Believe, page 14
Daniel stepped aside. He wasn’t going to get between the ghost and the window this time. He watched her turn to the window. She smiled again, closed her eyes, and extended her arms. Even as she stretched out she was fading, until nothing but a silver wisp of fog was left to be lifted out on the night breeze, rising and disappearing in the moonlight outside.
“Now you see, don’t you?”
Daniel turned. Aunt Serena was standing in the dim hall just outside his door. She was wearing an old-fashioned night dress with some kind of cap, and he thought she looked like someone from the pages of a history book.
“You saw that?” He gasped, not sure he believed what had just happened.
Serena made a clicking sound with her tongue and nodded her head. “’Mena has passed on. Tomorrow we will bury her. Get some sleep, boy.”
Before getting back into bed, Daniel pulled the old afghan off the mirror and put it on top of his quilt. It was cold in the room now, but he didn’t want to close the window. Maybe he’d dreamed it, but he wanted to hang on to the feeling he’d had when it seemed like Aunt Philomena’s soul went past him on its way out the window.
He wasn’t afraid. But he thought maybe, after all, Aunt Serena wasn’t just some senile old woman with crazy ideas. He might ask her some questions in the morning.
11
Woman In Brown
November 9, 1857
She can’t keep up. Her heart is beating too fast and her breath won’t keep up.
“Run, to the river, run!” She is gasping out the words.
Ahead of her the sound of bare feet slapping mud—the river is close now. She can smell it.
But the dogs are gaining. She hears their bellowing hunting calls behind her, imagines the groaning leather as they strain at their leashes.
“Don’t look back—just get across!”
The footfalls ahead slow.
“Mama?”
“Don’t you stop, hear? I’ll see you on the other side! Now run!”
She stumbles, falls. Ahead she hears running feet, then splashing, and knows Eliza is at the edge of the water.
She can make it now.
There are folk waiting on the other side. They’ll help her.
The dogs are almost there.
Freedom. It will never be hers, but her daughter will have a chance now, and that is enough. She never could help the others, but Eliza—her last, her surprise when she thought she was done with all that—she is willing to trade her life to see this daughter escape.
She doesn’t care what happens to herself, which is good because now her heart is going crazy, faster, and off beat. She sees spots in front of her eyes, and thinks she’s back in the kitchen, feeling the warmth of the oven as she reaches in for a loaf of bread—the favorite of the family, special, reserved for holidays and fine guests, with her own combination of spices and oils folded right into the soft dough.
You must teach me your secret, Mistress told her, but she never really meant it. Kitchen work was for house slaves, not wives.
Too late now, anyhow, she laughs a little to herself. Didn’t matter—nothing mattered but getting Eliza away to freedom, and she’d done that.
“I’ll see you on the other side,” she breathes out for the last time, and is already half gone when the first dog jumps on her, digging in with angry teeth.
July 12, 1963
“You have to go in and get her! You have to go back!”
The fire is so loud. It sounds like a storm around them, crashing down, obliterating everything.
“I had to drag you out—you think I’m going back in there?” He stomps away, fists balled, knuckles white. “What were you thinking? What were you thinking?”
She can’t breathe, coughing and sobbing at the same time. Her words, though desperate, are slurred. “Go back and get her!”
There is no way to tell the difference between the red, flickering light of the fire, and the swirling red of the emergency vehicles. Another siren wails, another truck arrives. Men are shouting. Sometimes other people’s voices, their cries, rise above the noise.
She is keening now, rocking back and forth on her knees, coughing and wailing and crying.
“What were you thinking taking that stuff? You knew we had that baby for the night. What were you gonna do if she woke up and needed something? How were you gonna take care of her?”
“I knew you were there.” She shuddered, the words a hoarse whisper. “I only wanted a little…. I only wanted to relax…”
Too disgusted for words, angry and terrified, he can only stare at her.
He feels guilt growing like a storm in his guts, and he wants to hit something.
Hot cinders blow, lightning rain. The air is on fire.
“Excuse me,” a soft voice behind him. He turns. “I think this is yours?”
A little old man stands there, all bent over and dirty with smoke and soot, holding the baby. She looks bigger in his arms, but it’s her, it’s her.
“Ooooohhhhh my gooooood!!!” Keening turns to praise, but she still rocks on her knees, still can’t stand on her own.
“You got her out,” he can only say the obvious, but he reaches for the baby and thinks he’s never felt this relieved in his life. Her heaviness is so alive, her smell more than smoke.
“Your daughter is all right, she’s all right,” the old man’s face wrinkles in a smile and he pats the baby’s head, now cradled in someone else’s arms. “I saw…” he hesitates, “well, your door was open, so I went in to check as I was leaving, and there she was. So I brought her out—just in time, too, the fire got real bad, real fast.” His eyes look behind the two of them, to the woman on the ground. He closes his mouth and nods his head. “That your wife?”
But he shakes his head no. “Girlfriend. This is her niece. We were babysitting, doing her sister a favor…” The baby coughs and he pats her back, raising her to his shoulder, not sure right now if he’ll ever be able to let her go. Relief and adrenaline and fear and desperation wash over him.
The look on the old man’s face as he glances behind him again makes him add, “She’s having a bad night.”
“Mmm-hmmm.” He nodded over toward the ambulance. “Best take the little one over to the medics, get her checked out, just to be sure the smoke didn’t cause any harm.”
“Yeah,” he says, and hurries away from the woman on the grass, the old man, the burning apartment building, precious cargo in his arms.
~
Samuel was awakened by the fire alarm, but it took him a few minutes to realize what was happening. By the time he was out of bed and in the hallway, the smoke was thick, and he was already coughing. Fast had left his body a long time ago, but he knew the way to the stairwell. He was only three stories up, so he wasn’t too worried about getting out of the building in time.
The hall seemed longer than he remembered, though, and the smoke kept getting thicker. He thought he saw someone in front of him—a woman, he thought it was—her figure fading in and out of the billowing black air, and then she went into the last apartment before the exit. She left the door open behind her, so he followed her in, wanting to tell her to hurry, there wasn’t much time.
“Hello? Ma’am? You need to come with me,” he called out, but she didn’t answer. He went through the rooms looking for her, but they were empty until the bedroom, where he found the baby. She was peacefully sleeping through all the noise. Feeling like he’d come for the purpose, he picked her up, turned and left. He didn’t see the woman again, though he thought he could smell perfume even through all the smoke as he left the apartment, a spicy, cinnamon smell with a hint of oranges.
Eventually the fire was put out. Miraculously, no one had been hurt.
Samuel moved in with his son, his son’s wife and their three children.
He wondered from time to time what ever happened to the baby girl he’d rescued, and her drug addict aunt (he’d seen it before, recognized the signs) and the boyfriend.
For the rest of his life, he was visited by dreams in which he was following a woman he could never quite see, one who seemed made of shadow and silence, wrapped in brown like smoke. He died quietly in the middle of the night two years after the fire, surrounded by the sleeping household of his son’s family. They found him the next morning, a gentle smile on his face. Though no one else noticed, his youngest grandson could smell dim perfume, spicy and sweet, and he didn’t feel sad because he knew it meant that Grandpa was some place good.
May 23, 1968
Grace loves their new house.
It’s so different from the city where they used to live. Here there are trees and wild places, and even though mama keeps telling her they probably can’t stay, she wishes on a star every night that they can.
The woods are filled with green light like pretty princess jewels winking and flashing from velvet shadows.
She feels no fear because how can a place so beautiful, filled with birds and baby dear and rabbits, be bad? She’s seen the movies, she knows there’s magic between the tree roots, in the hollows of the old, rotten logs, hiding under toadstools.
Mama doesn’t usually let her be alone, but today Mama had to go somewhere, and Mrs. Gallagher from next door is watching her. She doesn’t know about Mama’s rules.
Deeper and deeper, moss and mud and scratchy leaves all around. She can still hear cars. But in her mind, she is far away in a magic place, and all she wants to do is find the fairies, talk to the squirrels, kiss the magic frog.
A perfect hollow log. Moss on top, mushrooms growing on it, half-buried in old leaves. The gateway to Fairy Land!
Her shoulders won’t fit inside, but she’s sure if she can just reach far enough, she’ll feel the door, the fairies will let her in, and—
OUCH!
Fire shoots through her hand—it won’t stop, won’t let go!
She scrambles back, and sees the big snake attached to the soft skin between her thumb and hand. She screams, wordless shrieks of pain and fear. Where are the fairies? Why aren’t they helping her?
The snake is moving, waggling, and finally lets go and like lightning, is gone. Her hand hurts. She doesn’t see blood, but feels a tightening, her fingers are getting big like a balloon, and she feels dizzy.
She lies on the damp, soft ground, crying. The sky above her seems to be moving, blurry, fuzzy, and she is scared.
Which way is home?
Sit up.
She stops crying, listens.
Sit up, now. Put your hand up in the air.
Sniffling, she does what the voice says.
Now keep it there, no matter how tired your arm feels.
She nods, though she doesn’t understand why she must do this.
Good girl. Now be still.
She feels a little breeze tickle the hair on the back of her neck, and it cools her, even though she’s feeling hotter and her head hurts. Slowly she turns her head to look around and see the lady who’s telling her what to do, but can’t find anyone. She thinks for a minute that someone tall is standing just behind her, but when she turns her eyes to see there’s no one there.
She’s a good girl. She waits. But her arm is getting heavy and her brain feels like it’s spinning inside her head.
Not long, now. Keep your arm up.
She whimpers a little. This is hard. She wants Mama to come and make it stop hurting, make her head hold still.
The woods seem to be getting dark around the edges. She squints up toward the sun to see why it’s going away, but has trouble moving her head backward, so gives up. Things get darker. She can see the lady now, and she is tall, wearing a long brown dress that sounds like rustling bushes when she moves.
The rustling gets louder and louder and then she hears barking, and there’s a dog. It’s barking right at her, but she’s a good girl, she won’t run, she won’t put her arm down, the lady said to stay like that.
It’s so dark now she almost can’t see the person who runs through the bushes and grabs the dog’s leash.
“There you are! Bad dog---Oh my God! Little girl, are you okay?” The person is bending down and looking in her face, but she can’t really see him, and she only hears his voice from far away. Maybe she’s going to live with the Fairies after all?
She wakes up in a bed. Mama is sleeping in a chair nearby. It’s dark and quiet, but her brain isn’t spinning anymore, so she knows everything is all right. Her hand where the snake bit her is wrapped in white bandages, and it doesn’t hurt any more.
She hears a soft sound almost like wind in leaves and looks across the room to where a curtain is hanging. The shadows behind it are dark. She thinks she sees a tall woman there, but sleep is making her eyes fall closed and she’s not sure. As she drifts off, she’s glad that Mama took her to a place that smells so nice, cinnamon and oranges are two of her favorites.
February 4, 1986
“Grace, you’re such a worry-wart!”
“I am not getting in that car with you behind the wheel. You’re drunk, and I am not gonna let you drive!”
“Ugh, fine!” Eyes roll, stumble walk to the passenger side, fumble with the door, get in. “Here, take the keys.”
Grace’s night is ruined. It was all fun until Ashley went overboard. Trying to drink hot guys under the table is never a good idea.
Grab the keys, start the car. “Get your seatbelt on, Ash.”
Eyes rolled so hard she can hear them rattling. The click of the seatbelt buckle.
Angry silence as the wet road sluices by under their tires.
“I don’t know why you always have to ruin my good times...” head lolling to the side, Ashley’s words are slurred. Grace already knows she won’t remember this tomorrow, doesn’t bother to answer.
Something flashes across the headlights just before she feels the impact slam into the car. The wheel yanks out of her hands, the car is spinning. She realizes the airbags have deployed, and looks at her mirrors, out the windows, trying to see what’s happening.
Something in the back seat—eyes? —but no, nothing.
The car slams into something else and stops moving. Her head went sideways into the door, but she’s still conscious. Ashley is bleeding, unconscious, but whether it’s from impact or alcohol Grace can’t tell.
Suddenly Ashley screams.
“Help! Oh my god, Help! I can’t feel my legs! Help me!” Weak thrashing, arm tangled in the deflated airbag.
Grace notices the burnt smell like gunpowder from the airbags, and something else: it reminds her of Christmas, oranges and cinnamon and…
Eyes flash, deep brown like chocolate, then they’re gone.
Grace smiles and lays her head back. “It’s all right, Ashley. We’re safe,” she croons this again and again until her friend is still, and sirens in the distance tell her it’s true.
December 11, 1994
“Mama, where we going?”
“It’s a short cut, baby.” Better not to walk through the park after dark.
“It doesn’t feel short.”
“Come on now,” please don’t whine at me after the day I’ve had. “It’s like going on an adventure, right?”
“But it’s so dark, I can’t see anything!”
Count to ten. Do not get mad. It’s not her fault Ty forgot it was his turn for pick-up on the same day your car decided to break down.
“I thought Daddy was gonna get me today. You said you had to work.”
“I thought so, too, baby, but sometimes things change. Now come on, Tahnie—we’ll hurry home and get nice and warm, and you’ll see Daddy next week.”
“But I don’t wanna see Daddy next week! Why can’t he just come home and live with us again?”
One, two, three, four, five…
Puddles throw streetlight back up into their faces, everything is slick and black from rain.
“We’re almost home,” thank God, just two more blocks after this cut-through alley.
“Mama?”
A lurch in her step, she feels the little girl slip and stumble.
“Mama!” her question becomes a shriek.
“Shut up.” Muffled voice, masked face, dark clothes—he’s holding onto my baby!
“No!” without thinking she screams.
“I said SHUT UP!” he jerks on the little arm so Tahnie whimpers and waives his other hand in her face. He’s holding a gun, black and hard and powerful. “Throw down your bag and keep the kid quiet.”
Grace looks at her daughter, who’s biting her bottom lip and has tears slipping down her cheeks. “Baby, we’re gonna be fine. Don’t be scared, and don’t make a noise. I’m putting my bag down. Take whatever you want, just don’t hurt us,” she tries to make eye contact with him, but his eyes are empty slits, all rage and venom.
“Get away from the bag. Take the girl. Now both of you lie down—face down! Don’t look at me!”
She feels the kick on her thigh, and another one to her ribs, but they don’t hurt. All that matters is that Tahnie is on the other side of her, she’s safe, she’s staying quiet.
She can hear him rummaging through her bag. It’s her work back pack, filled with all her daily things: a clean shirt, extra set of scrubs, keys, make-up, hair things. Her wallet is in there, too, and her phone, and he cackles when he finds them.
Beside her, Tahnie starts whimpering.
“Ssh, baby, stay brave now. Keep quiet. Everything’s okay.”
But she gets louder.
“I said keep her quiet.” Another kick to her ribs. She doesn’t feel it now, but she knows it’s going to hurt later.
More rustling. What’s he looking for now?
The sound of wind.
“What the f—” she hears him drop her bag. His feet scuttle back and forth a minute. “What are you trying to pull?”
Another kick. The impact jolts through her whole body, and Tahnie feels it too. She sobs loudly.
“Ssshhh, it’s okay, it’s okay…”
Wind blows over them. It smells clean. If we get out of this, I am leaving the city forever, she thinks. I am taking Tahnie to where the air is clean, and there aren’t any dark alley punks.
