Harmony House (16 page)

I walk slowly toward what I cannot see.

And like a camera flashbulb popping, the hallway ignites with a lightning strike. And then I see my dad's face. His eyes are wide open and darting in every direction. Blood, dark and syrupy, is streaked across his mouth and dripping down his chin. He brings his arm up, his hand holding a knife with a long, curved blade covered in more black blood.

Then there is the dark.

It comes rushing in around me.

The thunder wrenches a sob from me as I startle and gasp for breath.

I hear the heavy blows and my father speaking in a whisper—very fast, like he's speaking in tongues.

I wait.

The lightning ignites the sky.

Bleeding out on the hardwood floor, Sheriff Jarrett lies unconscious, his eyes rolled back so only the whites are showing, his mouth gaping. My dad buries the knife deep in his chest.

I can't hold my scream back.

My dad's eyes fix on me and he removes the knife again and begins to stand. I turn and run as fast as I can, my lungs straining for breath. I hit a table and go down but then am up again and running faster—my way lit only by the lightning. I don't stop. I reach the stairs and run up them, sprinting, even as my legs burn and I can hardly breathe. My only plan is to get up to my room and then go down out the trellis—to climb down and escape into the woods. I can't think about anything else. I can't think about what happened. And yet I see Sheriff Jarrett's face as though frozen in my mind—projected forever on the backs of my eyelids. I cry and run.

I make it to the top floor and fall and slide along the carpet and then stumble to my room. Slamming and locking the door behind me, I sprint to the window. The rain and wind is so strong I can barely get it open. I push and struggle and pull and finally it opens just enough for me to fit through. Rain pours in through the open window as if I'd opened it underwater. I reach my hand around, feeling for the trellis on the side of the house.

But it isn't there.

I try again, sobbing and praying and running my hands along the rough, splintering wood. The trellis is gone. It must've fallen in the storm. I lean my head out and the rain is blowing sideways in the wind like shards of glass. It burns and pierces my skin.

“Fuck!” I yell out.

I know then that if I jump I will die.

I can't make it.

Struggling to get the window closed again, I sit down hard on the wet carpet and put my head in my hands and cry and cry.

It's over, I think.

There's no way out.

And I think maybe I should jump.

I mean, maybe I should just stop fighting. Maybe
jumping is peace. Maybe Christy knew the truth. Maybe the girl who lived here in Harmony House so long ago did, too.

But jumping isn't peace.

Peace is swallowing the rest of those pills and drifting off to sleep and never waking.

It seems to all make sense now.

Life is pain and hardship and like the myth of Sisyphus, that guy forever pushing the boulder up to the top of the hill only to have it roll all the way back down again.

Look at my dad: he grew up in this house, full of fear and superstition and self-hatred and unrequited love, and now he's a prisoner here—and I am, too. We will never get out. And it has to be that way.

He's right, in fact, the devil is in me and it was in my mom and it is in him, too—it is in this house. It is in the world. It is the only power there is. The lie is that there's the other power, the power of good and harmony and peace and understanding. We are all destined to be forever defeated, disappointed—to not get what we want—to be dashed against the rocks over and over and over again.

The lightning cracks and the thunder claps and I
walk to my closet and dig the bag of pills out of my jacket lining. I pour them out into my hand.

Is there enough here to kill me?

Jesus, I don't think there is.

I've taken too many of them already.

“Fuck!” I yell out loud.

I can't even kill myself right.

Unless maybe I take the pills and then go slit my wrists—or jump from the window or balcony.

The pills will take the pain of death away—and the pain of life, too.

I breathe in and out. The lightning turns the sky a sickly pale white. Thunder rattles the glass in the window. I hold the pills up shaking in my hand. And then Rose's words are there again like a nervous tic or a record skipping:

“I could teach you how to control the power you have,”
she said.

What the hell does that mean?

I have these visions.

I opened that door.

Did I do the other things, too?

Did I make that picture frame break over Alex's head?

Did I make Todd fall down the stairs?

Did I bring Colin back?

Did I cause that earthquake?

Did I cause this storm?

But none of that makes any sense.

If I had that kind of power I wouldn't be here. Sheriff Jarrett wouldn't be dead. Christy wouldn't have broken both her legs. I wouldn't be fucking pregnant.

I wouldn't've failed at every goddamn thing.

The thoughts come so fast it's like the pressure will explode my head wide open.

The fire in my insides ignites like gasoline through my veins.

If there's a power in me, then I need to use it now. I need to stop anyone else from getting hurt. And I need to bring this house crashing to the ground.

I look down at the pills in my hand.

Then I go to the window and push it open so the rain rages in.

“Fuck it,” I say quietly.

I can't run anymore. Whatever's in me, I have to face it.

Now.

The way my mom never could.

I grip the pills and say a silent prayer.

I throw the pills out into the rain.

They disappear immediately.

Gone.

I try to breathe.

But I've made the decision.

I can live without them.

I can live.

Staring out into the rain,
I blink, my eyes seeing the night turn back into a night long ago. Disoriented, I slump against the wall, watching the boy Anselm as he watches Sister Margaret again. Sister Angelica stands above her while she cries, holding her hands to her face. Anselm crouches behind a dresser, peering out from behind the corner. Sister Angelica bares her teeth and yells.

“You are a sinner. You must repent.”

Sister Margaret cries and tells her, “Yes, yes, I want to repent.”

And then Sister Angelica turns and sees the monsignor coming down the hall toward them. He grabs Sister Margaret by the arm and tells Sister Angelica, “Leave us.”

Sister Angelica does as she's told.

Father Meyers drags Sister Margaret by the wrist into the bathroom. Anselm hears the water running in the
tub—loud—the pipes banging and sputtering. And then, above the water and the pipes, comes the shrillest, piercing scream. The sound echoes through the house. She screams and then screams again.

The boy Anselm falls to his knees.

He covers his ears with his hands.

His mouth hangs open in a silent scream.

While Sister Margaret keeps on screaming.

And Anselm closes his eyes.

And it all goes black around him.

And then in the present I hear his body slam into the door of my room.

The knob turns and the lock gives.

The door opens and the lightning strikes and my dad holds up the silver cross and rosary, shouting, “I adjure you, ancient serpent, by the judge of the living and the dead, by your Creator, by the Creator of the whole universe, by Him who has the power to consign you to hell, to depart forthwith in fear, along with your savage minions, from this servant of God, Jennifer Noonan, who seeks refuge in the fold of the Church.”

“Stop it!” I yell. “Stop it!”

I try to focus on my power. I try to take the flame in
me and direct it toward him. But he moves fast across the room—so fast it's as if he is disappearing and then reappearing again, closer and closer, 'til he is upon me.

He places the cross, burning, against my forehead and chants in a language that must be Latin but I've never heard him speak before.

“Imperat tibi Deus Pater; imperat tibi Deus Filius; imperat tibi Deus Spiritus Sanctus. Imperat tibi majestas Christi, aeternum Dei Verbum caro factum, qui pro salute generis nostri tua invidia perditi, humiliavit semetipsum factus obediens usque ad mortem; qui Ecclesiam suam aedificavit supra firmam petram, et portas inferi adversus eam numquam esse praevalituras edixit, cum ea ipse permansurus omnibus diebus usque ad consummationem saeculi.”

The silver of the cross is like a knife blade cutting through the soft flesh on my cheek and I howl with the pain and the storm surges and the rain blows in sideways across the room.

My dad lifts me then, effortlessly, and carries me out into the hall and then down to the upstairs bathroom, where the water in the tub runs to overflowing.

As I close and open my eyes, the water turns to thick, coagulated blood and I see a vision of Sister Margaret
drowned and bleeding below the surface. But then she is gone again and I'm being lowered into the frigid water.

My dad speaks with his eyes rolled back. “Vade satana, inventor et magister omnis fallaciae, hostis humanae salutis. Da locum Christo, in quo nihil invenisti de operibus tuis; da locum Ecclesiae Unae, Sanctae, Catholicae, et Apostolicae, quam Christus ipse acquisivit sanguine suo. Humiliare sub potenti manu Dei; contremisce et effuge, invocato a nobis sancto et terribili nomine Jesu, quem inferi tremunt, cui Virtutes caelorum et Potestates et Dominationes subjectae sunt, quem Cherubim et Seraphim indefessis vocibus laudant, dicentes: Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus Dominus Deus Sabaoth.”

He forces my head under and I gasp and sputter and my lungs fill with water and I'm choking and the world is fading out.

I struggle and cough and get free for a minute, only to be plunged back down.

Under the water I open my eyes.

Through my open eyes I see my father's twisted, lunatic face—his teeth clenched, his eyes wild and blind to all reality. His sickness has turned him into a shadow of a person. His guilt has flayed the meat from
his bones. His mind has warped like a wax figure left to melt in the sun. He has been destroyed by this house, by the church, by his humanity in the face of impossible expectations.

I grab hold of either side of the tub then and pull myself up. I breathe with needles in my lungs.

“Stop it!” I yell again. “Dad, please, you don't have to do this.”

“The glory of the Lord is risen upon you!” he shouts. “I cast you out!”

He tries to push me down again, but I shake myself free.

“It wasn't your fault,” I yell. “What happened to Sister Margaret—you didn't know what he was going to do to her. You didn't know he was going to kill her.”

Hearing my words, my dad falls to his knees at the side of the tub. His eyes fill with blood and he cries with tears of blood streaming down his face.

“Silence, evil spirit,” he shouts. “You will not trick me. I will not listen.”

“Dad, it's the truth,” I tell him.

He raises up then and he gnashes his teeth together and he shouts with a terrible high-pitched cracking to his voice, “I cast you out, devil!”

And then he puts one hand on my stomach and one hand on my head and I plead with him, “Dad, no. You don't have to . . .”

But he will not hear me. He presses his weight down on me and my head goes under again and water fills my mouth and he holds me there with the strength of ten men. I cannot move. I cannot even struggle. And I know if I swallow this water I will die.

I close my eyes.

I remember Rose's words.

I remember everything—every moment of my life—it plays like a sped-up film reel running through a projector. I see it all unfolding to this moment.

Not only that, but I see my father's life.

And my mother's, too.

I see the history of Harmony House passing before me in half a second.

And then I focus on the spark of hope—of flame—of smoldering fire at the base of my spine. I focus on it spreading from vertebra to vertebra—engulfing me—transforming my body into a pyre of burning embers.

Around me the water begins to steam and come quickly to a boil. My father yelps and withdraws his scalded hands. But I let the fire burn in me 'til the water
is at a rolling boil and the shower curtains erupt in flame and the fire climbs the walls and the mirror shatters and the windows combust in a fireball of raining glass.

A noise tears through the house louder than anything that has come before—a terrible wrenching sound, like wood and metal being pulled slowly away from its foundation.

And then I hear my mother's voice.

She whispers softly to me.

I can't make out the words.

But they comfort me.

And soon the fire dies out.

And I curl onto my side.

Everything goes black around me.

And my mother's voice whispers.

Two perfect words.

“Thank you.”

And then it all fades out.

I
open my eyes.

And I am in Harmony House.

The rain and wind has stopped.

I sit up and look.

A tree branch lies splayed across the bathroom—having broken through the side window and drywall. It's the twisted branch of an oak tree. And my dad is lying prostrate, crushed beneath it. He is dead. His mouth is open and his tongue is lolling. Blood pools beneath him.

Then I look down at myself—the blood dried and caked on my jeans. My stomach aches.

My father is dead.

And I must've miscarried.

The sun shines brightly now through the break in the wall. The smell of wet grass and rotted leaves and mud is thick in the air. I lean on the sink, then make my way over to my dad's crumpled body.

Stepping out into the hall I see that the roof has been torn off and the sky is blue and clear. The side of the house facing the street, too, has collapsed completely, so walking down the hallway is like walking in a giant doll's house.

I go to the room that was mine, the horrible pink walls stripped away. I grab a bag from under the bed and throw some clothes in it. I take off my blood-soaked jeans, too, and put on a pair of corduroys.

I hoist my bag up on my shoulder, climbing carefully down the collapsed stairwell, walking around Sheriff Jarrett's sprawled, dead body and stepping out of Harmony House for the last time.

Parked on the gravel, the sheriff's truck has been split almost completely in half by a fallen tree.

In fact, all the surrounding trees have fallen in the
storm. They lie like so many dead bodies, rotting, piled on top of one another.

Only the white oak remains standing—the one Sister Margaret carved her initials into—but with those two other letters—the ones I never saw in my vision.

AMJG.

I walk on down the driveway, climbing over fallen branches.

When I reach the street heading into town, I put my bag down and concentrate.

“I need a ride,” I think. “I need a ride.”

And then an old man in a pickup pulls to the curb.

“Some storm,” he says as I open the passenger door.

“Sure was,” I say.

“Where you headed?” he asks.

I don't answer him.

But he drives me to the Staffordshire Township Hospital—because that's where I want to go.

The hospital is overflowing with people injured from the storm, but I manage to find Christy's room on the third floor.

I duck my head in, carefully, trying not to make any noise opening the door. Christy is lying in the bed, her legs propped up in a cast, an old black-and-white movie
playing on the wall-mounted TV. I recognize Robert Mitchum dressed as a preacher—right hand tattooed with “love,” left hand tattooed with “hate.”
The Night of the Hunter.
Christy watches absently. She seems okay. That, at least, is a relief.

Then from behind me I hear Rose's voice.

“You did it,” she says. “Oh, Jen, I'm so proud of you.”

I turn to her with my head bowed.

“Sheriff Jarrett came to the house last night,” I say, feeling the tears at the backs of my eyes again. “My dad . . .”

“Shh,” she says, not letting me finish. “Shh. I know. It's not your fault.”

“But I could've saved him,” I tell her.

She puts her big arms around me.

“You did everything you could.”

She holds me to her. I smell the smell of her shampoo and laundry detergent. I start to cry.

“You don't have to worry anymore,” she says. “You're safe now.”

“I've got nowhere to go,” I tell her.

She pushes my hair back out of my eyes.

“You'll stay with me,” she says. “I'll protect you.”

“But what do I do with this power I have?” I ask her.
“I don't know how to control it.”

“You do know how,” she says, smiling. “And I'll help teach you.”

From her hospital bed, I hear Christy murmur weakly, “Jen? Is that you?”

“Yes,” I say.

And I go to her.

“You'll stay with us now, won't you?”

I take her good hand in mine and feel the softness of her skin.

“Is that all right with you?” I ask.

She manages a smile.

“Yes,” she says. “I want you to.”

“Thank you,” I tell her.

And then I turn away so she doesn't see me cry.

Rose walks over and takes me by the arm.

“Come on,” she says. “I'll take you home.”

“Home?” I ask.

“To my home,” she says.

She smiles more.

I remember my mother's last words to me—in Harmony House.

“Thank you,” she said.

And that's what I say now.

“Thank you,” I tell Rose.

“It's all right,” she says. “It's all going to be okay.”

And for the first time since I can remember, I think that might be the truth.

I say good-bye to Christy, and then Rose and I walk out of the hospital together into the bright perfect clear cold sky.