A Head Full of Ghosts: A Novel (20 page)

I whispered as lightly as I could, “Go please, Marjorie, just stand up and go. Go away. From them. I’ll hang on. Can we go?” I felt so helpless and I wanted to be away from Mom and Dad forever.

She whispered back to me, “Later. I promise.”

Mom said, “She and I will talk. And I’ll be there to protect Merry.”

“Come on, Sarah. Can’t you admit just for once that you’re in over your head?”

“I’m not the one who suddenly thinks he has the power to magically pray everything better!”

“What can you do to protect Merry? Seriously, tell me. What can you do that you haven’t already tried? I mean, aren’t you worried about Merry’s soul too?”

“I’m worried about everything! I’m worried about what all of this is doing to Merry. And if you’re so worried about her soul, tell Father Wanderly to come up with a spell to protect it. Come on, girls. Now.”

“This isn’t going to work if we don’t believe.”

“Jesus, John, really? You sound like a Disney movie. Don’t worry, I’ll believe when I have to.”

“Carry me, Marjorie,” I said. I was too afraid to let go.

Mom yelled at me. “Merry, will you just get off your sister! You heard her say she wasn’t feeling good.”

MOM GAVE ME A HURRIED
explanation of what to expect, of what might happen. I didn’t listen to a word. I paced anxiously around Marjorie’s room.

Mom said, “Merry, please. You’re making me nuts.”

“Sorry.” I went over and sat at Marjorie’s work desk. I hated her wooden chair. It was so uncomfortable, and it made my legs fall asleep if I
sat in it for too long, and then I’d get yelled at for having to stomp out the pins and needles.

Marjorie was in bed, lying on her side, facing her closed door. Mom sat on the bed beside her and stroked her hair.

Mom seemed ready to break down into tears, but said in her calmest voice, “Do you want to talk, Marjorie? Do you want me to put a stop to this? I will. You just tell me. I’ll cancel everything.”

Marjorie said, “A little late for that now, isn’t it, Mom?”

“No. It isn’t. I’m—I don’t know. It’s like a few months ago, when your dad first brought up the idea, I was this totally different person. I had to be, because I don’t understand what that other woman was thinking. I don’t understand how she could’ve thought that this was a good idea. And I’m so goddamn mad at her. Why didn’t she say no when—”

The doorbell rang. Two-tone. One high note, followed by a lower note.

Mom was still rambling on and Marjorie said, “It’s okay, Mom. Stop it. This is what I want now. It’s going to help, I promise.”

In my memory, heavy and hurried footfalls coming up the stairs immediately followed the ringing of the doorbell, then there were the whispers in the hallway and knocks on Marjorie’s bedroom door.

“Hello? May we come in?”

I shouted, “No! Go away!” I wanted everyone to just leave me, Mom, and Marjorie alone. Let us stay in her room like that forever.

“Yes, come in,” Mom said.

It was Barry with Jenn and Tony the camerapersons, and a small army of technicians clustered behind them in the hallway. Barry consulted a clipboard he was holding, looked up, and said, “Hi, just a few things. Just wanted to double-check that Marjorie was still okay with the exorcism taking place here in her bedroom, like we agreed to earlier?” Marjorie said
yes. “Great. You’re a trouper, kid.” He then clumsily explained that they had some last-minute setup work to do.

Mom swore and said something about them having had all day to do this.

Barry’s legion poured into the room with more lighting and sound equipment. One guy had white candles and an ornate brass candelabrum in his arms, another had a large pewter crucifix, and another carried in small statues of the Virgin Mary. Barry shouted at the setup crew that it all had to be ready five minutes ago.

Mom said, “Gee, should we step out for a minute or something?” after one guy almost hit her in the head with a boom mic stand.

“No, you don’t have to. But, wait, yeah if you want. That’s fine, too. Maybe?”

Marjorie said, “I think I’m going to be sick,” and Mom shouted at everyone to get out of the way, to clear a path, and she ushered Marjorie out and to the bathroom.

I followed them out but Mom shut the bathroom door on me. I waited in the hallway outside the door and listened to Marjorie coughing. When it quieted down and I heard the faucet running, I wandered over past Marjorie’s busy room and to the railing that overlooked the stairs. I sat on the floor and rested my face between two balusters. I used to do that on Christmas mornings when I was up before everyone else and would just stare down at the bottom of the stairs and the front foyer, which was lit up in the soft white glow of the Christmas tree lights in the living room.

Dad and Father Wanderly were downstairs in the living room. I heard them talking. The front foyer was lit in a harsh white light from someone’s camera lamp, or maybe they’d set up a spotlight for a pre-exorcism interview.

Barry led his technicians out of Marjorie’s room and they filed downstairs. Barry said, “We’re ready for you upstairs, Father.”

Mom and Marjorie were still in the bathroom. I stayed sitting and with my head resting against the spindles. Tony the cameraman stood adjacent to me, leaned some of his weight on the railing, and pointed a camera down at the first floor. I told him not to lean on the railing because it could break. Dad always used to say that to me.

Father Wanderly was the first up the stairs. He wore a billowy white tunic over a black robe. He looked so much bigger, so much more substantial than he did in his usual black shirt and black pants. The tunic had lace decoration on the hem down by his ankles and near the collar, but was otherwise plain. His hands were lost inside the tunic’s giant sleeves. He wore a long purple stole draped over the back of his neck and it hung down below his knees.

There was another priest, the same one who had come to our house that day I was first introduced to Father Wanderly: Father Gavin, the short, young one with the beady eyes and lots of forehead sweat. He was similarly dressed in a white tunic and purple stole and he carried Father Wanderly’s red leather-bound book and this thing called an aspergillum, which is a long wand with a metal ball at the end that held holy water.

Dad came up the stairs next. He walked with his hands folded and his head down. The top of his head, which I normally didn’t see from such a favorable vantage, had a new bald spot like a crop circle. With everything else going on, I was still shocked by how much hair he had lost.

Father Wanderly walked right up to me and extended a hand. He said, “Please, stand with me, brave little Meredith.” Adults understood the sacred power of names. I had to take his hand and I had to stand with him even though I wanted to stay with my face pressed against the balustrade.

Dad asked what I was doing out here. I shrugged, and told him I
was sorry. When I said it, I meant that I was sorry for not choosing to stay with him, even if I would’ve gone upstairs with Marjorie and Mom if given the same choice all over again. Dad didn’t look me in the eyes, but stared at some empty space just over my head. He asked where Mom and Marjorie were. I told him that they were in the bathroom. Dad walked over and knocked on the door. “Marjorie? Sarah? Are you okay? Father Wanderly is here and ready to get started.”

Mom: “We’ll meet you in Marjorie’s room. Give us a few more minutes.”

Dad sighed, lifted his arms, and let them fall bonelessly to his sides. He said, “Shouldn’t Sarah hear the instructions again, Father? I feel like she’s putting this all on me when we both had decided that this was best.”

Father Wanderly said, “It’ll be all right, John. You are a pillar of strength. You are a fine Christian man.”

“No, I’m not. I failed today. I failed tonight. I’m not a good—”

“Nonsense. You stumbled. And you got back up, and you are again standing alongside Christ.” He grabbed Dad’s hand and mine again. “What I need from you both, and what Marjorie needs from you both, is to believe in the power of God’s love.”

Dad whispered a thank-you at Father Wanderly. It lacked conviction, though, and sounded like I used to whenever I was reminded or prodded to say please.

The bathroom door opened, and Marjorie peeked around the corner; a hide-and-seek player trying not to get caught. Her face and hair were damp. Mom filled the doorway behind her.

Marjorie asked, “Should I go in the room first?” She held a hand to her stomach. “I feel—funny. There’s something not right.”

Father Wanderly said, “Sarah, please help Marjorie to her bed. We’ll be in right behind you.”

Marjorie’s bedroom door was closed. The hallway was filled with cameras and priests and people. It was too much for me, so I just stared hard at the door, at the cracks in the wood, and followed them up toward the ceiling and down to the floor until Mom finally passed in front of me like an eclipse and opened the door.

TONY THE CAMERAMAN
pushed through the rest of us to walk into Marjorie’s room next. Jenn was already inside.

Mom stood in the middle of the room and called out to those of us still in the hallway. “It’s freezing in here. Is the window open? You didn’t tell me the window was going to be open.”

Father Wanderly said they needed it to be “on the cooler side” in the room. He didn’t offer any explanation. He dropped my hand and Dad’s hand and walked in next. The rest of us followed.

Marjorie’s room wasn’t her room anymore. Lighting lamps, boom mics, and candle stands lined the perimeter. Her desk had been draped with a white cloth and housed candles and religious idols and statuettes. Crucifixes hung on each wall, with the largest one made from pewter and hanging on the white plaster spot on the wall where Marjorie had punched holes. My eyes were drawn to that crucifix and the deeply etched agony of Jesus’ face.

Mom was right. It was freezing in the room. I tucked my chin, hugged my chest, and fought off waves of shivers.

Low murmurs of discussion rumbled through the room. Barry was there—I hadn’t seen him come in—and he talked about lighting and angles with Jenn and Tony. Dad hung back toward the door, standing ramrod straight, head bowed, hands folded in front of him, his knuckles gone white. Marjorie sat on the bed—the comforter and sheets were turned down—and stared off to nowhere. Mom stood over her, and she suddenly got louder than everyone else in the room.

“I know we talked about this, but do we really have to tie her down? John?”

Leather straps had been fastened to the posts of Marjorie’s bed. They looked like black tongues.

Father Wanderly said, “Yes. As we discussed, the restraints are necessary to keep Marjorie safe. To keep her from accidentally hurting herself or anyone else in the room.”

Everyone in the room stood in a half circle and watched Marjorie lie down on the bed. She voluntarily stretched her arms out over her head, toward the bedposts, and said, “Mom, you tie them. Go ahead. Do it.” Mom slowly went down to one knee in front of the bed and buckled the straps around Marjorie’s wrists and ankles. Mom whispered something to Marjorie that I couldn’t hear. Marjorie just watched the ceiling. When she was done, Mom kissed her hand and pressed it to Marjorie’s forehead. Marjorie exhaled and it was cold enough that I could see her breath.

Mom was crying. She slowly backed away and stood next to me.

I asked, “Mom, what did you say to her?”

Mom bent down and said, “She’ll be all right, Merry.”

I nodded my head even though my sister didn’t look like she’d be all right. She was dressed in a gray hoodie and black swishy pants, her arms
and legs akimbo, strapped to the bed. Her legs and feet twitched, fast, like blinks, and her lips wormed around, making words without making sounds. I tried to read them.

Wind gusts rattled the old, open windows in their frames. Candles burned and wax sizzled. The walls, the statues of Mary on the desk, and Marjorie’s face glowed weirdly orange in the candlelight. Everyone in the room settled in and got quiet. I stood between my parents. Each had a hand on one of my shoulders. Their hands were cold and heavy.

Father Wanderly stepped into the middle of the room and said simply, “Let us begin the sacred rite.”

He slowly walked to the bed and made the sign of the cross over Marjorie’s body; his wavering hand hovered only six inches or so above her, like he was tracing her outline in the air.

Marjorie said, “He’s pretending to cut me into four pieces. It hurts. Divide and conquer. He’s going to do the same to all of you.” She sounded tired, uninterested, like she was in a hurry to get this, whatever this was, over with.

Father Wanderly repeated the sign of the cross over himself, then he did the same to everyone else in the room, including the camerapersons. When he got to me, he bent down and waved his right hand up, down, left, right, in front of my face. I followed his hand with my eyes like it was one of the vision tests I routinely failed without my glasses.

Upon finishing, the other priest gave him the aspergillum and Father Wanderly sprinkled holy water on us all. I ducked and a lone, icy drop spotted the top of my head and it felt like the tip of a finger. He sprinkled Marjorie up and down with the water, waving his wand madly, striking out at an invisible assailant. He doused Marjorie with so much water, sizable wet spots ink-blotted her gray hoodie. Marjorie didn’t move or say anything. She only blinked when the drops splashed her face.

Father Wanderly turned to Mom, Dad, and me, and held out his hands, palms turned up. “To all present—”

Marjorie stared at the ceiling, and said, “For all those playing along at home, he’s going to kneel next to my bed and recite the Litany of Saints. This is going to be the really boring part. He has to say the name of, like, every saint ever.”

Father Wanderly repeated his instructions. “To all present, please respond with, ‘Lord have mercy.’”

Marjorie said, “But later when he invokes the name of a saint you’re supposed to say ‘pray for us’ after each one. Merry, if you don’t do this correctly, you’re going to get a demon inside you, one that has pointy scales and sharp horns, and then you’ll be in hell, like me.”

Mom and Dad breathed out fast, air hissing through their clenched teeth.

Marjorie said, “In my hell, my parents are teakettles.” She giggled, but it was forced. I could tell. She was scared. I don’t know if she was afraid because she didn’t know what was going to happen or if she was afraid of what she’d already decided would happen. Even now, I’m not sure. I think it was a little of both.

Father Wanderly said, “Barretts, you must ignore what she says. Remind yourself that it isn’t the real Marjorie saying such awful things.”

“It’s me. It has always been me.”

Father Wanderly knelt by Marjorie’s bed, and his purple stole and tunic pooled around his knees, giving the illusion that he was disappearing, melting into his vestments. He opened his red leather-bound book and he said, “Lord have mercy.”

Dad and Father Gavin were the only ones in the room who gave the response. “Lord have mercy.”

Father Wanderly: “Christ have mercy.”

I tried to respond like I was supposed to, but I did so incorrectly. I said “Lord” when I was supposed to say “Christ.” It happened again with the next response when I got it totally wrong when they said “Christ, graciously hear us.”

Mom squeezed my shoulder. She wasn’t participating. She whispered in my ear that I could just respond in my head if I wanted to.

I shook my head no because if I didn’t do my part this wouldn’t work and we’d all be stuck in Marjorie’s hell forever. Marjorie had told me she was faking and doing it all on purpose and I believed her, but just in case she wasn’t faking, just in case there really was a demon inside her, I was going to do what Father Wanderly said. Even if I didn’t believe in him or his God, I wanted to believe that what he was going to say would make her better, would turn her back into who she used to be.

Ultimately, it didn’t matter what I believed because Marjorie wanted me to be there for a reason. I didn’t know what that reason was, and until I did, until I knew what I had to do, I would do what was expected; I’d play the part of the scared little sister that she and everyone else wanted me to play.

“Have mercy on us.”

Marjorie said, “And here comes the litany.”

Father Wanderly: “Holy Mary, pray for us.”

Father Gavin echoed with, “Pray for us.” Father Wanderly waited until the rest of us said the same. Mom whispered it too.

Marjorie said, “He’ll say fifty saints’ names. Try counting along, Merry.”

Father Wanderly read the litany. I was supposed to say “Pray for us” after each name, and I did, but I also couldn’t help but counting the saints. I used my fingers to help, curling each one into a balled fist, then starting over again with an open hand. She had the correct number.

Father Wanderly said, “From all evil, deliver us, O Lord,” and he waited.

Marjorie said, “Now the response is, ‘Deliver us, O Lord.’ Come on, now, try and keep up. Didn’t anyone else do their reading homework?”

“From all sin—”

“Deliver us, O Lord.”

Father Wanderly continued to pray, like he was reading a grocery list, and we responded in kind. Marjorie started talking over Father Wanderly. He tried to project his voice louder, but she matched him in frequency and decibel. Their voices were synchronized sound waves and Father Gavin and my parents were off in their response timing, as though they couldn’t distinguish between who was saying what. I focused on Marjorie. I watched her speak and in my memory, she was as clear to me as if she were speaking inside my head.

She said, “He’ll ask to deliver us from an unprovided death and deliver us from earthquakes and storms and plague and famine and war. Those prayers have never worked, have never stopped those things from happening. They won’t now and they never will. And I don’t see what any of these prayers have to do with helping me. These prayers are designed for you, Merry. To make you think his God controls all things, especially you.”

At some point the response changed to “We beg you to hear us.” Dad was nearly shouting.

Father Wanderly stood up shakily, and he was breathing heavily, frozen breath billowing from his mouth like he was a smokestack. The younger Father Gavin rushed to his side.

Father Wanderly said, “I’m all right. Just my trick knee acting up.” He gathered himself and recited the Lord’s Prayer and read Psalm 54: “Turn back the evil upon my foes; in your faithfulness destroy them.”

Upon finishing the psalm, he launched straight into a solo prayer that
for the first time directly addressed the evil spirit inside Marjorie. The prayer seemed to go on forever and no one else spoke, including Marjorie. In it he referred to a God who was merciful and forgiving, and he said something about an apostate tyrant, a noonday devil destroying God’s vineyard. At the end of the prayer, he finally said Marjorie’s name, and he called her a servant of God.

Everyone said, “Amen.”

The younger priest handed Father Wanderly a white cloth. He wiped his face with it.

Marjorie suddenly became animated, like a switch had been flipped. She squirmed and pulled on her restraints. Her lips were blue and her teeth chattered.

Father Wanderly addressed the demon directly. “I command you, unclean spirit—”

Marjorie said, “Wait. Please, wait. It’s me. I thought I could take the cold, but I can’t. I’m freezing. Please, Father. I’m doing the best I can, but I’m soaked with holy water and I’m right next to the window, the freezing cold air is blowing directly on me. My demonly powers don’t keep me warm, you know. I’m joking. Seriously though, can someone just shut the windows or pull up the blanket?”

Mom stepped forward and Dad grabbed her arm. “No. Not unless Father Wanderly says it’s okay.”

“Let go of me.”

Marjorie spoke at the same time, “Dad, please. I’m so cold.”

Father Wanderly stopped reading. He said, “Family members cannot come into contact with her now that we’ve started the rite, particularly when I’m directly addressing the demon. It’s not safe. Her pleading could be a trick.”

Marjorie said, “Yes, I’ve made my lips turn blue, willed goose bumps
to appear on my skin, and I’m fake shivering. Just like all those women the church had drowned and burned as witches were trying to trick the faithful with their screams.”

Mom said, “I’m pulling up the blanket.”

Father Wanderly said, “Please,” and held up a hand to stop her. “Let us do it. We’ll pull up the blanket, okay?” He asked the younger priest if he would pull up the blanket.

Father Gavin stepped forward as Mom retreated back to me. I was freezing too. I wanted a blanket but I wouldn’t ask for one. He hesitated at the foot of the bed. “Should I pull up everything, or just the comforter?”

Father Wanderly didn’t really answer him. He just said, “Quickly, now, please.”

Father Gavin wrestled with the turned-down sheets, leaving them behind and crumpled at the foot of the bed, finally choosing to pull the puffy white comforter slowly over Marjorie. He was quite nervous and avoided any contact—both eye and physical—with her.

She watched him; watched him hard enough to burn a hole into him. She said, “Please tuck it up as close to my chin as possible, and get as much of my arms under it as you can. Thank you so much.” Father Gavin did as he was asked, and carefully molded the thick blanket around as much of her outstretched arms as he could without covering her face. “That’s so much better.” Marjorie shivered, and her body shook under the sheet. Father Gavin skittered away from the bed, a rabbit sprinting through an open field.

Father Wanderly started in again, commanding the unclean spirit to name itself and obey him.

Marjorie said, “Really? We need to go through this again? Fine. I know what you want me to be: I can be Azazel, the serpent, the fallen demon.”

Father Wanderly soldiered on. He put his hands on Marjorie’s forehead and prayed for her healing.

Marjorie said, “I’m exaggerating my cosmic standing a little bit. How about if I’m just plain old Azazel, as described in the Hebrew Bible? I’m only the scapegoat, the outcast sent into the desert.” Marjorie had recovered. Her voice was hers again; calm, matter-of-fact, tinged with that unmistakable undercurrent of teen dismissal and disdain.