I couldn’t tell her that they had both returned. I had been a witness.
Rachel, too, seemed to glow along with the candle- and firelight. Everyone around me was vital and flushed. Even Hugh, who was usually so pale, with his light brown hair and boyish freckles. But I was cold, and felt as though all the life, all the blood had been sucked out of me. I sipped my wine, hoping to take on some of its red warmth.
“It’s all in fun. Press says so.” I glanced at Press, who, as though he’d heard me from far at the other end of the table, turned slightly from J.C. and winked—also conspiratorially. Were we all conspirators? And in what? I looked away from him.
“It just seems mean, somehow.” Rachel also glanced toward the other end of the table, where Press had turned back to J.C.
“My mother consulted mediums all the time. She took me with her.” Rachel and I both turned to Hugh, surprised.
“Really? Why?” I could hardly imagine Hugh, with his stiff collars and slightly too-wide ties, as a boy, let alone as a boy who visited mediums. He was a member of the theater group, but rarely appeared onstage, preferring to do lighting and staging. Though he’d lived in the U.S. since he was a teenager, his gentle Scots accent was still pronounced.
“Hugh seems very intuitive,” J.C. had said when she suggested that he be invited. “I’m sure it comes from his Celtic roots.”
“My mother was very jealous. My father died in the arms of another woman when I was just a boy. She was keeping tabs on him.”
Rachel burst with laughter, but when I saw how serious his face was, I was immediately embarrassed for Rachel and him both.
“That must have been terrible for you.”
Then he smiled. “Ah, the medium—Mrs. Strum—she cared nothing for my mother. Only her weekly money. To hear her tell it, my father was dallying with a new dead woman every month or so. I wish I could say it was harmless fun, but she was constantly distraught about it. Rachel is right to laugh. It was a strange deceit, but also cruel.”
“So you’re not a believer, then.”
Hugh shrugged. “J.C. doesn’t seem to be looking for any money. It can’t hurt.” He looked steadily into my eyes, making me feel self-conscious. “Are you expecting to talk to your little girl, then?”
“Is everything ready, Terrance?”
I confess I was relieved at J.C.’s interruption. She was looking in my direction; I turned to see Terrance standing just outside the dining room, in the hall.
He nodded.
We sat around the library’s circular games table, which Press and Terrance had placed directly beneath the chandelier in the hall. J.C. had arranged half a dozen lighted candles near the walls, livening the faces in the surrounding portraits; a single candle flickered in the center of the table, washing the six of us in muted gold.
Rachel giggled and squeezed my hand. “We should be able to have wine while we’re doing this.”
“I think you’ve had enough wine.” Jack said it quietly, but the openness of the hall magnified his voice. “That baby’s going to be born with a cocktail glass in his hand.”
Rachel started to argue, but J.C. shushed us, saying we needed to close our eyes and listen to her instructions. Press breathed a heavy sigh, and I wondered what he really thought of what we were doing. He had to be thinking of Eva. Would she speak to him? Would he ask her forgiveness?
It all felt so strange, as though we’d left Bliss House for some other place. Though the hall was immense, our world didn’t extend beyond the weak light of the candle in front of me.
Then Press’s lips were at my ear. He whispered, “It’s going to be fine, Charlotte. I’m right here.” When he kissed me on the cheek, it chilled me. It was as though he were in a play, acting a part.
How could I continue with him so close? I was no more sure of him than I was of the possibility that our dead daughter would return to us. There was Michael to worry about—I had almost lost him as well. And my father.
For the longest time, we sat, silent. J.C. told us to let our minds drift, to acknowledge any worries or sad thoughts and let them pass through us. At first it was uncomfortable to sit there holding Rachel’s small, cool hand in one of mine, and to have Press’s larger hand gripping my other. I could hear the sighs and swallows of everyone around the table. How intimate we were, and how awkward it felt. But soon, indeed, I forgot everyone else and no longer even felt my hands, but was lost in thoughts of my father. Was he happy? Nonie would be with him at the hospital, making sure he was comfortable and that he had everything he needed. I thought of my old room in our house, with its white curtains and matching bedspread and how I would run my fingers over the spread, counting, counting the rows of tiny knots on its surface with my fingertips, and I was full of wanting for just a few minutes back in that room. How much did I want to run there and be surrounded by the morning smells of bacon and coffee that had reassured me that Nonie was there in the kitchen, waiting for me to come downstairs?
Breathing deeply, I could smell Rachel’s My Sin, and I remembered the day we’d ridden the bus downtown to buy it for the first time, and how the saleswoman had sprayed it on both of our wrists, but Rachel was the one who wanted it, telling me that a woman had to have a signature scent, so I had to find my own perfume. The saleswoman had told me that I was a girl for White Shoulders if ever she’d seen one.
“Subtly innocent,” she’d said. “In the very best way.”
Rachel had smirked.
I hadn’t worn perfume in weeks because it hadn’t felt right. I’d awakened on the sofa, Rachel staring down at me, and smelled the last notes of the roses’ scent floating through the open garden doors. That was the perfume I would never forget.
Somewhere outside my thoughts, J.C. began to hum tunelessly, but it was a comforting sound. A welcoming sound, like an alien lullaby. I had never imagined something so soft coming from J.C. The song floated through my thoughts, and I felt the tissue of my breasts begin to numb and tighten in the way they did when I was about to nurse one of my babies, and the feeling filled me with melancholy, and I was certain I would never suckle another child.
I can hardly express the depth of that sadness. It was different from the knowledge that I had lost Eva forever. It was like the death of the future. The death of hope.
When J.C. stopped humming, I held my breath.
I wanted to speak, to at least open my eyes, but I was afraid.
“Without opening your eyes, I want you to break the circle and reach for the paper and pencil in front of you. Pick up the pencil and begin to write, letting your subconscious and the spirit world guide your hand. Don’t think of the words or the shapes, but just let the pencil move.”
A part of me felt ridiculous, even in that heightened state of awareness. I was blind, and, except for the scratching of the pencils wielded by the others, I could imagine that I was alone in a very small room. No one could see what I was drawing on the paper. No one cared. I hadn’t felt so free since the last time I’d painted, months before Michael was born. I imagined drawing and painting the animal figures on the ballroom walls, changing the strange and gloomy ballroom into a place of fun. As my hand moved across the page, my lips widened into a smile, and my heart lightened.
By the time I stopped writing, I felt excited and energized, dwelling in a state I hadn’t known existed before. My heart warmed to J.C. and everyone that was close to me. I felt I might even be able to forgive Press. Eventually. I look back on it now and recognize it as the same flush of well-being that one gets from being drunk on good champagne. I have never felt that way again.
J.C. began to speak, asking Jonathan and any spirits who might be around us to be kind, to reach out to us and give comfort to the ones around the table who were in desperate need of it.
“I ask the newly dead to hear us, to take pity on those of us who are bereft, like pitiful children.”
At the word children, I thought of course of Eva. Not the smiling girl I’d known, but the gaunt
, wet waif who had visited me in Olivia’s morning room. And, oddly, of the boy who had been Press’s father. For he had, truly, seemed less like a husband than a sad, lost boy.
“Are you here, Zion? Helen? Who are the spirits who watch with us tonight?”
It was like St. Augustine’s prayer: Watch thou, dear Lord, with those who wake, or watch, or weep tonight, and give thine angels charge over those who sleep.
Where were the angels watching over Eva?
I don’t know how much time passed. Had the others opened their eyes? Would the hall be different? There was a kind of light now inside my eyelids, but I couldn’t tell if it was coming from outside me or not.
“I can feel you here,” J.C. said. “I can feel how strong you are. Is that you, Zion?”
In answer, there was no sound, but a powerful smell of something sharp and sulfurous. Beside me, Rachel coughed, then began to make small gagging sounds.
“Breathe, my dear.” J.C.’s voice was reassuring, and calm. “Nothing will harm you.”
She continued. “Zion, is someone with you? Helen, perhaps? Helen, please speak to us. Give us some sign that you are there as well.”
We waited, but there was nothing. I felt none of the weakness or intense energy that I’d felt when I was in Olivia’s presence.
Then I heard the voice from somewhere above us.
“Mama? Mama, are you here?”
Press took my hand again, but he couldn’t have surprised me more than the sound of Eva’s voice.
“Keep your eyes closed,” J.C. said firmly. But there was excitement in her words. Eva’s appearance was what she’d told me we should hope for. “Don’t be alarmed.”
Was it Eva’s voice? Of course it had to be Eva’s voice. It was a little girl’s voice, and I was the only mama here.
“Eva, darling. Have you come to talk to your mummy and daddy?”
The voice had sounded so far away. I wasn’t sure if it came from above me, or behind me. In that strange, bright world of nothingness behind my eyes, there was no such thing as direction.
“I’m sleepy, Mama. Tell me what to do, Mama. Why can’t I see you?”
“Eva,” Rachel whispered.
It was Eva’s voice, Eva’s delicate, childish lisp that Nonie had been working hard to sharpen. Press had found it distressing, and worried that she would become ridiculous as an adult, but I hadn’t been concerned, believing she would grow out of it. Now it would never change.
“Tell her you’re here.” I knew J.C. was talking to me, but I found it hard to speak.
“It’s all right,” Press whispered. “She needs you.”
“It hurts, Mama. The water hurts.”
Unable to bear it any longer, I opened my eyes, and the brightness I had imagined was gone. The hall was still shadowed, though a curving rectangle of weak moonlight shone down from the dome and onto the wall beyond J.C.
Everyone else’s eyes were open and they were staring at me. Waiting. What were they waiting for?
“Talk to her.” J.C.’s voice was kind, but urgent. “They don’t stay long.”
“Mama.” Now Eva began to whimper.
The sound was coming from above us. Up on the second-floor balcony, I saw her. My baby. She stood on tiptoe looking over the railing, just outside Olivia’s room. That made sense, didn’t it? There was a faint light behind her, flickering, brighter than candlelight. Her curls, thicker than I remembered, crowded her face, and she wore the long white nightgown that I had sent to the funeral home with Nonie. But even in the strange light, I could see that her face was as pale as a mask.
Press squeezed my hand. “Can you see her?”
“I’m here, baby.” My voice was weak. Somehow it didn’t feel right. What had I expected? God, I wanted to believe that it was her! There were all these people surrounding us, and she was so sad. So upset. If it was Eva, I could do nothing for her.
“Should I go to her?” Was I waiting for permission from someone? She had come to me, first, in the morning room. She had touched me.
“Ask her what she wants.”
“She’s told us what she wants. She wants me. She wants to know why I let this happen to her. What else could she want? She’s not even five years old.” I dug my fingernails into my palms in frustration.
“Eva, I’m sorry. Mama is so sorry. Mama loves you.”
“That’s good.” J.C.’s voice was soothing. “Your mama loves you, Eva, darling. Can you rest now? We’re all here for you, Eva.”
“I’m scared, Mama. Help me.”
The sulfurous smell had finally dispersed. Perhaps Zion had gone, or he had never been there at all. Maybe it was the smell of death. I prayed that it wasn’t the smell of Hell, that my innocent Eva wasn’t in torment.
Pushing back my chair, I rose. When I’d seen Eva in Olivia’s room, she’d been so pitiful. Now she was my little girl again. Just sad. I didn’t know what had changed, but I was hopeful. That I might be with her had occurred to me, but how would it happen? Certainly I would have to die to be with her. Perhaps just to touch her, to give her my life. It wouldn’t bring her back, yet we would be together. My father had Nonie now. Michael would still have Press.
Press put a hand on my arm. “You shouldn’t, my love. You can’t really touch her.”
“Don’t be an ass,” Rachel said. “Let her go. That’s what we’re here for.”
I heard them, but I was focused on Eva. The light behind her had intensified and I couldn’t see her face clearly.
As I passed him, Hugh also put out a hand to stop me, but I brushed him off.
“I’m coming, baby.”
Eva turned her head so that I saw her in profile, though she was still so far away. It was such an easy, natural movement that my heart jumped in my chest. If only I could reach her, know that she was close to me! Then I would know what to do.
Behind me, the others were silent. I could feel them watching.
The light around Eva started to fade, and her outline with it.
“Wait for me, Eva! Wait!” I ran to the stairs through the shaft of moonlight, but the light around Eva continued to fade.
Taking my eyes from her for just a moment to steady myself on the stairs, I saw something pale and shining on the opposite side of the hall, at the railing of the third floor. Yes, I was losing Eva, but I couldn’t look away. Taking a few more steps, I saw that it was a person. A man? I wasn’t sure. The figure was slight, not very robust. Even in the faint light, I could see they were naked as they moved quickly, silently.
There was something fastened around the bottom of one of the railing’s spindles, and as I watched, whoever it was climbed awkwardly—yes, naked—onto the railing.
When I saw the rope, fashioned into a noose, slip over the person’s head, I cried out for them to stop, please stop!, but they kept on as though they hadn’t heard. They didn’t hesitate, and I knew I was going to see them die. But for just that moment I couldn’t turn away. I stared, taking in every strange detail. I watched as they raised one leg and then the other to climb over the railing, the thick length of ropes curled against their body. They climbed over the railing and held on, arms extended behind, readying. Somewhere in the background, I heard chairs falling over and Press and the others calling for me. Eva screamed a terrified scream as well, and the sound echoed in the big hall. Understanding exactly what I was seeing, I closed my eyes and turned my head as the person let go of the railing and dropped, swinging, into the air.
But I wouldn’t let myself faint. Even as Press and Hugh and Jack gathered around me, restraining me on the stairs, I wouldn’t give up my consciousness or my sanity.
“Charlotte, darling. Speak to me.” Press gripped my jaw, trying to get me to look into his eyes, but I strained to look beyond him. To listen.
Running footsteps on the gallery just above us. A child crying. Eva! But no. It couldn’t be.
It hadn’t been.
Above us, there was no body swaying at the end of a rope. There
was no rope.
Downstairs, someone switched on the chandelier’s light switch and the hall was flooded with light, blinding me as I looked upward.
Chapter 28
The Vision
I didn’t answer their questions, nor did I succumb to Jack’s insistence that he give me a sedative.
“You’re pale, Charlotte. Let Press put you to bed, and I’ll give you something.”
Though I’d had two simultaneous shocks, I hadn’t lost my wits. In fact, I felt better, clearer than I had in weeks. Standing on the stairs, I’d been overwhelmed for a few moments, and I’d gone to the brink—yes, a horrible, awful brink that felt strangely familiar to me. Maybe it was that my mother had been there before, and she had passed her vulnerability on to me. I don’t know why she’d gone there, only that she had and couldn’t stop herself from going over. But I had Michael, and, in some sense, Eva. I would not. I could not do what my mother had done and leave my child to be raised by his father. Alone. I had been terribly fortunate that my mother had chosen to marry a man who would be a good father. It wasn’t clear to me that I had chosen as well.
No one in the house with me then would understand the other thing I’d seen—except, perhaps, Terrance.
“No. You’re so kind, Jack. I don’t need anything. It was shadows, up on the third floor. Only shadows.”
“But we saw her.” Rachel was adamant. “We all saw Eva. Right there up on the second floor.”
Press was focused intently on me as I sipped the brandy he’d poured for me once we were all settled in the salon.
“I saw her. But she didn’t frighten me. Eva could never frighten me. It was the shadows.”
J.C. joined in the chorus, but I knew better than to trust her any longer.
“It was so sudden, Charlotte. Breaking that kind of psychic connection so quickly can be devastating. For you, and for. . . .” She didn’t finish. Was she trying to tell me that Eva—dead Eva—might be damaged by my alarm? I wanted to laugh at her, but I didn’t dare. They were all watching me too carefully.
Charlotte’s Story Page 20