The Complete Collection (10 page)

* * *

A whisper dances across my neck and
I physically shudder. It feels like the touch of gentle, loving fingers. I
shiver again.

“Lila.”

I gasp loudly at Scott’s whispered voice behind me and
quickly drop the journal to my side on the couch.

“Lila, what are you doing? It’s two o’clock in the morning,”
he says, his light-brown hair askew from sleep.

“Sorry, I was doing some research for a story,” I say,
shoving the journal and notebook into my bag.

“Not still the murders, right?” he says.

I feel a brief flash of anger and frustration, but let it
go. He'll never understand. Neither will Ray. I just have to accept that and
move on.

“No,” I force a smile, “not the murders.”

I feel a sense of relief as one of my internal doors closes
in the isolating breeze of this latest lie, and I
actually
smile.

Scott smiles back warmly.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” he says, pulling my face toward his
for a gentle kiss. “I love you, Lila.”

I kiss him back, but I’m not sorry.

Not sorry at all.

* * *

The flight of birds wakes me in the
dusk. I am there again.

I hear the trees creak, groaning against each other in the
dark wind like violins made of bone.

I am not afraid.

I am not sorry.

I am not cold.

I walk toward the dark, sad house. No longer a place of fear
for me, now it is just a place of pain.

I am barefoot, but nothing can hurt me.

A light goes on in the house—the second floor. A
shadow passes across the window—across my heart. The trees play a
symphony of aching, conducted by the wind.

I watch the window. The shadow moves back and forth. Rocking.
Waiting.

I look toward the backyard—the disturbed earth.

And then I see him—his shadow in the moonlight.

He has my answers. I know that now.

I walk up the hill in the darkness to him. The closer I get,
the softer the earth is under my feet.

I get closer to him.

The Blacksmith is there.

I cannot see his face, but I know he is smiling.

I am not afraid. I want to know the truth.

He points to the earth.

I understand.

I fall to my knees in my cotton nightgown and, with my
hands, I start to dig. I rake through the blood-soaked dirt and lift, uncover, the
hole getting deep, deeper. I wipe the dirt from my eyes with my nightgown so I
can see.

My hands get harder to lift. My feet are disappearing.

I feel myself transform.

My fingers and my toes are changing—becoming one with
the dirt.

Slowly, exhilaratingly, I am sprouting tender roots. My
roots embed in the ground. Tendrils cup the deep earth that is filled with
secrets. My face is blossom-kissed by the moon.

Ainsley will tend me and care for me, as she did for all of
her dark flowers.

My tongue is a petal seeking warmth.

The Blacksmith reaches for it.

It is at the last moment that I see the glimmer of his
scythe coming for me.

It’s harvest time.

I wake in a sweat, but I do not scream.

I am halfway through Ainsley’s
journal. This story will be my masterpiece.

For now, I have to keep it hidden—from everyone.

“Lila?” my editor says, knocking on my cubicle wall.

I jump.

“Yes, Ray?” I say.

“You feeling okay? You look really tired,” he says.

“Thanks—thanks a lot,” I say, a little shorter than I
intend to.

I
am
tired.

“Can you go down and cover the new yoga place opening this
afternoon? Just a quick picture and a couple quotes…the usual?”

I turn back to my laptop.

“Sure, sure,” I mumble.

“Thanks,” he says. “And, Lila…”

Impatiently, I turn around.

“Yes?”

“Get some rest, kid. Take care of yourself. I'm worried
about you."

I wish everyone would just leave me alone.

I have so much to do and learn.

So much to uncover.

* * *

It is several hours later.

Ainsley’s journal was left unfinished—for obvious
reasons.

Can I finish her story?

I know where I can find the answers to her secrets.

I have to go back.

I gather my things and head for the door. It's late
afternoon, but will still be light for some time.

As I'm leaving, I bump into Ray.

“Hi Lila—how did the yoga place opening go?” he asks.

Shit.

I look suitably ashamed.

“Oh, damnit, Ray—I totally forgot. I’m so sorry!” I apologize.

Ray pauses and looks at me quizzically. I know what he’s
thinking. Lila
never
forgets. But this time I have a much more important
story to tell. It’s way beyond the silly local-business openings and bake sales
for school children.

It’s epic, and I’m the only one who can tell it.

“You—forgot?” he says.

“Yes, I forgot, I apologize. I'll call them tomorrow for a
follow-up and get a picture from them. I’m sure someone took one,” I say.

“Well, okay, but Lila—what exactly are you working on
for this week? Deadline is tomorrow. You know that. I haven’t seen anything yet,”
Ray says.

I look at my watch impatiently.

“Ray, I’m working on a bigger story than just for this week.
But I’ll throw some stuff together for you by tomorrow. Trust me, when you see
what I have, you’ll be just as excited as I am.”

“Well, I’d like to know sooner rather than later, Lila.”

I can see that Ray is starting to lose patience.

“I’ll fill you in tomorrow morning. I promise, Ray,” I say.

My dark-brown eyes bore into his pale-blue ones.

He still looks uncertain, but his trust in me wins today.

“Okay, Lila. Tomorrow morning. No more excuses.”

Without thinking, I hug him.

He hugs back after a second. He is thinking,
how unlike
her.

“Now get home and get some rest,” he orders me, his eyes
smiling.

“I will!” I say.

Soon. I will soon
.

My car rumbles up the long driveway
again.

It's a little less frightening when the sky is still mostly
blue.

But still, I get chills as the house appears in the
distance.

I look toward the upstairs and remember my dream—that
wavering, beckoning light.

Was it Ainsley up there? Or someone else?

Perhaps it had been the young, tragic
mother who lost her child. The same woman who bonded with Ainsley in the dirt
over their children’s graves, united by their mothers’ grief, as Ainsley had outlined
in her journal.

I look up into the yard at those graves
standing watch—having seen so much. They have my answers.

Do they know my story? Who can tell it?

* * *

* * *

I'm still staring at the graves watching
over me. How did they get that out of me? I never tell that story.

I live to tell stories, you see—all
except my own.

As I walk to the graveyard, I wipe tears
from my face. I didn’t even realize I had wept, but it’s too late—my
tears have already fallen to the sordid earth below—joining many others
before them.

I left my bag behind. All I need to carry
is the journal.

I do not know of graves.

I have never sat by one.

Unlike Ainsley, I was whisked far away
from the resting places of my dead.

Fire to ashes.

Ashes to ashes.

Ashes to dirt.

This is
not
about me, I think.

This is to learn about Ainsley.

You understand me.

Says the wind.

I feel that chill.

Here is Ainsley’s resting place.

Much like she did so for many years, I
sit, not caring about the dirt. Her words echo back to me…

There is not much of a marker on
Ainsley’s grave.

Ainsley, I want to understand.

I hold my breath. The sun is beginning
to sink in the sky.

There is almost no sound in the air.

I feel a hand on my shoulder, and it is
then that I scream.

“I’m sorry, miss—I didn’t mean to
scare you,” the man says.

I look at him, and my breath catches in
my throat.

Sam.

We talk a while, Sam and I.

“Where did you find that journal?” he
asks.

“Back there—way back, behind the
stones,” I say.

We are both sitting on the ground.

I sense he’s done this, sat here, many
times since it first happened.

“So many people have been all over this
place. I’m surprised no one noticed it before,” he says.

“Lila,” he says, “what is your goal
here?”

I sense his mistrust of my journalistic purpose.

It’s almost dark.

“Sam, all I want to do is find out who
Ainsley really was. I don’t want her only exposure in the media to be as a
monster,” I say.

My eyes meet his. They are a fathomless
brown, reflecting the emerging moon.

Those dark pools flood with tears, and I
can understand how Ainsley felt about him.

 “She wasn’t a monster, Lila. I
refuse to believe that,” he says.

“So, tell me who she was to you. That’s
what I’ll print. You tell me. And here, take this. I’m done with it,” I say,
pressing the journal into his hands. “It should be with you now,” I say.

He looks at the battered book in what is
almost fear.

“Thank you, Lila,” Sam says.

“Okay, Sam. Let’s talk.”