by Linda Bleser
I reached up to touch the pin at my collar. Obviously it meant something to the person I pretended to be. And on some deep, subconscious level, it seemed symbolic to me as well.
“Well,” my mother said, breaking the spell, “As long as we’re opening gifts, you might want to check this out.” She handed me a box covered in brightly colored wrapping paper.
I opened the attached card first. The words “Happy birthday to my daughter” caught me by surprise. I should have expected it, but the words still made my stomach tighten and my heart race. Inside, beneath the preprinted greeting, was a handwritten inscription.
To my baby girl and best friend on this, your special day. May life always be kind and give you everything you deserve. Love always and forever, Mom.
Something broke inside me. Emotions I’d held in check for so long rushed to the surface. A shudder raced through my body, and hot tears gathered in my eyes. I quickly bent forward and tore open the package before the tears could fall and give me away.
Inside was a complete set of meditation books and guided imagery CDs. Again I felt a sensation of being split into two separate beings—one a dreamer who enjoyed scrapbooks and meditation, the other a realist who fought off fanciful dreams as signs of an expected mental breakdown. Which one was I really?
I thanked my mother for the gift, not bothering to hide the tears in my eyes. “Awww, honey,” she said, wrapping her arms around me. I noticed there were tears in her eyes as well. When had I become such a sappy, sentimental fool? Probably the same day I’d decided to take up meditation.
She sniffed and released me, first patting my hair into place. “In honor of your birthday, I’ve made your favorite dinner tonight.”
Judging by the delightful smells coming from the kitchen, it wasn’t Chinese takeout. I wondered what my new favorite dinner might be. When I offered to help, she insisted I sit and relax while she put the final touches on the meal. That left me all alone at the dining room table with Parker.
I remembered the tragic birthday twenty years ago when my expectations for a special birthday breakfast were shattered. That memory felt unreal, however, as if the past I remembered were the dream and this the reality.
Parker poured us each a glass of wine, then interrupted my thoughts with a sarcastic quip. “If I’d known a handful of books and CDs would reduce you to tears, I could have saved a fortune on that silly piece of jewelry you wanted so much.”
My hand shot to my collar. I realized I’d unintentionally hurt his feelings. “I’m sorry. I really do love the pin, Parker. Thank you.”
“Relax,” he said, “I was only teasing. Jeez, you’ve gotten so serious lately.”
Another clue. That meant I wasn’t as serious before. I’d have to remember and try to act more … well, more like Cassie, I guess. Hadn’t I always scolded her for not taking life seriously enough? I worried that Cassie was a little too flighty and fun loving. Maybe that’s exactly how I’d have been if I’d grown up without the shadow of my mother’s death darkening my every move.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Parker asked.
I touched the rim of my wine glass to his. “Absolutely,” I replied. “Just feeling a little sentimental, that’s all.”
He nodded, but there was a hint of wariness in his eyes. I could tell he didn’t quite believe my protests. Maybe there was a reason for his concern. Perhaps in this reality I’d slipped and fallen already and was slowly regaining my mental equilibrium. That would explain why, at the age of thirty-three, I was living here with my mother. Maybe I needed to be watched over.
With a shock, I realized that while I’d checked my mother’s wrists, I hadn’t checked my own. Had I finally done it? Maybe I was in some kind of afterlife right now. With a surreptitious move, I slid the sleeve of my dress up over my wrists, relieved to find there were no visible signs that they’d been slashed—either in this life or the last. That didn’t rule out purgatory, but it was one less thing to worry about.
I rubbed my temples. My head was pounding from all the possibilities running through my mind. There were so many things I needed to know but didn’t dare ask. And the most important question of all: where was Cassie?
I swallowed any questions I might have. The sound of my own voice could break the spell. Instead I remained quiet. Watchful.
*
Much to my surprise, dinner turned out to be roast duck. How this came to be my favorite is anyone’s guess, since, to the best of my knowledge, I’d never tasted duck before. It was obvious my mother had spent hours preparing the dinner, which included mashed potatoes and gravy, tender asparagus, and homemade cornbread. Apparently my mother had taken some cooking classes since I’d seen her last.
The duck was tender on the inside, crispy on the outside, and sinfully greasy. I came back for seconds. If it hadn’t been my favorite dinner before, it certainly was now, so it seemed my doppelganger and I had some things in common after all.
After dinner my mother brought out the cake. Before cutting into it, however, she and Parker made a big production out of lighting the candles and actually singing a slightly off-key rendition of “Happy Birthday.”
I shot a glance at Parker, not sure which of us was more embarrassed by the display. He grinned and rolled his eyes, as if to say, Yeah, I know it’s silly, but you know how Mom gets a kick out of it.
I stared at the flickering candles and tried to remember the last time I’d had a birthday cake. I’d banned all celebration of my birthday years ago, including cakes and gifts and sentimental cards.
“Cheer up, Sis. Thirty-three’s not so bad. Take it from your older brother.”
I swallowed hard. Older brother? How could that be? I was the oldest, then Cassie. I’d just assumed he was younger, too. I couldn’t assume anything here. This only proved how easy it would be to make a mistake.
I took a deep breath and blew out the candles, trying to wish myself back to my own familiar world.
*
After cleaning up the dinner dishes, we took our coffee to the living room. There were pictures on the walls and the mantel over the fireplace. I searched in vain for any sign of Cassie.
With a growing sense of panic, I turned to Parker. “I have to run out for a bit. Can I borrow your car?”
“Sure,” he said. “But yours is right out in the driveway. Is something wrong with it?”
“No, I um …” Think fast. “I’m a little low on gas. Actually now that I think of it, I should be fine. I’ll just, uh, grab my keys …” I looked around. Where would my keys be?
I caught a look passing between my mother and brother. I knew that look. They were watching me for signs of a mental breakdown. Could it be that even in this seemingly perfect version of my life I was still a lost soul? But that would mean I couldn’t blame all of my dark thoughts on the one event that shaped my life. If my mother was still alive, then whom could I blame for everything that’s gone wrong?
“Where did I leave my purse?”
My mother pointed to the hallway closet. I turned and rushed to the closet, not caring anymore what they thought. I reached for the first purse I saw hanging inside. If it wasn’t mine, I was sure someone would point it out, along with asking more probing questions about whether or not I was feeling all right. I searched inside, and when I found a key ring with a metallic “J” hanging from it, I knew I’d chosen the right one.
“I’ll be back soon,” I called over my shoulder, although I wasn’t completely sure I’d be back at all.
There were three cars in the driveway—a sedate four-door sedan, a fire-engine red convertible, and a little silver Mini Cooper. I headed straight for the Mini and inserted the key, immediately rewarded when the engine turned over. I congratulated myself. I was getting pretty good at this guessing game.
It was only a twenty-minute drive to Cassie’s apartment, but it felt like the longest twenty minutes of my life. The streets looked familiar, although now and then I was sure something was differen
t. I almost missed the turn onto Cassie’s street because the corner grocery store was now a pet-grooming parlor. Once I got my bearings, however, I found the apartment. Or what used to be Cassie’s apartment.
The building was gone, along with the ones on either side of it. They’d paved paradise and put up a parking lot. Well, actually a parking garage, but Joni Mitchell had a better way with lyrics than I did.
This physical evidence was almost more than I could bear. I missed Cassie so much. She was the light to my shadows, the comedy to my tragedy. Without her I felt diminished and incomplete.
Now what? I could have kicked myself for not going back to my room and grabbing the cell phone before I left. There must be someone I could call who would help me straighten out this mess I’d found myself in.
I drove to my apartment, or at least the apartment I remembered living in before my world had turned upside down. I’d no sooner stepped out of the car and started up the sidewalk when the front door opened. Two kids ran out, whooping and hollering, followed by a harried-looking woman who was probably their mother.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
No. No one could help me. Up was down and down was up and I’d fallen into the rabbit hole. “I used to live here.”
Her bright smile tightened with suspicion. She glanced at the kids piling into a minivan, then back at me. “I’m on my way out right now. If you’d like to come back some other time …”
I scanned the room behind the woman, barely recognizing it as my old apartment. There were toys scattered across the floor, and the walls were painted bright, cheerful colors. It was homey rather than sterile, the way I remembered. “No. That’s all right. Thanks anyway.” There were no answers for me here.
There was only one place left I could think of to go—the very last place I’d been before my world turned upside down.
I climbed back in the car and drove to Mourningkill Cemetery. This was where I’d found my mother’s poem about the House of Cry. This was where I’d begun to lose my way, and every instinct told me this was where I’d find my way back to my real life.
*
There’s something strangely comforting about walking through a cemetery in daylight. At night, shadows dance over crooked headstones, lending an air of mystery and magic, and opening a doorway to hauntings and night terrors. During the day, it’s harder to believe in ghosts—unless you wake up and find yourself living among them.
I turned a corner and stopped, looking around. Wasn’t this the spot where the weeping angel had been? I mentally retraced my steps. Yes, it was right here. Or it had been. Now the stone angel was gone, along with the chiseled tribute to Addie Rose. I would never know what circumstances had taken the child’s life or what had changed in this reality to keep her from being buried beneath a weeping angel’s wings, but there was a sense of order that I couldn’t quite grasp.
The stillness was broken by a lone breeze that captured my attention like a tap on the shoulder. With it came an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. It fled as soon as I concentrated on the feeling, leaving behind a cautionary echo: remember this moment.
I moved on and finally reached the spot where I’d stood only a few hours ago, already knowing what I’d find. My mother’s grave—or what used to be my mother’s grave—had also vanished. Now it was simply an empty plot, waiting to someday become her final resting place. Gone were the candles and flowers and tributes from women who’d been touched by my mother’s work. Did I need any further proof that Marjorie Parker Hall was still alive, sitting in her well-lit kitchen waiting for my return?
And yet … I reached into my pocket and brushed my fingers over the folded piece of paper. I took a deep breath and pulled it out of my pocket, carefully unfolding the yellowed page. It was my mother’s poem “House of Cry,” the very poem I’d taken from her grave site only hours ago. Somehow, like Dorothy, the poem had made the journey with me. I clutched it tightly in my fist, desperately holding on to the physical proof of where I’d been.
I felt light headed and turned to sit on a nearby bench. To my surprise, it was already occupied. I’d been so intent on finding answers on my mother’s headstone that I hadn’t noticed the woman sitting there when I’d made my way to this spot.
She looked up and smiled. “Hello, Jenna. I was wondering when you’d get here.”
5
As the woman on the bench smiled at me, I caught a glimpse of familiar features in an unfamiliar face—a face gently lined and framed with coarse strands of graying hair.
“Do I know you?”
“You did once,” she said. “And will again.”
Her eyes were clear and ageless, with a clarity that inspired trust and confidence despite her cryptic response. Even her voice, with its deliberate yet musical cadence, came from deep within a half-remembered dream.
I tilted my head as a name tried to fight its way up from a long-buried memory. “Mary … ?”
She stood and held out her hand. “Maya,” she corrected. “Maya Freemont. I lived down the street from your house when you were just a wee one. Your mother and I were close friends.”
Jenna had a vague recollection of a younger version of the woman who stood before her coming to the house and …
“You brought a casserole when my mother died.”
Maya nodded. “Tuna noodle, if I remember correctly.”
“Yes.” It could have been ramen noodle for all I remembered, but politeness won out. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I caught a whiff of her perfume, a haunting honeysuckle blend that carried with it a memory. Then all the pieces fell into place, and just like that I was thirteen again on the day of my mother’s funeral, alone in a sea of adults who were too caught up in their own grief to notice or care that my world had been forever torn into before and after.
Her warm, strong arms had wrapped me in comfort. “It’ll be all right, child. I promise you it’ll be all right.”
I’d wanted to protest. Even then I knew nothing would ever be all right again. I couldn’t speak, however, because her arms held me tighter, and I buried my face against her motherly breast and let loose the tears I’d been trying so hard to keep inside. She’d stroked my hair and let me cry until there was nothing left inside but an immense sense of emptiness.
I haven’t cried since that long-ago day.
She reached out, as if to pull me into her arms. The child in me yearned to fall into her embrace once again, but the woman I’d become took an involuntary step back, denying myself the comfort she offered. I knew better now. Words were only a temporary balm.
I took another step back and nearly lost my balance on some loose rocks. I caught myself and looked down at the smooth, unblemished plot of earth where my mother’s grave should have been—where it had been just this morning before the world turned upside down. I shook my head in confusion. “But my mother’s not dead.”
“No,” Maya said. “She’s very much alive, isn’t she?”
I took a slow, deep breath. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“On the contrary,” she replied. “When you see the whole picture, everything makes sense.” Her gaze came to rest on the pin at my collar. “May I?” she asked, holding out her hand.
I unclasped the pin and handed it to her.
She traced the delicate web of branches in much the same way I had when first seeing it. “Everything you need to know is right here.”
I shook my head, uncomprehending.
“Look at these branches,” she said, tracing a fingertip over the pin cradled in her palm. “Each one splits off independently, but to understand the tree you must see each individual branch and how it relates to the whole.”
I felt a glimmer of something—not quite understanding but a sense that a pattern was beginning to emerge. Before I could grasp it, however, she changed the subject.
“In the center of it all is your House of Cry.”
Her use of the phrase from my
mother’s poem immediately caught my attention. “House of Cry?”
“Well, that’s the name you’ve given it. Everyone calls it something different—a portal, a gateway.”
I shivered. “I knew there was something strange about that house.”
“It’s always strange at first. That’s why I’m here. To help you.”
“To help me?” I inhaled sharply, struck by the sudden vision of a weeping stone angel. “Who … what are you?” A tilt of her head and imperceptible lift of one shoulder dismissed my question. “Whatever you want me to be. Your guardian angel? Your guide? Your higher self? Call me whatever you choose.”
I had to smile. The idea of any of those entities revealing themselves as a little black woman with snow in her hair amused me. I guessed that guardian angels or guides could reveal themselves in whatever form gave one comfort. And Maya did just that.
“Is the word really important?” she asked. “The moment you label something you limit all other possibilities.” She patted the bench. “Come sit, child.”
When I hesitated, she gave me an indulgent smile. “Go ahead and touch me if you’d like.”
Feeling foolish, I placed my hand on her shoulder. It was solid. I could feel warmth radiating from her body. If she was an apparition, she was a very convincing one. I slumped to the bench beside her. All the fight drained out of me. I gave up trying to convince myself that reality was waiting just around the corner and opened myself up to whatever mystery my uninvited guest might reveal.
“So,” I said. “If you’re not a figment of my imagination, then what?”
She shrugged. “A friend.”
“I don’t …” Have friends, I was about to say. It sounded melodramatic, but it was the truth. If you don’t let people into your heart, they can’t hurt you.
She raised a brow, as if I’d spoken aloud.
I folded my arms across my chest. I certainly didn’t have to explain myself to this stranger. Or anyone else for that matter.