Homecoming

by Amber Benson

  “She was just keeping an old lady company,” Eleanora said, marveling, as always, at Daniela’s choice of hair color: Today, her Louise Brooks bob was bright pink with violet streaks.

  Verity squirmed out of Eleanora’s arms and joined her sister, who’d come running as soon as she’d heard Daniela’s voice. Together, they began to twine around their mistress’s legs like a caduceus, nipping at Daniela’s suede ankle boots in order to get her attention.

  “We’ll go inside in a minute, girls,” Daniela said, placing one hand on her hip, the other still holding the paper bag. She grinned at Eleanora. “They are such fierce little bitches. And so damn needy.”

  Eleanora laughed, wrapping her arms around herself as a sudden chill racked her body.

  It was true. The cats were obsessed with their mistress—to the extent that if anything ever happened to Daniela, they’d haunt her grave for weeks on end, mourning their mistress until, finally, they’d just curl up in front of her headstone and die.

  “I promised Arrabelle I’d bring a bottle for after the induction ceremony,” Daniela said, switching the paper bag over to the crook of her other arm. “She left me a bitchy voice mail about drinking all her reds last time—and hey, you, I saw your grandniece leaving your place earlier. I’d love to have her sit for me if she’d be down.”

  “She’s not for you, naughty girl,” Eleanora said, used to Daniela’s ways after the last six months of having her for a neighbor and blood sister. “You know very well that once she’s your blood sister there can’t be any hanky-panky.”

  “Aw, where’s the fun in having a hot blood sister if you can’t—” Daniela began as she took a playful swat at Eleanora’s arm.

  The instant Daniela’s gloved hand touched Eleanora’s sleeve, the paper bag fell from her grasp, the wine bottle shattering on the sidewalk, ruby red liquid spreading across the pale concrete like blood. Spooked by the loud sound, the cats took off for parts unknown, leaving Eleanora alone to watch Daniela stiffen, eyes glazing over as her whole body began to vibrate like a tuning fork.

  As much as Eleanora wanted to go to her, she knew when to leave well enough alone. Touching Daniela now would only make things worse.

  The turquoise leather gloves the girl was wearing should’ve protected her, but things were stirring in the ether around them, charging the air with electricity, so Eleanora wasn’t surprised when strange, seemingly impossible things were born into existence.

  “Daniela?” Eleanora said, every instinct begging her to touch the ill girl. “Can you hear me?”

  No response.

  Being an empath was a dangerous business. No one in their right mind would choose it for themselves. A trick of fate bestowed at birth, this ability to touch someone and “feel” into the emotional core of their being came with a high price: a heightened sensitivity, one that overloaded the brain’s circuitry and caused tiny, destructive seizures that slowly chipped away at the brain, until eventually their combined effects created massive and irreversible damage.

  Until her recent death, Marie-Faith Altonelli—Daniela’s mother—had been a close friend, and so Eleanora knew of Daniela’s limitations. The gloves (because touch was the conduit through which Daniela’s talent lay) gave the girl a fighting chance at having a normal life. Only twice a year did her blood sister duties compel Daniela to remove them. Otherwise, they stayed on her hands at all times . . . even when she slept.

  “Two sisters. The Teacher and the Innocent. Your Saint Anne watches over them so long as you are alive.” Daniela’s eyes were pitch-black, as though the pupil had swallowed the irises whole. “You fear once you are gone that nothing can stop The Flood.”

  Eleanora stared, her skin pimpling with gooseflesh. It was no fun to have someone delve into your inner mind’s domain.

  “The Flood is coming, sister,” Daniela whispered—and now she spoke in a reedy voice straight out of Eleanora’s past, a voice that froze the blood solid in her veins. “The Flood is coming and you won’t be there to stop it.”

  Eleanora felt her heart flutter, not gently, but as though it were being torn asunder.

  “No,” she rasped, collapsing against the fence and tearing the sleeve of her scarlet Windbreaker as she tried to hold on to the wooden post.

  Pinpricks of black danced around her peripheral vision as she fought back the panic clawing its way up her throat. It felt like a vise had tightened around her heart and was squeezing it to death. No, she couldn’t, she wouldn’t die like this. There was too much at stake, too much that had to be settled before she could go.

  “Hessika!” Eleanora gasped, reaching out to the ghost of her long-dead friend.

  Instantly, she was enveloped in warmth as Hessika’s shade appeared before her. She felt the ghost’s energy infusing with her own, a trickle of heat that began at the top of her head and oozed its way down the rest of her until she was floating away, the pain receding as though it’d never been. Eleanora closed her eyes, relief washing over her.

  Thank you, she thought. Thank you for the respite, my old friend.

  Though she knew the ghost’s energy wouldn’t last forever.

  * * *

  Eleanora set both palms flat on the gold Formica kitchen countertop and rested her weight against the cabinet. She closed her eyes and took two deep breaths.

  She’d left Daniela recuperating on her front porch, both black cats curled around their mistress’s legs like silent, watchful sphinxes. Unlike traditional spirit channelers, empaths were often awake and aware while they worked, so the first two questions on Daniela’s mind—once she could speak coherently—had been: What the hell just happened to me? To which Eleanora explained that Daniela’s body had been used as a vessel to channel a restless spirit. And then: Who in the hell was I channeling?

  Eleanora had neglected to answer the second question. Not out of ignorance or spite, but because the answer was just too painful.

  She opened a cabinet and began pushing aside the ridiculous orange prescription pill bottles the oncologist had prescribed for her—pills that she refused to take—then plucked a tiny glass bottle of cannabis tincture from the back and set it on the counter. At her blood sisters’ urgings, she’d done the first round of chemo—she’d been all right with that; it was fighting, and fighting was something she knew about—but once the doctors realized it wasn’t working and had started prescribing chemically manufactured crap to “make her comfortable,” she’d said fuck you to Western medicine. Now she just took herbal remedies Arrabelle made for her and medical marijuana—she had a doctor-prescribed card so she could shop at one of her local dispensaries—and that was it.

  If she was going to die, she was going to do it on her terms.

  She extracted a dropper full of liquid from the tiny bottle, then released the tincture under her tongue, where it was quickly absorbed into her bloodstream. After a few moments, she felt herself relax, and the blissful freedom of intoxication gradually commandeered her senses.

  She knew she was stoned because she could feel it in her ears, and then the silly grin—the one that always accompanied the ear thing—began to spread across her face. She closed her eyes, just for a moment, and when she opened them again, she was sitting on the kitchen floor in front of the sink, head back against the cabinets, smiling like an idiot.

  She felt better than she had in hours . . .

  Clunk.

  Clunk.

  Clunk.

  Eleanora sat on the bed, the star-patterned quilt that once belonged to her mother and was now hers wrapped around her shoulders like a shawl. She flipped through the pages of her mother’s Bible, holding the treasured artifact in her lap as she devoured its contents. When she heard the first clunk at the bottom of the stair, she panicked and with a shaking hand shoved the old book underneath her pillow. She reached for her knitting where it sat on the table beside the bed and clutched t
he long needles in her hand. This was the work she was supposed to be doing but had set aside in favor of reading.

  It felt as though she were made for reading, the way the words rolled around on her tongue like candy. She didn’t see why this simple, glorious act was considered sinful in her grandmother’s eyes. Especially when what she was reading was the blueprint of Christianity itself.

  She dropped her stitch, biting her lower lip in unconscious punishment. Her nerves were her worst enemy, she thought, as she absentmindedly scratched her calf with her fingernails. She realized she was digging her nails into her skin, almost drawing blood, and stopped herself. The itchy feeling was starting all over her body, and she willed herself to relax, to slow her breathing down, to stop her heart from racing, to stop itching. These were the tells of her fear, and her grandmother could read every one. She took a few deep breaths, her inhalations becoming a funeral dirge set to the clunking beat of her grandmother’s metal brace thumping up the stairs.

  The house and stairway were built before the turn of the century when people were smaller and, seemingly, required less space. The clearance of the long and narrow stairwell was so low that only her grandmother didn’t have to stoop to climb it. The stairway shot straight up, and if you wanted to make it to the top, you were forced to hold on to the railings, using them to drag yourself up, one step at a time.

  Her grandmother was pulling her twisted foot, along with its corrective metal brace, behind her, which meant it would take her just that much longer to reach Eleanora’s room. Precious extra time she’d use to collect herself and pretend she’d been knitting instead of reading.

  Though she already knew their number by heart, had counted those stairs in her nightmares—both the dreaming and the waking ones—she still kept a running tally of them in her head as her grandmother climbed. Thirteen steps—the Devil’s number, her grandmother would say—and each stair ascended was one stair closer to the landing leading to Eleanora’s room.

  She shivered. As always, she wondered how someone so small and wizened could possess the power to cow her so deftly. Her grandmother saw the Devil in everything, and this fanatical obsession, born out of righteousness, gave rise to her all-consuming crusade against Lucifer, the Fallen Angel.

  No one would ever suspect the odd things that occurred in their house. The strange rituals her grandmother made her endure in order to stay free from the Devil’s clutches. To the outside world, everything appeared completely normal:

  Eleanora attended school like a normal thirteen-year-old; she and her grandmother went to the First Lutheran Church every Sunday come rain, snow, or shine, and her grandmother was involved in a number of charitable church activities.

  Everyone in the community called her grandmother a saint. The way she cared for her invalid husband, who, after suffering a massive stroke, was unable to care for himself or even leave his bed. Eleanora and her grandmother did everything for Papa, feeding and changing him, making sure he didn’t get bedsores—her grandmother even massaged his arms and legs to keep them from atrophying. It was arduous work, but Eleanora didn’t mind. She loved her papa and spent each day after school telling him funny stories about the kids from school, or things she “saw”—

  “Wipe that smile off your face, sister.”

  She was thinking so hard she’d lost her count. Now she wasn’t prepared—and one had to be vigilant in this house. Otherwise, there would be hell to pay.

  She set her knitting down, but the ball of yarn fell off the bed and tumbled across the floor. She didn’t dare leave it. That would be messy and a sin against God—the Lord abhorred anything being out of place. With the quilt still wrapped around her shoulders, she climbed off the bed and retrieved the yarn ball, the material soft in her hand.

  Her grandmother stood in the doorway watching her.

  “What were you doing up here?” her grandmother asked.

  It was a straightforward enough question, but it sent adrenaline racing through her body.

  “I was just knitting, Mimi.”

  She balled her free hand, hidden underneath the folds of the quilt, into a fist, her fingernails digging into the callused skin of her palm. She hated the way her hands felt, dry and cracked and rough. Hours spent washing clothes in the wringer washer, scrubbing the floors on her hands and knees; she was forever toiling, a servant in her own home.

  It was for her own good, her grandmother said. Idle hands are the Devil’s playthings and cleanliness is next to godliness.

  “Really, I was.”

  Eleanora could see straightaway her grandmother didn’t believe her. She didn’t know why she bothered to rebel. She was always caught for her indiscretions, like reading when she was supposed to be knitting, or humming when she knew work should be done in silence. Her grandmother’s intuition was uncanny, and if Eleanora hadn’t known magic was the Devil’s work, she’d have said the woman was a witch.

  “Lying is a sin, Eleanora.”

  “I’m not lying—”

  “Repent and God will be lenient on you.”

  She stood there on the bare wooden floor, wrapped up tight in the quilt.

  “I didn’t lie, Mimi!”

  The brace on her grandmother’s leg didn’t slow the old woman down. She was at the bed, yanking the pillow away, before Eleanora knew what was happening. She held Eleanora’s old Bible aloft—as if it were a burning piece of brimstone straight from hell.

  “Liar!” her grandmother intoned, waving the Bible in the air. Its cover flapped back and forth like a broken shutter in the wind.

  “No, don’t hurt it!” Eleanora screamed, crawling across the bed, the quilt forgotten on the floor where she’d been standing.

  Her grandmother was quick, stepping away so Eleanora couldn’t reach the book.

  “It’s Mama’s!” Eleanora cried, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Please, please don’t hurt it!”

  Jaw set, her grandmother locked her fiery gray eyes on her face.

  “The Harlot’s Bible. I should destroy it right here and now,” her grandmother spat at her. “It will only lead you into temptation.”

  “No!” Eleanora cried, collapsing on the bed. “Please, Mimi, don’t.”

  She was hysterical. She had no control over herself. She lay on the bed, flailing about like a small child having a temper tantrum.

  “The Devil’s in you, sister,” her grandmother said, still holding the Bible out of Eleanora’s reach.

  It was an old ritual and Eleanora knew her part well.

  “Yes, Mimi,” she cried, in between hiccupping sobs. “The Devil’s got my foot.”

  Her grandmother sighed, shaking her head.

  “I knew it, sister. I just knew it.”

  Eleanora sat up, long hair tangling around her shoulders, and choked back another sob.

  “Mimi?”

  Her grandmother had softened now. They were on well-trod ground. Things could proceed as usual from here.

  “Yes, sister?”

  Eleanora brushed her hair out of her eyes and rubbed her fists against her wet cheeks, swiping at the tears.

  “I need a cleansing.”

  Her grandmother closed her eyes, the hand with the Bible in it dropping to her side.

  “Praise Jesus.”

  She opened her eyes, smiling down at her granddaughter. Then she offered Eleanora her free hand. Eleanora took the proffered thing, a claw of a hand, really, knuckles swollen with arthritis, and long nails warped and yellowing. She climbed off the bed—the covers disheveled where she’d lain on them—and let her grandmother lead her toward the stairs.

  The Bible, her mother’s Bible, was the lure. It and the star quilt were her prized possessions. She would do anything her grandmother said, so long as nothing happened to them.

  The afternoon was starting to fade, but still a few rays of sunlight strea
med through the windows as she followed her grandmother down the stairs. She held on to the handrail, her teeth chattering with nervousness as she descended. She stared at the back of her grandmother’s neck, at the loose strands of gray hair that’d fallen out of her bun and then stuck to her neck, held there by sweat.

  There was only one bathroom in the house, and she and her grandmother shared it, each taking their turn in the mornings. Her grandfather had added the addition when Eleanora’s mother was a child, so the floor wasn’t even with the rest of the house. You had to take a giant step down in order to reach its plain tile floor.

  She took a deep breath, then followed her grandmother down into the cramped room.

  “Sit down, sister,” her grandmother said, indicating the white porcelain toilet.

  Eleanora did as she was told, watching as her grandmother set the Bible down on the side of the pedestal sink. She relaxed, knowing the Bible was safe . . . for now.

  Her grandmother rolled up the sleeves of her loose cotton blouse and began filling the claw-foot tub.

  “Take off your clothes.”

  Eleanora stood and began to disrobe, unbuttoning her dress and pulling it over her head. She folded it neatly, placing it on the sink beside the Bible, then did the same for her slip and underwear. She was a late bloomer with no breasts to speak of. Some of the other girls in her class made fun of her for it, but frankly she didn’t care. To her grandmother, women’s bodies were sinful and led to temptation. She was glad she didn’t have breasts yet, that her grandmother couldn’t use them against her.

  When she was finally naked, she knelt down on the floor beside her grandmother, and thus began the “laying on of hands.”

  “Send the Devil out of this sinful girl, Lord. Rip Lucifer’s hands from this girl’s soul, keep her safe and part of your flock,” her grandmother said, each word overenunciated. “In Jesus’ name, amen.”

  They rose together.

  “I’m ready, Mimi,” she said, trying hard to hide the quaver in her voice.

  Her grandmother turned off the tap and, in the silence that followed, Eleanora could hear the delicate plosh of the water as it settled in the tub, steam rising in thick waves from its surface.