Mt. Moriah's Wake

by Melissa Norton Carro

  “Can I help you?” The voice belonged to a short, pale woman named Sarah, as wide as she was tall.

  Grace spoke up. She always spoke up for us. “Yes ma’am, we’re redecorating our bedroom and there are twin beds.”

  I giggled at her mention of “our room.”

  “Well, now, how much do you girls know about quilts?”

  Exchanging glances, we shook our heads.

  “Let me tell you a little, then. All the patterns have names. Those you’re holding are called Sister’s Choice quilts, I’m not sure why.”

  Grace’s eyes sparkled. “Jo Jo, it’s perfect for our room.”

  “Oh, so you two are sisters?”

  Before I could speak, Grace put her arm around my waist. “Yes ma’am we are!”

  Oh Grace, we were, weren’t we? I thought.

  We ended up purchasing two quilts—Grace’s in sea foam green and navy and mine in yellow and red. “Different colors?” Doro had asked, scrunching up her forehead. As it turned out, Grace’s was only available in a full size, so Doro, sighing, bought it anyway.

  I crossed over to Grace’s bed. I could tell the extra fabric had been tucked under the side that was against the wall. On the side facing my bed, the quilt looked exactly the right length.

  And then I saw it.

  Protruding from the corner of the bed was a long string. It looked like a mouse tail, but of course I knew better: I knew exactly what it was. Through the lens of my subconscious I could see Doro kick it under the bed—perhaps, probably, not even realizing what it was. But I knew what it was. And whose.

  Grace’s missing tennis shoe.

  I had dropped it there. That day. The day Grace died.

  The truth, then: I was there that day. With Grace.

  I remember the light was sinking quickly that day in June when I hobbled up the steps of the Inn. Looking over my shoulder every few seconds, I felt my panting breaths pounding in my ears. But behind me were only shadows. My ankle hurt and blood trickled down my leg. Into the hallway. Shutting the door behind me, I leaned against it.

  “Doro?” I whispered, my voice not sounding like mine. “Maddy?”

  At that moment, had I been able to think clearly, I would have remembered that Doro had gone on a day long shopping trip, and Maddy had left that morning on his annual week-long fishing junket.

  I ran to the front window and drew the drapes. Bile gathered at the back of my throat, and I thought I would be sick at any moment. The bathroom: I needed to make it to the bathroom. My heart thumping in my chest, I limped up the steps as quickly as I could. Then up the attic steps where I almost tripped on something white.

  The cat.

  Now I remember.

  Those years ago, there had been a cat that would sneak in when the door was open. Doro cursed the cat but left it food and water on the back porch. That day I picked up the cat from the steps and found myself covered in white fur. The cat pressed itself to me, grazing my neck with its emery board tongue.

  In the bathroom, I shut the door and wished for a lock. The cat jumped up on the window sill and watched me, amber eyes wise with the moment.

  I ran scalding water in the bathtub and yet I could not get warm. I sank down under the water, staring at the film of soap left behind. Still I shook. Still I was cold. I don’t know how much time passed before I heard Doro come in downstairs and call for me.

  “Jo? Are you here?”

  “Yes.” How odd that my voice sounded like it always did.

  I heard Doro’s footsteps on the stairwell.

  “I was getting worried. I came home from shopping, and you weren’t here. I called Genia, and she said you and Grace were supposed to go for a walk at the Point, but that you had cancelled. I ran out to the grocery.” Doro kept chattering as she climbed the steps. “It’s getting dark. Why are you so late?”

  “I’m taking a bath.”

  I thought I could hide in that water, that I could wash away the swollen eye, the areas on my inner thighs that tomorrow would awaken purple. The long gauges that tree branches had made on my shins, at the base of my neck. If the water were hot enough, the lather were thick enough, it would wash away all signs. I would emerge from the bathroom the person I was before four o’clock that afternoon.

  “Jo?”

  While the cat kept vigil from his window perch, I sat still in the water, hugging my knees to my chin. I wanted to cry, but there were no cleansing tears. I heard the door open, but kept my eyes pressed shut: I did not want to see the expression on Doro’s face.

  “Oh my dear God.”

  I remember feeling dizzy, and it seems that at some point I threw up. When the bath cooled Doro ran more hot water. I opened my good eye to see her scrubbing my dirty knee with a sponge. Her tears dripped onto my knee and mingled with the soapsuds. Atop my knee was a scar that I had gotten from a bicycle fall when I was eleven. Doro knew that scar. Once all the dirt was gone the mark was still there. She ran her fingertip over it and leaned to kiss it.

  “I’ll take care of everything, Jo. I’ll make everything okay.”

  I loved her for those words. She meant them; she believed them. But I knew better. I knew Doro was powerless. I knew power was powerless.

  When the phone rang downstairs, Doro handed me a towel and left the room.

  “Stay in here,” she said.

  I stepped out of the tub, limbs still shaking, and began to gingerly pat myself dry. Was this my skin? My pain? Turning, I caught a glimpse of myself in the white wicker mirror above the sink. I didn’t recognize the person I saw. A small corner of my lip was bleeding, and I leaned in close enough to see the little puddle of blood form. I collected a drop on my finger and then pressed it onto a tissue. A crimson streak fanned out like a sunray. A pink star on the snowy whiteness of the cotton.

  Then I heard Doro’s screams downstairs, crying into the phone words of disbelief. She knew now. About Grace.

  I looked in the mirror. I projected a mouthful of blood onto the face of the woman staring back at me. She was helpless and weak and ugly. My bloody spit ran down her cheek, and I wished her dead. Picking up the porcelain vase Doro kept on the counter, I held it with two shaking hands and silently cursed at that reflection.

  “I hate you.”

  With those words, I flung the vase at the glass, shattering the hideous girl into bits and pieces until she was no more.

  Shaking now with the memory, I arose, Grace’s shoe in my hand, and went to the bathroom. Above the sink was the white wicker frame where the mirror had been. I had been adamant that Maddy not hang a new one, resolute that I would only sleep downstairs, and all these years Doro had respected my wishes.

  I looked up, and at the window sill, silent as a statue, he sat. I pushed and prodded until the window opened, reached out, and grabbed the cat.

  “You remember me, don’t you, kitty?” The cat’s golden eyes said it all. He remembered the girl who left the house for a walk with her best friend, and he saw the girl who returned that night—broken into a million shards of glass like the mirror.

  Perhaps he had been waiting all these years for her to come back home. To see if the girl had been put back together.

  30

  THE ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT

  I REMEMBER THE SMELLS THAT DAY: the honeysuckle and freshly mowed grass that bespoke summer. The dreary winter, the damp spring were over, and June beckoned all of Mt. Moriah outdoors—including me and Grace.

  Grace had called the day before. “Let’s hike up to the Point, Jo Jo. I have something to tell!”

  “I can’t. I have to finish six more chapters.” I had taken a summer job helping one of my college English professors transcribe his book.

  “Well, if something changes and your fingers get speedy, call me.”

  Something did change. I found myself typing the last page just after two, the summer sun urging me outside. I called Grace.

  “Hey I’m done! I’ll meet you at the bottom of the path at four.” />
  I started to leave Doro a note that I was joining Grace, but she had left before sunrise to drive to Atlanta to shop and I knew I’d be back before her. Maddy was on his annual week-long fishing junket.

  And so it was that I met up with Grace on that bright, perfect June day.

  Our college diplomas not yet framed, it was the start of summer and the beginning of our adult lives.

  So we thought.

  We started on the narrow gravel road up the side of the mountain—an ambitious path, mostly of rugged terrain. We had not hiked it in two years but in our memories we knew what was in store for us at the top: a breathtaking view of the town in its leafy splendor.

  Soon we developed a rhythm: my size five feet double-stepping for every broad step that the size nine feet took. In our steps there was a syncopation, in the trees a bending and stooping, from the birds a happy purring.

  “Gosh, slow down, Miss Elephant Foot,” I said.

  “We need to trim our winter thighs, Jo Jo. Besides, you’ll lose weight, with your little jog there.”

  “And speaking of little jogs, I should’ve brought my jogging bra—not that there is much to bounce.”

  “You mean, nothing to bounce.”

  Ours was the casual, teasing banter of old friends. It seemed so long since we had been together, and longer still since we had laughed freely and easily. For the moment, as the sun burned in the periwinkle sky, we were girls again—with the beautiful uncertainty of life laid out before us on porcelain china.

  “So what’s your news, Gracie?”

  “First you. Heard anything from the letters you sent out?”

  I shook my head. “I had a second phone interview with the Chicago ad agency. But that was two weeks ago.

  “Now, Gracie, what gives?”

  Grace turned, back stepping in front of me. Afraid of tripping, she reached out to stop me. “This is something scary. Wonderful, but scary. But I need your support. You can’t imagine how much.”

  “Alright, already. Just spill the beans.” I was fully expecting Grace to tell me that she and Tuck were serious.

  A quick glance around. The wind had picked up, and brittle leaves crunched as we walked.

  “I just want you to know this is something I’ve planned.” Grace grabbed my wrist. “I realized the one thing I want most in the world.”

  We rounded a bend where kudzu hung thick and low, draping us in shadowy coolness. Overhead the sun tried to penetrate the canopy, but the trees were too old and the leaves too thick. On my face was the impatience of waiting to hear Grace’s news; on Grace’s the impatience of a secret about to be divulged.

  We stepped out from the mossy overhang, our winter eyes temporarily blinded.

  Grace cleared her throat and started to speak.

  “Stop,” I said as something crossed my peripheral vision. “Gracie, I think I just saw a possum.” I paused for effect, knowing possums had terrified Grace for years.

  “If a possum runs across our path, I’m out of here.”

  “Like where would you go?” I saw the dogleg in the road ahead. “Hey, we’ll never make it up and back before dark. Let’s turn around, okay?”

  I don’t know exactly why I said it. Four miles roundtrip was nothing for us, even with winter thighs. Yet something told me the next bend should be the last.

  “Finish your story, Gracie!” Suddenly anxious, but unsure why, I talked faster, like a nervous traveler on a turbulent plane.

  “No wait. I hear something too,” said Grace, extending her arm. “See—I’ve got the willies.”

  Indeed, the proverbial goosebumps were there: Had Grace ever survived a scary movie without her hair follicles standing on end?

  “I don’t think it’s the boogeyman. C’mon, let’s turn around.”

  After all, there was no boogeyman: He was the fantasy of childhood nightmares. Did we really believe that or just tell ourselves so?

  I turned and looked. Of course there was nothing. Those suspicious ears of mine: When I was five, my mother swore I could hear a wasp six feet away. My mother. When was the last time she popped into my thoughts? Rubbing my calf, I resettled my petite foot in the new Nike. I was definitely getting a blister.

  Grace stopped now. “Okay, I’m afraid that possum is going to run out.”

  Time for theatrics. “Maybe it’s not a possum, Gracie. Maybe it’s a crazed mental patient.”

  Grace stuck out her tongue. “Hold up,” she said. “My shoelace broke!”

  Hands on hips, leaning over to stretch, I watched Grace’s tedious process of reallocating laces and holes. Closing my eyes, I felt the sun burning my back. Years later I would remember the rays and how warm I was: Warm to the touch like there was no way I could ever be chilled again.

  It was only a moment before I opened my eyes. Right before the scream. Or maybe right after. Which came first?

  Straightening, before I could reel around, I felt it. It was heavy and uncomfortable in my back. Was there any question it was a gun? I had never held a gun, never felt one, yet there was no question. I froze in place.

  But Grace wasn’t frozen. “Oh God, don’t hurt us. Here. Take my wallet.” Her shoe was still untied, the laces a loose mess of turns and loops. She pulled a red billfold from her shorts. It had been banging against her hip as she walked. It was going to set us free.

  Grace pried dollars out, plastic cards, and flung them at the stranger. He ignored them. “Don’t scream. Just walk. Do this or I’ll kill you.”

  Dizzied, with adrenalin invading our every pore, we looked at each other. This was not happening.

  But it was not a dream. Under hostile sun, six feet crunched and climbed through the brush. This was the place that looked so tranquil only minutes ago? Now the shrubbery, the swaying trees, gnawed at our legs, drawing bits of our blood while our minds raced and our eyes darted at each other.

  Think, think, said the voice in my head. Grab the gun; it’s probably not loaded. Criminals usually operate without bullets. Hadn’t I read this in a magazine? Yes, it was on an airplane—a peaceful flight, dancing in the clouds with no hint of turbulence. I had drunk apple juice, the whole can.

  I’m thirsty, I thought. I can’t think when my mouth is this dry. What’s happening to me? My skin is wet. I’m cold. How can I be cold in this sun?

  We kept climbing. Gone were thoughts of summer, vanished were visions of trim thighs. Secrets never told lingered in the air we panted in and out. Higher and higher, we neared the top. The tree roots threatened to trip us. The metal was still pointed in my back.

  Down below, had we turned to look, we would have seen Grace’s dollar bills flying in the June breeze, along with the credit cards knocked from her hand with a smirk.

  “Over there. Take everything off,” he commanded me when we reached the top. And to Grace: “To the tree.”

  I’d always thought it such a strange tree: an ivory birch alone here anchoring the bluff at the top. There was the town, to our right. To our left, the river. I remembered the game we played as girls.

  “Okay, find the Nelsons’ house.”

  “Easy one. Two o’clock.”

  My mind, racing with survival strategies, was plagued by hints of what could be. Cluttering my mind. Preventing me from thinking clearly.

  Think, think.

  A thick rope was thrown around Grace’s knee, and her untied shoe fell off and rolled towards me. In another instant, another rope: this time at Grace’s arms.

  Her hands flailed wildly behind her, trying to find their way under the rope. Grace’s countenance was one of desperation as she gulped the oxygen that taunted her. The stranger moved swiftly to bind her arms to the tree. The rope was just tight enough: Grace could not move.

  “Let her go! Why are you doing this?” I had an idea: “There are people waiting for us at the bottom, men. Our boyfriends.”

  Grunting, he moved away from the tree and toward me. “What’s your name?”

  The girl at the tree cal
led an answer. Did she really just give my actual name? Surely not! What was Grace thinking? For a moment, we were back in class together, one giving a ludicrous answer to an easy question. Soon we’ll be through this, and maybe we’ll even laugh over such a silly response. Wouldn’t we? Think, think.

  His voice was mocking as he turned his head toward Grace. “I don’t remember asking you. I asked your friend here.” He kicked a large stick out of his way and moved closer to me. There was little left on me, and yet fear consumed my modesty. I backed up. Slowly, for I knew the edge was close behind.

  “Shit, you don’t have far to go.” He was close enough to touch me now, the gun aimed at the damp ground below. Could I grab it? He smirked and through suntan pantyhose I glimpsed sallow teeth.

  I knew how his hand would feel even before I felt it. Clay-like, a damp piece of Play-Doh against my breast. A pungent smell of liquor on his breath. I clutched my tank. Why did I wear that? Was I like those women in the articles, those women that no one believed? They asked for it; isn’t that the way the story always went?

  I took one more step backward, knowing that I could take no more. Below me was Mt. Moriah. Business people, mothers, babies awakening from naps. Flushed and clammy. The people I would leave behind.

  I’m going to die, I thought. It was here: that unfathomable day that you don’t anticipate. This is how it would happen. They won’t find me for a few days.

  Think. Think. I could hear Grace sobbing. Screams would not help, for they would be carried off by idiotic birds that continued their vapid songs. Chortling starlings that soared above as a pistol butt knocked me to the ground.

  What people say is inaccurate. The truth is that the weight is crushing. They didn’t ask for it, those women. They couldn’t fight hard enough. I was the hardest fighter there was. That’s what Maddy had always called me: a fighter.

  Maddy. Doro. Tuck. Where are you?

  Silence filled my ears as the sun spun in the sky. Had I been asleep? Where was I? Think, think. I had taken a seminar on self-defense in college. Three hours. Police Officer Myers was the teacher. Or was it Martin? Remember, remember! Go for the eyes—one finger on each side of the neck. But one hand was pinned.