Help for the Haunted

by John Searles

  Rather than open his door, Lynch disappeared between the seats into the back and slid the side door open. From what I could tell, whatever seats had once been in the back were all ripped out. Abigail lay on a thin mattress inside, looking as limp as Penny.

  Slowly, the girl turned her head to see us, blinking and gazing out with a dazed expression. Her stillness lasted only a moment, however, because the second she noticed my mother, Abigail shook off the blankets wrapped mummy tight around her legs. She sat up, then pushed her body to the edge of that van, hopped out, and walked toward us with a slight but noticeable limp.

  “Well, hello again,” my mother said as the girl took her hand.

  A rustling came from the van. My mother and I looked to see what was going on, but the sound caused Abigail to slip behind her, hiding. Since the girl was paying no attention to me, I took the opportunity to study her. Fifteen, I guessed. Maybe sixteen. Somewhere between Rose’s age and my own. She was not a child as she had been that night in Ocala; she was taller and had breasts now, the start of them anyway—enough to give a hint of shapeliness beneath her ratty tee. That blond hair of hers, messy as ever, fell to her waist. Her feet were bare, a few toes on her left, black and blue.

  “Mr. Lynch?” my mother called into the van.

  I stepped closer to peer inside. Sleeping bags and pillows and books were strewn inside. A cloth painting of the cross with the sun setting behind it covered what I could see of the far wall. In front of that painting stood a cardboard box flipped upside down and littered with half-melted candles and more books. A makeshift desk, I thought, or quite possibly an altar.

  After rustling around in the back of the van a bit longer, Albert emerged, arms full of rumpled clothes. He looked down at the blankets Abigail had shaken off, then looked up to say, “Did she—”

  “Did she what?” my mother asked.

  “Did she walk out there on her own? Just like that?”

  “Just like that,” she told him as Abigail stayed tucked away behind her, dragging those bruised toes against the pavement with enough force that it looked painful.

  Lynch must have had plenty of practice getting in and out of that van, yet when he set those clothes aside and stepped out, he did so without accounting for the steep drop, and stumbled, nearly falling, before steadying himself. Once his feet were planted on the pavement, he came closer, bringing a cloud of stale cologne or maybe the air-freshener smell from that van along with him. “Thank you,” he said to my mother in the astonished voice I remembered. “Thank you. Thank you.”

  “Please, there’s no need to thank me. I haven’t done anything yet.”

  “You agreed to meet me on such short notice. And you don’t realize it, but I haven’t been able to get my daughter up and out of that van in nearly a week.”

  Abigail’s foot stopped grazing the pavement a moment as she peeked out from behind my mother. When her father noticed her wide blue eyes looking at him, he gave the same hesitant wave he’d given us, but the girl just flinched and ducked behind my mother again, pancaking her face so hard into my mother’s back I worried it hurt them both.

  The exchange, or lack thereof, caused Albert to heave a sigh. “I suppose the best thing for me to do now is leave you to it. How long until I should come back and get her?”

  “Leave me to it?” my mother said.

  “Trust me. If I’m around, it will only distract while you are working on her.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Lynch. But you must be mistaken. I don’t work on people. I’m not some auto repair shop or child psychologist at a hospital where you can—”

  “Good. Because I’ve tried the psychologist route already. It failed.”

  When he saw the displeased expression on my mother’s face, Lynch grew quiet. He glanced down at his heavy black shoes—the sort Father Coffey wore, the sort my father wore too. Looking up again, he told my mother, “Forgive me, ma’am. Those were the wrong words to describe what you do. The last thing I want is to insult you. I love my daughter. No father has gone to the lengths I have to keep his child close. To keep her safe. But as much as it pains me, there’s no other way to say it: Abigail has something, well, she has something in her. She needs help. Your help.”

  “I—”

  “I saw you Mrs. Mason,” Lynch said, cutting her off. “You helped her find peace once before. Over the years, I considered seeking you out again, but I was foolish, thinking I might find some better, more permanent solution. I wasted so much time. I mentioned the shrinks. But there were healers. And preachers. Plus, so many people who claimed to be modern-day soothsayers. One con artist after another put on a big show, and in the end, they did nothing but fleece me.”

  In her most gentle voice, my mother told him, “I’m sorry.”

  “Me too. But then, the other day, I had an appointment I’d been waiting months for. That’s the way it works with these people. They keep you waiting so you get the impression they’re in demand and it’s going to be worth it. In this case, it was three old women who call themselves the Sisters. I drove Abigail to their house at the end of a windy road on a mountain in Rangley, Maine. Nobody around for miles except me and my daughter, maybe some moose out in the woods, and those rickety old women hunched and shriveled the way you’d imagine in a fairy tale. Holy as those ladies were supposed to be, they demanded their money up front. I peeled endless twenties from the wad in my pocket and forked them over. And then they had the nerve to act bothered when I told them they needed to come to the van and see Abigail, since she would not come inside.”

  “And did they?”

  Lynch nodded, peeking around my mother to glimpse his daughter. The girl’s face was hidden away still, and she had resumed that dragging motion with her foot.

  “What did those women do?” my mother said.

  “Nothing. After the same sort of spectacle I’ve grown accustomed to—chanting and shaking their arms in the air and tossing herbs and rubbing oils on my daughter—not a single thing changed. I stood outside that van, looking off into the mountains. I might have cried if the tears hadn’t dried up inside me a long time ago. Meanwhile, the Sisters packed up their props and exited back toward their house, telling me that sometimes it takes months for their work to be effective. I’ve heard that line before, so I smiled and said nothing while watching them walk to their house. But then, as I stood there, willing myself to get back in the van and drive down the mountain, their front door opened, and I looked to see one of the Sisters coming back to me. I’d say she was the youngest, but it was hard to tell, since they were all so old; either way, there was something different about this one. I guess it was that she had more light, more compassion in her eyes. She whispered to me about—well, I’ll give you one guess who she told me about.”

  My mother kept quiet, looking down at the ground. The only sound was Abigail doing that thing on the pavement with her bruised toes.

  “You, Mrs. Mason. She told me about you and your husband. Only she didn’t say your names right away, so I didn’t realize. She said she had read of a certain couple and the things they’d been able to do. She suggested that this couple might be able to help my Abigail too. That’s when she pulled out a clipping from the newspaper, and I looked down to see a photo—your photo—and I read about all the things you’ve done since I last saw you.”

  “I see,” my mother told him. “Listen, Mr. Lynch, I don’t want to be one more person who adds to your disappointment, so I need to be up front. As I told you on the phone, I cannot guarantee I’ll be of any help. My husband and I don’t claim to have any sort of magic powers. When it comes down to it, our only method is prayer in its most simple and basic form. It’s all I have to offer. And that said, your daughter is a minor. I can’t have you leaving her here and disappearing on us.”

  “I’m not disappearing. I’ll be back. Of course, I’ll be back. But you and your husband are good p
eople. At the very least, I know my Abigail will be safe here with you. And I can use a day, two days, three—however long it takes, to get myself together and calm my nerves before I do something I—”

  When he stopped abruptly, I expected my mother to prod, but she allowed the silence to do the job. She waited—we both did—watching him look down at those heavy shoes once more. When he lifted his head and spoke next, his voice crept close to tears. “It’s been so hard. This life. You have no idea. Or maybe you do. But there are times when I’m afraid I’ll lose my patience. Afraid that, despite my good intentions and faith in our good Lord Jesus Christ and the love in my heart for my daughter, I might snap and do something I’ll regret.”

  In the distance, we heard a car motoring along the main road. All of us, except Abigail, looked to see a red convertible with flashy hubcaps moving closer. At the sight of Lynch’s grimy van pulled to the side, emergency flashers blinking away, the driver slowed to get a glimpse of us there before speeding off.

  When the convertible was gone, I made up my mind to put an end to this situation before things went any further. “Sorry for your troubles, sir,” I began. “We really are. But you will have to come up with another plan. You can’t leave your daughter here.”

  Considering how unusual that sort of bluntness was coming from me, it sounded pretty convincing—that’s what I thought anyway, before Lynch fixed his gaze on me with such intensity, it was as though he was realizing for the first time that my mother had family who might interfere with his needs. A smile—so slight, so awkward, I was not quite certain that’s even what it was at first—formed on his thin lips. I had the feeling he might start laughing at the things I’d said.

  “Sylvie,” my mother said. “It’s okay.”

  “But—”

  She reached over, put a hand on my arm, and squeezed, while keeping her gaze on Albert Lynch. “I can try to help your girl,” she told him. “But I must inform you that I’ve not been feeling my best the last month. And these things—well, they take focus. They take energy from me. Still, I can try.”

  That not-quite-a-smile turned into something more full-fledged when Lynch heard what my mother was saying. After another rush of thank you’s, he turned toward the van and wasted no time gathering up rumpled clothes, a toothbrush, a hairbrush, sneakers, books. I stood watching, having a hard time imagining his daughter brushing her teeth or hair or wearing sneakers, never mind reading.

  When Lynch turned to carry the pile toward us, something that had been swept up inside dropped out of the bottom. My mother and I watched it fall to the pavement and skid toward the front tire. In his excitement, Lynch must not have noticed, otherwise he wouldn’t have asked me to hold out a garbage bag so he could stuff his daughter’s things inside.

  “She likes this book,” he said, showing us a copy of something called Legends of Faith. “Or she used to like it. When she was younger, I read it to her. Sometimes, I still do, in hopes that it will bring back memories of happier times.”

  “Mr. Lynch?” my mother said.

  “And now that she’s up and out, I should warn you that it might appear as though things are relatively fine with her. That’s how it goes. For weeks at a stretch things seem almost normal. But just when you get comfortable, that’s when—”

  “Mr. Lynch?” my mother repeated.

  This time, he stopped talking and looked at her. “Yes, ma’am?”

  My mother did not answer. She didn’t have to; his gaze trailed hers, mine too, to where a small black pistol with a blunt silver nose lay not far from the front tire. I watched Lynch’s hands begin to tremble as he shoved the last of his daughter’s things in the bag, then he walked quickly to the van and scooped up the gun.

  “Please,” he said, once it was stashed inside beneath the driver’s seat. “Don’t get the wrong idea. I’m a good Christian. A man of faith. But for a lot of complicated reasons, my daughter and me—we live our lives on the road. That means sleeping in campgrounds. Rest stops. People out there, they’re not always as nice as you. I learned that the hard way. I’ve never used this gun. Never plan to. It’s just to scare people when the situation calls for it.”

  “Well, you’re scaring me plenty right now,” my mother told him. “No matter what your reasons, you shouldn’t be so careless about where you store that pistol.”

  In the tone of a scolded child, he told her, “I’m sorry, ma’am. And you’re right. I won’t be so careless anymore.”

  “Well, okay then. Now that that’s out of the way, why don’t we agree that you will call in a few days and we can see how things are with your daughter. How does that sound?”

  “Sounds good to me. And thank you one more time. I may not look like it, but I do have access to a little money when I need it. So I can pay something in return. Or if there’s something else I can do, let me know, and I’ll find a way to give it to you.”

  In response to that offer, my mother said nothing. It was not like her to discuss a fee for the things they did, that much I knew. So she just waited; I did too, watching Albert Lynch climb back into his van. He flicked off the emergency flashers, rolled down the window, and called out, “Abigail, I know you can hear me. I’m going to leave you for a bit, but I’ll be back. My hope, my prayer, is that your time here will help you get better.”

  If the girl heard him, she gave no sign. She stood behind my mother’s back still, though turned around now, looking down our street riddled with those gaping foundations like a mouth full of cavities. Albert gave up waiting for any response, or maybe he never expected one. Either way, he offered us a last wave, less hesitant than any previous, before pulling away from the curb. As he vanished in the same direction as that red convertible, my mother took the bag of Abigail’s belongings from me. Without a word, we began the walk home. The slow, careful way she moved made me realize that my mother must have felt fatigue washing over her again.

  In those early moments inside our house, Abigail did not seem so much a person with “something in her” as she did a houseguest, albeit an awkward one. She moved slowly around the living room, peering too closely at the clock, the cross, and the books imprisoned behind the glass of the curio hutch. She leaned in to study the grade-school portraits of Rose and me for so long, it felt as though she was touching them in some way, putting her fingerprints all over the frames.

  “What exactly is wrong with her?” I asked my mother, since she seemed different from the only other haunted person I’d encountered in our house, that man at the kitchen table in the middle of the night years before.

  I had followed her to the washroom, where she emptied the bag of Abigail’s belongings and inspected the broken zippers, torn hems, and tattered material. In a tired voice, she told me, “You don’t have to be a part of this, Sylvie. Once I get her cleaned up and fed, I’ll get her settled in the partitioned area that your father finally just about finished. In the meantime, you can go to your room and read or even go to the living room and watch TV for a change.”

  She seemed so weary that I couldn’t help but want to be of some use to her. “Here, Mom. Let me get this laundry going while you help her settle in.”

  My mother debated the idea, then put down Abigail’s clothes and went to a cabinet by the dryer. She pulled out a gift box with a torn scrap of Nativity wrapping paper taped to one side. Since my sister wore sweats to bed and walked around the house barefoot until the soles of her feet turned gray, I was never sure why my parents bothered getting her certain gifts. Now, my mother took out an unworn nightgown and slippers they’d given Rose the previous Christmas. She held up the gown, and it unfurled like a pale spirit before her. She carried that spirit, those slippers, from the room.

  A Grand Canyon T-shirt. A Mount Rushmore T-Shirt. A Jesus Loves Me T-Shirt. From where I stood feeding all those frayed shirts into the machine, I could hear my mother and Abigail in the kitchen. My mother offered her foo
d but got no response. My mother offered her a shower but got no response to that, either. At last, she must have managed to convince the girl to wash her hands and face, because I heard water running in the sink for some time. I poured a double dose of detergent into the machine as I heard my mother say, “There we go, Abigail. That’s better—for the time being anyway. Now, I imagine you must be tired. Am I right?” The girl must have nodded, because after a pause my mother said, “I thought so. And you know what? I’m tired too. So let’s get you settled downstairs. We can say some prayers, read a bit of scripture, then I think I’ll head to bed early myself.”

  I cranked the knobs on the washer, realizing my mother and I would not be having any of the fun she promised earlier. Considering the way things had been lately, I should not have been disappointed, but I was. I didn’t have time to really get upset, though; no sooner had I lowered the lid and the machine started thrashing away than a crash came from the kitchen, followed by the sounds of a shrill yelp, furniture toppling, and dishes smashing. I hurried to the kitchen to find my mother holding open the basement door, the light we’d left on glowing below. The table had been shoved into the center of the room. The chairs where my parents normally sat had been knocked over. A fat strip of peeling blue wallpaper stripped from the wall.

  “What happened?” I asked my mother.

  She shut the basement door, looked down at that wallpaper book on the floor. It had fallen open to a pattern I recognized by now—The Tiniest Hearts. “I wanted to take her downstairs but she shook her head. I told her it would be fine and held out my hand. But as soon as we reached the top step, she pulled back so suddenly and with such force that our hands came apart and she fell into those chairs. She grabbed for something and caught that wallpaper, which peeled right along with her as she fell to the floor.”