Homecoming (24 page)

He yowled, releasing his hold on her just long enough for her to get away, and she didn't waste the opportunity. She took off, an old woman pursued by a past that had become real once more.

She hadn't physically exerted herself like this in months, and at first it was exhilarating, but after a few minutes of scrambling through the underbrush, she was exhausted. She hadn't slept well, hadn't taken care of herself . . . hadn't relaxed once since Lyse's arrival, and now she was paying for it.

She gulped air as she ran, a stitch lacing through her right side, making it hard to keep going. She slowed down to a fast walk, listening for sounds that told her she was being pursued, but all she could hear was the rush of her own breath and the drone of an airplane passing overhead.

Her heart was beating too quickly. She could feel it in her chest, her throat, and at the pulse points on both wrists.

Slow down,
she thought.
Take a breath. It's just an old man with obsessive love in his heart. He can't hurt you. Not if you don't let him.

She reduced her speed, taking her time as she navigated through the trees until one of the hiking trails appeared ahead of her. There was no one on the path, no hikers or joggers to blend into, but she didn't care. She moved more quickly, sensing she wasn't far from one of the main roads that crisscrossed the park.

She hit the hiking trail and started jogging, a sense of urgency driving her forward. The path took her over a small hill and then, as it leveled out, she saw the exit to the park just a straight shot ahead of her. Breathing hard, she almost laughed with joy as she reached the end of the trail and saw a suburban street full of parked cars.

Thank God,
she thought as she stepped onto the asphalt, wiping away the sweat from her face with the back of her hand.

She didn't think she could make it to her house. Her heartbeat was erratic, and she was incapable of drawing a full breath. She leaned forward, resting her hands on her thighs, trying not to pass out. Little black dots swam in front of her eyes, and nausea took hold of her belly. She'd overdone it. She'd passed the point of no return, and her body was telling her that this was it.

Hessika's gift had been depleted.

Not yet,
she pleaded.
It's not time yet.

She wrestled with inertia, forcing her body to drag itself into a standing position—to take one step after another toward the row of parked cars. If she could find someone inside one of them, get the person to call an ambulance, then maybe everything would be all right.

Just ahead of her, a man opened the driver's-side door of his Lincoln Town Car and climbed out. He was tall and well dressed and had a silver buzz cut. Happily, she saw that he was moving in her direction, arms outstretched as he ran toward her—which didn't make any sense until she realized he was trying to catch her before she collapsed onto the asphalt road.

“Eleanora,” the man said, managing to reach her before she hit the ground.

She raised her eyes to his face and tried to lift her hand, to touch the man's cheek in gratitude, but her body would not do what she wanted.

She stared at him. He looked so familiar, as though he were someone she'd known all her life—but his name would not come to her.

Who are you?
she said, the words forming in her brain but never making it past her lips.
How do I know you?

The man eased her to the ground, cradling Eleanora's head to his chest, as the life began to ebb from her body. He lovingly stroked her hair, his long fingers tracing the curve of her cheek, coming back wet from the tears trickling down the sides of her face.

Tears she could not feel or control.

Who are you?
she wondered, searching his face for the answer—pale green eyes, pink lips, a webbing of lines around his mouth.

He leaned down and kissed her on the forehead. It was a simple gesture, sweet and heartbreakingly sad, a
hello
and a
good-bye
. He looked up, scanning the area for help, she assumed—but then she noticed the gloves he was wearing, and with a dawning sense of horror, she understood what was about to happen.

No,
she thought as he placed his gloved hand over her nose and mouth.
No, not like this.

She was already dying—would be dead soon, even, without his help. But he kept his hand in place and stared into her eyes, watching her struggle ever so slightly to draw breath.

“Godspeed, Mother,” he said.

Of course,
she thought.

She wanted to say something, anything, to this man—this murderer—whom she'd borne and given away. She wanted to tell him she'd always watched over him, always kept him close—even if he had not known it—until he'd disappeared without a trace as a teenager, and even then she'd looked for him . . . but she could not speak, could not tell him any of this.

Instead, she obliged his last wish.

Her heart pulsed one final time, then forever ceased its beat.

T
he concrete and glass waiting room of the hospital; the ebb and flow of people going in and out its front doors. All went unobserved because Lyse had no awareness of her surroundings: not the sharp edge of the metal bench cutting into the backs of her thighs, or the deep gouge she'd made in the nail bed of her right thumb, or the bloody sting where she'd bitten the skin of her bottom lip ragged.

She didn't notice any of this, felt none of the physical wounds because the emotional ones were so great. They took up too much space, were all-consuming, and left no room for anything else.

No, that wasn't quite true. There was the numbness . . . the only thing that made it possible to keep breathing. It sat on her chest like a heavy blanket, smothering the fiery cascade of emotions—anger, grief, and anguish—beating at her door. The numbness rooted her in place and would not allow her to answer their pounding calls to be let in.

When she looked back over this time in her life, it would be hard to process it as anything other than a dream. If she hadn't been hit with the reality of a memorial and an empty house, she would've chalked the whole experience up to a terrible nightmare and left it at that. There was a surreal quality to it, as though it'd occurred underwater, the fabric of the memory a rippling, blue blur.

“Lyse?”

She turned her head toward the sound. She knew she was being spoken to, but she couldn't think what the words might mean.

“It's time to go.”

Then a hand was grasping her under the armpit and helping her to stand. Her legs were rubbery, but they managed to hold her up. The hand slid around her rib cage, letting her lean her weight against its owner.

“Do you want another tissue?”

She shook her head. At some point, someone had given her a Kleenex, and she clutched at this flimsy piece of tissue as though her life depended on it, gripping it in her fist until it had become a sodden, sweaty mess.

“That one's done—”

But like a small child, Lyse snatched her fist away, keeping the tissue safely out of reach.

“It's okay. You just hold on to it, if you want.”

They began to walk, and it felt strange to move without thought, without looking where you were going. To give over so completely to another human being that they could walk you off a cliff, and you'd be helpless to do anything about it.

“The car's right outside. Do you think you can make it?”

She felt herself nodding, the weight of her head dragging her chin down almost to her chest, and then back up.

“Good.”

Despite all the windows, it had been dark inside the hospital. But now, as they passed through the sliding glass doors, sunlight cold-cocked her in the face, so bright she had to close her eyes against it or go blind. For the first time, she felt the wetness on her cheeks, the cold air chilling the tears and stealing the heat from her skin. With her balled fist, she reached up and wiped at her nose, disgorging bits of tissue that stuck to her skin like snowflakes.

“It's right here.”

She was led to the car. The passenger door was opened for her, and she was placed inside. There were dirty spots on the windshield. Oddly shaped white mineral deposits left behind where rainwater had evaporated.

She wanted the windows washed clean, wanted all the dirty spots gone—
I don't know what I want,
she cried. But she did, she did know what she wanted. She wanted things the way they were before. She wanted to curl up in a ball and disappear.

She heard the key slide into the ignition, felt the thrum of the engine coming to life, the idle shaking in her seat. She let her head fall to the side, and the plastic casing that covered the strap of the seat belt pressed into her temple. Then, as the car backed up and began to pull away from the hospital, the numbness cracked in two, and Lyse began to sob.

Arrabelle reached over and rested her hand on Lyse's shoulder.

“This too shall pass. I promise, Mama.”

Yes, that is a truth,
Lyse thought, but it did nothing to ease her broken heart.

*   *   *

The memorial was a simple affair, but there were so many people, well-wishers from far-flung places like Tibet, New Zealand, and Ukraine—places she didn't know Eleanora had ever visited.

Who was Eleanora Eames really?

The question haunted Lyse.

“Why don't you go inside, speak to some of these people?” Dev said, as Lyse sat in an old Adirondack chair on the deck, staring out at the koi pond. “They've all come from so far away.”

Like Lyse, she was dressed in black, her strawberry-blond hair pulled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. She was paler and more subdued, a testament to how rough Eleanora's death had been on all of them.

“I don't think so,” Lyse said, giving Dev a wry smile. “I don't think I have what it takes to make small talk with a bunch of people I don't know. I really just want to be alone. Thanks.”

She was alone by choice. Carole had offered to come out for the memorial, but Lyse had politely declined. She knew that as a single mom and co–business owner, Carole was always strapped for cash. She had no intention of letting her friend waste what little she had on a ticket to California. Besides, she didn't need anyone to sit there and hold her hand.

“Well, is it all right if the girls come out?” Dev asked. “They wanted to say hi to the fish.”

“Sure,” Lyse said. “Of course.”

Dev came over and patted her on the back.

“I know you don't want to hear this,” Dev said, “but I think it was for the best. She'd already suffered so much.”

No, I don't want to hear that,
Lyse thought, but she held her tongue.

“Okay,” Dev continued, “if you're sure you don't mind?”

“I really don't.”

Dev motioned toward the sliding glass doors, and two dark-haired urchins scampered out onto the deck.

“This is Marji,” Dev said, as the older girl came over and stood in front of her mother. “She's eleven, and she's my shy one. The other weasel, the one invading your personal space right now . . . that's Ginny.”

Ginny was, indeed, standing almost on top of Lyse, staring down at her with a look of intense curiosity.

“I'm seven,” she said proudly, pointing to her own chest. “And you're pretty like Daddy said.”

Lyse shot Dev a surprised look.

“Yes, of course, she's pretty,” Dev said to Ginny, ruffling her daughter's hair. “Now, girls, please be respectful of Lyse. She's had a hard few days, and you not asking her too many questions would be appreciated.”

She gave Marji's shoulders a squeeze, then left the three of them alone on the deck.

“Great-Auntie E died,” Ginny said to Lyse.

Lyse nodded.

“Yeah, I know she did.”

“Will she ever go to heaven?” Ginny asked.

“I don't know,” Lyse replied. “Maybe.”

Marji moved closer to Lyse and Ginny, sitting down on the edge of the deck, not far from Lyse's feet.

“Great-Auntie E's not dead,” Marji said quietly, joining their conversation. “Well, part of her is . . . but not her spirit.”

It was strange to be having such an esoteric conversation with a couple of elementary school kids, but Lyse found she was enjoying the girls' company.

“What makes you say that?” Lyse asked, curious.

“I talked to her about it and that's what she said.”

The hair on the back of Lyse's neck prickled to life, and she sat up in her chair.

“What did you say?”

Marji looked up at her with liquid brown eyes—and Lyse realized the kid had no idea how incredibly spooky she was being right then.

“Marji talked to Great-Auntie E,” Ginny said. “I heard her.”

“She talks to me at night,” Marji said. “She likes to whisper.”

Ginny nodded in agreement.

Lyse wasn't sure what she was supposed to say to this. Obviously, the girls were sad and had imagined Eleanora visiting them in order to feel better about her death. She didn't want to be nasty, but she also didn't think it was a good idea to let them think things that weren't actually true.

“
I
believe that
you
believe Great-Auntie E comes to talk to you,” Lyse began, trying to be judicious.

“She said you'd say that,” Marji said, kicking her feet back and forth over the edge of the deck.

“Great-Auntie E said I'd say that?”

Marji stopped kicking and fixed Lyse with a long stare.

“She said you were in denial. That if you didn't believe me, then you should go look at the Bible.”

“The Bible?” Lyse asked, trying not to sound too incredulous.

“Ginny will show you,” Marji said, and went back to swinging her feet.

Ginny reached over and took Lyse's hand, smiling up at her—a big gap where her right eyetooth should've been.

“Wanna see?” she asked Lyse.

“Sure,” Lyse said, uncertainly. Then: “Why not?”

She climbed to her feet and followed Ginny back into the house. She found she was curious to see what kind of mischief the girls had worked out between them.

They stepped into the loud, bustling living room, and Lyse closed the sliding glass door behind them. There were people everywhere, and a few of them stopped what they were doing to follow Lyse's movements.

“It's over here,” Ginny said, still holding her hand as she led Lyse across the room. “In here.”

The little girl knelt in front of a tall brown bookcase and pointed to a book wedged in between a copy of the
Larousse Encyclopedia of Mythology
and some World Books. Lyse sat down on the floor next to her, staring at the mysterious leather-bound thing . . . until something else caught her eye.

It was an old Kodachrome snapshot set inside a simple silver frame. She realized it'd probably been there, sitting on the shelf with a bunch of other photos, the whole time she'd lived with Eleanora. She didn't know why she'd never noticed it before, but now she was transfixed by its contents.

It was a candid of Eleanora taken when she was in her late twenties, surrounded by four other women, all but one much older than her. Her great-aunt was easily recognizable among the others, all dewy youth and excited smile, but that wasn't what caught Lyse's attention. The woman in the far left of the photo drew her eye. She was so tall she had to hunch down in order to fit into the shot with the others.

It's the giant woman from my dream,
Lyse thought.
She's real. I didn't just imagine her.

“That lady is tall,” Ginny said, following Lyse's gaze.

“Yes, she is,” Lyse agreed, her eyes finally leaving the photo and returning to the leather book Ginny had originally brought her to see.

“Marji says you need to read it,” Ginny urged. “You should open it.”

Lyse did as the little girl said, sliding the book out of the bookshelf. She turned it over, running her fingers along the gold leaf title stamped into the dark leather.

“You weren't kidding,” Lyse said. “It really is a Bible.”

Ginny cocked her head, making a funny face at Lyse.

“Of course it is, silly,” she said, and grinned.

Lyse looked at the book in her lap and, not sure what to expect, opened it, flipping to a random page in the middle.

“It just looks like a regular old Bible to me,” Lyse said, closing it up.

Ginny gave Lyse an exasperated look that said,
You're kind of slow, aren't you?

“Marji said to look inside the cover.”

“Well, you should've just said that.”

Lyse opened the book again, this time flipping to the inside front cover.

“Oh,” she said, shocked that there was actually something to see: a series of handwritten names and dates.

The first two entries were in a looping cursive she didn't recognize:

May Louella Eames—b. June 30th, 1922

Eleanora Davenport Eames—b. January 9th, 1944

The next three entries were in Eleanora's strong, block printing:

My Twins:

Sonya May Eames—b. October 12th, 1967

&

David Davenport Eames—b. October 12th, 1967

Lyse Eames MacAllister—b. August 8th, 1988

Lyse stared at the page in disbelief.

“Everything all right?”

It was Arrabelle, her black skirts swirling like raven's wings as she came up behind them.

“Fine,” Lyse said, snapping the Bible shut.

Arrabelle had no compunction about wading in where she wasn't wanted. She hunkered down on the floor beside Lyse.

“Ginny, go outside with your sister.”

Lyse was amused by the little girl's reaction. Ginny gave an exaggerated nod of her head and took off like a shot. Obviously, Lyse wasn't the only one Arrabelle intimidated.

“What've you found?” Arrabelle asked, now that they were alone.