He woke in darkness. His eyes tried to conform the ceiling and walls to his New York apartment, finally accepting them as his childhood bedroom. There had been a sound and he awaited its repeat. Only silence. He could not even say what the sound had been. A voice? But he was alone in the house.
Will had not remembered the place having a smell, but it hit him coming in that night. Jasmine and vanilla. Burned cooking oil, cigarettes, must. Some of it belonged to the house. Much of it was the smell of his mother, though there had been no trace at the hospital. She had left her scent at home. Home. Was it still that without her here? Without friends and strangers trailing in and out? There must have been times when Will was alone in the house, but he could not recall a single one.
Wandering through rooms, he had been struck by their compactness. He knew the place was small, but he felt like a giant in a dollhouse. Somewhere there was a memory house big enough to contain all the scenes and images in his mind. The flushed faces of adults, stumbling about the bright kitchen. Slanting autumn light picking out dust motes above the dining room table. Arthur the cat racing down the stairs while Abigail laughed. Snow sticking to his bedroom window. Watching The Fog or Alien on the sofa with his mom. Kissing Christine Jordan by the front door. Too many moments to process, like an old box of photos upended suddenly in his head. Still alive somewhere, still happening. He would never return to that house.
The green digits on the clock said it was 2:00 a.m. Not long since he’d gone to bed. Will heaved himself up, meaning to head for the bathroom, but some old instinct guided him to the window. His skin prickled against the cold seeping through. A quarter moon hung high in the starry heavens. You didn’t see skies like this in New York. It was one of the things he missed. The tops of the lilac bushes bent, shook and stood up again as a breeze passed across them. A figure stood among the bushes.
Will leaned until his head knocked the glass. Was it a figure? A darkness like negative space, roughly in the shape of a person. Sam? Isn’t that where she used to stand when she watched him? No blond hair, though, and so still. Could anything living be that still? He stared hard, determined to catch the smallest movement.
Images invaded his mind. A narrow sidewalk, a looming presence. That hideous face. A single word.
Murder.
He stepped back quickly. As if the face had been right there before him. But the glass held nothing but night, and the faintest reflection of his own face. Eyes wide, their wetness catching ambient light. The line of his nose, his forehead. He went back to the window, knowing before he looked that the figure was gone. Not gone, but had never been there, any more than the face in the shadows behind the deli had been. Will went around the house checking doors and windows, then answered the call of his aching bladder.
In the morning he could not be certain anything had happened. The house was more familiar in daylight. Less threatening. Except for those steep, narrow stairs, which he hated. He made instant coffee—all he could find—and drank it on the front steps. It was late—he should be at the hospital. But he needed caffeine, and a few minutes to himself. He closed his eyes and let the sun bathe his face. Wind rustled the rhododendrons. He glanced at the stump of the lightning-struck pine. His mother had resisted cutting it down, even after the incident. Then his gaze shifted to the thick clump of lilac, swaying innocently. No one hiding there. He could not see Samantha’s driveway, but assumed she was at work. Across the street, where once there had been fields, there were houses. Big ones. They had been going in one or two at a time over the last decade, and he was only truly noticing them now. The farm still existed, though shrunken. Selling produce from early summer to late fall. He would go over there at some point.
On the arc of road beyond the lawn, a car slowed to a stop, then backed up cautiously to the house. Maroon Volvo. Older model, with rust on the chassis. A woman with short gray hair rolled down the window and called to him.
“Is that Will?”
“It is.” He knew the woman, but couldn’t come up with her name. One of those fixtures of the community who made it a point to know everyone’s business.
“How’s your mom?”
“Stable.” He stood and wandered down the lawn toward the car. “I’m going to see her in a few minutes.”
“Please give her my best.” A lined face and lively blue eyes. Sixtyish. Yet Will had the uneasy feeling that she had been sixtyish for the last thirty years. Margaret something-or-other. “We’re all very worried.”
“I’ll tell her.”
He felt no need to go into the details of her condition. Assuming the old crow didn’t know them already, which would be a naive assumption.
“So many awful accidents these last years,” the woman said. “You heard about Marty Branford?”
“Yeah, I think I might have been here when that happened.”
“Were you?” she asked, oddly intrigued.
“Sure, it was last Christmas, right?”
Marty was a paranoid crank, worried about everything. It almost figured a guy like that would die of a gas leak in his home.
“Of course. Are you here alone?”
“Yes,” he confirmed. “Just me.”
“I thought Muriel was taking care of you or something.”
“She’s seeing her mother,” Will replied, the woman’s name suddenly coming to him. “I’m thirty-three years old, Mrs. Price.”
“I know, I know,” she replied, flashing yellow teeth. “And a college professor. We’re all very proud of you.”
“Assistant Professor. But thank you.”
“Call me Margaret. I mean, how long have we known each other?”
Too long, he was tempted to say, but her smile seemed so genuine that he felt mean. Was it so bad having people keep tabs on you, worry about you? Even if they were mostly about satisfying their busybody natures.
“Is your father coming?”
The question threw him, as did any discussion of his father.
“No. I mean, he’s aware. He would come if I needed him.”
“It is a long way from Seattle,” she said, not very convincingly.
“Yes.”
“You know that strange Hall girl has moved back in next door.”
“Samantha? Yes, I did.”
“Of course, you’re probably friends.” Her tone was less apology for the previous remark than indulgence in his bad taste.
“She’s been very helpful.”
“Muriel Brown and Samantha Hall,” she sighed, shaking her head. “God help you.”
“I’m really fine, Mrs. Price. Margaret. How is, uh, how’s everything with you?”
“Me?” She seemed perplexed by the question. “No worries about me, dear. I worry about other people—that’s how that goes.” Her smile was warm again, but with a hint of mischief as she put the car into gear. “I am always exactly the same.”
For God’s sake, Ma, why did you move back to this creepy town? They’re all crazy.
Will glanced at the open door, unsure whether he had spoken aloud. Did it matter? Couldn’t all these witches read his mind? He’d pulled up the chair beside the bed again, his mother’s cold hand in his own.
We couldn’t stay with Dad, I get that. But why come back here? Because it’s where you grew up? There was a whole world out there, any number of places we could have started over. You could have finished your degree. Moved to New York like you always wanted to do, taken a shot at being an artist. We could be friends now.
He leaned over and put her hand to his forehead, as he had done yesterday.
I guess that’s a lot to ask. For you to have had the courage to do that alone. No money. That would have been hard as hell, and scary. Even scarier than coming back here, where at least they knew you. Distant relations, but they took you in. Old Mr. Hall. Renting you the house, then selling it to you for almost nothing. Well, who would have bought it after a man was killed by lightning on the second floor landing?
Will lifted his forehead from her skin. Looked at her face—the pinched, pained expression. Definitely thoughts going on in there, and not happy ones. The doctor said she should wake today, it was time. If she didn’t, it could indicate something seriously wrong. Well, it was late afternoon and she was still under. Will knew he had to bring her out, but these angry thoughts were not the way. He tried to focus his mind on happier memories and put his forehead back against her hand.
His mother in the kitchen. She was a decent cook, though her penchant for hummus and brown rice put Will off health food for years. But she was a wizard at baking. Chocolate chip cookies, Toll House she called them. Bread, pies, apple cake with cream cheese frosting on his birthday. The sweet and spicy flavor filled his mouth, made his stomach churn, even though he had not tasted it in years. He could see her standing over him as he ate. It made her happy to make him happy, but mostly she had no idea how to go about it.
Baking? Is that the best you can do? Will squeezed his eyes shut harder, tried to block out the angry, cynical voice.
And do you remember what happened next, after the cake? You were supposed to go to the Topsfield Fair. Except she was too drunk to drive, right?
That was one time.
No, three or four. Out there in the driveway, hammering on the horn, insisting you climb into that death trap just to prove she could do it. And Muriel on the sofa, waiting out your tears.
Willie, look at me. You can’t get in that car with her.
I know.
I’ll take you over there tomorrow. You’re a good kid. You’re strong—you’ll be all right. God bless Muriel.
He sat up suddenly, dropping the cold hand. His own hand was shaking and sweat glazed his forehead where it had touched her flesh. Why was this so difficult? Why was it so hard for him to forgive a wounded, lonely woman? Who had been barely more than a child herself when he was born. Who had lost the love and support of her husband at that very moment. Who had been given none of the tools necessary for being a good mother, but had done her best anyway. What was this devil inside him that could not forgive?
Movement in the corner of his eye. Did she flex her hand? He grabbed it.
“Ma, it’s me. Can you hear?” That same pained expression, but it seemed more focused now, more intentional. “Squeeze my hand. Can you feel? Squeeze.”
Nothing. Had he imagined the motion because he was so desperate to see it? Or was it another spasm? The nurse told him yesterday she had been doing that. It meant nothing. It was the same with her expression, a random tightening of muscles, no more. And if he read intention there, why assume it was toward waking? Why not just the opposite? Maybe she was hurt worse than they knew. Maybe she’d had enough. Will slumped and put his face against the bed. He had been on emotional guard for too many hours, and he did not care who saw his distress. He was tired. Sleep seemed not to replenish him, except with nightmare fragments to pick through during waking hours. When this was done, he would sleep for real, and for a long time. His nose itched. The sheets were rough and smelled vaguely of bleach.
Something touched his head and his body tensed. Had someone come into the room? There again, the lightest touch. Fingers stroking his hair. A blunt nail jabbing his ear. He turned his head very slowly, as if afraid of startling her. His mother’s long white arm was moving of its own volition. Patting his head. Her eyes were open but unfocused.
“Sokay,” she breathed.
“Ma?” he whispered. Then more loudly, “Ma, can you hear me?”
“Sokay, honey. Jus...jus gib me minute.”
He did not move. He wanted nothing to upset the moment. If it was just a dream, he was in no hurry to wake. Then a body intruded between them. A nurse, gently pushing him back.
“Mr. Conner? If you could move aside, please?”
Will wanted to resist but fell back in the chair, his vision swimming. A second nurse darted into the room for a moment, then was sent by the first to get the doctor. He heard his mother’s voice weakly answering questions.
“She’s awake,” he said to no one, his voice trembling. He turned to the doorway and saw a familiar figure. “Sam. She’s awake.”
Samantha stayed where she was, smiling at him.