Raising the Dead
Page 9
“So?” she asked as we sat down. “How are things?”
“I’m drowning in homework. The teachers don’t care that it wasn’t our fault school was cancelled for a week. They’re doubling up on everything.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
I understood that, just as I understood what she really wanted to know. She was the one who had encouraged me to participate in our parents’ strange investigation. If I hadn’t talked to her, I probably would have spent the past week watching TV in my pajamas or begging Avery and Jared to join their online movie trivia team or obsessing over Noah. Instead, I had stepped into a cemetery—and into William’s life.
Jeremiah wouldn’t be attending the ceremony. It was kind of a shame, since most of the people we were reburying were his ancestors, as well. But Jeremiah would be spending the next few weeks in a “special care facility,” which was a polite term for a mental institution. He had spent two nights in the local hospital for exhaustion. During his brief stay, the doctors had concluded that Jeremiah was not mentally stable. I agreed with that, but I also wondered about what he had seen. Wasn’t it possible that some of it was real? It was real to him, just as the girl in the pink dress had been real to me. I had been looking for a sign that my paranormal experience had truly happened. Now I worried that I was sliding into the same kind of instability that Jeremiah had sunk into.
“I don’t know what any of this means,” I said to Annalise. “I thought there was a chance I would find some answers, but I didn’t.”
“Maybe you’re not supposed to find all the answers.”
I loved my sister, but there were times when her vague wisdom was exasperating. “You said I would find something! You said this would help me!”
Annalise shook her head. “No, I didn’t. I said you needed help processing your experience in Charleston.”
“Well, I didn’t get help processing anything.” I was reminded of how much I hated the term processing. It made me feel like a meat product.
With her usual infuriating calm, Annalise stood up. “Charlotte, maybe you have the answers you need. Maybe it was the questions that were wrong.”
She walked out the back door to join the others on the hill. I remained on the sofa, wallowing in my confusion about the week mixed with the annoyance I was feeling with Annalise. A door opened down the hallway. I heard William and jumped up, ready to assist him. He was still recovering from the stroke and I knew it would be a long day. I didn’t want him to overexert himself.
“I’m fine,” he said, waving me away. “Although, maybe you could help me with my tie? I can’t seem to keep my hands steady.”
“Of course.” I wasn’t an expert at knotting a tie, but I’d helped Shane a few times when he needed to get ready for a cable awards show. “Are you ready for the ceremony?”
“I think so.” William stood still as I arranged his tie. He was dressed in a navy suit, and his tie was red with thin white stripes. “It’s a good thing, I think. A chance to say goodbye, a chance to acknowledge my family. It’s a shame Jeremiah couldn’t be here.”
William had visited Jeremiah in the hospital, where more of his strange story was revealed. Their ancestor, Jeremiah Pickett, had been accused of aiding Confederate deserters. The newly discovered journal shed light on the truth: Pickett had been helping wounded men who were expected to keep up an impossible marching pace but had fallen behind. These men were labeled “stragglers,” and many did not survive. Pickett kept their personal effects and weapons hidden in case others came looking for them. His goal, according to the journal, was to stay out of the conflict, but when weary men showed up at his doorstep, desperate for rest and water, he could not refuse them a place to hide.
I finished knotting the tie. “Will you see Jeremiah again? Is he family now?”
“He was always family. I just didn’t know it.” William inspected my work in the living room mirror. “Very nice. Thank you, Charlotte.” He looked toward the back door. “Your parents are already up there?”
“Yes.” I could see a steady stream of people marching up the hill and to the cemetery. A man holding a bugle walked next to a well-dressed news reporter. “The museum people are here, too.”
William frowned. “Not my favorite people at the moment, I’m afraid.”
The museum had basically declared all the artifacts their own. They claimed that William had no rights because the coffins and their contents had been discovered off the property. William threatened legal action, but Mom managed to come up with a compromise: the artifacts would be in William’s name and “on loan” to the museum for an exhibit.
I’d told Mom about the mist, but I hadn’t said anything to Dad. I knew Mom would listen, whereas Dad would ask questions and point out logical causes. But like so many things, I didn’t have an explanation for it. And maybe that was something I would have to live with, the fact that not all my questions would ever be answered.
I could hear music coming from the cemetery. “It’s time to go,” I said.
William held out his arm and I took it, feeling like he was escorting me to a formal event. I opened the back door with my free hand, and we began the short walk up the hill together.
It was time to say goodbye to the past.
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Raising the Dead
Copyright © 2011 by Mara Purnhagen
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