood your attachment to the house—how strong it is.”
“And you do now?”
He shrugged. “The how maybe—but not the why.”
“I was pretty stubborn. What did you call it—my ‘whim of iron’?”
“I’m getting used to that stubborn streak.”
“The house is at peace, Kurt. I know it. The spirits—ghosts, rather—have moved on. The negativity is gone.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Well, so is the coach house. To the ground. All we have to do is raze the foundation.”
“I won’t make you stay, Kurt. We can move if that’s what you want.”
“Actually, I was hatching a plot to buy a three-bedroom across the street from the condo—in Wenonah’s building, The Pattington. I know how much you admire it.” His eyes narrowed, assessing her reaction. “Would you like that?”
Meg smiled tentatively.
Kurt understood. “More than living in my condo—but less than living on Springfield Street?” His eyes narrowed. “Am I right?”
Meg was silent for a minute, then said, “Life is compromise. I won’t make you live there.”
“Meg, if I’m with you, I’m happy. Maybe I can get a job out here. —There’s just one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“For the first year—no, let’s say for the duration, you run the washer and dryer.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Wenonah had not been out to the house since that night. Not that she hadn’t offered to come out, but she sensed Meg and Kurt were operating on a new level. They were having, it seemed, a kind of second honeymoon. The baby’s birth, however, called for an appearance.
She pulled into the drive now. The coach house was gone, foundation and all. She was glad for that.
The house had been newly painted. A white that glowed luminously in the sunshine. It couldn’t have looked any better in 1910, she thought.
Kurt met her at the door. Meg was in the dining room putting the finishing touches on the lunch. She was slim again, slimmer than she, damn it, and radiant.
Of course, Wenonah knew what motherhood could do—not from experience, not yet. But body clock or no, she had not given up on the other half of the human race.
Meg hugged her with all the old enthusiasm. The baby, a pink bundle with fine, flaxen hair and emerald eyes, was beautiful. He had a marvelous temperament, Meg told her. Indeed, as they ate lunch, he sang to them from the bassinet nearby.
Kurt was happy, too, she could tell. Of course, he might be happier—and she’d like him a lot more—if his job didn’t support the new for-profit status of the hospital which entailed the elimination of dedicated health workers and the decline of patient care. And it was hard to forgive his leaving Meg alone that night.
Watching them, however, made Wenonah vow to herself not to be so judgmental.
She smiled now at something Kurt was saying about the child, thinking that one day he might see the light and that as long as he was good to—and for—Meg, she’d make the attempt to accept him.
Not long after lunch, Wenonah made a move to go. The preparations for the meal and preoccupation with the baby had tired Meg.
“I love ya, girl,” Wenonah said, as she embraced Meg.
Meg and Kurt insisted she hold the baby for a few minutes, and doing so gave her more pleasure than she would have imagined. As she held him, she thought how such a little package was able to change the configuration of adult lives.
After a while she gave the baby over to Meg to nurse.
Motherhood had changed Meg, Wenonah thought as she moved toward the door. She hoped to stay friends with Meg—but she doubted that she’d ever be needed again. Passages in life were like this.
There was something else about Meg, too, a deeper change that was unnamable and almost imperceptible. What was it?
“Thanks for coming, Win,” Kurt said on the porch. “Meg really enjoyed having you here.”
“He’s a beautiful child. You’ve got two to look after now, Kurt.” It was a passive-aggressive barb, and Wenonah cursed herself before it was fully out of her mouth. She was reminding him of past failures. She felt a twinge of shame—so much for killing off judgmental attitudes.
“I know,” he said, evidently accepting her comment at face value.
A large, unmarked truck was pulling up in front of the house.
“Expecting something?” Wenonah asked.
Kurt laughed. “We got what we expected, Win.”
Wenonah laughed, too.
The driver jumped from the truck’s cab.
“Probably wants directions,” Kurt said.
As the stout driver came up the walk, a second delivery man jump
ed to the ground and moved toward the rear of the truck.
“Help you?” Kurt asked.
“I need a signature from . . . ” Coming to the porch steps, the man glanced down at the form on his clipboard, then finished with, “Meg Rockwell.”
“She’s busy right now. I’ll sign. I’m her husband.”
When the man reached the top step, Kurt scribbled his name, his eyes searching the invoice.
The man returned a copy to Kurt and retreated.
Kurt studied it again.
“What is it?” Wenonah asked.
Kurt shrugged. “I’ll be damned if I know. All I see are model numbers.” He called now to the driver, who was boarding the lift at the rear of the truck. “Hey, what is it we’re getting?”
“Oh, I figured you knew, buddy,” he called back. “It’s a piano.”
Wenonah felt something foreign ignite and stir within herself now. “Sweet Jesus,” she said under her breath. Her heart raced. She turned to Kurt.
His face was a mask. Inscrutable. Had he paled, just a little? Had the lines about his mouth curved a bit to reflect his reaction?
And his eyes—those cool, blue fathomless eyes—they told her nothing.
THE POLAND TRILOGY
BY JAMES CONROYD MARTIN
Based on the diary of a Polish countess who lived through the rise and fall of the Third of May Constitution years, 1791-94, Push Not the River paints a vivid picture of a tumultuous and unforgettable metamorphosis of a nation—and of Anna, a proud and resilient woman. Against a Crimson Sky continues Anna’s saga as Napoléon comes calling, implying independence would follow if only Polish lancers would accompany him on his fateful 1812 march into Russia. Anna’s family fights valiantly to hold onto a tenuous happiness, their country, and their very lives. Set against the November Rising (1830-31), The Warsaw Conspiracy depicts partitioned Poland’s daring challenge to the Russian Empire. Brilliantly illustrating the psyche of a people determined to reclaim independence in the face of monumental odds, the story features Anna’s sons and their fates in love and war.
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