Chasing Amanda (14 page)

“I’m not crazy, Cole,” she said, annoyed. “I took the dogs for a drive, but then I saw Pastor Lett—at
four o’clock in the morning
! She was rowing her canoe out from one of the inlets—the one by the Perkinson House that Newton Carr was talking about.” She poured Cole a cup of coffee, added cream and Sweet ’n Low, and filled a glass with water for herself.

Cole went to the front of the house to retrieve the newspaper, returned, and sat silently at the table, reading.

“Cole,” Molly continued, “I know what you think of my visions. I don’t know what’s going on, but something is really wrong with...with...well, with everything right now.” She leaned against the counter.

Cole lowered the newspaper. He looked at her, but Molly couldn’t tell whether it was a look of pity or concern.

“Babe,” he said, “I don’t know what to think, but I can only suppose that you believe there’s something going on. I’m worried about you. I thought the therapy really helped when we were in Philly. Maybe you should try that again, or talk to Pastor Lett, she helped you before.”

Molly felt a strong need to validate what she had seen. “Cole, I got this weird note, and then I went to the Perkinson House, and saw, I don’t know, something.” She paused, thoughtfully, “There’s something in the cellar.” She rubbed her eyes, pulled away from him. “I think there might be
someone
in the cellar.”

“Molly,” Cole’s tone was dismissive, “do you even hear what you’re saying?”

“Cole, listen!” she pleaded, speaking quickly, as if she had to tell him before he could disparage her again. She told him about the visions she’d had in the early morning and the ones she’d had at the cellar doors.

Surprisingly, he said, in a very serious tone, “Well, Mol, it looks like you have something going on with you, though I don’t know what.” He looked across the table at her disheveled hair, the dark circles under her eyes. “Are you sure you aren’t just exhausted?” he reached across the table and placed his hand upon hers. “Your curiosity working overtime, maybe? You know, Mol,” he softened his voice, “you’re OCD
could
cause you to dream about all of this, dredging up the past.”

Molly smirked, inwardly chiding him for blaming OCD—an easy scapegoat for a person who needed hard, tangible facts in order to believe in things.

He quickly recovered. “I’m not saying it
is
causing the dreams. I’m just saying it could be, in combination with…well, you know, that’s all.” He sat calmly sipping his coffee—far too calm for Molly’s racing mind.

“Don’t you think I’ve thought of that?” she asked sharply. “I know she’s not Amanda, and I don’t think that I’d have such distinct visions if it were just my OCD. I mean,” she fiddled with the castaway section of the newspaper that lay on the table, “if it were just OCD, I don’t think I would’ve felt the man’s palms on mine or seen with such clarity the area in the woods where I could
feel
her.”

He looked at her as a doctor would look at a patient—a look that Molly was beginning to despise.

“
Feel
her? Come on, Molly. Maybe you did have visions—or do have visions—but we have to make sense of them somehow.” He placated her, “You always do, you know. You figure everything out sooner or later.”

“But later might be too late! There’s a little girl’s life at stake!” Molly’s voice rose as she got up from the chair. “If she’s still alive.”

She gulped her water. Her determination grew. “She
is
still alive. I can feel it. I just have to find her.” She looked out the window at the woods beyond the backyard and said quietly, “I have to find out about that spot in the woods where the ground was hot.”

“What? What spot in the woods? What are you talking about?” Cole asked determinedly. “I’m worried about you, Molly, but if you’re not willing to get help, then you need to know, I’m not uprooting again.”

His cold stare bore into Molly. Too tired to draft another explanation that she knew would be refuted, she conceded. “I’m not asking you to uproot again. I think I’m just overtired.” Molly headed toward the stairs. “I just need to rest.” Cole didn’t respond. Molly watched him shake his head and walk out the front door. As she ascended the stairs, thoughts of the Perkinsons’ cellar raced through her mind.
The light was on. The light was off.
She turned back around and headed toward her den. Molly knew that once her mind got started, it was relentless; she’d never be able to rest. She sat down at her desk and drafted an email to Newton Carr.

Newton, I would like to hear more about the Perkinson House. Do you think you could take me there sometime? I’d love to see the property.
She leaned back in her chair, and a moment later typed,
Does it still have electricity? Thanks, Molly.

Hannah’s morning schedule had been interrupted by an overwhelming sense of anxiety that she could not escape. She felt like a caged tiger, needing to break free. The familiar sound of the horses’ hooves sporadically clomping on the packed-earth floor of their stalls only momentarily soothed Hannah’s anxiety. She breathed in deeply and closed her eyes, relishing the pungent scent of manure and hay—a scent most people would find sharp or unpleasant. Hannah was normally calmed by the smell of her horses. Today, however, she was unable to put her finger on the pulse of her discomfort; it was unsettling, like a bad dream she could not shake. She unlatched Hunter’s stall and drew his lean, muscular body into the center of the barn. She stroked his side, and he nodded his head as if telling her that he was ready. Hannah separated the mouthpiece from the worn leather of the headstall and moved it toward his mouth. He instinctively grasped the bit as he had every morning for the past several years—an expert. Hannah settled the face strap. She didn’t halter Hunter when bridling him, there was no need. He seemed to find equal pleasure in their rides and never fought the tacking process. Together they walked out of the barn and to the block that Hannah had had specifically built in order to mount her horses. She climbed atop Hunter, bareback. Her body molded to the warmth of him. She leaned forward and stroked his mane. He shook his head from side to side.
Look, leg, rein,
Hannah thought habitually. She turned her head in the direction of the woods, used her leg to reinforce her intended direction, and Hunter moved with her before she had time to direct him.

“Good boy,” Hannah said. They trotted toward the woods behind Hannah’s farm.

Thirty minutes later, Hannah and Hunter emerged from the trees onto Schaeffer Road, a one-lane, rural road used as a shortcut from the older section of Boyds to the newer side of town. Hannah had used Schaeffer Road often when the trails were too muddy to ride as it offered a nice loop that led back toward her farm. It was a dangerous path for a horse, she knew, between the kids who raced down the road on their way to the airpark and the old-timers who drove ten miles per hour, but there were times that she just had to ride, no matter what the risk. On this day, however, she had needed to go through the trail—to see her. She felt the pull of the child, urging her near. Her thoughts drifted to Newton, and the first time they’d met, more than twenty years earlier.

She had been hanging up a flyer on the cork board at the post office, looking for farm hands, and Newton had been straightening papers on the table in front of the board. His eyes genially washed over Hannah, and he had quickly looked toward the ground as she tried to make eye contact.

“Well, hello there,” she’d said, cheerfully. “You must be the wonderful person who keeps our community boards up to date.”

“Yes, yes, I am,” he had said, hurriedly. “You must be Ms. State? Bought the old Williams farm?” His eyes continued to dart away from Hannah’s.

“Slate, with an L—Hannah.” She had reached out to shake his hand.

“Well, nice to meet you, Hannah.” He had taken her hand in his which was small for a man’s hand. His handshake was gentle, not manly, but warm. Although he was shy, he exuded a friendliness that not many people could claim. “Newton, Newton Carr,” he had said, finally looking up at her.

They’d chatted for a while and Hannah found herself intrigued by the little interesting man, who reminded her, somehow, of Piglet, with his modest and embarrassed mannerisms and sweet demeanor.

She’d commented on how he must have known everyone in Boyds, and he said, “I could tell you tales that wrap around this town like a ribbon. Hannah, would you have a minute to come meet Betty, my wife?”

Pleasantly surprised, she’d accepted, and spent the rest of the afternoon, and subsequently, many long days and nights with Newton and Betty, getting to know them, listening to stories about the town, the people, and genuinely becoming close friends. Newton and Betty had quickly become like family to Hannah, sharing holidays and urgencies. It had been Newton who’d dropped everything when Hannah had needed him, multiple times, and Betty who would bring soup when she was ill, tending to her animals over the years.

During the snowstorm in the mid-nineties, it was Newton who had begged Harley to plow her driveway first,
Just in case
. Newton had been there when Charlie left her and she’d needed a shoulder to cry on, a person to sit with, and to help her glue the pieces of her life back together. It was Newton who had held her secret and cherished it as much as she had, for so many years. Newton helped her hide from the rest of the world. Newton was her savior in more ways than one.

A thud behind her startled her out of her daydream, inciting a sense of fear. Something inside Hannah suddenly changed. Memories of the past heightened her anxiety and made her sentimental at the same time. She turned away from the annoying sound of the model airplanes hovering above, away from the trail she had been following, and down the paved road that led in the direction of her farm. The one-lane road weaved through the thick shade of the trees. Streams of sunlight stretched to the ground, offering brief, delicious patches of warmth. As they neared their turn, raindrops began to fall from the sky. Hannah held her face up toward the clouds, remembering a time long ago when she and Charlie had first begun to ride together—the dreams that they had woven, the plans they had made as they had ridden on a day that was so similar with a light sprinkling of rain. Dreams, Hannah remembered, of children, laughing and running through the fields, ponies bounding in the pastures, and dogs keeping a watchful eye over their blessings. Hannah let out a brief, harsh laugh. “Yeah, right. Dreams!” she lifted the reins and gave a quick tap to Hunter with her heels. He picked up his pace.

Hannah’s dreams had been crushed when Charlie had realized it was all too much for him to handle. He’d become resentful and quick tempered, and he had finally taken off, leaving Hannah to fend for herself. Her stomach panged at the memory of the days just before he had left, the fear of what he would do had he found out her secret, his wrath of anger, which had come on fast and furious, as it had so often toward the end. Out of sadness or old memories, she wasn’t sure which, her hand fell to her barren abdomen.

Molly stared groggily at the ringing telephone. She glanced at the nightstand and had a hard time registering that it was eleven thirty-seven
A.M
.—not
P.M
. She had climbed into her warm bed for a quick nap—two hours earlier. She answered the phone groggily, “Hello?”

“Oh, that one!” she said, loving the game they had played since he had left for college. “Well, he actually lives nearby. He’s about your age, and
he
calls
me
sometimes.”

Molly could hear the anxiety in Erik’s tone. She leaned against the headboard of the bed, closed her eyes, and remembered her spontaneous visit to a psychic when Erik had been just five. Her friends had been going—
for the fun of it
—and she had tagged along. The psychic had told Molly that Erik bore the same ability to “see things” as she, but that his young mind was too cluttered to see them clearly. The worry of that being true had plagued Molly for years. She had secretly analyzed Erik’s dreams as he had shared them—but other than a few recurring dreams when he went through puberty, they were always typical boyhood dreams. Now she silently pleaded to God not to burden Erik with the Knowing.

“Tell me, Erik,” she said.

“There’s this guy, Mom,” his voice was quiet, yet rushed. “He’s in the dark, well, mostly in the dark. He rocks—forward and back, like that autistic kid did in that show you made me watch? Son Rise? He says stuff, too, but I don’t really know what,” Erik paused, “but I think it’s something important.”

Molly gripped the phone so tightly that her knuckles were white. “What else?”

“I’m afraid, Mom. I’m afraid of the other things I saw,” he was almost whispering.

“Erik,” Molly swallowed, then urged, “there’s something big going on here at home.” She didn’t want to upset him, but every sense in her body told her that she needed to hear what he saw. “Please, Erik. Please tell me. It might help.”

He took a deep breath. Molly envisioned his worried face, the way the right side of his mouth would quiver with each word and his brown eyes would open wide as he concentrated. Molly saw the troubled face of the boy he was, not the young man he had become.