by Tara Goedjen
Cage turned back toward her, but his gaze was a long way off, staring at something she couldn’t see.
“What if it doesn’t?” he said softly, like he was talking to himself. “What if there’s another way?”
BLUE GATE, 1859
GRADY’S COVERED IN BILE. HIS mother heaves again and this time nothing comes up. She gasps and he lays her head back on the pillow. Please hurry, he thinks. Please.
Jacob runs into the bedroom, his face streaked with tears. “They’re here!” he shouts, and a moment later Pearl and Hanna are in the doorway. Pearl takes one look at his mother and swoops to her side. Grady lets himself glance at Hanna and he’s pulled into her dark eyes, that tint of amber in them. Her skin looks even paler inside the house, paler than the sheets his mother lies on. Her red scarf is tied around her hair, and she’s wearing a loose cloak over her dress to hide what they’ve done.
“Can you help her?” Grady asks, his voice raw.
There’s a whispering sound and Hanna moves to the other side of the bed. It’s his mother, trying to talk. Hanna leans over to listen and then straightens.
“Can’t save someone who doesn’t want saving,” she says softly.
“What do you mean?” Grady asks, but he knows, deep down, and it feels like a blow. His mother’s headaches have gotten so much worse. She can hardly speak and never leaves the house, complains that her chest hurts too. Would he wish her a life like this? Shut away at Blue Gate forever?
His mother’s eyes flutter open. “My boys,” she says. There are rivers of sweat on her forehead and her skin is shiny like the lantern beside her. “I hope you understand,” she whispers, “why I wanted them here.”
“To help you!” Jacob shouts, and presses his head against her shoulder.
“Here,” Hanna says softly, offering a cloth to Grady. She’s not wearing the ring he gave her—not in this house, not yet—and her fingertips are stained with ink. As her hand touches his, he feels a lightning bolt of warmth. He holds the cloth to his mother’s face, wipes her mouth as gently as he can.
“Last time it was morning for her and now it’s the night.” Pearl runs her palms over the air above the bed, tracing his mother’s body without touching her. “The mornings always pass.”
His mother’s eyes open again. Her eyes are blue, like his, but a darker blue, the color of the bay. “I’m ready,” she says. “I’m going to Amelia.”
Jacob cries out and Grady doesn’t know it, but he is shaking his head no. Amelia died the day she was born, the day his mother was dying too, until he fetched Pearl from the woods. Now his mother needs to live—she needs to get well again. He reaches up with his free hand and pulls off his hat because his scalp is hurting; everything hurts when he looks at her, especially his heart.
Beside him, Hanna’s eyes are watering. Little dark pools that the light catches. She strikes a match and then the smell of sage is thick in the air.
Help her, he begs silently. Help her, I know you can, and Hanna looks away. For a moment her hand is on the roundness of her stomach. But he can’t think about the baby now. It’s all gone wrong. He was going to tell his father and mother, he was going to ask for their blessing, but not now. Not like this.
“I love you both,” his mother says.
Grady tries to repeat it back like Jacob does, but it feels like there’s a stone lodged in his throat. A door slams somewhere in the house, followed by loud footsteps up the stairs. Grady’s heart lurches as his father bursts through the doorway. When he sees Pearl, his bag drops to his feet, his stethoscope clattering to the floorboards.
“What’s this?” he shouts, turning to Grady. Then he whirls on Jacob, who looks like he’s about to cry. “Out!”
“Yes, Papa,” Jacob says.
Grady knows his brother won’t argue, no matter how much he wants to stay. As he rushes from the room, Grady tries to explain. “I thought…,” he starts. “It’s just—”
“I told you never again!” His father is shaking he’s so angry. “How dare you invite them inside this house?” His blue eyes narrow on Grady as he steps forward.
“I—” Grady tries again, and now he can tell Hanna is staring at him, waiting for him to defend himself, and Pearl is staring too, her arms folded across her chest, her dark gaze assessing him.
“It’s fine.” His mother lifts her hand. “It’s me who asked them to come.”
Grady’s father picks up his bag from the floor. “I’ll help you, Rose,” he says. “Not these…” He waves a hand at Pearl and Hanna. “They’re unnatural,” he hisses.
Grady wants to protest, but a floorboard creaks and suddenly Hanna’s brother is in the doorway. The ax is in his hands and his eyes are like two bits of coal. Grady doesn’t know who to be more scared of—his father or this witch boy in front of him.
“There’s no problem, is there, Doctor?” Pearl asks.
Grady’s father looks like he’s about to yell when there’s a sputtering noise and his mother sits straight up in bed. “Please,” she begs, and they all turn toward her.
“Rose?” his father says, and now he sounds worried.
“Please listen.” His mother drops back down on the pillows. Her eyes are open, but they don’t seem to focus on anyone. No, she is staring at the ceiling, the same way an animal sometimes stares at nothing at all. Grady follows her gaze. He sees only whiteness, unlike the ceiling in his room, which is painted the color of the sky. That was his mother’s idea, so that no walls would ever bind his thoughts.
“I’m ready to go,” she says. “I’m ready, Pearl.”
Grady wants to protest. Pearl is supposed to heal his mother, like she did before. He looks at Hanna, who nods so slightly he might have imagined it. This is her way of asking if he’s ready too, because last time he was not. Because last time, when his mother was dying in labor, he ran into the woods and found the witch’s cabin, even though he wasn’t supposed to. He begged Pearl to help his mother live after his father said there was nothing more he could do—that she was dead and so was the baby. And Pearl had come to the house and she’d shut the bedroom door and then, hours and hours later, it opened again and his mother was standing, her blue eyes blinking. His father had been horrified.
Hanna is still looking at him but Grady doesn’t give her an answer. He can’t, because every answer will be the wrong one. So he holds the cloth over his mother’s forehead and dabs at her skin. He wants to bear what she’s feeling; he wants to take her pain and carry it so she doesn’t have to. Look how thin she is, all bone. How could she carry anything at all?
“I’m ready,” his mother says again.
Pearl stares Grady’s father down as if daring him to speak. Then she strides to the bed with Hanna, each with a rosary dangling from one hand, a muslin sack in the other, their lips moving but no sound coming out.
“Rose,” his father says, desperate now. “Can’t you hear me?”
Her eyes finally settle on him. “It’s you,” she says. She grits her teeth in what must be a smile. “Take care of our boys,” she tells him, and Grady’s heart tightens. “Be kind to each other.” Her head falls to the side but her lace dress is rising near her ribs—she’s only asleep.
And then she opens her eyes, and her gaze is on Hanna’s stomach, and then Grady. “Listen,” she whispers.
“Rose,” his father tells her, “I’m right here, Rose.”
Grady touches her hand, but she’s staring at the ceiling again. He can’t see what she’s fixated on, he doesn’t see us here like she does; he doesn’t know that we’re all around her, trying to make her passing easier, just like Hanna, who’s whispering for her to let go, let go. And just as Rose reaches out to us, right as she slips into our arms, she tries to warn Grady; she tries to say “Be careful,” but it’s already too late.
CAGE SLOWLY TRACED HIS FINGERTIPS along the strands of Mae’s hair, not touching her, but close. Asleep like this, with her back to him, she almost looked like Ro, and he wanted to lie down
beside her. But her hair was longer than Ro’s, and she was smaller. She was darker than Ro too. It wasn’t just her eyes, it was her gaze itself—like she was constantly measuring the world and had found it lacking. Ro saw the world as her own ocean, ready to be mapped, but Mae saw riptides and currents and whirlpools and knew to be cautious. She wasn’t a girl who touched or let you touch her. Like an animal that way, like water that slipped through your fingers.
He reached out again to wake her. His hand grazed her cheek this time, close enough to feel the heat from her skin. She stirred, but her eyes stayed closed, her canvas bag under her head like a pillow, a flashlight tucked into her pocket. After he’d apologized for throwing the glass, Mae had talked to him for what felt like hours, trying to help him remember what happened on that last day with Ro. He’d been telling her about the hospital when he realized she’d fallen asleep next to him.
He got to his feet, deciding to let her rest. Then he strode up to the sailboat and hoisted himself onto the deck. If what Lance said was true, this might have been the last place Ro’d been alive. Had he lost his temper, hurt her? Why was that day a blank? Think. Think! He ran his hand over the wheel, the cubby’s small hatch. The shadowy deck was like being underwater, swimming through a sunken ship.
He hopped down from the railing and onto the cement. Mae was still sleeping in the shadows, except something felt wrong about it. Ro should be lying here with him, not Mae. She might be the only person in the world on his side, but Ro came first and always would. It was simple: her before anyone else. The pit of his stomach churned when he thought of what he needed to do. Grabbing a small spade, he opened the barn door, shut it quietly behind him. Somewhere far off a dog howled, but Cage pressed on through the trees, careening his way over shrubs and bushes until he finally saw Blue Gate. The house was towering in the moonlight, its windows and edges dark. It was near midnight and the lights were off—they should all be sleeping.
He crouched down in the cover of the trees. Clouds were gathering overhead, throwing shadows over the crumbling old brick. He looked at the porch, checked for movement behind the pillars but saw only the empty rocking chairs, the porch swing creaking on its chains. His lungs felt like they were smothering in the humidity, and he took in a deep breath, needing courage. He searched his back pocket and pulled out what Mae had given him tonight. It was the picture that used to be taped up on the wall of the barn—she’d pocketed it for safekeeping.
Now he angled the photo at the moonlight. R.C. & C.S. It was the shot of him and Ro on the dock. His hair was buzzed short and his eyes were more bloodshot than usual. Ro was just golden, like the locket around her neck. She’d come from a swim and smelled like salt water when she’d leaned on his shoulder. Her reckless smile made his throat ache.
He swallowed hard and then glanced up at the dark hedge, imagining what he’d need to do if her dad caught him. Mae had warned him against coming here tonight, but he didn’t have a choice. If Ro had buried the other half of the book, he’d find it. There might be more about the raising ritual in it, and then he’d try it and know for sure. He had to try, no matter how unhinged Mae said he was. His mother would call him hopeless—Good thing your daddy didn’t hang around to see you now. She’d reel over in a fit of coughing, trying to catch her breath. Sooner you realize your lot in life, the happier you’re gonna be, lucky boy. Quit thinking so big. Cage could see her point—he’d always had an imagination. The day he’d glimpsed Ro, he imagined being with her, as impossible as it seemed. Now he was going after the impossible again, and it was waiting for him in Blue Gate’s garden.
The tall hedge enclosing the garden was so thick there was no way to pass through. He found the metal gate, but it was locked and didn’t give when he shook it. Then he saw it—at the corner of the house was a cast-iron downspout that ran parallel to the hedge. A way across.
He gripped the flashlight between his teeth and hoisted himself up, dug his boots into the brickwork as he climbed. The spout was slick but he kept his hold. When he made it past the top of the hedge, he counted down from three and then jumped, falling to his knees as he hit the damp earth with a thud. He held his breath and looked up.
The house was still silent like some guard dog he was trying not to wake. Lightning burst overhead and lit up the windows and the garden, the thorny rosebushes next to the stone cherub. As he stared at its single eye, a whispering noise swept across the surrounding woods and then water was pouring over him. Pellets of rain beat down upon the mangled garden, the statue, but he wasn’t leaving until he got what he’d come for.
When he stepped behind the hunch of the cherub’s wings, the rosebushes guarding it clawed at his legs. Crouching down, he pulled the spade from his pocket. There was a patch of mud in front of the statue’s feet like the ground had already been disturbed, but he plunged his spade in anyway and started to dig. The hole soon filled with muddy water.
If it’s not here…The thought wormed its way into his head and he gritted his teeth. He dug in the rain and the dark, thinking only of her. Lightning struck, closer this time.
Home is the sailor, home from sea. And now he was here again, back at Blue Gate, hacking at the earth. The rain rushed over him, water was everywhere. A few feet down and still nothing—only mud and rocks and a swarm of tree roots long dead.
The rain slaughtered him, filling the hole, and he wondered if someone else had gotten to her hiding spot first. That sent him into a frenzied dig.
“Cage.”
He froze. Mae’s voice was soft, like the rustle of leaves. He turned toward the house but saw nothing in the dark.
“You here?” he asked, his throat raw. He knew he sounded like a kid—he felt like a kid, curled up in a ball in his mother’s apartment alone. The rain was making him hear things and he couldn’t tell what was real anymore and what wasn’t. He wanted to yell, strike his fists against a wall, but instead he slammed down the spade.
It clanked when it hit the earth.
Cage leaned forward, searching the wet ground with his fingers. Lo and behold, something solid—sharp. He worked the spade around the metallic edge and then grabbed the thing that was buried and yanked it from the mud.
Lightning flashed again and illuminated the ground. Home is the sailor, home from sea. And the hunter home from the hill. A metal box lay in his hands. As quickly as he could, he shoveled the pile of dirt back into the watery hole, patted it down.
Behind him, a footfall.
He turned and saw shadows in the garden, a dim light by the gate. A whining came from the hinges, and his head was pounding, harder than the rain, and he couldn’t see, everything was going white in the downpour. And then she walked through the rain and was standing in front of him, her hair loose around her shoulders and soaking wet.
“I told you not to come back,” she said.
Her voice sounded strange and he blinked, the face in front of him blurring. Mae was staring at him like he should know better than to be outside in this storm. She was drenched; she needed to get out of the rain too.
“I’ve got it,” he told her. “Now I’ll know what to do.” He let out his breath and turned to Ro’s box, lifting its tarnished lid. The moldy stench hit him with a force as he huddled over it to look inside.
It was empty.
No, no! This was his plan, and he was risking everything for it—one, two, three, four…
“Is it there?” Mae whispered.
The box was empty. A single shred of paper was curled at the bottom, and that was all. He felt like the rain was coming from inside him; he was drowning in his own sadness. He was sure she’d buried the hidden half of the book here. What was torn out is now underground. If it’s raising you seek, then dig.
He pulled out the shred of paper, held it up. Its ink was running, and even in the dimness he could see it was nothing, just a note in pink pen, half destroyed by water and age. The rain poured down over it, and then Mae grabbed it from him, shoving it into her pocket. All he wa
nted was to raise Ro, but there was nothing here—it was just another one of her games, or someone had taken it. He’d failed. He couldn’t remember what he’d done to Ro that day, and he couldn’t change it, he couldn’t bring her back. Not without her book.
“It’s gone,” he said, “she’s gone.” As he said it there was a clap of thunder, and through the rain Mae looked like Ro. “I think I need help,” he told her. “What’s wrong with me?” He was talking to Mae, to Ro. “I…I see you, I hear you.”
She stepped forward, she was so close now. “I see her sometimes too,” she said. The rain was flooding her face, her hair, everything. “And I hear her.”
Christ, she even smelled like Ro, that scent of cloves and mint and something sweet. Her shirt was soaked through, and she was staring up at him, so serious.
“It’s not real,” she said, her voice faltering. “It can’t be.” His head was aching. The rain stung his skin, thrashing at him as he tried to listen to her. “Do you…?” she said, and then stopped. She blinked at him through the rain. “Do you really think the ritual could work?”
A flash of memory: his motorcycle hitting the guardrail, the slide into the kudzu. All that green, he was tangled up in it. Lots of blood, streaming in his eyes. He hadn’t been able to get to his feet; he hadn’t been able to move. He shook his head, felt like crying. “I don’t know, Mae.”
“I want to believe.” She looked down at her hands. Her eyelashes were wet from the rain and she was standing beside the hole and the empty box and the water was everywhere around them and he felt like it was washing him away, into the earth, into the hole he’d dug. “I want to believe she could come back,” she whispered.