Chill Waters (3 page)

In the far corner, a fifties floor lamp stood beside a sagging stuffed chair, its torn, fringed shade tilted at a jaunty angle, like a drunk’s hat. Out of habit, she crossed the room and straightened it. She remembered a similar lamp from her childhood.

The brick fireplace took up most of one wall. Above it, On the mantle, a pickle bottle held a faded plastic rose. She ran her fingertips over the mantle’s gritty surface. Once, it had been lined with photographsRachael in short hair with bangs, a tooth missing from her shy grin. Next to that, a black and white photo of her father in a baseball cap, hefting a bat too heavy for the thin boy he had been. She touched her fingertips to the spot where her parents’ wedding picture had been.

Right here. Right in the middle.
How young they were. Her mother’s face soft and sweet, framed with dark hair, styled in a pageboy. Her father smiling, barely resembling the gray, somber man she remembered.

As Rachael climbed the stairs to the upstairs rooms, a strange sensation came over her—a sense that she was not real, not quite flesh and blood, but merely a ghost returned to haunt old stomping grounds. A haunted creature herself, belonging to neither past nor present.

The oak railing felt smooth and warm beneath her hand. She gripped it hard, until her hand tingled hotly, giving her evidence of her own substance, her own existence.

Her old room was situated across from her grandmother’s. A small cozy room. An iron-framed bed much like the one she had slept in, stood against the wall, beneath the sloped ceiling. Through the small window above the bed she could see the woods and a slice of bay.

She remembered lying in her bed, palms pressed flat against the ceiling, fancying that she was holding it up, like Hercules holding up the Heavens. A wonder she hadn’t felt claustrophobic with the ceiling crowding in on her like that, but she hadn’t. Rather, she’d felt safe and snug under the patchwork quilt, like a small animal curled up in its den, the battery-operated radio playing beside her. How often she had fallen asleep listening to the old radio program
Music in the Night
.

She still loved the songs from that time: Patti Page’s Old Cape Cod, Tony Bennett’s
Rags to Riches.
Ella Fitzgerald, Sinatra. Greg had no interest in things past, including music. Or a wife, she thought wryly.

Suddenly overcome by exhaustion, Rachael took off her shoes and lay down on the bare mattress. A nubby blue blanket lay folded at the foot of the bed; ignoring its musty smell, she drew it up over her, curled into a fetal position, and was soon asleep.

Five

For the first time since the teenager was rushed into St. Clair Hospital, the victim of a brutal assault, her swollen eyelids twitched, as if she were trying to wake up. The nurse taking her pulse felt her own heartbeat quicken in response. She watched for other signs that her young patient just might make it through this horror. The wrist she held in her hand felt cool and fragile as a sparrow’s wing. “Miss Myers? Heather?”

The only answer was in the steady beeping of the monitor beside the bed. “Heather? Can you hear my voice?”

The girl moaned faintly, her eyes fluttering open, at least as far as was possible, swollen near shut as they were. She peered up at her through mere slits in a face so horribly battered it made Nurse Janet Lewis wince inwardly just to look at her.

As the girl struggled to speak, blood beaded on her lower lip. The nurse gently blotted the wound with a cotton swap from the tray on the night table.
She’s trying to tell me something.

She tracked Heather Myer’s gaze to the aqua plastic carafe beside the tray. “Of course. You’re thirsty.”

Pouring water into the glass, she then cupped the back of her patient’s head, raised it just enough to allow her to take a few sips through the L-shaped straw.

When she had taken sufficient liquid, the nurse asked, “Do you know where you are, Heather?” The girl tried to answer, but nothing came out. Seeing the panic in her eyes, she said quickly, “Don’t worry. Your voice will return. I’m sure it’s a temporary condition brought on by shock. You’re going to be fine, Heather. It’s just going to take a little time.”

Gently, she lowered the girl’s head back down on her pillow, smoothed the blanket around her, then hurried for the doctor.

Six

Iris fished a cigarette from the pack of Benson & Hedges she kept under the counter. Holding it unlit between her long fingers, she looked out the storefront window. In the elongated shadow cast by the
Coca-Cola
sign, a crow hopped and pecked at something on the ground. Probably a potato chip or a Tacos, dropped by some child.

As if sensing her watching it, the bird fixed its beady eye on her. A chill passed through Iris.
A crow at the window means death.
Not that she really believed any of those old superstitions.

Barely conscious of the jazzy tune bouncing from her radio, Iris’ thoughts returned to yesterday’s lone customer. (Unless you counted a $3.00 purchase of gas from a teenage boy driving a wheezing Chevy.) She’d seen the woman somewhere before. But where? Though that wasn’t the only reason she couldn’t seem to get her out of her mind, or even the main reason. What had so unsettled Iris Brandt was the danger she’d sensed around hera cold, malevolent energy. The energy wasn’t coming
from
her, thoughit accompanied her, like the demon dog from hell.

What was wrong with her today? Dogs …crows…

But it was not exactly an unfamiliar happening. Iris had gotten feelings about things and people since childhood. Not that she considered herself clairvoyant or psychic, or whatever was the in-term these days. The very notion of ‘second sight’, as her mother used to call it, was distasteful to her, right up there with snake charming. She was a simple woman, of German peasant stock, who ran a store during the tourist season, and dabbled in pottery-making whenever time allowed. A practical, no-nonsense person.

Still, she had learned to pay attention to the bad feelings, essentially because there was no way you could ignore them. Sometimes they were so intense they didn’t let her sleep or eat. And when she did sleep, she would dreamterrible dreams that followed her into waking. And the feelings would stay with her, boring deeper and deeper inside her skull and her skin, until the awful thing happened.

Just like that time whenno, she wouldn’t let herself dwell on that. Though she did often think of Ethel, wondered how she was getting on in Florida. Was George still alive? He’d seemed so feeble that last time she saw him. Not so surprising considering what that boy did to him.

“We interrupt this program to bring you this news bulletin.”

Iris turned the volume up on the radio.

“We have just received a report that seventeen year old Heather Myers of St. Clair, was brutally assaulted in Steve’s convenience store where she was employed part-time. Myers was discovered unconscious in the back room by owner and operator, Steve Poulis, who, following a frantic phone call from the girl’s mother, drove back to the store to investigate. The condition of the teenager is listed as serious. Unable to speak, she is unable to describe her attacker. If anyone has any information, please…”

“My God,” Iris whispered, snapping off the radio. That poor, dear child. How terrible this must be for Helen and Bob.

‘The devil walks among us’, Iris’ grandmother used to say. If she were alive today that would probably be ‘The devil runs amok’. Or something similar.

Iris dropped the unsmoked cigarette into the deep pocket of her skirt. Retrieving the dust cloth from beneath the counter, she grimly attacked the already spotless display case as if through sheer physical effort she might banish the bad feelings inside her. She feared the savagery inflicted on Heather Myers was only the beginning.

Then it came to her. Now Iris knew who the woman was.

Or at least who she was kin to.

Seven

The instant Rachael opened her eyes she felt disoriented, confused at the unfamiliar, and at the same time familiar, surroundings.

Shouldn’t the window be facing her, the cedar chest in front of it? And the walls were too close. Then, like water gushing from a poisoned well, memory flooded her mind and heart.

She looked at her watch11:20. But it was daylight. At first she thought her watch must be wrong. But the slant of sunlight into her room told her otherwise. She must have slept what…19…20 hours?

Whatever, not nearly long enough, she thought, drawing the blanket back up over her head. A minute later, she listlessly threw it back. She had to use the bathroom. A dull pain prodded behind her eyelids.

She allowed herself a few seconds longer, watched the sun’s rays through the trees create a lacy, moving pattern over the blue blanket. Then, sighing, she slipped out of bed and went downstairs.

She looked at the newspaper hanging crookedly over the window. She would hang curtains. A simple decision. Yes, she could manage that much.

In the kitchen, she rummaged through the crusted mess of cans and bottles under the sink, found a battered kettle, rinsed it under the hot water tap and put on water for tea. An electric range had sensibly replaced the old cast-iron stove.

The tile beneath her feet was bottle green, patterned with black streaks, like roads on a map. Roads to nowhere.

Knotty pine cupboards where no cupboards had been, now flanked the small window over the sink. Through the window she could see the old Elm tree she used to climb in, and swing in as a child. It was taller now, its branches thick and gnarled as arthritic limbs.

How old was she when the man put up a swing for her in that tree? Seven. Yes, she remembered now; she’d been excited about turning eight in September. The seat was painted candy-apple red. She could still feel her small hands clutching those rough ropes, as higher and higher she would go, imagining that at any second she would fly right up into the clouds. When the fear grew too exquisite to bear, she would bring herself back down, heart thudding in her chest long after her sneakered feet had skidded to a stop in the grass.

A million years ago.

Leaving the kettle to boil, Rachael went outside to bring in the boxes from the trunk of her car, which held the few staples she’d brought with her, including teabags, necessary for the barest survival.

The bay stretched calm and blue before her. Birds chirped in the trees. No cars backing out of driveways, no kids calling to one another as they waited for the school bus. So quiet.

The air hung warm and still and heavy. Dark clouds were moving in from across the cove. Rachael unlocked the trunk and the lid groaned open, the sound amplified in the morning quiet. She lifted out one of the boxes.

Back inside, she ferreted the teabags from the box, dropped one into a chipped, blue mug she found in the cupboard. The few dishes she brought from home were in another box. She opened the door to the walk-in pantry and stale moldy air rushed out at her.

A three-legged chair lay on the floor on its side, near a torn window-screen propped against a wall. Half a dozen pickle bottles in varying sizes were lined up on the bottom shelf. No pretty cornflower edged paper here, just the blackened wood. She closed the door, opting to put the few groceries in the kitchen cupboard, although they too needed a good cleaning.

Well, that’s your thing isn’t it, Susie Homemaker?

A scream ripped the quiet, and she whirled around. The damn kettle! The insanely shrieking kettle. She took it off the burner and with a shaky hand poured the bubbling water over her teabag.

Rachael wandered from room to room with her mug of tea, gazing out of windows, moving off again. She went outside, stood on the porch step and surveyed her surroundings.

A bluejay, perched on a nearby tree, scolded her. “Hello to you too,” she said. The jay let out a screech and flew off, leaves trembling in its wake. “Don’t take it personally, Rachael,” she said. The instant the words were out, she darted a look to her right, fully expecting to be embarrassed at having been caught talking to herself. But there was no one there. She was quite alone.

Late in the afternoon, she walked down the worn path to the beach, tall grasses whispering against her jean-clad legs as she went. There, she sat down on her favorite rock with its sheered off top, the site of many a well-enjoyed peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and sipped her tea.

The sun was setting, staining the water red and gold. Though she could appreciate the beauty of Jenny’s Cove, she was unmoved by it. A part of her wanted to simply walk into the water, keep on walking. But she knew she didn’t have the courage. She’d already proven that much to herself. She wanted to live. That’s why she was here.

Had she been only fifteen the last summer she spent here? Her grandmother must have been ill even then for she died that spring. Her father made her go to the funeral; she hadn’t wanted to. She remembered barely glancing at the woman in the coffin with her hands still and folded in death.
I was so angry with her for leaving me.