by Jack Massa
“Hi, Mom. Everything okay?”
“Hi, hon. Everything’s fine. Can you talk for a few minutes?” Mom sounds breathless.
“Sure.”
“Okay. So, you know we’ve been in London. Jim and I visited the office here last week, and, well, one thing led to another, and today they offered me a job. They want me to work out of the London office.”
“What!”
“I know! Crazy, right? But it would mean a lot more money, and better than that, with the international experience, it would put me on track to make director in a few years. The first thing I said was they’d need to clear it with New York. And, Abby, they told me they’d already cleared it with New York. They really want me.”
“Wow. That’s great, Mom.” I guess…
“I know, I know. I haven’t given them a decision yet. I told them I’d have to talk it over with you. Jim’s okay with it, of course. They told me they could arrange for private school for you over here. How does senior year in London sound?”
That sounds…terrifying. “Oh, I’m not sure. I’m pretty settled at Hudson Heights.”
“I understand. But think it over. You might decide you really like the idea.”
I hate the idea.
“The other option is—if I take the job—I could commute and spend one week a month in the States. Jim will still be home most of the time, and we could arrange for a housekeeper so you’d never be alone at the house. Do you think you could manage with that?”
I can feel Mom’s heart soaring at this chance. It’s like all her hard work is about to pay off. I can’t let little Abby’s insecurities snatch the gold ring away.
“Sure, I’ll manage. Mom, I think you should take the job.”
“Really? Oh, Abby. You’re such a good daughter. Do you really think it’s the right thing for me to do?”
“Absolutely. I’m proud of you, Mom.”
“I love you, Abby.”
“I love you too.”
“Wow. Well, they want me to start in mid-July. Four weeks’ orientation. After that I’ll have some time stateside—I’ll insist on that. I know we planned to look at colleges in July, but we’ll have to squeeze that into August. I’m not going to let this interfere with my job as your mother. I’ll meet you back home on Sunday as planned. I’ll have a week to finish up in the New York office, then back to the UK. You’ll come with me, of course.”
“What, you mean to London, like next month?”
“Of course. It won’t all be work, Abby. I’ll make time to show you around London. And Paris is only a two-hour train ride away. We’ll have fun.”
Or I could end up stuck in a little apartment while Mom works eighteen hours a day. Don’t be such a buzzkill, Abby.
“Sure, Mom. It’ll be fine.”
But after I hang up, I stand there stunned. Of course I’m happy for Mom. She sounds so excited. But being home for just a week, then flying to England for four weeks? Then rushing around in August to visit colleges. Big decisions to make and pressure to make them fast. And transplanting myself to a new school—in England, no less. Or else staying in New Jersey, but Mom gone three weeks out of four my whole senior year. My life feels like a roller coaster flying off the rails.
Then I think about what Violet said: “Something might happen to change your plans.” But this can’t be it. I won’t be in New Jersey in July, but I won’t be in Harmony Springs either.
“What was the phone call about?” Granma’s standing in the doorway. She just finished with a customer and must have heard part of it.
I tell her the news.
“Wow. Four weeks in England. You’re certainly having an exciting summer.”
“Yeah, I know.”
But the more it sinks in, the more desolate I feel.
To take my mind off my misery, I try to focus on schoolwork. Between studying the Circle of Harmony papers and everything else that's been going on, I haven't made any progress on the honors reading list. I finally bailed on An American Tragedy when I found out it was about a girl drowning—just what I didn't need. I'll have to make notes from the plot summary and fake it on that one. But I'm finding The Grapes of Wrath just as difficult to love.
I send Franklin a text, asking how he’s getting on with the readings.
He answers in a few seconds: “Abigail Adams! I'm done with the Tragedy and skipping the Wrath. I recommend the movie version with Henry Fonda. A beautiful man!”
Me: “I’ll consider him. Guess what? I’m going to London in July.”
Franklin: “WUT?”
Me: “For real. My mom will be working over there.”
Franklin: “*jealous*”
Franklin again: “You need to get the motherbot to take you to the theater. The London Stage!!!”
Me: “I’m coming home on Sunday. See you next week?”
Franklin: “For sure.”
I put down the phone and stare at my tablet. Franklin is right—I ought to be thrilled about going to London. Any normal kid would be.
Why can't I be normal?
That night I make another futile attempt at the honors reading list. But after staring blankly at my screen for a time, I give up and stare out the window instead. The moon is almost full. Through the trees, I see little glimmers of moonlight reflecting off the bayou.
I don’t want to leave this place.
Maybe Violet is right—unseen forces brought me here and I have some part to play, something to help save the springs.
Or maybe all that’s a delusion, and Violet’s as crazy as I am.
I don’t know, but I don’t want to leave.
In fact, the idea terrifies me—against all reason. It’s not just going to England, or the thought of Mom being away my senior year. The whole thing has brought up this huge, suffocating dread. Dad died, and I felt abandoned. We left Granma behind, and I was heartbroken. Mom worked all the time, and I was alone.
Then the nightmares and terrors started.
I wish I could stay here the rest of the summer. But it’s been obvious the past few days how much my being here has strained Granma. If I ask, she might say yes out of guilt. The last thing I want is to make her life harder.
But I’m so afraid of leaving…It feels like the abandoned and alone thing is happening all over again. I came here with the idea of facing my fears and growing up. I seem to have failed in spectacular fashion.
No, that's wrong. I’ve got tools for dealing with this now. I’m Fighting Eagle, initiate of the Circle of Harmony. I walk to the center of the room, sit down, and start the Ablution.
Concentration comes hard. At times, the visualization makes me shake. When finally the waters are gushing out through the top of my head, they feel like tears instead of bliss.
The next day is not much better.
I didn’t sleep well—kept waking up suddenly, frightened that Ghost Woman or Shadow Man might be lurking in my room. Then I’d toss and turn awhile before finally drifting off.
When Granma mentions how quiet I am, I just tell her I’ve got a lot on my mind—flying home, going to England, all that. She nods and leaves it alone. She seems as grim and miserable as I feel.
In the afternoon I get a text from Molly, telling me to check my email. I open it up on my phone:
Abby:
I’ve verified that Margaret Alden did indeed leave the land at the head of Bliss Bayou to the town. Also, there were stories that her house up there used to be HAUNTED!!! For a long time after she died her GHOST was supposed to have inhabited the place. That’s why it was abandoned for so long.
I’d like to go in there and do a proper paranormal investigation, with video and sound recording, but I’m not sure how to pitch the idea to Fiona. Any thoughts?
Also, I promised I wouldn’t write anything about this stuff without your explicit permission. So now I’m asking. I WON’T use
your name, and I’ll let you REVIEW IT ALL and take out anything you’re uncomfortable with.
So please let me know. This story is burning a hole in my brain!
Moll
What difference does it make now? I’m out of here on Sunday and probably won’t be back for years, if ever. I reply to tell Molly it’s okay—as long as I get to review it.
Less than two hours later, she sends me the story. Subject to my edits, this will be the first post in her Quick Paranormal Investigations blog. There’s a headline in huge, bold font, and two subheadings:
MYSTERIOUS EVENTS PLAGUE HARMONY SPRINGS
Manifestations of Malicious ‘Shadow Man’
Has the Ghost of Margaret Alden Returned?
The story starts by reporting the first sightings of a mysterious “dark and wet figure, variously described as a skunk ape or devil,” seen near houses along the springs. It then recounts the rock-throwing incidents and broken window that occurred last week. So far, the Harmony Springs police have found no clues to the perpetrators’ identity. At none of the properties have footprints or other physical evidence been discovered—leading to speculation by some that the “shadow man” may be supernatural in character. Police Chief Arthur Quick will only say “the investigation is ongoing.”
The story then reports on “sightings of a tall blond woman dressed in the fashions of one hundred years ago. This phantom has been identified as bearing an unmistakable resemblance to Margaret ‘Maisie’ Alden, whose ghost was said to haunt the Alden House on Bliss Bayou for many years.” Molly goes on to recount Margaret’s life story and to wonder if her appearance might in some way be connected to the shadow figure.
I notice with relief that she never mentions who reported seeing Margaret’s ghost, or even that the sighting took place at the Save Harmony Springs community meeting. Nothing at all to link it to me.
The post concludes with the promise that our reporter will continue to investigate, and requests that anyone with information contact her.
I’m smiling as I text Molly back: “Story OK as written. Glad U didn’t say ‘police baffled.’”
In a moment, I get her reply: “LOL. THAT was in my first draft!”
After supper, I’m lying on my bed reading The Grapes of Wrath when I hear a noise out in the hallway. It takes me a second to realize that Granma has opened the locked door and is climbing the stairs to the attic.
I haven’t been in the attic since I was a little girl, and even then only rarely. I remember it as huge and cluttered, full of trunks, boxes, furniture covered in bedsheets, all sorts of mysterious stuff—things left behind by generations of Renshaws.
I don’t want to disturb Granma, but I have to wonder what’s up. The longer I hear her shuffling around up there, the more curious I become.
Finally curiosity wins out, and I step into the hall. Light streams down the open stairway—along with shadows caused by Granma moving around. As I climb the stairs there’s a breeze at my back. Granma’s turned on an exhaust fan, and it’s sucking the cooler air from downstairs.
“Hey, Granma. Mind if I come up?”
“No. Come ahead, Abby. I could use your help.”
Bare light bulbs hang from the ceiling. The attic is musty and, even with the exhaust fan, hot from the sun beating on the roof all day. In a far corner, Granma is leaning over a stack of boxes. She glances at me and smiles.
“I thought of something I need to give you—if I can find it. With you leaving in a few days, I didn’t want to forget.”
I step around the piles and join her. I help her shift cartons and old picture frames until she finds what she’s looking for—a dusty cardboard box with “Rob’s” written in black magic marker. Rob was my dad’s name.
She sets the box on the floor and pries it open. “I hope it’s in here. This is stuff your father left when he went away to college. He never got around to picking it up. I suppose I should have offered it to your mother, but it didn’t occur to me at the time. She probably wouldn’t want it anyway.”
There’s a touch of pain in her voice. She picks through kids’ books, Boy Scout badges, coins in a plastic box. “Mostly junk. I guess I ought to try to sell some of this stuff.” She hands me a picture and smiles sadly. “You might want that.”
In the photo, Dad is about five years old, standing up straight and looking very solemn. It must have been a couple of years after Grandpa died. I don’t really want a picture to remind me of how painful Dad’s childhood was, but I take it and nod.
“Here it is!” Granma’s holding a little box of worn blue velvet. She opens it and shows me a gold ring. “I gave this to your father when he turned twelve. It belonged to Thomas Renshaw and was passed down through the family. It rightfully belongs to you now.”
She places the ring in my hand, and I feel its energy, like a tiny electric current. The gold is formed into leaves and vines framing a cameo: the white-on-black image of a woman with wild hair, holding a torch.
I’m stunned. “Who is she?”
“Part of the magical lore of the Circle. She’s the Great Goddess Who Shapes All Things.”
“I don’t recall reading about her.”
“You will. You learn about her after you pass through the advancement rites and become an adept.”
If I ever get that far. I’m leaving on Sunday and who knows when I’ll be back? But that thought vanishes as I close my hand around the ring, imagining how Thomas Renshaw must have worn it when he and the others created the Circle of Harmony. I feel like all the magical power of the Renshaws is streaming through my blood.
“Thank you, Granma.”
Her smile turns wistful. “I’ve really loved having you here, Abby. I hope you’ll come back.”
“You want me back?”
“Oh, sweetie! Of course I do.” She takes hold of my wrists. “I know. I know I’ve been cranky and…not very nice to you the past few days. Please forgive me. I’ve been trying to practice the spiritual exercises, and it’s brought up a lot of pain—pain that I’ve repressed for a long time.”
“I just thought I’d been such a burden to you.”
“No! You’ve challenged me. But that’s good. We all need that, especially when we get older. My life’s been all closed up and lonely for so long. But to have you here, my granddaughter, who I love so much, and to be needed by you…that’s the best thing in the world.”
“I need you a lot.” My throat is thick. “I wish I could stay here all summer. I really don’t want to go to England.”
“Then stay.”
“Oh, I doubt Mom will go for that.”
Granma considers for a moment. “Listen. Your mom is doing what she needs to do for herself. But she loves you and wants what’s best for you. You have to let her know that staying here for now is what you need.”
“You don’t know Mom.”
“I know you. You’re a lot stronger than you think. You just have to stand up for yourself.”
“Well…maybe if you put it that way.”
Granma looks confident—and very happy. “We’ll call her first thing in the morning.”
Saturday is the Fourth of July. All the businesses on Main Street are closed. The owners, along with just about everyone else in town, are going to Founders Park for the big picnic.
Granma and I arrive around three. She parks and we unload her minivan, unpacking lawn chairs, a cooler, and a picnic basket stuffed with goodies. Granma’s made sandwiches and macaroni salad. She’s baked sugar cookies with red, white, and blue sprinkles. I had a great time helping her.
The park is already crowded. Kids are running on the lawns, throwing Frisbees, kicking soccer balls. The grown-ups mostly hang out in the shade, eating and drinking and laughing.
We set up our chairs in a grove overlooking the river. John and Emily Parker are nearby, sharing a picnic table with family from out of town. We visit with them,
and when some of Granma’s other neighbors come by, we share our cookies and are offered hot dogs, chips, and cold drinks.
I leave Granma chatting with the Parkers and go back to our chairs. I sip a root beer and stare at the white clouds drifting in the blue sky. I feel all peaceful and dreamy.
“So let me get this straight.” Molly has walked up in front of me. “You’re flying back to New Jersey tomorrow.”
“Yes.”
“But then you’re coming back here after a week?”
“Yes.”
“And you chose that over going to England for a month?”
“Yes.”
Molly grins. “Yippee! You must really like us.”
I grin back. “Yes!”
Mom took a lot of convincing. Granma and I both talked to her three times before she gave in. She finally had to admit how little time she’d actually have to spend with me in London, and I think she began to see how lonely I would have been. She did insist that I fly home this week so we could see each other, but that was something I wanted too.
Molly and I stroll off through the trees, stopping by the park pavilion. The Save Harmony Springs committee has a table set up there, along with churches holding bake sales and raffles. We say hello to Reverend Johnson and to Fiona and Adam. They’re collecting donations and distributing information. The petition to extend the Historic District has already been submitted— with over nine hundred signatures. Now Fiona is working with a lawyer on a draft plan for easements to restrict construction. She’s going to present it at the town council meeting this Thursday.
As we wander off, Molly tells me there’s a rumor Phil Deering has threatened to bring a lawsuit if any easements are passed. “It should be an exciting meeting. Be sure to read the Quick Report while you’re away.”
“I know I can count on you to keep me informed.”
“I’d still love to get into Fiona’s house and do that ghost investigation,” Molly says. “I just can’t think of a way to ask her that doesn’t sound crazy.”
