He headed south, walked until he was well out of town limits. He spotted the oak tree along the side of the road and stopped.
Right here until this oak with its cragged trunk and twisted branches was where he and Jane had met nearly every night. Jane would arrive late, always late, because she had to put her younger brothers to bed. She would be breathless and flushed and beautiful. Jane was one of the reasons—the main reason, really—he’d enlisted in the King’s army. After he came back, he’d have enough money to buy land and then Jane’s father wouldn’t look at him as if he were dirt beneath his feet.
Staring at the tree, the only living thing from his past, grounded him somewhat. Yet the ache that was always constant, always there, intensified. Here he and Jane had made promises to each other. Plans for their future had been made here. He had felt something close to love for Jane, and he was certain she felt something close to it for him. He must have. He’d gotten himself killed for her.
He wondered who Jane had eventually married and if she’d had children. How she had died…
Sarah Price entered his thoughts unexpectedly. Sarah was older than Jane. Exactly how much older, he was uncertain. Sarah had laugh lines around his eyes where Jane’s features were like porcelain. Sarah seemed to look at life head on with a certain level of experience which he doubted Jane had ever possessed. He knew by the laugh lines around her eyes and her level of maturity. Exactly how old Sarah was, he wasn’t sure.
He didn’t know why he was comparing Sarah to Jane. He held no feelings for Sarah, absolutely nothing whatsoever. Just because she was the only person in this godforsaken world who could see him did not mean he was attracted to her.
Attracted to her? He was drawn to her out of desperation, but he was certainly not attracted to her.
A breeze blew up and chilled him to the bone. There wasn’t any use standing here staring at a tree. It wouldn’t bring the past or his life back. And despite the fact that he already knew his home would not be the same, he headed in the direction of it.
Part of him—perhaps all of him—expected Ma to be standing in the doorway of the cabin. Smoke would be coming from the chimney because she’d be cooking something. She was always cooking something. John and Anne shared the cabin beside Ma’s. John had five cows and a pair of fine horses. John would likely be in the field. Anne would probably be with Ma cooking dinner or talking about the baby Anne expected in the fall.
Nathan quickened his step. By the time he reached home, he was running. He was barely able to catch his breath when he stopped in his tracks.
Gone.
There was nothing.
What had once been a little clearing was grown up to forest. Trees were all around him. There was no house, no fallen timber. Not even any sign where the fieldTurner foundation had been. The pond was still there. He and John had always cleared it free of cattails and lily pads. Now it was choked with them. The dock they’d made was gone.
Everything was just as he’d expected. But that didn’t make him feel any better.
He didn’t know if he wanted to scream or hit something. A lump formed at the base of his throat. He suddenly had to get away from here. Not knowing which direction to go, he ran back toward down. He suddenly stopped.
A cemetery.
More than one hundred headTurners were enclosed in a Turner fence. Two metal signs stood beside the iron gate. Nathan studied the yellow lettering on them and wished to God he could read. He couldn’t decipher a single word.
A full moon cast an eerie glow over the cemetery, almost as if warning him to stay away. Nathan knew he shouldn’t go in. His entire family was likely buried there. Everything in him begged him not to go in, but there was no way he could not.
The rusted gate screeched in protest as he entered. Part of him expected to feel something here, to discover some premonition of his past, maybe have another person’s name or information about Maggie Webb whispered in his ear. Nothing. It was deafeningly peaceful.
Grass grazed against his knees as he walked down the rows of graves. Every Turner was either broken or leaning. Some displaced head and foot Turners leaned against the interior of the Turner fence. Others were stacked haphazardly by the entrance gate.
He walked past a series of earthen crypts. There were much more people buried here than there were headTurners for. He didn’t know how he knew that, he just knew. He didn’t know what the Battle of Saratoga was either, but he suddenly saw in his mind’s eye the bodies, maybe more than one hundred coming in on wagons and being buried here. He saw the widows and fatherless crying, felt their pain. He recognized one of the women as Anne, his sister-in-law. She was holding a child, a little girl, on one hip.
Nathan ran down the narrow wagon path to the fifth row of Turners. In his hurry, he tripped on the uneven ground and nearly fell.
It was right in front of him.
Nathan felt the air leave his lungs. He dropped to his knees. He heard someone cry out. It was a tortured, guttural sound, and the thing that scared him worse than the sound was the fact that it had come from his own throat.
The headTurner was more than four feet high. A winged angel head adorned the top of the marker. The Turner was in such poor condition that the writing had almost disintegrated.
He ran his fingers over the Turner.
J. The first letter was barely legible. He felt the O and the H. The N was readable.
He moved his fingers along in the indentations of the last name.
John McGraw. His older brother and only sibling. The one who had been there for him when Pa died. The one who had explained to him what death was and why Pa had gone so unexpectedly. John had been the one to tell him about girls, what to say to them. John had been the one to listen when Nathan told him about Martha Schuyler, how things had gotten out of hand with her. He’d confessed that Martha always got out of hand with men. She had with John and half the town, in fact.
Nathan didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye.
The image of the dead men on the wagon filled his mind. John had died fighting in something called the Battle of Saratoga. He didn’t know how he knew this information. It just came to him, but the information didn’t make sense. When Nathan enlisted in the King’s Army, John had been against it. So against it, in fact, that he’d said Nathan would no longer be kin to him if he left. There was no way John could have died in battle with such strong feelings against war.
Nathan pulled the tall grass away. There was a tiny flag stuck in the ground beside John’s headTurner. It was the same blue, white, and red design as the flag that had been flying at Fort William. He wondered again what it stood for.
He looked at the Turner beside John’s. This Turner was in better condition than John’s. The lettering was crusted with fungal growth. He scraped it away with his fingernail and instantly recognized the name McGraw. There were more words on this Turner, lots more words, but none he could read. This Turner was either Anne’s or Ma’s. There was no way he could tell.
Frustration built within him. He wanted to hit something. He had to get someone here to read these Turners for him.
And there was only one person who he could even ask.
* * *
Sarah’s workday was a little more organized now that Claudia managed the cappuccino counter. Therman was still her best and only regular customer, but sales were improving little by little.
Sarah couldn’t get Nathan McGraw out of her mind. He hadn’t been around for more than a week. She wondered if he’d decided to go on with his life…or death to be exact. She hoped he found whatever it was he was looking for. Even though she wasn’t able to help him, she regretted, in a way, that she hadn’t been nicer to him. Maybe he had only appeared arrogant because he’d been so powerless. Or perhaps he’d been scared. She wished she could have realized that before he’d left her, but there was nothing she could do about it now. The fact that he had appeared in her life at all was likely some sort of miracle in itself. She’d never been
a devotedly religious person, but she certainly believed that there was a reason for everything, call it fate or something else. Nathan had been brought into her life for some reason. She was certain of it. She had no idea what that reason was, perhaps to teach her something, but she might never know. Even if she never found out, she believed his visit wasn’t in vain.
She was scanning the new book and audio releases into the computer system when she noticed a woman staring at her. She hadn’t noticed her come in, but now, watching her, Sarah wondered now how she hadn’t noticed her. The woman had an air about her. She was definitely attractive, but it was something else. She floated about the store as if she were a former beauty queen. Her hair was dark brown and cut straight at chin level, styled as perfectly as her uniform. She was obviously a nurse or health care worker. Her eyes seemed hurried, as if she were on her lunch hour.
Sarah approached her. “May I help you?”
The woman dropped the latest Grisham novel she was holding. “Uh, oh, I….Uh, no. I’m quite all right. Thank you.”
Sarah had seen the same reaction in The Book Connection when she’d confronted a teenager who had stolen a comic book. Sarah quickly glanced down at the woman’s purse and decided it was too small even to hide a Grisham novel.
Sarah continued to watch her as she looked over each shelf, but as the woman paid for her novel and left, Sarah had the eerie feeling she hadn’t come here for a book at all.
She was still trying to make sense of it, when she went in the storeroom and jumped.
Nathan was perched atop a pyramid of unopened boxes of books that had just come in, he was thumbing through a blank journal.
“There’s no words on any of these pages.” He glanced up at her then back at the journal. “How can you sell a book with no words?”
“They’re journals.” When he looked at her as if he didn’t understand, she added, “You write your thoughts in them.”
“Why?”
“So people can keep track of their feelings and well,…” She watched him shake his head.
“So many people can read now.”
“You can’t?”
He closed the journal. “That’s why I’m here.”
“I can’t teach you to read.” She laughed. The idea was ludicrous. “I don’t have time.”
“Then I need you to read something for me. It’s in White Creek.”
Sarah remembered him telling her about his home. She’d planned on looking it up on the Internet but hadn’t had time yet. Despite that, she wasn’t going anywhere with him. She was too busy, and—and she didn’t trust him.
She turned toward the door. “I have to work.”
“I’ll wait until you’re done.”
He was still waiting in the storeroom after she’d closed at seven. When she went in, he startled her.
“You’re still here.”
“Time doesn’t mean much to me anymore.”
No, she supposed it wouldn’t. She also knew he wasn’t going to leave her alone. Until she agreed to go with him.
“What is it you want me to read for you?”
“My family’s headTurners.”
CHAPTER SIX
It took the better part of an hour to convince Nathan to get in her Blazer. Now, going down the Route 87, she watched him out of the corner of her eye.
He sat stiff as a board. She couldn’t read his expression, but it did not seem relaxed. She lifted her foot off the gas pedal slightly.
“Are you all right?”
She had listened to him tell her how he’d transported himself to White Creek with his mind, and she still wasn’t sure that she believed it. Or maybe she wasn’t sure her mind would allow her to believe him. She had no idea still where White Creek was. She was simply driving in the direction he told her, turning where he said to turn. She wondered if she’d be able to remember how to get back home.
“I don’t know,” he answered at last. “When I went to White Creek…It was as if something was holding me back. As if something didn’t want me to go home.” He pointed right. “Turn here.”
Sarah got off the Northway and headed east.
“If something didn’t want you to go home, maybe there is a reason for it.”
He shook his head. “No good can come from him.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. The something that was holding me back.”
Sarah felt the hairs along her neck stiffen. Just why she wasn’t sure. She recalled how she’d thought her encounter with Nathan was some form of divine intervention, a lesson or something she needed to learn. Now that Nathan was back in her life, she wasn’t so sure she wanted to learn any lessons. She’d be happy just having him gone and left wondering.
“Maybe this...something is another…one of you. Maybe it’s someone you could talk to.”
“I wouldn’t want to.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.” Nathan sighed. “Whatever it knows, it isn’t good.”
Those tiny hairs were not going down any too soon.
Nathan glanced at her. He seemed to realize he’d frightened her.
“I don’t know why I was brought here or why you can see me.” His voice was soft. “But it is not my wish to bring harm to you.”
Something inside her softened where her opinion of him was concerned. It wasn’t heartfelt, but these were the first words of kindness she’d ever heard from him. She’d never really believed he meant to harm her. If he had, he likely would have done so by now.
He brought his hand over hers. His touch was like a tray of ice cubes being placed on the back of her hand. The frigidness jolted up the tendons of her wrist and into her arm. She pulled away.
“I’m sorry.”
“No. I just—” Her mind went blank. What could you say to a ghost to comfort him?
He seemed to realize it and kept silent.
Another sixteen miles later, she came to a town. A large sign said “Welcome to Salem.” She and Art had gone to Salem, Massachusetts on their honeymoon. They had toured the famous witch trial museum, the dungeons, and torture devices used there. That should have been the first sign of a doomed marriage, she thought bitterly.
“This is it.”
“What?”
“White Creek. We’re here.”
“No, we’re not. The sign said Salem.”
“This is it. This was my home.”
She turned the Blazer in the direction he pointed. “When did you come here?”
“Last night,” he answered then added, “My home is gone.”
She heard the sadness in his voice. She thought of her Victorian house in Syracuse, how it was no longer hers and a new family was living in it. She wondered if he felt something similar.
“I’m sorry,” she said at last.
She turned and slowed near the cemetery. Nathan got out, left the passenger door ajar. He practically ran toward the gate.
The place was like something straight out of a Bela Lugosi movie. The cemetery had been without care for quite some time. Most of the Turners were crooked and discolored by mold and fungus. Some of the earthen crypts were so uncared for that one could look right inside them with a flashlight. She wondered if anyone ever mowed the grass.
She read the historical marker by the gate: Revolutionary Cemetery. More Revolutionary soldiers are buried here than in any other cemetery in Washington County. Another marker claimed the area under the National Register of Historic Places.
Inside the gate, there was a mailbox. Sarah opened it and removed a looseleaf notebook. Inside were names, birth and death dates. Some names had military ranks beside them and what battle they’d been killed in.
“Sarah.”
She followed Nathan to where he was standing. He pointed to a meager flat headTurner.
“John McGraw,” she read aloud. “Departed his life in defense of his country.” There was more, but the lettering was so faded she couldn’t make it out.
He moved to t
he next one. “Read this one please.”
“Anne Montgomery. Consort of John McGraw. Departed this life 1792 aged 62 years and 12 days.”
“And this one.”
“Here lies the body of Isabel McGraw. Whither thou goest, I will go. Whither thou—” She touched the Turner, tried to feel the rest of the lettering with her fingers, but it was too badly damaged to decipher. “I can’t read the rest.”
“My mother,” He barely spoke above a whisper. “Keep going.”
She went down the row of Turners, reading what epitaphs she could still make out. After each one, she stopped and watched Nathan’s expression. His face was like a mirror of emotions. These people had all either been related to Nathan or had been connected to him by friendship or acquaintance. She stared him down, tried to read his emotions. She wondered how she might feel if faced with the same situation. She had absolutely no idea. She only knew one thing: Nathan must feel hopelessly lost.
She went around the cemetery looking at all the Turners with him.
“What is the Battle of Saratoga?”
She was terrible at history. “I’m not sure. Why?”
Nathan’s expression twisted in frustration. “I feel that’s where John died. I know it. I don’t know how I do, but…I just do.”
“We can look it up and find out,” she answered. “I’m sure we can find something.”
“How?”
“Books, the internet.” She suddenly realized he must have no idea what the internet is.
“Ma’am, can I help you find someone?”
Startled, Sarah turned toward the direction of the voice. .
A man had come from the house across the street. He stood at the cemetery gate staring at her.
“Oh, I’m sorry. You startled me.”
He crossed the distance between them. “I heard you talking to yourself. Are you all right?”
Ghost Of A Chance Page 5
