by Lisa Unger
“She was young,” Eloise said to Agatha. “Just a teenager, really. A teenager in the sixties. I don’t know how much she knew about anyone, or if she cared. She left The Hollows as soon as she could, never came back.”
Agatha cocked her head toward Eloise. “Where did she go?”
“Last I heard, she had joined some commune in Pecos, New Mexico.”
Agatha raised her eyebrows meaningfully. “When was that?”
“Twenty years ago?” said Eloise. “Maybe more?”
Agatha wore a sad smile, held her head at an inquisitive tilt. “Aren’t you curious, Eloise? Don’t you want to know more about your family?”
Eloise felt ashamed in that moment for what seemed suddenly like an odd disconnection from her roots. All of her family, and Alfie’s, had lived in The Hollows for generations. Why didn’t she know more? Had she purposely tried to distance herself? Had she instinctively avoided asking questions of her father and her young aunt, even of herself?
“You need to go see Joy Martin at The Hollows Historical Society and do some research. I guarantee you that you are going to find some answers there.”
“What if I don’t want answers?” asked Eloise. “What if I just want all this to go away?”
She had started to cry then. Not just a little. It was a humiliating volcanic outburst of sobbing. Agatha moved over and wrapped her soft but strong arms around Eloise’s thin shoulders and pulled her in. This was before anything had happened with Ray and no one had held Eloise like that since Alfie passed. Eloise didn’t usually enjoy physical contact with anyone but her children and her husband. But she found herself resting her head on Agatha and letting it all go. A deep warmth had washed through her that day, and after that, Agatha became Eloise’s mentor and close friend. It was an unbalanced relationship, with Agatha doing all the giving and Eloise all the taking. One day, Eloise was going to make it up. One day, she was going to be there for Agatha in a way that no one else could—she didn’t know how or when, but she was certain of it.
“It doesn’t go away,” Agatha had said that day. “Not in my experience. You are going to have to embrace it and do your duty to it. Don’t worry, dear, I am going to show you how.”
“How did you find me?” Eloise had asked.
“Your Alfie asked me to help,” Agatha said softly. “He loves you so very, very much.”
Eloise wept for she didn’t know how long. And when she was done, Agatha told her to be strong and to start listening. And Eloise did listen to Agatha. She was smart enough to know when she needed help, and she was not always too stubborn to take it.
That visit seemed a long time ago now. Eloise drifted off into an uneasy sleep.
• • •
The Burning Girl didn’t come back. Eloise hoped that perhaps she had accomplished what was needed by visiting Miriam, even though she had a nagging feeling that she hadn’t. She waited a day, two days, three. But no Burning Girl. Eloise should have been happy, but she wasn’t. She thought about reaching out to Miriam again, but she didn’t. Nick had tossed her from the house. And the Burning Girl was gone. Wasn’t it W. C. Fields who said, “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. Then quit. There’s no point in being a damn fool about it.”
• • •
Meanwhile, Ray was hassling her about Tim Schaffer’s wife. Talk about someone who didn’t know when to quit. Eloise had been wearing the missing woman’s scarf around—at Ray’s behest—even though this didn’t always work (and he knew it).
It was a pretty scarf, anyway—white with china-blue blossoms, a kind of gauzy material. It was a gift from Schaffer to his wife, and he claimed that she’d worn it all the time.
It was only after having it on for a couple of days that Eloise was aware of the slight, almost imperceptible feeling of not being able to get enough air. Once she took it off and put it in a drawer in her dresser, she felt a tremendous sense of relief. She filled her lungs gratefully.
He was smothering her, Eloise thought. She couldn’t breathe.
Not that he had actually smothered her. He was caring and he loved her, but he never let her be. She started hearing the same sentence over and over. “I’m just trying to help you, sweetie.”
Stephanie Schaffer had been pregnant, Eloise knew with a sudden clarity. Eloise called Ray and told him.
“That tracks,” Ray said. “She visited her doctor a few weeks before she went missing.”
“What for?” asked Eloise.
“A routine well visit,” said Ray. “But the doctor won’t release her file. Stephanie Schaffer specifically indicated that she wanted her records kept private, even from her husband. Since there’s no active investigation or even the smallest evidence of foul play, there’s no way for the cops to even get a warrant.”
“Hmm,” said Eloise.
“What?”
“I can’t imagine requesting that my medical information be kept from Alfie,” said Eloise. “When you’re really with someone, you don’t do that.”
“What are you saying?”
What was she saying? She reached for it.
Then, “A child links you to someone forever. That’s a blessing when you’re in love. Not so much if you’re not.”
She could hear him breathing on the line and a kind of rhythmic tapping. He tapped his fingers on surfaces when he was thinking. It was slightly annoying.
“Is this your instinct talking?” he asked finally. “Or is it, you know, the other thing?”
Over the years, her ability had morphed into a union of what she knew to be true and what she saw. When Eloise allowed for the mingling, she almost felt infallible. Almost. But she had on occasion made mistakes, misread signs. She’d failed more than once to do what was set out before her. “Maybe a little of both.”
More tapping.
“If she didn’t want to be with him, why not just divorce him?” asked Ray. “They hadn’t been married that long. They didn’t even have a joint bank account, only the house as a shared asset.”
“He doesn’t seem like the kind of man who would allow himself to be left,” said Eloise. “Five years later, he’s still looking for her.”
“It’s his wife,” said Ray. There was a slight edge to his tone. He did this, got weirdly defensive for his clients. Another annoying habit, though Eloise was sure she had a few of her own. “Wouldn’t you still be looking for Alfie?”
The question stung a little. It was apples and oranges. She didn’t answer.
“Jeez,” he said. “What an asshole I am. Sorry, El. I didn’t mean that.”
“I know,” she said.
Ray was a good man, but there was too much boy in him. He was impulsive, acted out, was intractable, hard to manage. She wondered how his wife had put up with him for as long as she had. Eloise loved Ray, but she saw him clearly.
“Find someone who knew her, who really knew her,” Eloise suggested, not really even knowing why. “Not Tim Schaffer. Ask the right questions.”
Tap, tap, tap.
“I might know someone,” he said. “I’ll let you know what I find.”
“Do that.”
“Thanks, Eloise.”
She hung up feeling tired, like she always did after talking to Ray. In fact, it wouldn’t be too far off the mark to say that she just felt tired all the time. She sank down onto her couch, stared at the picture of her daughter Amanda and her grandchildren. It was late afternoon. She had nowhere else to go that day.
She found herself thinking of Agatha’s pool, that sparkling blue water. She remembered going swimming with Alfie and the girls at the lake, how refreshing the water had been, how the sun had been warm and so bright. The wind in the leaves—just the wind, no Whispers. She’d been light and happy, free from any real strain other than living and mothering and all of those normal things.
T
he sun was setting, then it was dark. And Eloise just sat there, remembering, dozing a little. Then she was aware of the sound of a baby crying, a great mournful wail of pain or anger.
Babies have all the same emotions that adults do, but they have no language to express their big feelings. So they let out a great noise onto the world, releasing all their power. People come running when a baby cries; not so much when we get older. We keep it in.
Eloise got up quickly and ran upstairs to the bathroom where it seemed to originate. Ella, Miriam’s baby, was lying on the floor, naked and soaking wet, wailing. The Burning Girl stood in the corner, silent and stoic. And Eloise knew. She could see the whole hideous scene before her.
“Oh, God,” said Eloise, dropping to her knees. “Oh, no.”
She bowed down, her forehead on the ground. Why? Why was this happening? The wash of shame and regret she felt when she knew she’d failed someone was overwhelming.
There was nothing you could have done to stop it, the voice told her. It’s been happening over and over for a hundred years. More.
“That’s bullshit!” Eloise yelled.
The voice was never angry, never distraught, never afraid. She hated it. Agatha didn’t believe in the voice in Eloise’s head. Agatha herself didn’t have one. She thought it was a trick of Eloise’s subconscious. Her brain struggling to tell a story that Eloise could understand.
“The brain is a very great mystery,” Agatha had said. “And it does so seek to help us get by.”
We all live and die in our time. We all have our design and our reason. Don’t judge.
Eloise pulled herself to her feet, overcome by grief and anger. She must have gotten up too fast because she found herself wobbling and then taking a fall. She knocked her forehead hard against the corner of the sink. She felt the warm gush of blood as she lay on the floor. She remembered what Agatha had to say
Don’t let them take it all from you, Eloise. Don’t let them have everything.
• • •
It was ten that night when she came back to herself, which meant that she had lain unconscious on the bathroom floor for several hours. That was probably not a good thing. She did have some instinct for self-preservation. So she called Ray, and then, still reeling with sadness and anger, she drove herself (probably not advisably) to the emergency room.
There were questions. Because there was another gash on her forehead from the last fall in the bathtub. She had neglected to get that one stitched up, and it didn’t look very good though it had healed. Was someone hurting her? Was she afraid of anyone? Would she submit to further testing to address the falling issue, which might indicate an underlying condition?
The ER nurse was young and very competent and didn’t seem to know who Eloise was, which was always a good thing. Eloise answered the questions, declined further testing. Agatha told Eloise that her own mentor had taken to wearing a helmet around the house, he’d hit his head so many times. Eloise would consider it—if it didn’t seem so silly.
She could still hear the baby crying as the nurse stitched up the gash on her head. She started crying herself, which she didn’t do much anymore. Why hadn’t she done more to help?
“Am I hurting you?” the nurse asked. She looked at Eloise with such sincere concern that Eloise had to look away. “I can get more topical anesthetic.”
“No,” said Eloise. “I’m okay.”
“Let me get some more,” said the nurse. “No reason to suffer if you don’t have to.”
Good point.
• • •
Ray was waiting for her when she got out.
“I went to the house,” he said. “I thought you were going to wait for me.”
“Did I say that?”
“No, Eloise,” he said, a little annoyed. “But common sense dictates that you wouldn’t drive yourself to the hospital after being unconscious for a couple of hours.”
She offered a shrug, conceding that he was probably right. She did have a concussion, a minor one. And four stitches in the cut over her eyebrow.
“That doesn’t look too bad,” he said. He gingerly touched the fresh bandage and then gave her a hug.
But it did look bad. She looked like someone was granny bashing her. She was hideous—older than her years, too thin, battered. She needed to make some changes in her life. Maybe Agatha would let her take a swim.
Ray ushered her out to the lot with one possessive hand on her back, the other on her arm as if she were a crippled old lady. She had the urge to squirm away from him. But she leaned on him instead; she needed him in that moment.
It was almost like a dream when she saw the ambulance pull up. No lights. No sirens. She heard, just faintly through the thick walls, a desperate shrieking from inside the vehicle. Then, in his big pickup truck, Nick pulled up from behind, looking pale and shattered. Mercifully, he didn’t see Eloise as Ray shuttled her away.
“Aw, hell,” Ray said. “I heard it on the scanner. A baby—SIDS.”
She nearly buckled in his arms, but he held on tight.
“It’s okay,” he said. “You’re okay.”
Ray forced her to leave her car in the lot and drove her home. On the way, she told him about The Burning Girl, about tonight. He listened in the silent, careful way he had. When she was done, he didn’t say anything for a minute. She could feel him processing, trying to understand, to make connections.
“I want to take care of you, Eloise,” said Ray finally.
Ray and Eloise had an on-again, off-again thing for a while. Mainly, it was about sex. Well, not sex really, but closeness, physical contact. Now that he and his wife were living apart, Eloise had figured that he would want more. She wasn’t sure that she had anything to give.
She put a hand on his arm. “You do take care of me,” she said.
She liked the look of him. His big shoulders, his full head of hair, those dark eyes that glittered with intelligence and mischief. He had powerful hands, a good face with strong, defined features. There was just one problem with Ray. He wasn’t Alfie. Eloise still belonged to her husband. He’d have wanted her to move on, to find happiness. She knew that. She just couldn’t.
“As much as you let me,” he said.
“It’s enough,” she said. It sounded like she was shutting him down. And maybe she was. Still, he brought her home and got her tucked into bed. Then he headed out again to get her soup from the twenty-four-hour diner just outside of town—because that’s what she wanted to eat and there wasn’t anything in the house. He was a good man. She could tell that he was dying to talk to her about Stephanie Schaffer, but he was keeping whatever he’d found to himself for now.
• • •
Ray had been gone only a few minutes when the phone rang. She picked up quickly because how odd for the phone to ring after midnight. Usually, she’d let the voice mail get it and screen the call. But she had a feeling she shouldn’t do that. When she picked up, she heard her daughter’s voice.
“Mom,” said Amanda. A mother knows when her child is on the verge of tears. Amanda had always been a stoic, holding it all in. Emily was the emotionally flamboyant one, always screaming and slamming doors. Only once had Amanda gone through a “rage phase”—and she’d been entitled to it after losing her sister and father. After that passed, she’d grown more reserved than ever. But Eloise could hear it, that slight wobble.
“Amanda,” said Eloise. “What’s wrong?”
Her daughter released a shuddering breath. Eloise reached for it. What was it? Had something happened to one of her grandchildren? She sat up, gripped the phone. There was nothing. Surely, she’d have felt it before now.
“Finley asked me to call you,” said Amanda. “She woke up from a nightmare, crying. She never does that. She said you hit your head, Mom. Is that true?”
Finley’s given name was Emily. (Amand
a had named her after her lost sister, much to Eloise’s dismay.) But when Finley was very little she started insisting that she be called by her middle name. No one understood why, but she was so intractable on the point that everyone complied. Amanda had named her younger son Alfred, after her father. And Amanda called him Alfie. Eloise could never understand why people insisted on naming the living after the dead.
“It’s true,” Eloise said reluctantly. “I just got back from the hospital.”
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, dear,” she said. “Really.”
“Why didn’t you call me?” Amanda asked. She heard all the notes of fear and guilt in her daughter’s voice. Because you live all the way across the country, Eloise thought. Because you’ve made it clear that you want limited contact. She didn’t say those things.
“Because I’m fine.”
Eloise could hear Finley’s mellifluous, sweet voice in the background. “I want to talk to Mimi.”
There was some muffled shuffling.
Then, “Mimi, are you okay? I saw you fall. You hit your head on the table.”
Finley was a very wise eight-year-old, a superstar reader, stellar student. Eloise badly wanted this not to be happening, and a very base part of her thought about trying to talk the girl out of it.
She could say something like: “We all have dreams, they don’t always mean anything. This was just a coincidence.” But that would be a lie. The truth was that, at Agatha’s behest, Eloise had done some research into her genealogy. Whatever it was, it came through her mother’s side. It wasn’t an accident. It was in her DNA. The history was an ugly one, and Eloise had not shared it with Amanda.
“Well, Finley,” Eloise said, “it’s so sweet of you to worry about your Mimi, but I’m okay.”
“Mom’s upset,” said Finley. There was a note of prepubescent disdain, however slight. The girl was blonde like her mother, with big dark eyes. She was tiny and pale, but as powerful as a stick of dynamite, and funny, and wild. “She doesn’t like it. But it’s not our fault.”
