Callie was quiet as Towner walked her back to her room. At the doorway, she paused, as if to ask a question, then changed her mind. “Thank you for this. I’ll get a hotel room if I’m still here tomorrow.”
“Let’s see what happens with Rose. Her room is yours for as long as you want to stay.”
“Thank you,” Callie said.
“John and I live in the coach house. I don’t know if you’re hungry, but we’re cooking tonight if you want to join us.”
“I’m really tired,” Callie said. It was true. She hadn’t realized how true until she’d heard herself say it.
“Okay, then, just rest. You can raid the fridge downstairs if you wake up starving. I open the tearoom from seven to eight thirty for the hungry and destitute. And then again at ten for our regular customers. If you’re in the first group, you eat free and help serve or clean up. In the second, you pay for your breakfast. The menu’s pretty much the same, so you can decide which category you belong in tomorrow morning. Personally, on any given day, I can fit into either one.”
Callie tried to smile.
“Nice to finally meet you, Callie,” Towner said again. “I’m glad John brought you home.” She was gone then, disappearing down the long staircase.
Callie sat on the bed, looking out the window at the common, with its huge trees and decorative cast-iron fence. In the center of the park was a bandstand. Callie didn’t remember staying in this house with Eva, but she did recall a night when she and her mother had slept on the cold floor of that bandstand, before Auntie Rose had given them a place to live.
Exhausted but far from sleep, she realized her bag was still in her car. She was too tired to walk back and get it, and she didn’t want to bother Rafferty again. She looked through Rose’s closet for something to wear, and, finding nothing, she undressed and hung up her clothes, crawling between the sheets in her underwear. She tried to focus her thoughts on Rose, tried to remember all she could about the woman who was once like a second mother to her. She knew they had some common ancestors. Hanging from each of their family trees was the name Rebecca Nurse. That genealogical connection was how she and Olivia had come to call Rose “Auntie.”
All of the young women who had died that night had ancestors who had been executed on the same day in 1692. That was how they had found one another, why Rose had gotten to know the girls who became regulars at the center. Most had little education and lacked any background in research, so she had coached them, taking them first under her wing, and later, when she’d come to know their circumstances, into her home. In that way, Callie felt Rose and Towner were a bit alike. That was probably one reason Callie liked Towner immediately. It seemed as if both Towner and Rose were dedicated to helping the less fortunate citizens of Salem. Callie hoped Towner’s luck would be better than Rose’s had turned out to be.
Callie started to doze, then jolted awake when she heard a snapping sound. She turned on a light but saw nothing. It was the dream again. That sound was always part of the dream, branches and twigs snapping. Followed by a squirrel scrambling up a nearby tree.
She remembered hearing a snapping sound that Halloween night just before everything happened. Was it only a squirrel? Her memory was reaching too far back, getting too specific. She would not allow herself to remember that part of her past, not tonight. She had to keep from going there. She would fight to stay in the here and now….
Every time she started to sleep, another memory jolted her awake, some detail she’d forgotten, some lesson Rose had taught her. More snippets of poetry: Longfellow, Emerson, Yeats. Rose teaching her to sound out words. Her mother and the others laughing until they cried as she tried to pronounce the new words they’d ask her to recite.
Her hand started to burn, the same way it had when feeling finally started coming back to it after the murders. It had been numb for a long time, more than a year. The doctors had told her that the scarred palm would probably remain numb forever, but, one day, it started to tingle, and then to ache, and finally to burn. The burning went on for weeks before feeling came back completely.
She rubbed at her hand, then buried it palm up under the cool of the feather pillow, the way she’d learned to at the home. If she could get it in the right position, the burning would stop.
Just before she fell asleep and began to dream, she remembered something Sister Agony had said when she’d cried about her burning hand. “They didn’t hang witches back in Europe the way they did your ancestors,” she told Callie. “In Europe, they burned witches at the stake.”
He rowed down the North River, his palms blistered and burning from the six-mile voyage. Heaving the boat ashore, he quickly began to climb the hill, his dread building as he neared the pit. He dared not look up at the hanging tree: Its very existence filled him with rage. Instead, he kept his eyes low, searching for the crevasse where they had thrown his mother, hesitating before he lowered himself among the bodies. There were far too many dead, and the pit was deep. He felt his way among the corpses, touching first a cold leg, then an arm. He followed the skin, and his fingers touched her face. It was Susannah Martin. He gasped as he saw her blackened tongue, her bulging eyes…He began to choke, huge wrenching sobs. He had to leave her here. He only had strength enough to carry one body, and it was his mother, Rebecca, for whom he had come. Even as he told himself he would return for the others, he knew he would not. It would be too dangerous to come back to Salem Town. He had to find his mother, take her home, and give her a proper Christian burial. Standing deep in the crevasse, surrounded by bodies, he searched until he found the hand he knew so well, a hand that had so often held his own. He couldn’t see her face: In its mercy, the sky had darkened against the vision he had no fortitude to bear. With the last of his strength, he hoisted his mother’s stiffening body onto his back and made his way down the hill to the rowboat.
In a series of events that bears a striking similarity to those of 1989, Rose Whelan remains in psychiatric custody at Salem Hospital but has yet to be arraigned on any charge.
—The Salem Journal
Callie didn’t wake up until the smell of cinnamon rolls climbed the staircase and slid under her door. She was starving.
Her nightmares had kept her from the deepest sleep. It had been this way since childhood, and no amount of therapy had changed it. Sometimes she dreamed in fragments from the night of her mother’s murder, mixed with pieces of her own life. Sometimes, like last night, she saw other things that couldn’t possibly be her own memories. She looked at her phone. Almost 10:00 A.M. That made her one of the regular people today, though she felt anything but. Her head was pounding, and she couldn’t quite rid herself of the traces of her dream energy, so she showered and dressed, putting yesterday’s clothes back on, smoothing some wrinkles before descending the stairs to the tearoom.
The walls were frescoed, vaguely Italianate. Small tables crowded the room, and lace was everywhere, from the tablecloths to the curtains. Each table held a different teapot, with varying patterned cups and saucers set on individual lace doilies. A long glass counter in the far corner held canisters of tea, all hand labeled. There seemed to be hundreds of them. All of it made her yearn for coffee.
There were only a few customers: two distinguished-looking older women deep in conversation at the table by the window and another, younger woman sitting by the door. Callie took a seat at the smallest table, one near the fireplace and out of earshot.
“You can’t get coffee here,” the waitress said after Callie ordered a cup. She handed her a menu. “Only the tea.”
Great. There were hundreds of varieties, from herbal and flower to hand-blended concoctions with names like Serendipitea and Chakra Chai. It made her head throb. Callie ordered a simple black tea with orange and mint.
“Let it steep until the sand runs out,” the waitress said when she delivered it, turning over a small hourglass. She hurried back to the kitchen before Callie had a chance to order food. A minute later she was back with a
plateful of pastries: scones, croissants, brioches.
“I didn’t order these,” Callie said.
“Towner always sends out the plate of pastries. You only pay for what you take.”
“Oh. Thank you,” Callie said, helping herself to an almond croissant. She ordered a soft-boiled egg and fruit. The egg came in a little silver eggcup, set on a china plate that matched her teacup. Next came a single pear—cut and perfectly fanned out on the plate, a tiny stripe of honey across the slices.
Callie ate slowly, paid for her breakfast, left a generous tip, then made her way to the kitchen.
“How did you sleep?” Towner asked, introducing her to Sally and Gail, two of the women who were cleaning up.
“Pretty well,” Callie lied. “The bed is comfortable.” Gail was the woman she had seen coming out of the bathroom the previous night. Callie saw her exchange a glance with Sally.
“Glad to hear that.”
“I want to help out,” Callie said, watching them clean. “What can I do?”
“You don’t have to do anything,” Towner said. “You’re a paying customer.”
Callie ignored her, gathering some dirty silverware and putting it in the dishwasher as Gail and Sally were doing.
“Okay, then, thanks,” Towner said. “I’ve got to start making a salad for lunch.” She went into the pantry.
Callie could feel the women’s eyes on her. No one spoke. She saw them glance at each other again. She turned to face them. “May I help you with something?”
Sally said nothing.
Gail was braver. “You know Rose?”
“I do, yes.” Somehow she couldn’t imagine that it was Towner who’d spread the word, but it certainly had traveled fast. “Why?”
Gail said nothing. Sally blurted, “That woman’s weird.”
“What is that supposed to mean, exactly?” Callie held her eye.
Intimidated, Sally took a step behind her friend.
“She is a little scary,” Gail said.
Callie started to defend Rose as Towner returned with a very large bowl. She looked back and forth among the women. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” Gail said, too quickly.
She and Sally hurried back to the tearoom to collect another round of dirty dishes.
“Making friends already, I see,” Towner said.
“They wanted to know about Rose.” Callie frowned. “They think she’s weird.”
“She is weird,” Towner said. “But in a good way…I’m afraid you’ll find that people have a lot to say about Rose in this town, not much of it good.” Towner put the bowl on the counter and started to place salad greens inside.
“Wait!” Callie said.
Towner turned and looked at her.
“You’re using that as a salad bowl?” Callie was horrified.
“I usually do. Why?”
“That’s a singing bowl!”
Towner looked at her blankly.
“It’s made out of quartz crystal.” Callie’s eyes searched the room, looking for a way to demonstrate. She grabbed a rubber spatula. She lifted the greens out of the bowl, gently placing them on the cutting board, and began to draw the spatula around the outside rim of the bowl just as Gail and Sally came back with another load of dishes. Callie smiled to herself, knowing full well that the two women were about to find her as “weird” as they found Rose. Good, she thought. Maybe it would end their gossip.
All the women stopped when they heard the sound. It started with a soft ringing, then built in volume until it circled the room, filling the air with its clear tone.
As the sound faded, Callie turned to look at Towner, who was staring at the bowl. “Wow.” Towner shook her head. “I always thought it was a salad bowl,” she said after the tone had faded to silence. “I found it in the pantry after Eva left me the house.”
Callie laughed for the first time since arriving in Salem. “It is definitely not a salad bowl. I’m a music therapist, I should know.”
“Gail, could you go to the pantry and find another bowl for the greens?” Towner asked. “Hopefully one that doesn’t sing.” Gail nodded, looking grateful to escape. Sally scurried after her.
“You’re a music therapist?” Towner looked interested.
“Yes,” Callie said. “I work at a nursing home in Northampton, and I have a private practice out there as well.”
“I’ve heard good things about music therapy,” Towner said. “I think they’re using it at the Brigham. To help with surgical patients and palliative care.”
“That’s traditional music therapy. Which is what I was trained to do. The bowls are a little different. A little more ‘alternative.’ ”
“I’d say Gail and Sally think they’re quite alternative.”
Callie laughed.
“Hey, I promised John I’d give you a ride over to the station to pick up your car. If you can wait until I finish the salad…”
“That’s all right,” Callie said. “You’re busy. It’s not too far. I can walk.”
“You sure? I don’t mind doing it.”
“I’d like the fresh air, actually.” Her head still ached; the ocean air would help.
“Good enough then,” Towner said, turning back to the salad.
Callie was good at sizing people up, which was why she didn’t choose to have a lot of friends, especially female friends. She was definitely more comfortable with men. She blamed it on the nuns, who dealt in subtleties she’d never quite understood—doling out advice that walked the line between truth and fiction, saying it was for her own good, their de facto answer for everything.
But Towner was direct, matter-of-fact. The same way Rose used to be. And there was something else. She didn’t ask a lot of questions. She just seemed to understand some things without being told. Callie appreciated it.
“I’m going to visit Rose,” Callie added. “I hope that’s allowed.”
“I think it’s expected,” Towner said. “Ask for…”
“Do you think she’ll be there today?”
“Rose?” Towner looked at her strangely. “Why wouldn’t she be?”
“I’m sorry. I thought you were going to tell me to ask for Rose’s doctor.” Callie shifted nervously.
“I was,” Towner said, curious. “Did you meet Dr. Finch yesterday?”
“No,” Callie said quickly, deciding to be honest. “I guessed what you were going to say. I sometimes do that. Sorry.”
Towner looked at Callie for a long moment, then continued. “You’ll find Zee Finch’s offices in the medical building across the street from the hospital. She’s been Rose’s doctor for a long time.”
As she strode down the pedestrian walkway on Essex Street, Callie remembered some of the buildings, though most had changed a great deal. Salem was both familiar and strange to her. At Riley Plaza she passed the newsstand and glanced at a headline from The Salem Journal: HAS THE BANSHEE STRUCK AGAIN? Below it was a photo of Rose, the same one she had seen on the news broadcast: Rose on Derby Street with her cart, an angry expression on her face, her wild white hair trailing behind her like a shroud.
Callie found her car at the police station just as she’d left it, and drove to the hospital, taking a back entrance to avoid the reporters still camped by the front door. She made her way to Rose’s room, nodding to the guard and steeling herself for what she would see. The first thing she noticed was that the restraints had been removed, and a woman was rubbing Rose’s wrists to help restore their circulation.
“Are you Dr. Finch?”
The woman turned. Zee Finch was in her midthirties and had natural auburn hair, though it was already losing its vibrance. She dresses like a doctor, Callie thought. Not in the blue scrubs she’d seen in the corridors, though, but in a tasteful silk dress and jacket.
“I am,” Zee said.
“I’m Callie.” She stopped short of reciting her last name. “Rose’s niece. Sort of.”
Callie caught Zee taking a quick gla
nce at her palm. Towner or Rafferty must have briefed her. “Any improvement?” Callie asked.
“At least she’s no worse,” Zee countered. “I suspect she’s experiencing a dissociative reaction to complex trauma. She suffered that once before.”
Callie didn’t have to ask when.
“Talk to her while you visit,” Zee said as she prepared to leave the room. “All appearances to the contrary, there’s a very good chance that she’s aware of what’s going on around her.”
“What should I talk about?” How I thought she was dead?
“Well, nothing too disturbing,” Zee said with a wry smile.
Callie nodded. “Until yesterday, I hadn’t seen her since that night.”
“Why don’t you tell her about your life since then?” Zee suggested without missing a beat. “The good things. Catch her up.” She made some notes on Rose’s chart. “I’ll be back to see you tomorrow, Rose.” She reached into her jacket and handed Callie her card. “I’m at Yellow Dog Shelter three mornings a week and the tearoom most afternoons. If you have any questions or concerns about Rose’s care, you can call me anytime.”
“Thank you,” Callie said and followed Zee to the door. She watched the doctor stop to consult with the nurses and then walk toward the stairway. Callie took a deep breath and then pulled the guest chair closer to Rose’s bed. Talk to her. As a general rule, Callie was a listener. Except when she was working, she wasn’t comfortable with the sound of her own voice. She’d learned to hold back, to assess people’s attitudes about her before talking with them. But this was Rose, and Dr. Finch said it might help. Wasn’t that why she’d come?
She sat and faced Rose. “The nuns told me you were dead. That all of you were killed that night.” Oh God, was that really the first thing that came out of my mouth? “I’m sorry. I mean…I just said that in case you’re wondering why I never tried to contact you.” She took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly before she spoke again. “The nuns sent me away from Salem. Until now, I’ve never been back.”
The Fifth Petal Page 7