Spirited (22 page)

“Agh!” I kick out. I hit my head on the headboard. As I bring my hands up, the baby in my arms wakes up. He floats into my face, and I scream again, boosting myself onto my pillow. The baby floats right through my head. His cry seems as if it’s coming from inside my ears. I hit my head a second time.

I look down and see blood on my forget-me-not blue sheets. Mary Anne’s blood. Forget me not.

The sun has not yet broken the surface of the horizon, but I won’t sleep now. I tiptoe down to the computer and connect to the Internet. Hunched over the keys, I start at the top of my search list and slowly make my way down.

An hour later my mother enters the room in her housecoat.

“Aren’t you going to get ready for work?” she asks.

“I called in sick. Tracy will take my shift.”

“Oh, what’s wrong?”

“I haven’t been sleeping enough.”

“Well, why don’t you go back to bed?”

My bottom lip trembles at the thought. I hide behind my dark hair, hoping she won’t notice. How can I tell her I’m afraid to sleep? Afraid to be awake? Afraid I’m crazy?

~*~*~

“Lenora, you don’t look so good.” Dylan is here. Tentatively, he stretches his arm out, but if he’s aiming for my shoulders, he misses and slowly rests it on the back of my chair. “I spoke with your mother—”

“What? Why did you do that?” I rub my eyes, but I don’t look at him.

“Because there’s something we need to talk about. You’ve been avoiding the topic, but there’s no time left.”

I had to tell him. “Dylan, I am so freaked out.”

“So am I.”

“I don’t know why I’m having these visions. They’re making me crazy.”

“Am I losing you?”

I stop. My heart flutters like it is dying. I breathe out, hoping in the next second or two I can breathe back in again. “What do you mean?” I ask.

“It’s a simple question. Am I?”

Yes. My mind is not my own. It’s lost with a wandering girl holding a baby that is not hers. My heart is not my own. I’m standing in a muddy ditch somewhere I’ve never been by a road outside London.

Yes, I am going away to university. Going to focus on my future education and career where there is no room for petty high-school crushes. Time to grow up. Time to earn my independence. I’m going to miss you, Dylan.

My insignificant problems are nothing compared to those of Sarah and Mary Anne Dole.

“Can I show you something?” I ask. He thinks I’ve changed the subject or evaded his question, but I haven’t. I need to explain my answer because it’s so complicated. It’s not a
yes
or a
no
.

He nods. I lead him downstairs to the Hansen family Bible. This time the case is locked, but the Bible is open to the same page that I last flipped to. Even though I wore gloves, I can practically see my oily fingerprints imprinted on the parchment, eating at the pinched leather like acid. I imagine the sizzle as steam rises from where I interfered with the eternal state of my family tree. One telltale print lies right under the name Sarah Dole Hansen.

Dylan studies the names scrawled on each green leaf. He looks confused. “Is that who’s haunting you?”

“I don’t know. There’s this girl, Sarah. I see her hiding in a church with no roof. She’s holding a tiny baby that her sister died giving birth to. She’s waiting for a man named Garret to come and save her, but he never comes. She’s going to starve to death if she stays there.”

I blank out.

My white shawl is a tattered mess. The baby squirms and kicks it off. Doesn’t he know he’ll freeze if he keeps doing that? I tie it more tightly around him. I stir a mixture of flour and water in a fish tin with my finger and stick it into his mouth. He pulls away, kicking at the shawl, but this time the knot holds. He arches his back, and I almost drop him. Where is Garret?

A car engine rumbles somewhere down the street. I pray to God that it’s him. I struggle to stand, limping from lack of circulation. I step over the broken threshold of the church and look out. A black Model T is winding its way through the rubble—an American car? Garret can’t afford a Model T. It can’t be him. I sit on a broken slab of concrete and sob. No, no, no.

A strong hand softly touches my cheek. I look up through my tears. A man in a tan trench coat and fedora stands in front of me. He has an old flashbulb camera strung around his neck. His dark brows are creased with worry.

“Garret?” I shake myself awake.

“Who is Garret?” the man asks.

I blink. It’s Dylan. He’s wearing the hat, trench coat, and camera. I gasp, blinking him back into his jeans and T-shirt. I’m lying on the floor, and my head is pounding.

“You fainted and hit your head. Lenora, you need to see a doctor.” Dylan scoops me up and puts me on the couch. “Don’t move. I’ll get your shoes.”

“Right now?”

“Yes, right now. The walk-in clinic on Eighth Street is open on Saturdays.”

“No, wait! Dylan, you have to understand. I’m not sick. There’s nothing a doctor can do.” The horrific visions are exposing something mysterious and unresolved in my family history. Even though I desperately want them to stop, I feel obligated to solve them.

He comes back and kisses my forehead, “What then? Do you want to talk to a psychic or something?”

“I don’t believe in psychics.” I groan with the pulsing pain in my head. “Can you get me some aspirin?”

“You’ll be OK?” he asks.

“Sure.” I fake a smile.

As soon as he leaves the room, I close my eyes, calling back the memory that isn’t mine.

“Excuse me, miss, I’m with the
New York Times
. I’m doing a piece on the aftermath of the war. May I take your photograph?”

I don’t answer him. Despair cascades over me like a heavy downpour. He sets up his camera and flashes a couple of shots. Something inside of me snaps in sync with the click of the camera.

“Will you take me with you?” I plead.

He lowers the camera. His eyes are as deep as the English Channel. “Are you married?”

“No.”

“Where is the child’s father?”

“He’s not coming back.”

We look at each other in silence. He breaks from my gaze and looks around to see if anyone has noticed us. The streets are desolate. We are alone. “What is your name, miss?”

“Sarah. And this is Basil.”

I glance down at the baby in my arms, but he is gone. I panic for a second until I realize I’m back in my own body. I am my own self, Lenora Hansen. I mustn’t forget that.

“Come on. We’re going.” Dylan helps me to my feet.

“Going where?” I ask.

“If you don’t believe in psychics, then we’ll go visit someone who does.”

He doesn’t have to tell me who he means. I already know.

~*~*~

Dylan’s truck follows the main road out of town. He turns at a familiar corner onto a dirt road that leads up the side of Cemetery Hill. It’s creepy that Gramma Hansen lives beside the cemetery. She says it’s the safest place in town. But then, Gramma Hansen is crazy.

The ride jostles my brain inside my skull. I rub my temples. Branches whip against the windshield until a clearing opens in front of us. Gramma is out weeding in her garden. She tips the brim of her straw hat until her black eyes are visible. She shakes the dirt off her brown hands and waddles out to the front gate. Dylan asks me to wait until he can come around and help me. Here we go.

“
Nieta
? What is wrong with my
nieta
?” Gramma never uses my name. She just calls me
granddaughter
. “The sun is too bright. Bring her inside.”

“I’m fine, Gramma. I just have a headache.”

She puts her hand on my forehead. “You are hot. Tell your man to get you a cup of water.”

Gramma never speaks directly to Dylan. She says she will only acknowledge him if we get married. Another one of her odd behaviors. She once read his future for him, but neither of them will tell me.

Dylan runs the tap in the kitchen as I sit on the shabby, patchwork couch. A moment later he comes through the beaded curtain doorway holding the glass. Gramma takes it from him and gives it to me.

I take a small sip. All the while Gramma is staring at me with her small, black eyes. The skin around them is so wrinkled her eyelids nearly fall over and cover them up. I’m amazed she can still see through them.

“Have you done something to offend God?” she asks, gesturing her head toward Dylan.

“What? No, Gramma!” I don’t dare look at Dylan in case he’s laughing. “What has that got to do with my headache?”

“I am seeing if you are cursed. When I was your age, I was getting married, not skipping off to university. It is possible God is teaching you a lesson for being disobedient. So what have you done?”

“Nothing. I stole some cookies from work—”

“No, that is not it.”

Dylan puts his hands on his hips, waiting for me to give a proper explanation. I rub my temples. “Gramma, I’m having visions of things from the past. Things that I think happened in Grandpa’s family.”

“Rest his soul.” She crosses herself, making me roll my eyes. She slaps my shoulder, “Smarten up,
nieta
. Do not disrespect the old ways. You will need healing to purge your mind of these lost malevolent spirits. Lie down and tell me these dreams.”

I look to Dylan. He nods. I put my feet up over the arm of the old couch.

I’m with the tall man, the reporter. His accent is so intriguing. He talks about the war, the heroes, and the casualties. The baby in my arms is sleeping. His eyelashes brush against his dumpling cheeks like butterfly wings. The hum of the car, the man’s voice, and the breathing child put me to sleep.

“Take me with you,” I say in my sleep.

“The Dock is jammed,” he says. “There’s no way out unless… Well, I know a way to make emigration a whole lot less messy. Of course, I’d never take advantage of such a pretty little thing like you.”

“Of course you wouldn’t.” I sigh. “But the baby… “

“Lenora, what is the baby’s name?” Gramma Hansen asks me.

“Basil.”

“
Merced de Dios
. It is
mal de ojo
.” Gramma crosses herself again. “Someone powerful from beyond the grave has looked upon your innocence with envy. Lenora, my dear child, you have been given the evil eye.”

“I don’t believe in this stuff, Gramma.” I try to sit up, but she presses my shoulders back into the cushions.

“But I do. You have the fever, headache, and weeping. Next will come the blindness and then the madness. You must be healed. Have your man bring me an egg.”

I don’t have to tell Dylan. He gets up and goes back through the bead curtain. Gramma closes her eyes and begins whispering. When Dylan brings her the egg, she holds out her hand, keeping her eyes closed, and takes it without looking. She rolls the egg slowly from my forehead down to my stomach. I can’t tell what she is saying. It’s not English. It doesn’t even sound Spanish. She rolls the egg again. She takes my glass of water and cracks the egg into it with one hand. She puts the glass under the couch.

Finally she opens her eyes, “You must call one of these dreams to you. Close your eyes.”

I want the dream to come. I welcome it.

I am in a church, standing before a priest in a white robe. It reminds me of the white dresses of my sisters, and I wish I knew where they were. I sent them to bury Mary Anne’s body. I was supposed to find Garret, but he disappeared the night of the bombing. I wish my sisters were here with me, although they probably wouldn’t be happy with what I am doing. They would tell me I am foolish. They would try to stop me. Mary Anne is already gone. The others are missing. I might be the last. The youngest and last of the Dole daughters. My heart hits my sternum like a punch in the chest. This is not foolish. Waiting for Garret was foolish. He never came to claim his son.

I write my name on the legal certificate. Dole. I envision my hand scraping the name in dirt, like the last effort of my dead sister.

When I wake up, I’m crying. Dylan is stroking my hair. Gramma is studying the egg in the glass of water. She swirls it with her finger. I sure hope she doesn’t make me drink it.

“You need the touch of the
curandera
—a healer—to guard against the ancestor who holds this jealousy of you.”

“Can’t you do it, Gramma?”

“I am not the one. It is not my blood, but your grandfather’s. Rest his soul.” She crosses herself.

“Can Dad?”

“If he had the touch, it would have worked long ago. No, a
curandera
must be a woman.”

I have no aunts, no sisters, and no female cousins. Gramma Hansen knows this. “You must seek her out.” She whispers to herself as she waddles over to her pedal sewing machine. She opens the top drawer and pulls out a red ribbon. “Tie this around your neck to avert the
curandera
‘s jealousy.” She pats my cheek. “Now go. Tell your man to take you to her.”