by Lyla Payne
“Go where? With whom? To do what?” For a half a second, fear flashes through her eyes like a bolt of lightning.
Daria stiffens, her fingers wrapping around my wrist. She slides the lighter into my palm. “There is another plane, Mama Lottie. You don’t belong here, and the longer you remain, the more your frustrations will grow.”
I light the stick of sage in my hand with shaking fingers, still convinced we’re all about to be eviscerated as a result of my poor therapy session with Mama Lottie. Daria lights her stick with a second lighter, not taking her eyes off our ghost.
For her part, Mama Lottie looks unconvinced as she sneers at Daria. “You know nothing. You don’t see, you only guess.”
“It’s true,” Daria agrees. She doesn’t sound like she’s about to pee herself anymore, but I feel her shaking. “I don’t know, but I do know I’ve never had anyone come back complaining.”
Mama Lottie does not appear amused by the joke. To be honest, neither am I.
We’re at an impasse. Tendrils of fragrant smoke waft past my nose, obscuring my vision as they float upward. I copy Daria’s pose and hold it lower, swinging the stick slowly back and forth in an arc. It’s easier to see this way, and my breath catches at the sight of a tall black man behind Mama Lottie. He’s standing over by the river, his feet in the water and a canoe at his shins. It’s not real—I can see through the boat and some of the guy. In the boat, a pretty, plump white girl with shining dark hair and eyes like Beau’s waits.
The boy is dressed poorly, wearing simple trousers, suspenders, and a shirt that shows part of his dark, muscular chest. The woman’s clothing is finer, and slightly newer in fashion, but I’d put them both around the turn of the twentieth century.
Tears fill my eyes. Charlotta and James. It must be them.
“Look.” Even though I whisper the word, as though afraid to spook the ghosts instead of the other way around, everyone hears me.
Mama Lottie is the last to see her son, and the expression on her face shatters my heart. Grief like I haven’t felt since Anne Bonny, since my particular brand of clairvoyance includes experiencing the emotions of the spirits who come to me, and my insides feel as though they’re being ripped out.
She’s not angry with anyone but herself, I realize. She wants his forgiveness but can’t imagine he would give it to her, because she can’t imagine a world where she would be able to, had someone wronged her in a similar fashion.
My knees buckle with the force of her emotions, and I grab onto Beau with my free hand, tears that aren’t really mine gushing down my cheeks.
I feel her hesitance at the sight of Charlotta, at the sternness on her son’s face. He’s come to forgive her, I think, and to show her the way from here—away from the horrible anger that has held her captive for so long—but he brought his Charlie for a reason. Even now, even gone, they remain a package deal. He won’t choose Mama Lottie over Charlotta now, as he wouldn’t then, and he’s saying without one single word that to come with him, his mother must accept his love for the last Drayton to reside in the place that stole her life.
“What’s happening?” Beau whispers.
“She’s considering,” I tell him, and Daria nods in agreement.
The ghosts in the river don’t speak, at least not so I can hear them, no matter how much I want to. I don’t know if Mama Lottie does, or if she understands what he’s asking, what he’s offering, the way I do, but she only looks back at us once. The twist of her features tells me she has no idea what to feel. The confusion in my stomach seconds that conclusion.
Mama Lottie doesn’t know how to fill the hole left by her hatred. She doesn’t know how James can possibly be here, be willing to love her, but he is. She even wants to thank me, but she doesn’t. I’d almost be disappointed if she did.
I’m still crying as she goes to her son and touches her heart, then his, and he folds her in an embrace. She climbs into the canoe with the girl who changed everything, who is still changing everything, and the three of them disappear across the river. The same river where James and Charlotta used to meet when they were children, falling in love and with bright ideas for the future.
It’s not until they’re gone that I realize Amelia’s not here.
Chapter Twenty-Three
I feel numb all the way back to Heron Creek. My car is at Beau’s but I don’t care, asking him to take me straight home and leave me. He resists, wanting to stay, to comfort me, but gives in when he realizes nothing can do that. I need to be alone.
After he’s gone, I tear through the house, desperate to find Amelia back home and safe now that Mama Lottie is gone from our lives for good. The Draytons are safe, Beau and I are able to resume our relationship if that’s what we want, but what about Amelia? Why would Charles Henry tell me that Mama Lottie took her if she hadn’t?
The house is as empty as it was when I left. My heart screams at the unfairness of it all, but I resist the urge to sit down and cry in the laundry room the way I did before, knowing it won’t do any more good this time around. Instead, I summon determination from deep inside me. I am not going to lose Millie to all of this nonsense. I’m going to find her, we’re going to break the curse on our own family, and we’re all going to live goddamn happily ever after.
I prowl the house like a caged animal for a few minutes, then decide to go for a run to clear my head. It takes no time at all to change into leggings, a hoodie, and tennis shoes, and the first rays of sunlight have streaked the horizon with lavender when I step out onto the porch. I expect to see the curtains twitch as I pass Mrs. Walters’s house, a sure sign she’s trying to pretend she isn’t spying, but no movement catches my eye.
There hasn’t been for a while, come to think of it. Not that I’ve been home often or wishing I’d see Mrs. Walters, but I do remember thinking she’d be along to give me grief about the parade of different men in and out of the house. Odd. Maybe she’s still sick.
The run produces a lot of sweat but no answers. I stop at Westies an hour later to get some coffee and run into LeighAnn at the counter, her two older children in tow. They have their noses pressed against the glass of the pastry cabinet as she orders a coffee and two tiny hot chocolates.
“Hi,” I say, keeping my distance since I probably stank before the run. I try and fail to remember the last time I showered, but that just makes me want to cry again. Amelia makes sure I do things like that.
“Hey! Any news about your cousin?”
I shake my head, groping for another topic. “Thanks again for doing story time for us.”
She pauses while I order my latte, then waves a hand. “It’s no trouble. I’ve been covering some of your hours, too, and it’s been nice to get out of the house. The kids are wrecking the place, though, fair warning.”
“I guess it’s job security.”
“That’s one way to look at it.”
Betty hands LeighAnn her coffee over the counter, and LeighAnn turns to go, tugging on her children in the process.
“Hey, has my neighbor been in to the library looking for me? Mrs. Walters?” I ask her before she disappears out the door.
She thinks about it but not for long, then shakes her head. “Not when I’ve been there— Stop it, I’m talking!”
The oldest kid, a boy, quits yanking on her arm but not before hot chocolate slops onto her sleeve. I shake my head and frown at him, but he still doesn’t look properly chastised. It seems my mom stare needs some work.
“Okay, thanks.”
My own coffee is ready then, but I spot old Laurel and Dorothy in front of the big picture window and pause on my way out. “Good morning, ladies.”
“You’re up early, Graciela,” Dorothy, the one with the pretty white hair, titters.
My reputation precedes me, as always in this town. I force a smile, trying to see in the face of Laurel’s new bright-as-the-sun red hair. “Have either of you seen Mrs. Walters? She hasn’t been over to harass me in a particularly long while, and
believe it or not, I’m a little worried.”
They exchange a glance, looking equally helpless. If I ask them to tell me what sort of drink is in their mugs, they probably couldn’t recall that, either, and I know their answer before they give it.
“You know, I don’t remember the last time I saw her…” Laurel trails off, waiting for Dorothy to come to the rescue.
“Maybe at Bunco the other night? No, she was supposed to bring the pie and we didn’t have dessert.” The second sister frowns, and I knock on the table.
“That’s right,” Laurel nods. “We ate M&M’s.”
“Okay, thanks,” I say quickly, trying not to get stuck on this merry-go-round of a conversation. “Maybe I’ll stop by on my way home.”
I can’t run home since I have the coffee, but I make sure my pace is as brisk as possible. At first, I really am worried about Mrs. Walters. She might be a pain in my ass, but she is old, and she could have been lying in that house for days needing help.
Then I start to think about Amelia’s disappearance. About how we all agreed she couldn’t have gone far on foot but wasn’t in the nearby area when we searched just an hour or so later.
What if she had been at Mrs. Walters’s house all this time? What if Mama Lottie had convinced our mean old neighbor to snatch my cousin? It wouldn’t even have been hard. Amelia would have gone with her, had Mrs. Walters come over saying she needed help with something.
I have no idea if a ghost can do any such thing—convince the living to do something out of character, and keep it up, besides—but I do know that it’s safe to assume Mama Lottie can do just about anything. Could have done just about anything, except she’s gone now… So why is Amelia not home?
I drop my coffee in a trash can on the corner and break into a run, not stopping until I’m on Mrs. Walters’s porch. The swing drifts back and forth in the light breeze, and I struggle to catch my breath while I press the doorbell over and over, not caring one whit if I piss her off.
There’s no answer. I could call Travis, but that would mean waiting, and I’ve waited long enough—too long, if no one has been caring for Amelia all these days.
“Millie?” I scream at the top of my lungs. “Are you in there?”
A muffled bang issues from inside but no words, and there’s no way I’m waiting another second. The door is locked so I whip off my shirt, immediately cold in my sports bra, and wrap it around my hand before picking up a paving stone from her landscaping and banging it against the front window. It cracks the first time and breaks on the third. I sweep the remaining glass out of the frame and slither through into the living room, ignoring the pricks of pain as the leftover glass slides into my midsection.
“Amelia?” I ask again, spooked by the eerie silence of the house.
More muffled noises come from the direction of the kitchen, and I move toward it, through a living room that has dust motes dancing in the streaming sunlight.
“Oh my god.”
I stop in the doorway, stunned at the scene for a heartbeat, then another, before I fly to my cousin’s side. She’s tied to the leg of the kitchen table with strips of cloth. The scuff marks on the floor tell me she’s scooted the thing all over the kitchen without being able to get herself loose or flag anyone’s attention.
I do my best to ignore the dead body of Mrs. Walters and the reek of death and feces blanketing the kitchen, pulling the dirty rag from Amelia’s mouth and going to work on her wrists. “Are you okay? Millie?”
Her eyes are dazed, staring at Mrs. Walters. I shake her hard enough to get her attention, and her green gaze wanders lazily toward me. Her forehead wrinkles. “Oh my god, Grace.”
Now that she’s free, Amelia crumples in my arms, sobbing, while I fumble my phone from my pocket. I call Travis then, because there’s a dead person and my cousin needs to get to the hospital, and the last thing I need is to find myself on the wrong side of the law. Again.
“She should be getting better, but she’s not,” Dr. Patel tells us in the hospital waiting room. We’ve been here a couple of hours. “It was probably only a day or two that she went without food and water, not enough to cause lasting damage. Physically, she and the baby should recover nicely, but mentally…I’m not sure how this has affected her.”
My stomach sinks at the news, even though I expect it after attempting to talk to Amelia myself. It’s as though this incident is the thing that broke her.
“She’s been seeing a therapist for depression,” I supply. “We’ll make sure she gets in to see him as soon as possible.”
“I think that would be wise,” she replies, making a note in her chart and swinging her long, dark braid back over her shoulder. “We’ll be able to discharge her this afternoon, if you think you’ll be able to handle her care.”
The doctor leaves Aunt Karen, Uncle Wally, and me alone. My aunt and uncle look a mess, which is understandable given the amount of stress they’ve been under with their daughter over the past six months, not to mention that they rushed here right after falling out of bed.
“What happened, Graciela?” Aunt Karen demands. “The truth this time. All of it.”
“I’m not sure. From what we’ve been able to piece together and what Amelia told us, Mrs. Walters came over and told Millie that she’d broken a window and needed help boarding it up. When she got there, Mrs. Walters gave her some tea, and next thing she knew, she was waking up tied to the kitchen table. Mrs. Walters refused to say anything to her, but she did make sure she had food and water.”
“Until she died,” Detective Travis adds, striding into the waiting room. He’d been in talking to Amelia, and I’m anxious to hear if she told him anything she hasn’t told me. Which wouldn’t be hard, since my once brilliant, articulate cousin seems to be struggling to piece together a coherent sentence.
“We’re waiting on the medical examiner’s report, but it appears she had a stroke about a day and a half ago.” Travis holds out his hand. “I’m Detective Travis, Mr. and Mrs. Cooper. I’m sorry to meet you under these circumstances.”
Aunt Karen flicks a glance toward me that says she recognizes the name, but it doesn’t stop her from giving Travis the same cool greeting she gives everyone she considers beneath her.
“Nice to meet you, son. Thanks for all of your quick work on this.” Uncle Wally pumps Travis’s hand, always trying to make up for his wife’s aloofness.
“Of course.” There’s an awkward silence, and then Travis stuffs his hat back on his head. “William and Melanie are in with her now, so I guess I’ll get going.”
“Thanks,” I say, a slice of guilt stinging me as I remember what I told Clete.
“Anytime.”
Travis leaves, and Aunt Karen turns to face me. “Talk, Graciela Harper. Tell me everything right this instant, and I swear, if you lie, you’ll regret it.”
I’m not sure what Aunt Karen could do to me that I’d really care about, but the fact is, I’m positive there’s only one thing in the world that’s going to help Amelia get better now. The curse has taken hold of her, hard, and whatever happened with Mrs. Walters—whether she was under the influence of the Anne Bonny curse or Mama Lottie forced her to abduct my cousin—we have to put a stop to it.
And to do that, we need Aunt Karen.
“Sit down,” I advise her, then sink into the chair beside her. “You’re not going to want to believe what I’m telling you, but I swear, Aunt Karen, I wouldn’t lie about this. Wouldn’t lie about anything that would hurt Amelia. You must know that.”
Her face bears her trademark skepticism, but behind that, she’s afraid. She’s seen Amelia. She knows more is going on than can be explained by even the repeated traumas. I grab onto her fear, hoping it will be enough to make her at least try to take this in stride.
She stays silent while I tell her about our relation to Anne Bonny, then relate what happened to her after her return from a life of piracy—the curse her husband’s island lover put on our family, what it means, what
Amelia has been through so far.
Lastly, I tell her how we’re going to try to break it.
“So…will you come with us?” I hold my breath waiting for her answer.
Aunt Karen stays quiet a long, long time, watching me as the gears turn in her brain. My aunt is so many things, and most of them annoy the crap out of me, but she’s not dumb. Never that.
Finally, she nods, and all of the wind rushes out of me. “When do we do it?”
I set my mouth in a grim line, glad to have her on my side. Glad to have family. “I think we should go tonight.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
I give up trying to convince Amelia to take a shower after the third time Aunt Karen calls to ask me what appropriate attire is for a Gullah curse-breaking ceremony. There’s no way to handle them both and stay sane. Amelia’s eyes are open, but her dazed state persists, despite Dr. Patel’s assurances that she’s physically fine. She might be, but I’m guessing modern medicine doesn’t have the training or instruments to detect voodoo curses.
My cousin is sitting on the couch in the living room, her hair greasy and her yoga pants spotted with god knows what, staring down at her hands. I comfort myself with the knowledge that no one on the old Burleigh property knows us or will even see us, and breaking the curse is the only thing that’s going to save Amelia. There’s no reason to give a rat’s ass what she smells like. It’s bothering me because it’s not like her.
In stinky solidarity, I don’t change out of my own sweaty running clothes, either. We can’t meet until after dark since Dr. Rue responded to my message that we’re ready by saying the ceremony had to be done under the light of the moon, so I spent the day cleaning the house like Cinderella on uppers. It distracted me and it needed to be done, and when Amelia and I get back to normal, she’ll be happy.
I haul my unprotesting, limp cousin off the couch and out to the car, then go back to lock the door. At the last minute, I pull out my phone and send a group text that includes Beau, Mel, Leo, and Will—the only people other than the one I’m with who will care if I don’t come back from this.
