Chapter 12

My Father’s Story

We say goodnight, leaving Wyatt in Oliver’s capable hands. And I get to ride home in Nathaniel’s pimped-out van. He can control everything with the remote on his keychain. There’s a hydraulic lift in back for the wheelchair. Once he’s back there, he secures the wheelchair and hoists himself up like a gymnast, through the two captain’s chairs and into the driver’s seat.

There are hand controls for everything and it’s all digital. When I’m safely belted into the passenger’s side, Nathaniel turns to me, smiles and points his thumb toward the back where Jeff’s snuggled into his king-sized doggy bed, beside the empty wheelchair.

“Cool ride, huh?”

“Way cool.”

“Turns out that the guy who hit me was drunk, speeding and ran a red light. His family didn’t want a lawsuit and neither did I. We settled out of court and I was able to buy this van and hire your dad to remodel the house. So I have total freedom and independence.”

“Sweet.” I rub my hand over the leather upholstery.

“I have side airbags, too. I’m more of a safety freak than a lot of old geezers and I’m only twenty-five.”

I glance in the back of the van where Jeff is resting his huge head on his paws. “I’m surprised you didn’t name him Scooby, not Jeff, you know, with the van and the ghost hunter thing and all.”

“Master of the obvious, Annabelle. That did occur to me, but there’s nothing goofy about Jeff. He’s so not a Scooby. Jeff is very Sphinx-like; mysterious and wise and all-knowing. He possesses the size and power of a king. Look at him.”

Sure enough, Jeff lifts his head up and snorts disdainfully at us. When the van stops, though, his face breaks into a doggy smile and he wags his massive tail. We’re at my house. I don’t have to help Nathaniel with anything. He has a small portable ramp and places it over the three stairs leading up to our door. Because my father’s family has been here for almost four centuries, a lot of elderly people have lived in our house and it’s pretty accessible anyway.

My mother’s waiting for us. Oliver must’ve called her, because she already has the table set with mugs ready for tea and a plate of Meg’s homemade cookies.

“It’s getting late, Annabelle, and you have school and track tomorrow, but you can sleep in. I’ll write you an excuse note.”

Now I’m suspicious. My mother’s the queen of “Suck it up and go to school.” And she just offered to write me a note when I didn’t even ask for one. She nods to a chair at the table and I sit down. Then she bends and kisses Nathaniel’s cheek. “Hey, there.”

“Wonderful to see you again, Susannah. As always, you look amazing.”

She laughs like a girl. This is getting weirder by the second. They seem to know each other pretty well.

Mom leans over and lights the two pillar candles in their heavy silver pedestals on the kitchen table. A teapot, a jar of honey and four ceramic mugs rest next to the glowing candles. Smiling at Nathaniel, my mother begins to serve tea.

“He’s peaceful, now, Susannah. I don’t think he’d harm her. But you already realized that.”

Nathaniel’s know-it-all attitude is starting to annoy me. “What’s up, you two?” Swiveling my head, I look from my mother to Nathaniel and back. Everyone knows more than I do. Even my mother seems to be in on a big secret.

“It’s time to tell Annabelle everything, Susannah,” Nathaniel announces. “I know you were going to wait until she turned eighteen, but she needs to know now. Something’s happened. A spirit from the Wild Wood asylum is stalking her.”

My mother pulls out the chair next to me and sits down. “I knew there was a ghost involved. You’re a bad liar, Annabelle, and Wyatt’s no better. It started with the nightmares and then it got worse the other night, when the light bulb broke. Something big happened this afternoon. Didn’t it? I could tell.”

“How could you tell, Mom?”

Nathaniel jumps in. “Annabelle, you’re the child that broke the Blake family curse. You have an important legacy. I knew when Wyatt came here he’d find you and he did, with no help from me or Oliver. I didn’t count on the ghost, however. Even though I saw your film last year, I had no idea how intense the situation had become.”

“What the hell’s he talking about, Mom?”

Ordinarily, she would yell at me for my disrespectful language, but these are not ordinary circumstances. Nathaniel knows more about me than I know about myself and Oliver showed him my film. I look to my mom for reassurance, for an explanation that makes sense. She reaches over and covers my hand with hers.

“Annabelle, honey, I waited a long time for you and I risked a lot along the way. I was planning to explain everything on your eighteenth birthday. But I can’t wait any longer.”

“You can start anytime now, Mom.”

Ignoring my sarcasm, she begins. “We’ll start with the Blakes, because we live here, on their land, in their house. Nathaniel, help me out here.” My usually serene mother seems totally discombobulated at the moment. I didn’t think this night could get any weirder. But I was wrong.

“Okay, I’ll start at the beginning.” Nathaniel folds his hands around the warm cup in front of him and stares through the steam, into the distance. “During the 1670’s the local settlers and the Wampanoag Indians waged war against each other, over land ownership, of course. The Blakes’ property was at the center of the violent dispute. The white settlers won, killing almost all of the Wampanoag tribe in the process, including the Indians’ leader, King Philip, in 1676. The war only lasted eighteen months, but it was a bloody and brutal conflict, especially for the Indians. Your mom can tell you the Blake part of the story, which is more legend than actual history.”

My mom sighs, takes a sip of her tea and begins. “Nathaniel’s right; no one’s ever written the whole story down, but every member of the Blake family is familiar with it. Evidently, back in the 1670’s, the Blakes had a very rebellious young daughter named Isabelle.”

She pauses as my dad strolls in and grabs a mug out of the cupboard. Mom pours him a cup of her special brew and he smiles at her.

“The Pats are killing the Ravens and the game’s pretty much over. Boring. But it sounds like you’re discussing something pretty exciting out here: a story about my ancestors. Am I right?”

“Go ahead, Bill. Your daughter doesn’t know that she’s the girl who ended the Blake family curse.” My new friend Nathaniel continues to flabbergast me with his outrageous pronouncements.

Dad reaches across the table to shake hands with everybody’s life-long buddy, good old Nathaniel, who knows more about my family than I do. Then he begins in his deep, calm voice.

“Isabelle Blake, somewhere around her eighteenth year, as the legend’s been told, had a Native North American lover.”

Whoa, I’ve never heard my dad say the word “lover” before and it’s kind of creepy. This is getting stranger and more awkward by the second.

Dad takes a sip of tea then continues. “Isabelle fell in love with a Wampanoag warrior. They broke the rules and conceived a child together.”

“Why have I never heard this before?”

Mom reaches over and pats my hand. “Drink your tea, honey.”

It’s going to take more than herb tea to calm me down right now, but I follow her advice anyway.

Dad continues. “The father of Isabelle’s baby was known for his bravery in battle and his uncanny ability to survive serious injuries. He was related to Metacom, whom the white settlers called King Philip. Metacom was the son of Massasoit, the most famous Wampanoag chief. Historians have portrayed Massasoit as a wise leader who maintained peace between the English settlers and the Native American peoples. He was chief when the Pilgrims landed in Plymouth Colony.”

“But his son Metacom was a different kind of leader,” Nathaniel adds.

Dad nods his head in agreement. “Unlike his father, Metacom fought viciously for the land which rightfully belonged to his tribe. The white settlers answered the tribe’s violence with more violence. They wounded Metacom many times, but he always recovered. Again and again, he came back. Furious, strong and lethal. Both the whites and the Indians believed Philip was immortal. The settlers feared they might never be able to kill him. My family believes that the father of Isabelle’s child was Annawan, a brave warrior who fought alongside Metacom.”

“So we’re related to the Wampanoags?”

“Yes, Annabelle. A fierce Wampanoag tribesman fathered young Isabelle Blake’s child, a girl baby. Isabelle died giving birth, right here in this house. As she was dying, she begged her family to name the child Annabelle, a combination of her name and that of the baby’s father. The family complied because it was their daughter’s dying wish.”

“I’m named after Isabelle’s and Annawan’s child?”

My dad continues the story. “You are. The Blakes raised baby Annabelle, ignoring the rumors that sprung up because she didn’t look like the rest of the family. The other Blakes were fair-skinned, with brown hair and blue eyes, like me and your brothers.”

“But I’m not.”

“No, you’re not. According to the Blake family’s oral history, you resemble the first Annabelle Blake, born sometime during the 1670’s. She grew into a beautiful young woman with dark hair and eyes and golden brown skin. She looked like you, Annabelle, and she was the last daughter ever born into the Blake family for over three hundred years and sixteen generations. Until you came along.”

I have a mouth full of tea and most of it spurts straight out of my mouth and all over Nathaniel. He grabs a napkin and starts mopping up the tea. My mother jumps up and begins slapping my back because I’m still choking a little. After we calm down and Nathaniel dries off, my mother continues telling the story.

“Now for the part about the curse. During King Philip’s War, the blood from the horrifying rage and the tears of the survivors soaked into the ground near the Great Hockomock Swamp, which lies at the southwestern border of the Blakes’ property. The Indians named these wetlands after Hobamock, their spirit of low-lying places. He appeared in sacred visions as a huge serpent. The Wampanoags associated him both with honor and with death.”

My father speaks again. “Like King Philip, the father of Isabelle’s baby was eventually captured and beheaded. The English settlers wiped out most of the Wampanoag tribe. Those who didn’t die in the war were sold into slavery. The male slaves were shipped off to the West Indies.”

“The Wampanoags must’ve hated the white people.”

“Yes, the Indians regarded the relationship between Isabelle and Annawan as a catastrophe, not a bond that might inspire a peace treaty with the settlers. But the baby, little Annabelle, was half Wampanoag, descended from and named after one of their bravest warriors, so they didn’t harm her. Instead, they cursed the Blakes.”

“They cursed us? I can’t believe what I’m hearing.”

Solemnly, Dad meets my eyes. “Summoning their spirit god, out of the swampland, the few surviving Wampanoags asked his help to ensure there would never be another girl-child born to the Blakes.”

“Until me?”

“Yes. Until you, Annabelle, the curse held true. Now it’s time for your mother’s side of the story. She can explain why we were able to break the curse.”

I don’t realize that my mouth’s hanging open until Dad reaches over and nudges his index finger under my chin to close it.

Turning to Nathaniel, I ask, “How do you fit into this? You knew all about me before you even met me.”

Jeff walks over and places his huge furry head under my left hand. Stroking his soft fur calms me down a little.

Nathaniel smiles at his partner in crime. “I’ve been mentoring Wyatt since he saw his first ghost. Oliver doesn’t have any paranormal talent. He’s just interested, open-minded and ready to help whenever he can, but my gift is pretty extraordinary. Unlike Wyatt, I can control the whole channeling thing. Wyatt’s an amateur, so Oliver had to ask for my help. His research skills and passion for local history could only get them so far. They needed me.”

“Okay. How did you meet my parents?”

“I met your dad when we hired him to make our house wheelchair-accessible. I got to know both of your parents because they’re friends with Oliver and involved in the historical society. Ghosts, curses and History all fit together.”

“I’m beginning to notice. Okay, let’s hear your side of the story, Mom. How did you break the curse?” I can’t get used to the idea, but saying it out loud helps. “Do Clement and Joe know anything about this?”

“They know you’re the first girl born to the Blake family in a long time. That’s about it.”

Dad leans toward me. “I’m surprised you never noticed.”

Now I feel like a dumbass, thinking about my relatives and realizing I have no aunts on the Blake side except the ones who are married to my father’s brothers. Of course, I know I have no sisters. Stating the obvious, I announce, “I have no girl cousins on the Blake side. I’ve never even thought about it before. Tell me about breaking the curse, Mom.”

Rising slowly from her seat at our kitchen table, my mother goes over to the sink with her empty mug and runs some water into it. Then she takes a crystal goblet down from a cabinet, opens the refrigerator, grabs a bottle of white wine, uncorks it and fills the goblet to the brim. After drinking deeply, she goes back to her seat. Settling down into her chair, she begins to speak.