Homecoming (18 page)

“And what would you know about it?” Mimi asked.

“I know that you're just like me,” Eleanora said. “You have powers, too.”

Mimi pointed a gnarled, arthritic finger at Eleanora, her arm shaking with rage.

“Don't you dare say that about me, sister. Don't you dare!”

Eleanora advanced on the older woman. For the first time in her life, she was going to let Mimi know exactly what was on her mind.

“I let you abuse me. I let you tell me I was possessed by the Devil. All because you were too cowardly to admit there's something special about us—”

Mimi shook her head, not wanting to listen.

“—no, no, no . . . you don't understand, sister—”

Eleanora grabbed Mimi's wrist and shook it.

“Listen to me, goddammit!” she screamed.

“I won't hear the Devil's words from your mouth—”

Enraged, Eleanora snapped, slapping Mimi across the face. All she wanted was for her grandmother to shut up.

“You . . .” Mimi whispered, shock written across her face.

“I'm sorry I hit you,” Eleanora said—but that was a lie. She wasn't sorry. It felt good to finally have the upper hand for the first time in their relationship. “I am not the Devil and I don't consort with him. I never have—and you know this.”

She waited for Mimi to respond, but the old woman continued to rub her cheek, massaging the spot where Eleanora had slapped her.

“Mimi?” Eleanora said.

“I never touched you,” Mimi whispered. “In all the years I raised you, I never laid a hand on you.”

Eleanora gritted her teeth. Mimi was insane. That was the only explanation. How else could she sit there and say what was so obviously untrue?

“You boiled me like a Cape Cod lobster, Mimi,” Eleanora cried.

“I was saving you,” Mimi said, unshed tears in the corners of her eyes. “I did it to make sure you were in heaven with me, child.”

Eleanora shook her head.

“No, Mimi—”

“Yes,” Mimi interrupted her. “Don't tell me my own mind, sister.”

The truth of Mimi's words sank Eleanora's heart like a stone, and she fell onto her knees, the long skirt she wore swirling around her. She stayed on the floor, her body shaking as she was overwhelmed by emotion. The years of suffering washed over her like acid, stripping away the flesh until there was nothing left but bone.

It was true, then. All this torture was because Mimi loved her.

“I believe you, Mimi,” Eleanora whispered. “And I forgive you for the evil you did to me—but I will never forget. I can't stay here with you anymore.”

“I know that, sister,” Mimi said, nodding. “Neither of us will see another New England winter.”

It was an odd thing to say, but Eleanora let it pass.

“Why do you hate our gifts so much, Mimi?” she asked, closing her eyes to keep from weeping.

“You don't know what I know, sister. If you did, you wouldn't ask me that question. You wouldn't dare . . .”

Mimi's voice trailed away and Eleanora opened her eyes.

She was alone in the room. Mimi had gone.

She sat up, her knees creaking as gravity, unseen, pressed down on her—and there, as if by magic, she found her mama's Bible on the bed, propped up against her pillow. She picked the book up, feeling its heft in her hands, then walked over to the closet. She took down a small valise—something she'd been given in childhood by her mama but had never used, and placed the Bible and some clothes inside the stiff leather case. She added the star quilt to the top and closed the lid, unsurprised by how few possessions she owned.

Holding on to the valise's metal handle, she went back downstairs. She was tempted to leave right there and then, but something drew her to the tiny room off the back of the kitchen: Mimi's bedroom.

Her grandmother had lived within the confines of an almost monastic cell. There was a twin bed with a white lace coverlet, a nightstand and bedside light, and a rocking chair turned so it faced the window. A polished oak armoire in the corner of the room contained the meager contents of Mimi's wardrobe.

The stench hit Eleanora as soon as she opened the door, the foul smell of released bowels and decomposing meat filling her nostrils. The smell of death had been contained by the closed bedroom door and masked by the pungent lemon wood polish—but now it was free.

She fell back against the doorframe, tears running down her cheeks as she sobbed into her hand, fingers pressed against her mouth and nose. She didn't know how long she stood there, staring at the corpse, but when she was aware of herself again, she wiped her face and walked over to the bed.

Mimi lay on her back, arms crossed over her chest—and all Eleanora could think was that the woman had even died in an orderly fashion.

She reached out and closed Mimi's eyes, lowering the lids with her fingers, then leaned down and kissed the old woman tenderly on the forehead.

“I hope you and Papa and Mama are happy together in heaven,” Eleanora whispered.

And she truly hoped to God they were.

She left the house, closing the door behind her, and never looked back. Valise in hand, she walked down the road for a bit, the sun beating down on her thin shoulders, her body gaunt from its time in the hospital.

After a few minutes, a battered red pickup truck came down the road, passed her by, then slowed down and pulled to a stop on the shoulder. She ran to the truck and threw open the passenger door, climbing inside.

“Thank you, sir,” Eleanora said as she settled the valise at her feet.

“Where you headed, then?” the man asked, pulling at the tab of his overalls so he could scratch his chest.

“I'm going to California,” she said, which earned her a raised eyebrow. “But I'd be much obliged if you could take me as far as Boston.”

He grinned at her, his ancient face grizzled with stubble, and pulled at the brim of his cap.

“Well, now, Boston I can do you.”

She felt the gears rattling under her feet as he released the clutch, and then they were off.

Eleanora stared out the window as they drove, but her eyes were not focused on anything she saw. Her gaze was turned inward.

I will not cry,
she thought as she remembered Mimi's body lying on the bed, so pathetic and alone in death . . . and in life.

Why did her love have to be so cruel?

I will not cry,
Eleanora thought.

I will not cry.

I. Will. Not. Cry.

L
yse woke up on the living room couch, hot tears running down her cheeks. She wiped them away and sat up, her head fuzzy from dreaming. Someone—probably Eleanora—had lit a fire behind the mesh screen of the fireplace, the last embers glowing bright orange before fading into a smoky ash. Lyse stared into the dying coals, her mind awash with images from Eleanora's young adulthood. Her great-aunt's personality quirks made so much sense in light of what Lyse had just discovered about her. She'd gleaned pieces of Eleanora's unhappy past from things said in passing, but she would never have guessed the truth.

She stood up and walked over to the window, staring at her reflection in the glass. Her hair was disheveled, her mouth turning down at the corners. She looked emotionally beaten, her eyes shadowed by exhaustion. She was more than ready for bed, but still her brain kept spinning.

She moved away from the window, feeling listless and unsettled by Eleanora's story. Like she'd intruded on something private that wasn't hers to see.

What am I supposed to do?
Lyse wondered, sitting down on the couch again.
What does she expect from me?

It was the strange immediacy of Eleanora's story that bothered her. She'd never experienced a memory that wasn't her own—and that was what this felt like. Like she'd been right there with Eleanora, experiencing everything Eleanora experienced while it was happening—even though she'd never been to Duxbury, never seen the house where her great-aunt grew up, never met Mimi or Papa. How could she? They'd been dead long before she was born.

And there was something about the story, some small detail that didn't sit right with Lyse. She couldn't put her finger on it yet, but there was something off about what she'd seen. She looked down and realized she'd been compulsively rubbing her hands together as though trying to keep them warm.

The old clock on the mantel chimed once, the sound making Lyse jump. As tired as she was, she knew she wasn't going to be able to sleep—her mind was too keyed up—and she really didn't want to moon around the bungalow, waiting for the sun to come up.

When in doubt, go outside,
she thought.

She could sit on the deck and look at the stars, or get some bread from the kitchen and feed the fish in the koi pond. Eleanora's carp were huge, ancient creatures that trolled the bottom of the pond all day long, looking for food. At thirteen, Lyse had been fascinated by how friendly and aware they seemed whenever she fed them. Like they were sentient blobs of color that only magically turned into fish whenever the smell of food was in the air.

She looked down at her nightclothes and decided that she wanted to get dressed. If she wasn't going to sleep, maybe she could feed the fish, then go for a walk. It would be like old times, Lyse wandering the Echo Park hills while everyone else was sleeping. Back then she'd been a lonely kid, going to school elsewhere in the city, an expensive Westside private academy paid for out of the money left to her when her parents died. A social pariah, she was teased and tormented by the other children. She'd learned to ignore the pain of not fitting in, spending her time roaming the hills or hiding out in her bedroom—safe under Eleanora's roof.

She went to the kitchen first and grabbed a slice of bread from the refrigerator, then tiptoed back to her room, not wanting to wake her great-aunt.

The clothes she'd worn earlier in the day were still in a wet pile on the floor. She stepped over them as she shucked off her sweatpants and slipped on a pair of jeans from her overnight bag. She stuffed her long hair into a ponytail, ignored the makeup in her purse, and dug out a red hoodie from the closet. She put it on, reveling in how comfortable and warm it made her feel.

Then she headed outside. No cell phone or wallet. Just a ratty old hoodie, a slice of bread, and her thoughts.

*   *   *

Leaving the warmth and safety of Eleanora's house, Lyse stepped out into the chilly, gray October night. She left the outside lights off, the moonlight making them unnecessary, and crossed the expansive deck. She wandered out onto the arched, wooden bridge overlooking the koi pond and took a seat, letting her feet swing over the side.

She felt like a kid, the pain of childhood nostalgia sharp in her bones. She ached to be young and innocent but still have all the knowledge she'd won as an adult.

The scent of autumn leaves blew in with the wind, reminding Lyse how much she loved the fall. Even in California—which boasted no real seasons, just unrelenting heat and moderate cold—there was still a crispness in the October air.

Thinking about the seasons made her realize that she didn't know when she'd be going back to Georgia. This stuff with the coven was bizarre, and whether she believed in it or not, she'd promised Eleanora she'd be a part of it. Which meant she was gonna put a smile on her face and just go with it until Eleanora wasn't there to see what she did anymore.

After that, well, she didn't think she'd be staying in Echo Park and hanging out with a witches' coven. Not with a house in Georgia and a nursery to run.

She'd called Eleanora and the others “witches,” but they didn't seem to like that word.
Blood sister
was what Lyse had heard them call one another over and over again during the course of the evening.

Lyse supposed she was a blood sister now, too. She'd performed a sex ritual and tasted everyone's blood—and she
still
didn't know if magic really existed, or what it was the coven actually
did
 . . .

She began to laugh as she realized how ridiculous the whole thing was. She got even more tickled as she tried to imagine herself explaining the antler-man-sex-fantasy to Carole:
Yes, Carole, can you imagine? The size of his penis
was
in direct proportion to the size of his antlers!

Lyse snorted at the thought.

Feeling lighter than she had in days, she took a deep breath and let it out slowly, shaking off any bad vibes. She took the bread out of the pocket of her hoodie and began to drop small pieces into the koi pond. It was a joy to watch the giant carp rise to the surface in order to search out the food. When the slice was gone, she stood up and stretched, zipping up the hoodie to keep out the cold.

“Night, fish,” she said, and offered them an abrupt wave.

It was time to go exploring.

*   *   *

She left the bungalow behind her and plunged into the darkness, not really paying attention to where she was going. She just wanted to see where her feet would take her. It was good to move without thought, to release her brain and body and let the wind caress her face as she strolled through the night. Even though she hadn't been up some of the streets in years, it didn't seem to matter. Echo Park welcomed her back unconditionally.

Up in the hills there was enough space between the streetlights that as she walked she felt like a ghost flickering in and out of existence. This thought spooked her and she started to jog, wanting to stay in motion so nothing could touch her.

Maybe she was just trying to outrun herself, but soon she was flying down one of the hills, pumping her legs to the rhythmic beating of her heart. She didn't want to think about Eleanora's death. Didn't want to deal with what she'd seen and heard of Eleanora's past. Didn't want to entertain the idea that she might be something more than just a normal human being. And most important, there might be a magical world she knew nothing about.

Lost in her thoughts, she didn't notice the deep fissure in the sidewalk until the toe of her shoe snagged its lip, pitching her forward. She landed on something sharp, cold metal slicing through her thick denim jeans and into the fat of her calf.

At first she only felt a throbbing numbness and thought maybe it was just a scratch. But when she scooted her leg out in front of her, the illumination from the overhead streetlight was bright enough for her to see that the pant leg of her jeans was soaked in blood. Through a rip in the denim fabric, she spied a two-inch-long flap of skin folded over to reveal the subcutaneous fat beneath it.

She looked for whatever she'd cut herself on and was surprised to discover that it was only a small piece of bloodied metal sitting a few inches from her right foot. On its own, it didn't appear to be dangerous, but with the momentum from her fall, it'd really sliced and diced her.

Despite the cold, she unzipped her jacket and slipped out of it. Looping the red cotton hoodie around her calf, she tied the sleeves together to create a makeshift tourniquet that would hopefully put enough pressure on the wound to stop the bleeding.

The rattle of a car engine caught her attention, and a pair of headlights crisscrossed the sidewalk, illuminating her in their bright yellow glare. The light was intense, and her eyes began to water, forcing her to shield her face with her hand. Part of her worried the car would stop and some homicidal maniac would get out and chop her into little pieces. But her rational mind knew help meant a lot less walking on an injured leg, and this was what finally compelled her to raise her hand above her head and wave.

She was annoyed when the ancient Volvo station wagon didn't slow down—she was sure the driver had seen her—but then its right signal light came on, and it pulled into the next driveway.

Too dangerous to stop in the middle of such a steep hill,
Lyse thought.
Smart driver.

In the chilly night air, the station wagon steamed and hissed like a steed pawing the ground, waiting for its rider to dismount. From her vantage point on the ground, she could only hear the driver's-side door opening, but in the gap between the undercarriage of the car and the sidewalk, she saw a pair of black men's boots hit the sidewalk and circle around in her direction.

Over the growl of the car's engine, a voice called out from the darkness: “You okay down there?”

“I'm, uh, a little indisposed . . .” she started to say, but bit back her words when she realized the voice belonged to Weir.

“It's you,” he said, tugging off his woolen cap and stuffing it into the pocket of his navy peacoat. A wide grin split his face. “From Burn this afternoon.”

“Yep, one and the same,” she said, having a hard time looking at him without imagining him naked.

“You never came in,” he said, stopping when he reached her side so he could kneel down beside her. He pulled a small flashlight from the pocket of his coat and gave her a mischievous grin. “I thought you'd come in for a drink and I'd at least get to ask you for your number.”

She was glad for the dim light. He couldn't see her blushing.

“So what happened here?” he asked, smoothing over a moment that would've been awkward otherwise. “How'd you end up out here in the middle of nowhere with a busted leg?”

“Tripped and fell. Cut myself pretty good,” she said, reaching for the sleeves of the hoodie.

He shone the beam of light across her leg, gritting his teeth when he saw the blood soaking the dark denim.

“Well, that's not very good, is it?” He spoke matter-of-factly.

She shook her head.

“I don't think it's as look as it's bad,” she said, her words not making sense. Embarrassed, she covered her mouth with her hand. “Wait, not as bad as it looks, sorry, I mean.”

It was hard to think straight, and her body was shivering uncontrollably. She wondered if this meant she was going into shock—and, if so, maybe she needed to sit down and put her head between her legs.

“But I'm already sitting,” she murmured, and started to lie down on the dirty sidewalk.

“All right,” Weir said when he saw what she was doing. “Time to get you in the car.”

“My leg hurts,” she said matter-of-factly, watching while he retied the hoodie tourniquet. Then, as if she weighed nothing at all, he scooped her up into his arms and carried her over to the car. Her head lolled back against his collarbone, and she turned her face to press her cheek against the warm skin at his neck, catching a whiff of his cologne.

“You smell the same,” she murmured into the collar of his jacket. “You feel the same, too.”

“Oh, yeah?” he said, amused.

She closed her eyes.

“I'm delirious,” she whispered, her lips grazing his throat. “And you're not wearing your antlers.”

He laughed out loud.

“I only put those on for special occasions,” he teased, shaking his head.

He opened the passenger door and eased her into the front seat. It was warm and toasty, the car heater turned up to high. She closed her eyes and sighed with contentment before remembering she was leaking blood all over his upholstery.

She sat up and grabbed his wrist.

“Put me back on the sidewalk,” she demanded. “Blood in your car is a no-no.”

“Be quiet and don't worry about it,” he said, shutting the door before she could protest further.