by Terri Reid
“Of course,” Mary agreed.
“Tell her I’m sorry this has happened. I always considered her such a good friend and she shouldn’t have to deal with this.”
“I’ll tell her,” Mary said. “And I’m sure she’ll be grateful.”
Chapter Thirty-six
“That was a fairly odd conversation,” Mary said, as they drove away from the law offices.
“Odd? In what way?” Ian asked.
“I don’t quite know,” she replied. “There’s just something wrong here. My gut tells me there’s something right in front of our faces, but I can’t put a finger on it yet.”
“Ah, well, then, your gut,” he said. “Perhaps it was the brat and sauerkraut you had for lunch between Katie’s house and seeing Faith. That would set my gut to having a funny feeling.”
“Obviously you haven’t spent years as a Chicago cop,” she replied. “That was a gourmet lunch.”
“You’ve got a stomach of iron, Mary O’Reilly,” he said, shaking his head.
“Oh, and this from the man who enjoys a wee haggis sandwich,” she replied.
“And what’s wrong with a wee bit of haggis?” he asked. “At least it’s not smothered in pickled cabbage.”
“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it,” she said.
“How do you say it…? Same goes,” he replied.
She giggled. “Somehow it doesn’t sound the same coming from you.”
“Well, um, get over yourself,” he teased, trying to use an American accent and failing.
Laughing, she turned the car onto the highway. “We’re definitely going to have to work on that, Ian.”
He turned and looked out the window. “And where, might I ask, are we going?”
Mary smiled and wiggled her eyebrows. “Back to the scene of the crime, of course.”
The drive back to the house only took a few minutes. After they parked, Mary walked around to the back of her car and opened the trunk. Inside were a folding chair and a large heavy duty extension cord.
Ian looked over her shoulder. “Are we reenacting the crime?” he asked.
“Got it in one,” she replied. “I thought if we reenacted it, we might be able to figure out what those thumps we heard on the recording were.”
She pulled the spare key out of her purse and opened the door.
The house was quiet and the fog still hadn’t completely cleared, which didn’t encourage much natural light through the windows. Ian carried the chair and Mary carried the cord up the stairs to the bedroom. The room was empty, as it had been during their previous visit, but there was a subtle difference in the atmosphere this time.
“Something’s changed,” Mary whispered to Ian.
“Aye, there’s a shadow in the room today,” he agreed. “I feel someone’s watching us.”
The hairs began to tingle on the back of her neck and she forced herself not to turn around. “You’re right,” she said. “She’s close.”
Mary carried the cord to the closet, tied the end to the closet doorknob and unwrapped the rest as she walked to the middle of the room. Ian had set the folding chair underneath the fan and was ready to step up on it when Mary met him with the cord. “I’ll tie it up,” he said.
Pausing, Mary shook her head. “I have a feeling I need to do this,” she said. “If we’re trying to reenact it, a woman should be setting things up.”
“Well, then, I’ll hold the chair,” Ian said. “Because I don’t think it’s as sturdy as the original one was.”
“I’d really appreciate that,” Mary said, stepping up on the chair and feeling it wobble slightly beneath her.
She looped the cord and tossed it over the vertical bar of the ceiling fan. It flew over and slipped down through the blades. Mary caught both ends and pulled them tight. She looked at the cord and the fan and shook her head. “I don’t think once around would have done it,” she said. “I think it would have at least been doubled.”
“Aye, she would have wanted it to be secure,” Ian agreed.
Mary tossed it up again and pulled it tight. “Now it’s ready,” she said.
She pulled the end taut, letting any extra cord slip over the fan and through her fingers. Then she picked up the extra length and created a noose that hung at her head level. Tugging on the it, she tested it for strength. “This will do the trick,” she said.
Suddenly the temperature of the room dropped and the shadows grew darker. “Ian,” Mary said, looking down at him. “Are you feeling…”
The bedroom door slammed shut, the force shaking the room, stopping Mary mid-sentence. Then she heard a soft creak above her. She looked up to see the ceiling fan starting to turn on its own. Slowly, the noose began to rise as the cord twisted through the blades and wrapped around the bar. It swung upwards above the chair in a macabre dance.
Mary turned to look down at Ian and found herself, instead, staring into the face of the ghost, dangling by an unseen noose. Mary gasped as she looked at the girl; her face was blue, her lips purple, her head angled to one side and her eyes closed in death. Suddenly her eyelids burst open and she stared at Mary with anger and loathing. “No!” she screamed. “Go away!”
The chair wobbled as Mary jumped and she felt herself falling backwards. Strong arms caught her around her waist and lowered her safely to the ground.
Shaken, her voice trembled as she stammered, “Thank you. I didn’t expect…”
“Aye, that was a closer encounter than usual.”
She looked up, but the ghost was gone and her knees felt shaky. “I think I’m going to sit down,” she whispered, as she lowered herself to the chair.
“Sounds like a good idea,” Ian replied, sitting down on the floor next to her. “Have you ever had an experience like this?”
Mary took a shaky breath. “No, not that I can remember. And I can assure you, I would have remembered.”
“She was angry. She was almost violent.”
“Was she trying to stop you from killing yourself?” he asked. “Did she think you were going to use the noose?”
Pausing for a moment, she looked up at the cord flapping against the blades of the fan. “Well, I suppose she might have thought…”
“I wasn’t trying to kill myself,” she said aloud. “I was just trying to see what happened to you.”
The door slammed again and they both jumped. “Okay, this is really getting on my nerves now,” Ian said.
“Look at the ceiling fan,” Mary said, pointing up to the fan that was now slowing.
“It’s turning off,” he replied, standing up. “What the…”
He walked over to the door, opened it and slammed it again. The whir of the ceiling fan’s motor could be heard again as the blades gained momentum. Reaching over, he turned off the wall switch and the fan slowed again.
“There’s a short in the system,” he said. “This wasn’t a suicide, it was an accident. The noise we heard, someone walked out of here, slammed the door and turned on the fan.”
The ghost appeared in front of Mary. Her neck was bruised where the cord had cut her, her face was still positioned in an unnatural angle and her blue face was swollen. “Save my sister,” she gasped, as if her throat was still compressed. “Please, save my sister.”
Then she was faded away.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Mary slipped on her robe and tied the belt tightly around her waist. She glanced at the radio-alarm clock on the dresser and the green glowing numbers told her it was 12:30. She had been trying to sleep for the past two hours, but the vision of Hope Foley’s ghost kept going through her mind. It wasn’t exactly that the vision was disturbing, although it was, because Mary had seen a number of disturbing things before. There was just something about the whole situation that bothered her and she just couldn’t put her finger on it.
She opened the door to her room and padded down the hall. Placing her hand on the doorknob of Clarissa’s room, she slowly turned it, opening the door quietly so s
he could peek in without disturbing the little girl’s sleep. The room was dark, except for the soft glow of the nightlight that shone at the head of the bed. Mary could see Clarissa sleeping soundly, snuggled into her pillow, a soft snore coming from her open mouth. She came closer to pull up the blanket that had been kicked off, when she saw them and stopped.
Becca and Henry stood at the foot of the bed looking down on their sleeping child. They glanced up and smiled at Mary. “She looks good,” Henry said. “You folks are doing a good job.”
“Thank you,” Mary whispered, watching to be sure she didn’t disturb Clarissa. “She was already a secure and loving child. She couldn’t have had better parents.”
“We loved her,” Becca said, “with all our hearts.”
“She told me,” Mary replied. “She always knew she was loved.”
Becca looked back down on Clarissa, a wistful look on her face. “My funeral is tomorrow,” Becca said. “Will she be okay?”
“She’ll have lots of support,” Mary said. “But it will still be hard on her, I’m sure. It’s hard to lose the people you love most in the world.”
The young mother turned and met Mary’s eyes. “She’s coming to love you. I heard her ask you if you would be her mother,” Becca said. “Thank you for that.”
“It’s hard not to love her,” Mary replied, turning and looking at the sleeping child. “And I will be sure she remembers that she was lucky enough to have three mothers.”
“We’re not sure if we’ll be back after tonight,” Henry said. “Now that we know she’s safe…”
His voice broke; Becca wrapped her arm around Henry and hugged him. “And now that she’s settling in,” she continued, “we can move on.”
“But we can… we get to watch,” Henry said, his voice tight with emotion. “We get to watch her grow up.”
“It’s nice to know you’ll be watching,” Mary said, her eyes filling with tears. “She always believed that you would be.”
Becca’s gaze turned back to her sleeping daughter. Henry slipped his arm from her hold and placed it over her shoulders, hugging her to him.
Suddenly Mary felt like she was intruding on a very private moment. There was nothing she could say or do to make their final moments with their child any easier. “I’m going to leave you two to be alone with her,” she said. “I’ll be sure she never forgets you.”
“Thank you,” they said, their gazes not straying from the bed.
Mary quietly slipped out of the room and closed the door. She met Mike in the hallway, who motioned for her to follow him and, silently, they both went downstairs to the kitchen.
“How are you holding up?” he asked gently.
She busied herself by filling the kettle with water and placing it on the stove. She was feeling a little overwhelmed and somewhat guilty. Bradley had his daughter. He was finally reunited with her. They were all going to be a family. They were going to be happy. But Becca and Henry had to move on without her.
“Mary, love doesn’t die,” Mike said.
She froze in the middle of taking a cup out of the cupboard. “Are you reading minds now?” she asked.
He smiled at her. “It doesn’t take a mind-reader to understand what you’re feeling,” he said. “Becca and Henry aren’t losing her. They’re just relocating for the time being.”
“But what about all of those things they’re going to miss,” she argued. “Her first date. Prom. Graduation. Marriage. Her first child.”
“You and Bradley will be there for her,” he said. “And all of those siblings you’re going to provide.”
“All of those siblings?” Mary asked.
Mike nodded and leaned back against the doorway. “Oh, yeah, God told me you were going to have at least eight kids,” he said.
“What?” she asked, panic whipping through her body.
“See, now you don’t feel so guilty,” he replied with a grin. “It worked.”
“Mike,” she began.
“Mary, just listen for a moment,” he interrupted. “Henry wasn’t lying. He and Becca get to watch her grow up. They will be able to experience all of those joys you and Bradley are going to share with her. And, time in heaven, it’s a little different than time here on earth. What takes so long down here is only a moment in heaven. They won’t be parted from her for very long from their perspective.”
Sighing, she took the cup down and placed it on the counter. “Really?”
He came over and stood next to her. “Really,” he said. “And what more could any parents want than one of God’s special warriors to help raise their daughter?”
“Who?”
Rolling his eyes, he sighed, “You, Mary O’Reilly. You.”
The kettle started to whistle and Mary reached over, turned the stove off and moved the kettle to another burner. “Thanks Mike. Are you sure you aren’t my guardian angel?” she asked.
“Now how could that have worked, when you’ve been my guardian angel ever since I met you?”
She smiled and then yawned. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”
Mike took the cup and placed it back in the cupboard. “Go to bed, Mary,” he ordered tenderly.
She nodded obediently and started back up the stairs. He watched her go and then softly added, “And try to let the world take care of itself for a little while.”
Chapter Thirty-eight
A small group of mourners gathered in the chapel at the mortuary the next morning. Clarissa stood near the casket, dressed in a gray smocked dress, black tights and patent leather shoes. She had one hand on the edge of the casket that held her mother and the other tightly gripping Bradley’s hand. For the past hour she had greeted each visitor and thanked them politely for coming to her mother’s funeral. She had smiled and answered questions and handled herself like a little adult.
Mary, Ian and Mike stood close by to offer their support. “She’s handling this well,” Mike said.
“Too well,” Mary replied softly. “She’s bottled everything up inside.”
“Poor wee bairn,” Ian said. “No child should have to go through this.”
“How long has she been up there like that?” Margaret O’Reilly, Mary’s mother, asked as she came up behind Mary.
“Ma, you came,” Mary said, giving her a hug.
“Well of course we came,” she replied. “The child’s going to be my granddaughter. You think we wouldn’t be here?”
“We?” Mary asked.
“Your da is outside parking the car,” she said. “Sean, Art and Tommy will be arriving soon.”
“Thank you,” Mary said, her heart full.
Her mother kissed her on the cheek. “Now, introduce me to my granddaughter.”
They walked over to Clarissa and Bradley. “Margaret, you came,” Bradley said.
“We’re family,” she said, kissing Bradley on the cheek, and then she bent down and offered her hand to Clarissa. “How do you do, young lady?”
Clarissa looked up and smiled politely. “I’m fine, thank you,” she replied.
“Well, now, I don’t see how you can be fine on a day such as today,” Margaret said. “But I admire you for saying so.”
“Thank you,” Clarissa replied, wrinkling her nose in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, it’s a hard day for you,” she said. “And you’ve been through a lot during your young life. And if you wanted to not be fine. And if you wanted to cry a little. That would be perfectly fine.”
“But I’m supposed to be a brave soldier,” Clarissa replied. “That’s what my mommy told me when my daddy died.”
“Ah, and your mother was a wise woman,” Margaret said. “Because she knew you would have to be strong to deal with the next months. But now, you’ve a new father and mother, who can be strong for you. So, you can be sad if you’d like.”
Clarissa looked up at Bradley. “Can I?” she asked.
He squatted down next to her and gently pushed her hair away from her eyes. “Yes, you
can,” he said. “It’s okay not to be strong today.”
“In Ireland, where I come from, when someone dies we tell stories about them,” Margaret said. “We laugh and we cry and then we laugh some more. We celebrate their life.”
Clarissa studied Margaret for a moment. “Who are you?” she finally asked.
Chuckling, Margaret gave Clarissa a quick hug. “Well, I’m your grandmother,” she said. “And that big man who’s coming our way is your grandfather. We’re Mary’s ma and da.”
“I have a grandmother and a grandfather now?” she asked, her voice filled with awe.
“Yes,” Margaret said. “And you have three uncles. They’re good for spoiling you.”
Margaret turned to Bradley. “Would it be proper for me to take this young lady to the side, so she can tell me a little about her lovely mother?” she asked.
“Sure. Yes. I suppose that would be fine,” he said, confused by her request.
Mary stood next to him and they watched Margaret and Timothy lead Clarissa to a small private area.
“Why did she want to do that?” Bradley asked Mary.
“Because she understands that in order to begin to grieve, you have to allow yourself to feel. You can’t always be brave, because then you just bottle up all the emotions,” she explained. “You have to give yourself permission to be sad.”
“She never got to be sad for Henry,” he said. “She never got to grieve.”
“Well, now, perhaps she can grieve for both of them,” Mary said.
She looked across the room and saw Clarissa sobbing inside Margaret’s embrace.
“It’s hard to see her crying,” Bradley said.
“But crying is the best thing for her,” Mary replied. “All of that emotion that’s bottled up inside can come out. Then the healing can begin.”
Bradley nodded. “I remember,” he said slowly. “Mike did that for me. He made me stop at the cemetery in Sycamore after I’d met with Jeannine’s parents. He made me talk about her and then I just started to cry. And once the tears started, I couldn’t stop them.”
“How did you feel?” she asked.
