“So my day was pretty much the same as usual: do more work than everyone else while being avoided. You?”
I glanced at Paul, but he was getting napkins from a drawer, his back to me.
“Paul took me through a meditation today.” I shrugged. “Mother wants me to learn.”
“What did you think?”
“Relaxing at first.”
He slid the skin off a second onion.
“I saw a pack of wolves surrounding my mother’s little meditation house.” I stopped, realizing I hadn’t told them about the little house. They were my best friends. Paul was a therapist. How could I not tell them—and anyway, I’d already let it slip. “At least, I think that’s what it is,” I amended lamely. “Over at Loretta’s farm.”
Richard raised an eyebrow, letting my confession slide. “That imagery isn’t too hard to interpret.”
“Yeah, except I felt at one with them.”
“Ah.”
“Am I really the same as the rest of them, just wanting to dissect her?” I shook my head. “I don’t even know my own motivations anymore.”
“Maybe that’s not what the wolves meant.” Richard turned on the flame and began to brown the chicken. “You’re trying to heal things, right? Isn’t a wolf a guardian symbol, Paul?”
“Yup.”
“So maybe the wolves are trying to keep her safe. Maybe that’s your role—fierce guardian—and why you felt so at home.”
“Yeah, that’s what Paul said.”
Paul flipped a chair around and sat down, leaning his arms on the back. “Maybe you need to walk away from this for a little bit. Get some perspective.”
“I thought you told me, not two hours ago, that walking away was bad.” I turned, exasperated. “I just want the truth. If I’m going to help her, then I need her to be honest with me.”
“And you need to be honest with her.”
“About what?”
“What you need from her.”
“I don’t need anything from her.”
“You need her to tell you who you are. Isn’t that what all this is about? If you know who she is, then you can know yourself.”
“Argh!” I slapped down the knife and walked into their pantry, essentially a small closet off the kitchen, to search for the tomatoes. For a moment, I didn’t turn on the overhead light, enjoying the warmth and darkness like a shield between me and Paul’s probing questions and therapy-speak. He was right, of course. All the visions I’d had over the years, from poor Timmy in the schoolyard to my painful arm the night before, made me want to know how the gift worked. I wanted to know if all the women in my family had it. I wanted to know what it had told Mother over the years. Maybe if she would acknowledge its usefulness, I would have permission to be who I was.
I yanked on the overhead chain. The tomatoes were staring me in the face. Grabbing the can, I flicked off the light and walked back into the kitchen, catching Paul and Richard in an embrace.
“Cut it out, you lovebirds. This is all about me.”
Richard ran his hand down Paul’s cheek and gave him another kiss. “Open the tomatoes and quit your whining,” Richard said.
I handed the opened can to Richard, who dumped it into the pot over the onions, mushrooms and chicken. He poured in some wine, stirred it once, and popped on the lid. With some pâté, a basket of crackers and our drinks, we trailed into the living room, where Paul used a long match to light the fire.
Richard eased into his maroon recliner with a slowness I found worrisome. “Are you okay?”
He nodded. “I think I need to slow down a little. My joints are stiff and painful. Sometimes I feel a bit weak.”
“Weak? What kind of weak?”
“Like my legs won’t hold me up, and sort of like the flu, but without the chest and head part.”
A thought flashed, a brief bit of lightning. “How long?”
“A week, ten days. Not long. I keep thinking it’ll go away.”
I rested my hand on his arm to double-check, got the same answer. “Dad had Lyme Disease once,” I said. “Those sound like his symptoms.” My knowledge felt as sure and real as Richard’s chair.
He looked surprised. “It’s the middle of winter.”
“Lots of deer around here, and you have a woodpile.” I nodded at the crackling logs.
Paul expelled a breath and Richard’s shoulders dropped about an inch. He said, “Here I am thinking the worst. I’ll make an appointment tomorrow. Thanks, Clara.”
“Will it make things worse for you?”
“Probably. Anything that compromises my immune system makes it worse.”
Paul said, “I’ll do some research, see what I can find.”
Richard just nodded. I realized they had this conversation often and dwelling on it wouldn’t help. I smeared pâté on a cracker and settled into the overstuffed couch. It was a big, dark piece for the room, but somehow Paul made it work. A small Christmas tree glimmered in the front window, surrounded by small, gaily wrapped boxes.
“Am I invited for Christmas? That is, assuming Mother’s still in jail.”
“You’re always invited for Christmas, and she can come too, if she gets out. We’re having a Christmas Eve party, champagne, lots of hors d’oeuvres, and roast beef. Christmas Day we’ll roast a turkey. Come whenever you want—Sondra and Joellen, and Alcott and Morrie are joining us. You could even bring a date.”
“Uh, no date.” I recounted my dinner with Pete Samuels, including the painful arm.
Paul looked into the fire, silent.
Richard said, “That yummy Kyle DuPont is our pick for you.”
“That feels—complicated.”
Richard shook his head and looked at Paul, but neither said anything more.
I changed the subject. “Are you going to midnight service?”
“We might. It depends on how Richard feels.” Paul stretched out in his chair, finally relaxing. We chatted about the little details of our days and workmates, the same old gripes we had rehashed a hundred times. It felt reassuring, somehow, as if we could put aside, at least for the moment, our difficulties, and as if, here if nowhere else, I was loved for myself.
After some negotiation about the festivities, we agreed I would bring wine to both events, and that I would ask Bailey to join us, and, if I got my courage up, I might ask the chief—as a friend. I had to submit to some intensive teasing, which, I pointed out, did plenty for my courage.
The fire crackled in the fireplace, its cheering flames reflecting off the hearth’s open glass doors and the faces of my two dear friends. The play of light and shadow smoothed the lines that were starting to form on their faces from worry, exhaustion, the stresses of living. I kicked off my shoes and tucked my feet up underneath me.
“I love you guys. You know that, right?”
They looked at each other first, then at me. Richard reached for my hand. “We love you, too, Clara.”
Chapter 13
Later that night, the dreams were different. The field still opened in front of me, and Mother and I were still running, the bloody cloud hovering over us. But this time a group of ghostly sentinel wolves materialized out of the clouds. One by one, they appeared, and as they appeared, the cloud receded, until it was only Mother and I, in the middle of the field, in the middle of a pack of wolves, their yellow eyes glimmering in the dusky light.
I woke, my heart pounding. Sun streamed through the curtains of my mother’s bedroom. My meditation and my dreams had merged. What did that mean? I threw off the covers, and sat up, and then had to brace myself, my hands planted on the mattress, against a sudden wave of dizziness. I felt as though I might topple, but not from exhaustion. I shook my head, hoping to bring clarity, but it only made me feel as if a giant slug was sliming a trail inside my skull. I’d had only a couple glasses of wine at
Richard and Paul’s. What was making me feel this way?
Since I’d left home, I had noticed when the message the dreams sent was particularly important, I would be affected physically: nausea, headaches, body aches—like the sharp pain in my arm the other night. At first, I hadn’t recognized the warning signs. I thought I’d injured myself accidentally, slept funny, or eaten something that disagreed with me. Slowly, I grasped that the physical pain increased when the danger was greatest. The blinding pain I’d felt around my heart before my father died wasn’t panic or grief from the dream, but a warning of what he would feel if I didn’t act. Of what he did feel because I didn’t act. It was a sense memory I’d never forgotten.
Now I was trying to do the right thing. I was respecting the dreams by listening to them. I’d come home, for god’s sake. I was learning to meditate, as Mother wanted. And while I was doing all sorts of things Mother probably wouldn’t want, the dreams weren’t synonymous with Mother’s needs and desires. They belonged to me. Mother must understand that one couldn’t control an intuition. She would forgive my prying because she would know I had to honor what the intuitions gave me, right? But it didn’t make sense that my dreams were still waking me. What was I missing? What was I supposed to be doing that I wasn’t?
Tentatively, I reached my toes toward the floor and stood, hanging onto the bedpost. The room swayed, then righted itself. Oh, good. I sat down again, assured I could stand when I wanted to. Not that I wanted to. Not yet.
A long time ago, Paul said it wasn’t necessarily the images that were important, but how I felt in the dream. My heart had pounded, but it occurred to me, it wasn’t from fear but from excitement: my people had come to rescue us. That was all well and good in a dream, but who were my “people” in real life? I didn’t see any white knights on horses. These days, a girl was in charge of her own rescuing. I moved my head slightly. The slug had calmed down. Maybe I could walk across the room. I stood again and tottered into Mother’s bathroom. I was still sleeping in her room, wearing her clothes. Weirdly, I hoped it would get me inside her head.
Fifteen minutes later, after a hot shower and raiding her make-up and closet, I padded back to my own bedroom and stood in front of the mirror. I’d created a hybrid image, a combination of Mother and me. If sleeping in her bed didn’t get me inside her head, maybe wearing her Calvin Klein suit would.
But Mother’s behavior worried me: why wouldn’t she tell the chief what she knew? Why had she torpedoed her chance at bail with that stunt at Hugh’s memorial service? What was she getting protection from? Or what was she protecting me from? I stared at myself, the image in the mirror warping and slithering in the glass, and tried to think what to do next.
Wolves…beautiful gray and white hair…my people…wolves and sheep…the cottage…the Christmas fête…sheep…Hetty…
Hugh and I had sat across from Hetty at the Christmas fête, and all during dinner, she’d watched us as if she were a jealous wife. I couldn’t imagine Hetty and Hugh involved with each other, but perhaps they hadn’t been and that was the problem. Maybe Hetty had a thing for Hugh, and I’d gotten in the way, just as I’d gotten in the way with Ethan all those years ago.
After I’d chased Hetty away from Ethan, she came after me with a vengeance. It started with notes taped to my locker accusing me of sleeping with the football team or cheating on an exam. When I didn’t react, the notes went to the school newspaper, teachers, and principal. When a letter to the editor appeared in the local newspaper about the children of the rich getting away with cheating—Hetty all but named names—my father called Loretta, and then, with her blessing, called his lawyer. Hetty, threatened with a libel lawsuit, backed off.
Could Hetty have killed Hugh? Maybe that’s why the DNA tested female. But why would she still be coming after Mother and me? Balaclava Guy hadn’t sounded or looked female, but maybe that was more what I expected than what I’d seen. And I’d nearly forgotten: Maria had suggested I check out Hetty’s psychic side business because of Hugh’s attempts to shut her down.
I changed out of my mother’s suit and pulled on flannel-lined jeans, a cashmere turtleneck, and thick socks. I breakfasted on espresso and an English muffin while checking out Hetty’s property on Google maps. The aerial photo showed three structures: the barn, the house, and a smaller building off to the west, at the edge of the woods. A path wandered alongside the fence, and a second drive came straight to that cabin or shed. Maria had said Hetty used a room in her house for her readings, but if I knew Hetty, that cabin was a re-creation of the one at her mother’s farm, the one that my mother used. I printed the image and the map, then put on my sheepskin coat and shoved my feet into quilted boots, all the while careful of the slug in my head, who was slowly, slowly shrinking. I checked my watch: eight-thirty. How long did a farmer need for morning chores?
The drive took me north, into the greenest part of town, with its generous land parcels. Charming split rail fences and stone walls acted as boundaries between snow-covered meadows. Christmas traffic was concentrated downtown and at the malls in Stamford, so I had the roads mostly to myself. Twenty minutes later, I pulled off near the driveway for Rising Moon Farm. I double-checked the map, then swung out, drove a quarter mile down and turned right into a narrow, unmarked drive.
The trees folded over me, heavy with ice and snow. Little sunlight penetrated here, and the ground remained frozen. The driveway wasn’t well maintained. Perhaps Hetty didn’t see clients in the winter, or maybe this was a test: if they braved this road in their precious cars, they were worthy of her attentions. I slowed the Land Rover to a crawl, hoping Hetty, wherever she was, wouldn’t hear the engine.
Finally, I saw the faint frame of the house through the trees. Small and white, it huddled under the pines like the gingerbread house in the fairytale, but without all the sugary enticements. It stood like a ghost house against the dark evergreens. One concrete step led to a door, in front of which sat a metal pail. A path had been shoveled and the little stoop was brushed clean of snow, so even without clients, it appeared someone maintained it. I backed the car around so it faced back down the drive and got out.
I climbed the steps. The pail was filled with sand and cigarette butts. Next to it sat a bag of half-frozen garbage. I tried the knob. It was locked. Of course it was. Had I thought she would leave it open for me?
I looked around, as if for a weapon, then stopped myself. I couldn’t break into Hetty’s cottage. I leaned off the stoop toward the nearest window, feeling the dizziness press at me. I grabbed the porch railing and checked out the heavy white curtains blocking my view. There wasn’t even a slit between them. I sighed. The snow and I had a date.
I stepped carefully off the stoop and into the drifts that surrounded the house. If I was lucky, it would snow again and Hetty wouldn’t know someone had snooped. If I was unlucky, she’d show up, wondering why a strange car was at her cottage. If she found me here, she would call the police, which would put me in the sights of the police chief yet again—and neither he nor I would be happy about that.
I felt too wobbly to move very fast; the snow was deep and had drifted against the house. Most of the windows were curtained, but, in the back, one opened to the interior. I struggled through the drift, my feet sinking into the banks. Snow snuck over the tops of my boots and melted into my socks. It clung to my jeans, freezing them crisp. My breath fogged the glass as I hugged my hands around my face to see inside.
I was looking at a tiny kitchen, a near replica of the one in Mother’s cottage. Through the open door to the main room, I saw a turquoise rug and walls, a white chair and white cushions. A small table by the front door was cluttered with objects, but I couldn’t see clearly enough to determine what they were. Damn. So close…
Almost without thinking, I pushed on the window. It opened. I shoved it up as far as it would go and slithered through the gap. I was covered with enough ice to slide throu
gh just about any opening. Hastily, I pulled the window down behind me and crouched out of view. Going head first hadn’t been a good idea. The room spun around me and I tried to stabilize myself by hanging on to the windowsill. I had to look fast. Hetty might be coming through the woods to check out the engine noise.
The kitchen was half the size of Mother’s. A tea kettle rested on a two-burner stove. Ripe garbage was piled near a dorm-room sized refrigerator. I crabbed through the doorway into the main room and stood up once I had a wall to hide me from view and use for support. The clutter on the table turned out to be a pack of Tarot cards and an upmarket digital camera, a couple of memory cards and a package of batteries. A half-burnt candle sat in a puddle of its own wax. When I turned to face the wall behind me, I almost cried out. That’s why the curtains were drawn so tight. I lunged for the nearest chair and sat down fast.
Pinned on the wall was a photo gallery: Hugh, me, Mary Ellen, others. I didn’t have time to look at them all closely. Hugh, Mary Ellen and I each had our own section, and we’d been captured in a variety of places, with others and alone. My photos had all been taken since I’d gotten home, but Hugh’s and Mary Ellen’s spanned several years. Hugh’s hair grayed and his weight fluctuated, while Mary Ellen progressed from thin to thinner, from Prada to Jean Paul Gaultier and back again. On the wall to the right, a new gallery displayed photos of Pete Samuels with a snarl on his face. I wondered who he’d been looking at.
What did any of these people have in common?
Even more disturbing than the photographs were the dolls attached to the pictures. Mary Ellen, Hugh and Pete all had red dolls. My doll—green for gardens?—had about thirty pins stuck through it. Just looking at it made me feel prickly. Hetty left the voodoo doll on my pillow? How had she gotten in and out of my house?
Shadow Notes Page 13