Outside Ricky’s bedroom window, four Niagara Region Police officers escort the last of the die-hard angel seekers out of The Point. And with them, they carry off remnants of Crystal Beach. Whatever semblance of Etta’s existence I had now weakens to a dull hum. How hollow is completely gutted? August heat isn’t helping the defeatism. Mowed grass lies in dry mounds. Leaves—sagging on the trees—have already begun to yellow. The evictees lag in the humid air. For a moment, I feel sorry for the cops, who must be cooking in their navy blue uniforms.
When I try to leave the room, the door bumps into Hal’s hulking frame. “We’re gonna call a meeting, Star. You’re invited. Just gimme a bit more time.” He pokes his head in—he has a black eye and surgical tape across the bridge of his nose. “You want coffee?”
Rose brings me coffee and a change of clothes. Jeans and a worn tank top this time. I figure she’s brought clothes I won’t mind being ruined if I freak out again.
“We have no idea what to do,” she says. “If we bring you to the hospital, they’ll ship you to the psych ward in Niagara Falls as fast as they can look at you. Never mind what the local papers will do with you. Dolores and Hal suggested some kind of meeting, so that’s what we’re going to do. Lucky’s going to be there, so try … sweet Jesus, just try not to hurt anybody.”
She knocks twice on the door for Hal to let her out again. “Rose,” I call. The “r” comes out rolling—I’ve got full use of my tongue again. “Will you ever forgive me?”
“Same thing that got to you got my Ricky. That she-devil. Che malvagia.” She turns her back to the door, steps back into the centre of the room. I quickly sit on the bed and shove my hands under my seat in case they feel like involuntarily swinging at her. “That’s what I learned reading his journals. Something got at him. And something got you, possessed you. You know, by the time I finished reading, I felt better. It was a spirit. A spirit I can handle. What I couldn’t handle was the thought of being such a bad mother, that my only son—”
“You are a good mother, Rose,” I say, planting my face into the softest part of her belly. I free my hands and hug her close to me. Her crying is calm. Nothing like the rough convulsions from months ago. “It’s not your fault,” I tell her. “It’s never been your fault.”
Rose is still sniffling a bit when she and Hal lead me to the living room. I scan for injuries, look for who I’ll need to profusely apologize to. Moustache has fingerprint-shaped bruises on both his arms. Joe Foster’s ear is taped up. Leanne’s lip is split. Bobby sits on one side of her on the sofa, Dolores on the other, her hand firmly resting on Leanne’s shoulder in a gesture of solidarity. Lucky nuzzles and sprawls across the three, playing with the fringe of Leanne’s AC/DC T-shirt. Leanne won’t make eye contact with me, and I don’t blame her. I punched a woman who recently left her abusive husband. I punched a domestic abuse survivor. Tamara is a vision of lipstick and tight spandex perfection sitting next to the TV. Barbara sits on a kitchen chair; Rahn stands behind her. I settle on the carpet in the far corner of the room.
“Thanks, everyone, for comin’,” Hal says with a wide wave. “We’re here to decide ’bout what do with the Crystal Beach Park artifacts anymore, and the remainin’ wood on the property and how to respond to all the scandal.”
“And the collection money,” adds Barbara. “You need to make a sensible group decision about the money, and since Starla has not got her wits about her, I’m going to stay for that conversation.”
“And the money,” Hal sighs. “Before we start, we gotta agree on a few things. This here is a private meetin’. No more newspapers. No cross-talkin’. One person speaks at a time. And no violence.” Everyone looks to me during this last point. The pause stretches long.
“As if I want to be violent,” I say, ashamed. A longer pause spreads across the room. “Okay! If I start to feel out of control, I’ll head for the bedroom as fast as I can?”
“Works for me,” nods Hal. He waits for the others to agree with him, but only receives a few nods and shrugs. “Movin’ on. Barbara volunteered to handle the Crystal Beach Park artifacts. Barbara.”
“So, Bobby and Leanne helped me track down the Lily Dale mediums, Agnes and Esther. I guess they visited here in June, not that anyone told me about it. So, it was all news to me when they said Starla has to keep clear away from any Park artifacts and memorabilia. What did they call it? A channel? Anyway, they suspect it’s this Park stuff that’s acting like a channel, you see, it connects Starla to this bad ghost.”
Barbara’s news is not new to me, of course. My missing Crystal Beach pendant still chafes my neck and chest, and it’s been more than a week since Tamara took it off me. Tamara notices me scratching my throat, or I hope she notices me scratching my throat. I cough and I want her to hear me cough. I want her pity if it draws her near.
“Every last postcard and leaflet has been collected,” Barbara says, “and I brought it all to a storage locker near Niagara Falls. Agnes and Esther are going to visit the stuff … talk to it … I suppose. I guess this is like an exorcism. Not exorcism. Excor …. Ecto …? They had a special word for it.” Rahn rubs her back in a few gentle, circular motions, prompting her onward. “Anyway, the stuff is part of our history, and we can’t just throw it out. I’m the town librarian, for christ’s sake. So once the mediums say it’s clear, we’ll hand the collection over to the local historical society.”
“All in favour of havin’ the witches fix the Crystal Beach stuff, then handin’ it over to the Historical Society, say aye,” says Hal. I guess AA has taught him Robert’s Rule of Orders.
Both hearty and half-hearted “ayes” are given.
“Anybody object?” asks Hal. Again, everyone looks at me.
“It started in my house. My own house.” Barbara bolts up from her chair, then quickly sits back down again. Behind her, Rahn’s eyes widen. His hands hover over her shoulders for a second before he gently places them back down with a little squeeze. “I was the one to buy her that stunt from Laugh in the Dark. I knew it was a dumb purchase, a waste of money. But who knew, night after night, it was haunting her? It was hanging over her bed all this time. What did the ghost do to her? My little girl—why didn’t she tell me?” Barbara is talking about me in third person. I slump down onto Rose’s carpet. It smells like baking soda and weird apple juice.
“Night after night. To think of it. I put that stunt in her room with her. I didn’t know.” Barbara shoots up from her chair again and rakes her fingers through her hair. Rahn takes a step back. Hal mumbles something, trying to soothe her. “I didn’t know,” she says again, this time looking directly at me.
I close my eyes and press my forehead. One of the women says to Barbara, “How could you have known?” Someone else says, “Should we put Star back into the bedroom?” and “Everyone relax.” I know they are calling my name, but I can’t look up.
“Why do these things always happen to her? What, is she cursed? Am I cursed? Where did I go wrong?”
Rose’s carpet is patterned with small paisleys and geometric flowers. Staring at the carpet fibres this closely makes all the colours a muddy teal green, the same colour as algae blooms on the lake.
“I didn’t know. I’m sorry, Starla.” The fine fibres of Rose’s carpet taste oddly salty between my lips. Rose’s carpet tickles my skin. Rose’s carpet can miraculously recite all the words to “After 37 Years My Mother Apologizes for My Childhood” by poet Sharon Olds. This may be the closest I’ll get to validation, to closure. I press my ear down. Listening. Listening. Listening. Maybe I can trust poetry—and carpets? The carpet arrives at the last line of the poem, “… who would I be now that I have forgiven you.”