No letters.
She opened the first plain-cover book, revealing pages of loopy handwriting, swirling with arcs and sweeps—the kind of script she’d expect an artist to have. She leafed through the second and third one. Each entry was dated, some going as far back as twenty years. Some, only six.
The pages were full of poems and bits of prose, all of them signed with a fat, swirling capital S.
Sara.
A tremor wiggled its way through her as Marielle realized Carson probably didn’t know these journals existed. Surely if he did, they wouldn’t have been left in the studio among useless remnants of Sara’s past, miscellany that no one at Holly Oak treasured and yet which no one had been able to scrape away.
And if Carson didn’t know the journals were in the studio, perhaps he didn’t know they existed at all.
Was it disrespectful to read them? Obviously Sara had kept them in a place where she expected they would be safe. Secret. And the journals weren’t mere high school scribblings kept back for sentimentality. Some of the poems had been written just a few years before she died.
The journals weren’t some old thing Sara had kept for memory’s sake. They were part of her life as an adult. And she had kept them secret.
Marielle smoothed back the first page. Sara had entitled the first poem “Suitcase.” It was dated February 12, 1990.
Suitcase
Your letter came
A fold of pink
Your announcement
Home for a few days
But you don’t live here
And this is not Home
For you
You rang the bell
The button guests touch
Your announcement
Home for a few days
But you waited for the door to open
For this is not Home
For you
You said my name softly
The one you gave me
Your warning
Home for a few days
You carry no suitcase
Because this is not Home
For you
You left in darkness
A touch on my cheek
Your apology
Home for a few days
And you disappeared as always
Leaving me in this Home, to ever watch from its windows
For you
A tightness gathered in Marielle’s chest. The pained words of a teenager mourning the absence of her mother tugged at her. She turned the page and read the next one.
Imagine
I see you in the man at the library …
Who wears a striped vest and combs his hair straight
Who chews his pencil and hates to be late
Who wears a gold ring and canvas shoes
When I see that man
I see you
I see you in the man at the park …
Who jogs with his dog and wears a blue shirt
Who helped the young girl who fell and got hurt
Who told me once the day is new
When I see that man
I see you
I see you in the man at the store …
Who smiles at me and says my name
Who laughs at my jokes and likes to play games
Who has a new baby and a love that’s true
When I see that man
I see you
I see you in the man in my dreams …
Who sings me to sleep and kills the fears
Who fixes my car and kisses the tears
Who always knows the right thing to do
When I see that man,
I see you
Marielle sat back against the leg of the table, holding the book up to her chest, awash in Sara’s long-ago ache of missing her parents. Carson had told her no one knew who Sara’s father was. Not even Caroline. Sara had grieved over this.
She contemplated continuing to read or replacing the journals and showing them to Carson later when he got home. What if he decided they needed to stay private? He might even decide to read them on his own and not share them with her.
But surely Sara had kept them secret because she never intended Carson to read them. Maybe if Sara were here she would tell Marielle under no circumstances was she to show the journals to Carson.
The only way to know for sure was to keep reading.
Marielle pulled the book away from her chest and turned the page.
For the next hour she read the entirety of the first journal. Sara wrote of other things besides her missing parents. She wrote about the house, the cannonball, the river, the trees at the edge of the garden, her friends at school, love, boyfriends, art, God, and dreams.
She also wrote several poems about soft voices she heard when she closed her eyes and how she wished she knew if they were voices she was to trust or fear. She couldn’t tell. She wondered if she was hearing the whispers of her own conscience—an angel on one shoulder and a demon on the other—or messengers from heaven, or ghosts from the past trying to communicate with her.
The last poem in the first book made Marielle’s skin tingle.
Whispers
The river whispers
A steady voice
Reminding me I have a choice
The trees whisper
A swaying tune
Telling me of former ruin
The garden whispers
A quiet twitter
Life is grand, life is bitter
The house whispers
A rasping melee
I turn away, I run, I flee
Marielle closed the book. Sara had written the poem long before Eldora Meeks visited Holly Oak. Long before Pearl had any reason to tell the world Holly Oak had a ghost.
Carson hadn’t actually told her whether or not Sara believed in Holly Oak’s ghost or if she had bought into Adelaide’s strange belief that the house demanded restitution. But clearly Sara had sensed something …
Marielle’s back ached and her eyes hurt from squinting in the poor light. She decided to go back to the house to get a camping light, something to drink, and a cushion to sit on to read the rest. Bringing the books into the house seemed a little risky, even with the kids gone for three weeks. She could perhaps put them in her little office off the kitchen, but Carson was still in and out of that room, making little improvements for her. It would be too hard to conceal the books in there. No, it was best for now to keep them here in the studio until she had read them.
She set the journals on top of the museum catalogs and got up. She made her way to the open door and paused for a moment before emerging into the late morning sunshine. As she stood there, she remembered the little bench at the back, where she had come across Adelaide on the day of her reception. Perhaps she could come back and read the other two journals on the bench instead of the darkness of the studio.
That was a much better idea than reading by camping light in the musty studio.
Marielle walked up the grassy slope to the patio steps and across the garden to her office door. The house was completely silent when she stepped inside. She didn’t even hear the whir of Adelaide’s sewing machine. Marielle walked past her desk chair on her way to the kitchen, and her arm brushed a dress-up gown Brette had left over the back of it. Brette had given it to Marielle to mend. She grabbed the dress to hand over to Adelaide on her way back outside. Sewing was not Marielle’s forte. She stepped into the kitchen, grabbed a can of Coke to take with her, and then headed for the parlor. A muffled grunt caught her attention, and she turned toward the sound.
Adelaide lay in a quivering heap at the bottom of the stairs, a gash on her forehead bleeding crimson on the floor.
he felt hands touching her, heard the rustle of a skirt, and the sound of her name. Her wrist was on fire. And her head. Her back. Everything was on fire. The house was on fire.
She had been wrong about the house.
Eldora was right. It was Susannah all along. Susannah, the tortured woman wh
o could not forgive herself. It was all Susannah. Not the house. It was Susannah’s cursed presence who had spoken dementia into her mother, who somehow took all those baby girls Adelaide had lost, who had caused Charles’s heart attack, foisted on Caroline a host of emotional issues and drug addictions, and caused Sara’s third child to begin its life in a place destined to kill both child and mother.
It had been Susannah all along, making everyone else pay for her sins.
Not the house valiantly trying to purge itself of the wrongs committed against it.
No. Susannah. Mad Susannah. Holly Oak’s ghost.
Holly Oak’s curse.
She had been wrong. Eldora was right. Pearl was right.
It was Susannah who pushed her down the stairs.
Susannah who stood now at her mangled body, dousing her with fire.
“Adelaide!” The ghost wailed. “Adelaide!”
Adelaide opened her mouth to beg for mercy, but only a moan escaped her lips.
Susannah leaned over her.
“I’ve got you.”
And Adelaide let the ghost take her.
And then there were lights.
Blinking lights.
And voices.
“Pupils are responsive.”
“Adelaide.”
She felt movement. She was in a wagon. Susannah was taking her to the graveyard in a wagon.
“Adelaide.”
“Mrs. McClane, can you hear me?”
She opened her mouth. “Susannah …,” she whispered.
“Who is Susannah? Is that her daughter?”
“No. That’s … No, that’s not her daughter.”
She didn’t recognize the man’s voice. But the other one. That was Marielle. Good heavens, Susannah was after Marielle, too …
“Marielle.” Her voice was a raspy mutter.
“I’m right here, Mimi. You fell. We’re taking you to the hospital. Okay? You’re in an ambulance.”
She opened her eyes; they were so heavy. She saw Marielle leaning over her.
“The house is on fire! It was Susannah!” she whispered.
Marielle looked up. There was a man on the other side of her. He was wearing a uniform. The man looked at Marielle.
“She hit her head pretty hard,” he said.
Marielle looked back down at her, and her eyes were glistening.
“Did you see her?” Adelaide whispered.
Marielle bit her lip. “We’re almost there,” she said.
And the wagon sped away as darkness again crept in.
When she awoke, she felt something soft and cool on her head. She was surrounded by white. She felt light. Weightless. A curly clear tube poked out of her arm, and a face leaned in.
Marielle.
“Mimi, you’re at the hospital. They’re going to take some x-rays, okay? But I’m going to be right here. I’ll be right here when you’re done.”
“She isn’t here, is she?”
Marielle shook her head slowly. “No. She’s not. You’re safe here.”
“And the house? Did she burn down the house?”
“No. The house is fine. And you’re going to be fine.”
Adelaide reached for Marielle’s hand.
“Don’t go back there. It’s not safe.”
Marielle’s eyes widened, but she said nothing.
“Don’t go back there.” Adelaide said again.
Marielle opened her mouth to say something, but two smiling men in scrubs walked into the white room and announced she was going to have her picture taken.
A doctor stood over her. He held an x-ray in his hands. She did not remember being wheeled into this room. Marielle was nowhere in sight.
“Mrs. McClane, you are very lucky,” the doctor was saying. “You’ve a fracture in your wrist, but that’s the only broken bone. The bruising on your back will make it hard for you to go dancing for a while, and you’ll have a sizable knot on your head, but I’ve never seen someone your age survive a fall like that without a broken hip—or worse.”
Adelaide studied the negative image of her arm in his hands. A claw. A skeleton.
He held the picture up to a backlight. “So you broke both the ulna and the radius here. Fairly clean breaks, though. But we’re going to have to set them in surgery and use a few pins to coax the bones back together. I’m thinking with some therapy you’re looking at full range of motion within six months.”
“Six months?” Adelaide echoed.
“With therapy.”
“I need to sew.”
“I’m thinking you’ll be able to sew again. If you keep your therapy appointments. Now, your daughter-in-law tells me you’re able to sign your own release, is that correct?”
“She’s not my daughter-in-law. She’s married to my grandson-in-law. Where is she?”
The doctor nodded toward the hallway. “I believe she’s out in the waiting area talking on the phone to your …”
“Grandson-in-law. And yes, I can sign my own release.”
The doctor flipped off the backlight. “Okay. We’ll have the staff get the forms in here and get you set for surgery. Your records say you had heart surgery here before. Correct? Ten years ago?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. We’ll take a quick look-see at your records and see how you tolerated the anesthesia and all that. Any questions before I see you again in the OR?”
Adelaide shook her head. The movement made her wince.
She awoke again to blessed numbness. Nothing hurt.
Her throat felt thick, as if she had been asleep for a thousand years. She tried to clear her throat, but the effort proved impossible.
Suddenly there was movement beside her.
“Would you like a drink, Mimi?”
Adelaide turned her head. Marielle sat in a chair close to the bed, a magazine folded open in her lap. Adelaide nodded.
Marielle reached for a cup with a bent straw sticking out of it. She poured water from a plastic pitcher.
“Here. I’ll raise your bed a little bit.”
Marielle touched a switch on a remote, and the bed began to fold into an L. She stopped it and then reached for the cup, setting it just under Adelaide’s chin. Marielle guided the straw into her mouth, and she drank. The liquid felt like heaven.
“Thank you,” Adelaide murmured when she pulled away from the cup.
Marielle sat back down.
Adelaide tried to remember what day it was. Tuesday? Saturday? The kids left for New York today. So it was Saturday. “What time is it?”
“A little after five.”
Adelaide motioned for the water, and Marielle rose to hold it for her. She took another long swallow.
“So I guess I missed lunch?”
Marielle smiled. “Dinner’s on the way, though I hear it’s chicken cacciatore.”
“I suppose Carson is all bent out of shape because I fell while he was gone?”
Marielle set the cup back down on the tray. “He was pretty worried when I called. But I told him your surgery went very well and that you were expected to come home tomorrow.”
“He’s not trying to dash home tonight, is he?”
Marielle sat back down again. “It’s raining hard up there. I told him not to worry. To come home tomorrow like he planned. But if you want, I can call him and tell him you’d rather he came home tonight.”
Adelaide shook her head. “No, no. You did the right thing. I can’t stand it when people fuss over me.”
Adelaide looked down at her arms. One sprouted tubes that were busily transmitting information to a collection of monitors; the other was fat with hard foam and gauze. “So I’m all in one piece again?”
“Yes. The doctor said everything went fine in surgery. They put a couple of stitches in your forehead too, to minimize the scar.”
Adelaide raised her good arm to her head and touched the padded bandage. “I must’ve scared the living daylights out of you.”
Marielle smiled. “Actually, yo
u did.”
“What happened?”
“You … you don’t remember?”
Adelaide closed her eyes. “I was on the stairs. You were … you were outside in the studio. I reached for the railing …”
A sudden recollection of the house turning upside down on her flooded her mind. She saw the pictures on the wall tumbling, eyes turning, watching her spiral. She remembered the rustle of a dress. Susannah’s voice calling her name …
She shuddered.
“Mimi? You okay?” Marielle rose to her feet.
Adelaide swallowed hard. “Yes. Yes, I’m all right.” She took several deep breaths.
Marielle slowly sat back down.
“Good Lord, it seemed so real,” Adelaide said.
“What? What seemed so real?”
“I heard a voice calling my name. It sounded like my great-grandmother. I heard the rustle of her skirt. I felt flames all around me. It was like she was … reaching for me. Like she had pushed me down the stairs and set the house on fire. I heard her voice, Marielle. She said, ‘I’ve got you.’ ”
Marielle leaned forward and clasped Adelaide’s good hand. “That was me. I came in from the studio and found you at the bottom of the stairs. You were bleeding and trying to crawl for help. I said your name. And I had Brette’s play dress in my arms. That’s the rustling you heard.”
“You called my name?”
“I didn’t think to call out, ‘Mimi.’ I said, ‘Adelaide.’ It’s the name that popped out first.”
Adelaide eased back onto the pillows, exhaustion creeping over her. “It just seemed so real …”
“You … you hit your head pretty hard, Mimi.”
Adelaide turned her head on the pillow to look at Marielle. “I said some crazy things to you, didn’t I?”
Marielle squeezed her hand. “It’s okay. You’re back to being you.”
A Sound Among the Trees Page 11
