“I’m in Cambridgeport finishing up a shoot. Not even ten minutes away. It’s one of those architectural projects where the early morning light is crucial—and the light’s gone.”
“Please just be there, Todd,” Lauren said. “It’s important we present a united front to this psychologist. That we show him there’s nothing wrong with Drew that a little time and love won’t cure. Once a kid gets labeled in a school system—”
“I’m not so sure we should minimize this problem,” Todd interrupted. “Drew’s never acted up in school before. And I’m real concerned about his destroying another child’s property—not to mention the part about him drawing pictures of dead people hanging from trees. If the teacher considers it bad enough to refer him to a doctor, don’t you think we should take it seriously?”
Lauren heard Ellen Baker’s voice: “Drew’s behavior is a cry for help—and I think we should give it to him.” “I guess,” she said listlessly.
“There’s another way to solve this problem, you know.” Todd’s tone was playful.
“Please,” Lauren said. “Not now.”
“Baby girls are awfully cute.…”
“I said, not now!” Lauren’s voice was sharp. There was silence on the other end of the phone. “Look,” she began. “I didn’t—”
“I’ll see you at the school,” Todd said. Then the phone clicked in her ear.
Lauren slowly replaced the receiver as tears filled her eyes. Why couldn’t they ever get anything right? Why did every encounter end in an argument? Pushing thoughts of Todd away, she searched through the mess on her desk for Drew’s “normal” list, as she had begun referring to it. When she found the list, she ran her eyes down the items. If this list didn’t prove to Dr. Berg and Ellen Baker—as well as to Todd—that Drew was a normal seven-year-old boy, nothing would.
Lauren stuffed the list in her purse and headed out the door. Thatcher Elementary School was only five blocks away and, given the mildness of the morning as well as her still-throbbing head, Lauren decided to walk. According to the radio, a northern swing of the jet stream was bringing in a late Indian summer: It was supposed to hit seventy by afternoon and perhaps get even warmer tomorrow. As she filled her lungs, pushing the sweet-tasting air deep within her, Lauren had the fleeting thought that this was the first real breath she had taken since Jackie’s death.
When she was escorted into Dr. Berg’s office, Lauren was surprised and then slightly ashamed by her sexist assumptions: Dr. Berg was a woman. A woman who couldn’t possibly be as young as she looked—for she appeared to be only about twenty. A woman who, although she smiled as she shook Lauren’s hand, had a very serious expression in her large dark eyes.
“Is my husband here yet?” Lauren asked. A quick look around the small, windowless office answered her question. As she dropped into the chair the doctor indicated, she felt her blood pressure rise. She noticed the primary-colored drawings taped to the walls and the worn toys tumbling from a red and purple carton in the corner, but all she could think about was Todd’s lateness.
Dr. Berg closed the door, on which hung a large envelope with the words Please leave me a note to let me know you came by written across it in blue magic marker, and sat behind her desk. A small nameplate informed Lauren that her first name was Margie. A diploma on the wall indicated she had received her PhD from Brandeis University.
“As we’ve only got half an hour,” the doctor said, “I think we should get started. We can fill Mr. Freeman in when he arrives.”
Lauren barked a laugh that contained no humor. “I promise I’ll be there on time,” Todd had said. “He’ll be here any minute, I’m sure,” she said, not wanting Dr. Berg to think there were bad feelings between herself and Todd. “He called me just a few minutes ago.”
“Then he won’t miss much.” Margie Berg folded her small hands on the desk. “Sounds like there are some issues with Drew,” she said. Despite her youthful face, Dr. Berg was poised and self-confident. She regarded Lauren with both intelligence and compassion. “I’ve heard a bit from Ellen Baker, but why don’t you let me hear it from you. What’s going on?”
“I think what’s going on is pretty simple. Drew’s a seven-year-old boy trying to come to grips with his parents’ divorce,” Lauren said. “The little guy’s feeling pretty bad, but we’ve tried very hard to explain that, although we’ve fallen out of love with each other, we still love him very much.”
“It can be a very difficult thing for kids to understand.”
“I’ve tried to teach Drew to express his feelings—to recognize his emotions and to talk about them. And I think that’s what he’s doing now. He’s confused and upset and sad—and he’s acting out a little.” Lauren paused. “Just the other day I was sitting in my editor’s office, and I was so frustrated by what he was telling me that I wanted to rip the manuscripts on his desk the same way Drew ripped that little girl’s picture. Frankly,” Lauren smiled at the psychologist, encouraging her to agree, “Drew’s actions don’t seem all that inappropriate to me.”
The psychologist didn’t smile back. “There’s a difference between feeling and doing,” she said gently. “You may have wanted to rip up the manuscripts, but you didn’t. You controlled yourself. What we need to do is help Drew control himself by teaching him appropriate ways to act out his feelings.”
“You mean like rip up his own picture?” Lauren asked.
“Or perhaps a blank piece of paper. Something that doesn’t harm anything.” Dr. Berg leaned forward. “Kids aren’t born knowing how to control themselves—we need to teach them to set limits before their behavior escalates into something more problematic.”
Lauren reached into her purse and placed her list on the desk in front of the psychologist. “Look at this,” she said, smoothing it out. “These are some of the things Drew’s done in the past few days that Ellen Baker doesn’t know about.”
Dr. Berg studied the list for a long while and then a wide smile creased her face. “This is great,” she said. “It’s great that you’re keeping in touch with what Drew’s doing right—with what a normal kid he is most of the time. Now what we have to do is look at these isolated instances of negative behavior and be detectives. Kids communicate in nonverbal ways, so we have to study Drew’s actions and ask ourselves: ‘What is he trying to tell us?’”
“But is this concern really necessary?” Lauren tapped the list with her finger. “If he’s perfectly normal most of the time, do we really need to focus so much on these isolated instances? Wouldn’t he be fine if we just gave him lots of love and let him work it out himself?”
“Very possibly he would—and I most certainly hope that’s the case. Lots of kids exhibit aggressive behavior when they’re struggling with difficult issues, and Drew’s behavior in class may be just that. But I’m concerned about where it could go.”
“And just where do you think this ‘could go’?” Lauren tried to keep the edge from her voice by reminding herself that Margie Berg’s education had immersed her in problematic behavior the same way her own was immersing her in the seventeenth century. The power of graduate programs could be a truly frightening thing to behold.
Dr. Berg gave a little laugh. “If you read the newspapers, you know as well as I do how kids can get out of—”
“Now wait just a minute,” Lauren interrupted.
The psychologist raised her hands to fend off Lauren’s comment. “And that’s why it’s so good that we’re dealing with this now. So we can teach Drew how to handle his conflicted feelings in a positive manner. So he can learn how to act out in a way that doesn’t hurt people.”
“You make it sound as if he beat up someone instead of just ripping a piece—”
At that moment, Todd knocked and entered the room. Lauren could barely contain her anger. She glared at Todd and crossed her arms over her chest. He raised his eyebrows at her and shook hands with the doctor. “Sorry I’m late,” he said, sitting down. “I got hung up at work.”
/> Lauren swallowed the biting comment on the edge of her tongue.
“We’ve only got a few minutes left,” Dr. Berg was saying, “so I’ll let your wife fill you in on the details later. The bottom line is that I think we need to give Drew a little help controlling his anger. Show him more appropriate ways to express his feelings.”
“So he doesn’t become a serial murderer,” Lauren mumbled.
Todd turned to her. “I don’t think you should be so flip about this, Lauren. If Mrs. Baker and Dr. Berg think we’ve got a problem on our hands, maybe we should listen to them.”
“It’s not clear whether we’ve got a problem,” Lauren said, “or just a mixed-up little boy who needs a lot of love and attention.”
“You’re right, Mrs. Freeman,” Dr. Berg interjected smoothly. “He does need a lot of love and attention—but maybe a little instruction too.”
“I’m very concerned about what’s been going on,” Todd said. “My wife tends to put on her rose-colored glasses in such situations.”
“If you’re so concerned,” Lauren snapped, “how come you showed up five minutes before this meeting’s supposed to be over?”
“You know I can’t control my shoots.”
“For something you’re so concerned about, I’d think you might try—” Lauren stopped when she noticed the psychologist was watching them closely. “Anyway,” she said, “the point is that we’re here to help Drew.”
Dr. Berg nodded. “I propose that I see Drew a few times over the next couple of weeks. To work with him on acknowledging his feelings but limiting his behavior. To show him how his behavior can affect himself and others. And I’d like you both to do the same at home.” She glanced at her watch and stood. “I hope this was helpful,” she said, shaking their hands. “I’ll call you in a few weeks to schedule another meeting to reassess the situation, okay?”
Lauren and Todd nodded.
“I’ll be in touch,” Dr. Berg said as she walked out the door, leaving Lauren and Todd standing alone in the small room.
Todd turned to Lauren. “I think this is the wrong time to go into your denial mode,” he said. “Despite your take on it, this whole business sounds pretty bad to me.”
Lauren was so furious she could barely think straight. After taking a few deep breaths, she collected herself enough to speak. “You missed the part where Dr. Berg said this happens to lots of kids and that it’s probably not a big deal. If you can’t get here on time, you can’t pass judgment,” she said in a controlled whisper. “And you might also think about sending Mrs. Piccini your rent check.”
Then she swung her purse to her shoulder and walked out the door.
Motioning Cassandra to join her at the altar, Deborah reached under the velvet covering and brought out a small turquoise stone. She held it in her open palm. “It’s Lauren Freeman’s. She dropped it when she was here last Thursday.”
“You really think this is necessary?” Cassandra asked.
“Yes,” Deborah said as she aligned the turquoise into a pentagram with a chunk of obsidian, a half-burned candle, a knife, and a cup of human blood. It was just before opening time, and they were alone in the back room of RavenWing. It had been four days since they had seen the mark on Lauren’s neck, four days in which Lauren had not contacted them. “We must bring her to us.”
“Bram’s incantation is set for tonight,” Cassandra reminded Deborah. “We promised him no magic within forty-eight hours.”
Deborah dismissed Bram with a wave of her hand. “I want her at this ritual, and I need you to work with me.”
Deborah had decided to invite Lauren to the waxing crescent moon ritual to be held that evening. They were participating in a Wiccan ceremony with a number of other covens, and the event promised to be tame and spiritual and earthy—in a word: Wiccan. A perfect mechanism, Deborah had gleefully concluded, for developing Lauren’s trust, for encouraging her to believe they were as harmless as the Wiccans.
Cassandra bowed her head. “As you wish, Mahala.”
“Let us begin,” Deborah said, spreading her hands over the implements on the altar and closing her eyes. Within seconds she felt the power rising from the ceremonial objects; this was a good sign. As Cassandra placed her hands over Deborah’s, Deborah watched the old woman’s aura change from a silvery sheen, which denoted resting power, to a fiery orange.
After casting the circle and invoking the goddess, Deborah handed Cassandra the cup of blood. They each took a sip and Deborah returned the vessel to its place on the altar. She dipped the end of the knife into the cup of blood, then, raising the turquoise, she pointed the bloody blade into the heart of the stone.
“Consecrated knife, magic weapon, fly true and fly straight and inform Lauren Freeman that I hold the key to all she wishes to know.”
Cassandra placed her hands on the hilt of the knife, adjoining her power to the spell. “Oh Mitra, oh Varuna, tell Lauren Freeman we await her call.”
“And wipe from her mind what is best left forgotten,” Deborah added.
Deborah knew it was a risk bringing Lauren to the ritual, for it was being held at White Horse Beach, the site of all the Immortalises. Her presence there might summon memories of the past. As everyone had lived many times prior to their current life, it was common to experience flashbacks of places one had been to, or of people one had known. These flashbacks were often triggered by returning to the site of an important event in a previous lifetime; they were often mistakenly referred to as “déjà vu” by unaware human beings. The last thing Deborah wanted was for Lauren to remember what had happened to her at the past Immortalises.
“Oh Mitra, oh Varuna,” Deborah called, “protect our coven’s immortality above all else.” She then quickly dismissed the invoked powers, opened the circle, and she and Cassandra returned to ordinary consciousness. It was time to open the store.
As Lauren flipped through a thick, dry tome on the Puritan mind, she sipped yet another cup of coffee. Her headache was back with a vengeance. Closing the book with a thud, Lauren stood and walked over to the bay window. She flipped the sash lock on one of the windows and, after a little tugging, lifted it. Leaning her elbows on the sill, she looked through the web of branches at the elegant Victorian house across the way. Even with most of their leaves missing, the thick trunks and limbs of the ancient oaks that lined the street gave this very urban place a sense of the rural.
Drew was going to be fine, she told herself, she just knew that he was. And it wasn’t just her “denial mode,” as Todd had called it. She was the one who spent the most time with Drew; she was the one who knew him best.
Lauren drummed her fingers on the windowsill as her thoughts turned to Gabe. Gabe had promised he would help her find the historical connections between her present research and the lost coven. Lauren smiled as the sunlight warmed her face and the pounding in her head receded; she couldn’t help wondering what else Gabe might help her with. Without thinking, she reached for the phone to call Jackie and talk with her about Gabe. Freezing her hand in midair, Lauren stared at it as if it belonged to someone else, horrified that she had forgotten for even a second that Jackie was dead.
Making an effort to calm herself, she sat back down at her desk and resumed reading, but this time she chose a book more to her liking—Ordinary People in Pre-Revolutionary America. Although well aware that life had been very difficult in Colonial times, a part of Lauren longed for the simplicity of hard physical work, of abiding religious conviction, of a clear sense of right and wrong. She closed her eyes, wishing herself there, far away from her modern-day problems.
It was a vividly bright fall day. The sun kindled the leaves to fiery bursts of red and orange, and the sky was a dome of the most perfect blue. She heard a high tinkling laugh.
“Mama!” a child’s sweet voice called. “Gome roundabout and see what I can do.”
She was standing on the edge of a cornfield, surrounded by the rich odor of dirt and growth and harvest. She was wearing
a long gray dress with a bodice of crossed linen stays and lace cuffs at the sleeve. Her daughter was at her side.
“Watch!” the child ordered. She drew her hands to her chest and, as if on command, the tall stalks of corn bent toward her. Then she threw her arms forward and the stalks bent away. The little girl turned and grinned proudly up at her mother.
“You would do well never to do such a thing again!” she cried, filled with horror at the scene before her. “‘Tis evil and most dangerous.”
The child’s laughter tinkled again. “‘Twas just for sport, Mama. I must have some sport.”
She knelt and pulled her daughter to her. “Your stepfather shall be most distressed,” she said. “He has been so very kind to us, and it would be grievous folly to incite his wrath.”
The child stared over her mother’s shoulder. “I don’t like him nor his fancy house,” she said. “I wish to be in our little house.” Her face crumpled and she began to cry. “With Papa.”
“The Lord hath chosen to take Papa to him,” she said softly, folding the sobbing child in her arms. “But I would belie myself if I did not avow I long for him too.” She pushed her daughter gently from her so she could look the child in the eye. “But thou must heed my words: These be dangerous times, full of wicked people who mind nothing that is good and fear things they know not. Thou must never meddle with the corn again—nor or do other tricks for sport. I know thee to be as clear as a child unborn, but another might think differently.”
The child shook her head and pressed her face into her mother’s breast. She sobbed as if her heart were being rent in two.
Lauren blinked and found herself back in her living room. The clock on the desk told her three hours had passed. Three hours in which she had been standing in a cornfield comforting a daughter she didn’t have. Three hours in which the seventeenth century had been more real to her than the twentieth. Although she had purposely put herself in the past and had been doing it for years, the experience in the cornfield had been somehow different. Something about how real it had felt, that she had been a participant, not just an observer. And she had been gone for so long.…
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