How to Hang a Witch (10 page)

“R
oom ten-twenty-seven is that way,” says the nurse, and points down the hospital corridor.

I don't wait for her to finish her sentence before I take off running. A surprised visitor jumps out of my way as my feet pound down the hall. I swing my dad's door open and let out my breath. His face is covered with tubes, but I'm used to that.

His blankets are neatly tucked around him. They're a different shade of blue from the last hospital's. I touch his arm, the one without the IV and heart monitor.

Vivian clicks into the room and shuts the door behind her. “You almost knocked that man over.”

“Uh-huh,” I say, without paying attention.

I sit on my dad's bed and hold his hand. Without thinking, I trace the cooking scar on his pointer finger.
He looks the same.
I examine the streaks of white around his temples. Maybe a little thinner than last time I saw him, but not too different.

“We moved to Salem,” I say. “After all those times I bugged you to take me there, we're living in Grandma's house. It's enormous. I can't believe you grew up in that place. I get lost trying to find the bathroom….I'm using your bedroom. The one you had as a kid, with different furniture, though.

“Mrs. Meriwether fixed it up for me. She told me you guys were best friends when you were little.” I laugh. “You never told me about her. She's kinda great. And, holy moly, her cooking is out of control.”

I examine his palm. “When you wake up, maybe you can tell me about Grandma—” I stop short. His heart monitor alarm wails.

“Why is it doing that?” I ask Vivian.

She steps forward, examining the display of his vitals, and shakes her head. “Did you knock the monitor off his finger?”

“No.” I run to the door. But by the time I get there, a nurse comes in.

She feels his pulse, and presses a button on the intercom. “I need two nurses in ten-twenty-seven now.”

My hands shake. “What's wrong? What happened?”

Two men in scrubs enter. “I'm gonna need you to leave the room,” the first one says.

“Let's give them some room to work, Sam,” says Vivian, heading for the door.

“No!” I yell. My dad's heartbeat flatlines. “Dad! Please. You can't. I don't know….Please, Dad. I need you!”

One of the male nurses catches me before I reach the hospital bed. The first nurse pulls out a set of defibrillators. They open my dad's gown.

“It's okay,” the male nurse tells me. “I'm gonna take you out of here.”

I can't get my breath. I try, but there's only wheezing. The room spins.

The nurse guides me toward a chair in the hallway.

“Breathe, Sam,” says Vivian.

I can barely hear her. This isn't happening. My dad isn't dying. Minutes pass. I don't know how many. I close my eyes and attempt to breathe.

I pulled my knees closer and my back pressed into the cold steps outside my apartment building as my dad's town car pulled up.

“Sam?” He didn't say his usual goodbye and thank you to his driver. He knew why I was perched outside in the dark against the railing.

I held up a few jagged pieces of hair hanging above my shoulder. “They cut my braid off.”

He sat down next to me and forced a smile. “That's just because they knew how pretty you'd look with short hair.”

My lip trembled as I held up my one remaining long braid to show him how bad my situation was. “They laughed.” A few tears fell onto my cheeks.

He grabbed my hand and easily hoisted me from my sitting position. “Come on.”

I let him lead me into our well-lit lobby, with its big chandelier. He headed straight for the doorman's desk and grabbed a pair of scissors. Without any hesitation, he cut off a big chunk of his own black hair right from the front.

I was so shocked that I stopped crying.

“There. Now we're the same. You'll never be alone, Samantha. As long as I am in this world, I'll be there with you. What do I always tell you?”

“Fall down seven times, stand up eight.”

“And what are you going to do?”

“Stand up.”

“That's my girl. Now, should we go show Vivian our new haircuts? Maybe she'll want one.”

I couldn't help but laugh. The thought of Vivian cutting her own hair was too ridiculous. I leaned into my dad's side, and he held me while we waited for the elevator.

The first nurse comes out of my dad's room. She approaches Vivian. “He's stable,” she says, and my chest releases its grip on my lungs. “He may have had a heart attack, but it's hard to tell until the doctor sees him.”

“Will he be alright?” Vivian asks, and I stand.

“For now, yes,” says the nurse. “I would wait a couple of days before visiting again. He just transferred here, and sometimes patients have a bad reaction to moving. I would give us a few days to monitor him. We'll be in touch if anything changes.”

“Can I see him?” I ask.

“I would let him rest, Sam,” says Vivian. “We'll come back when he's more stable.”

“Why don't we just wait here until he's more stable?”

The nurse interjects. “I really think it best you go home.”

“Thank you. We'll do that,” says Vivian.

“Please, can I say goodbye?” I ask.

The nurse looks unsure. “Just be quick.”

I run into his room before anyone can object. His tubes are back in place, and except for his disrupted bedsheets, you would never know anything happened. I kiss him on the forehead.

“I promise I'll fix this,” I whisper. “I won't let anything happen to you. I love you.”

The nurse opens the door, and I back away, taking a mental picture of him as I go.

“W
e should transfer him back to New York,” I say to Vivian as we turn down our street. This is the most I've spoken since we left the hospital.

“Don't be ridiculous. You heard what that nurse said about travel being hard on patients. It could be bad for him.”

“I don't trust it here. He'd be better off in New York.”

“Where you couldn't see him?”

“I'd take the bus.”

Vivian shakes her head. “We'll talk about this when you've calmed down.”

“I am calm,” I say as we bounce into our driveway.

“Sam, you seem really unsettled lately. Agitated, even. I know this move has been stressful. Maybe it's best if you talk to someone about it.” She puts the car in park and turns toward me, dropping her jeweled wrist from the steering wheel.

“You mean therapy.”

“Well, you haven't been sleeping, and you've been seeing things. I just think it's worth thinking about. I have a few errands to run, but maybe we can chat about it when I get home.”

I get out of the car, shaking. “I'm
not
going to therapy and I'm
not
seeing things. My dad is in a coma. Just because
you
can sleep doesn't mean I can.”

“Well, that's more than a little unfair.”

I slam the car door.

She speeds away in reverse. The back bumper of her car scratches against the dip at the mouth of the driveway. How did we wind up like this, where we fight more than not? I unlock the side door, and the heaviness of my situation presses down on me with a steel hand.

I only make it to the middle of the foyer before I sit on the floor. I fold over and put my forehead on the wood. My back shakes and tears fall down my cheeks.

“Elijah?” I say through my sobs. I lift my head off the floor. “I know you don't like to be summoned, but I need your help. Please.”

He appears. “Let me help you up, Samantha.”

“I don't care about me.” I wipe my tears with the back of my sleeve. “I only care about my dad. I don't want him to die. I'll do anything. Help me break the curse.”

He sighs. “I am helping; I made that confounded deal with you.”

“I mean really help, like you care, like you would if it were Abigail.”

His eyes get a faraway look.

“What if I leave Salem and transfer my dad back to New York? Then all the families won't be here—”

“An elderly descendant died in her sleep while you were in Boston today. I don't believe it will make any difference if you leave now.”

My heart sinks.

“Please, you must get off the floor.” Elijah offers me his hand, and I take it. His palm is cold the way it was when it was pressed against my mouth. He pulls me into a standing position and tucks my hand into the crook of his arm.

We walk into the living room, and he gestures toward the white couches. “Sit.”

“You're the bossiest person I've ever met,” I say, but plop down onto a cushion anyway. I wipe the remaining dampness from under my eyes. He grabs some wood to start a fire.

“I am a lot older than you. I know better.”

“You don't look a lot older.”

“That is beside the point.”

“How old were you when you died?”

He lights the kindling and closes the screen around the fire. “Eighteen.”

“You loved Abigail a lot, didn't you?”

Looking at him standing next to the mantel, flames lighting up his face, I can't help but think how attractive he is. “Yes. Our parents died when I was fifteen and Abigail was thirteen. It became my responsibility to take over my father's business. I dedicated myself to caring for her so she would not have to endure living with our relatives. We were as close as any two people could be.”

“What happened to her?”

“I am not going to discuss that, Samantha. I have said too much already.”

“You haven't said anything. I barely know anything about you except that you want me to leave.”

“That is enough.”

I sigh. “Fine. Don't talk to me. But will you help me?”

He sits down in one of the white armchairs. “Yes, if I can. But you may not like everything I have to suggest.”

“Like what?”

His movements are elegant as he adjusts his posture. “I do not think you will disrupt this pattern by yourself.”

“I have Jaxon and Mrs. Meriwether…and you. Who else do I need?”

“I believe it will require the assistance of the Descendants.”

“Those nuts?” My face falls. “You're right. I don't like that suggestion.”

“Considering that these deaths do not affect your family alone, I think it prudent to inform the potentially injured parties. They may be able to help with information.”

“Of all the things you could've said, you had to say that? Now I feel guilty if I don't tell them. I don't know. Maybe they can help. We don't even know how the curse started.”

“If there is such a curse, I imagine it started with the Trials.”

“Well, what was the cause of the Salem Witch Trials?” As soon as the question leaves my mouth, I remember Lizzie's answer from class. “It was Cotton Mather, wasn't it?”

He looks like he's reliving unpleasant memories. “He was a main player but not the only one. Give me time to think about it.”

“Can I borrow your notes on the descendants' deaths?”

“If you want them.”

“If I have to convince a group of people who hate me to help solve a curse that could be killing our families…I can't even say this without thinking I sound one hundred percent crazy. Anyway, I just need those notes, otherwise I have no chance with the Descendants.”

He nods and disappears.

“Way to say goodbye.”

I
slip into my seat next to Susannah in homeroom before the bell. It's Monday morning of week two at Salem High, and my situation has only gotten more anxiety-inducing.

“Alice,” I say. Might as well go straight to the difficult one.

Alice, Mary, and Susannah turn—black clothes and dark expressions. There's something undeniably beautiful about them. If they weren't so mean, I'd feel the same awe other people do.

“Look, I know you hate me. But I know something important about your families that you'll wanna hear.”

“I doubt you have anything to say that I want to hear,” says Alice. “Unless it's the sound of you shutting the hell up.”

“Talking to you is basically the last thing that I want to do. But, again, it's important.”

“Well, what is it?” asks Mary.

Alice glares at her. “Mary, stop.”

“What if it's actually important, Alice? She said it was about our families.”

Alice rolls her eyes before facing me. “You have thirty seconds.”

Man, I so wish I didn't have to be nice to you.
“It can't be explained in thirty seconds.”

“That took ten. Twenty seconds left.” Alice waits to see if I'll challenge her.

It takes all my willpower to smother my frustration. “The simplest way to say it is…we're cursed.”

Mary laughs. “You mean, you're cursed.”

I can't help but wince. “I mean
we,
as in all of us. As in people are dying.”

Mary laughs again, but Alice and Susannah don't. The bell rings.

“Welcome to Monday morning,” says Mrs. Hoxley. “Fresh start to the week. We only have one announcement. This Wednesday, school's canceled for Remembrance Day—the official start to Salem's History Month.” People hoot. “Now I'll give you time to sort your schedules and finish your homework. There will be
no
talking.”

Mrs. Hoxley scans the room, looking for dissent. And even though I never talk, she glares at me. She's hated me since the pastry incident, when she threw up in the middle of the hallway.

I pull out my agenda. I honestly don't know how I'm gonna get these girls to talk to me long enough to convince them. I'd think I was crazy, too. What a nightmare.

Susannah slips a note onto my desk. It reads
Explain.

I stare at the small piece of paper without a clue what to write. I make three failed attempts, which sound equivalent to “my gut told me something was wrong and then—bingo—I figured out people were dying.”

With one minute left to homeroom, I write
read these,
and pass the note back with Elijah's handwritten papers. Mrs. Hoxley looks ready to comment, but the bell cuts her off.

The Descendants leave without a glance. At least Susannah takes the papers with her. I shove my stuff in my bag and rush to history. I didn't return Jaxon's texts yesterday, and I'd like to explain before class starts.

I barely step one foot inside the door when Mr. Wardwell says, “Sam, you've been called to the principal's office.”

“But—”

“No buts. Head over there.”

I glance at Jaxon's empty seat and leave. What's this all about? Susannah wouldn't give those papers to a teacher, would she? I would look like a total psychopath.

When I open the heavy glass door to the principal's office, the secretary's eyes are glued to a book. I walk right past him, and I turn the handle of the door that says
PRINCIPAL BRENNAN
in a large font. Vivian sits in a chair facing Brennan's desk. I freeze.

“Is Dad okay? What happened?”

“Your father's fine. Jimmy here just wanted to have a chat with us,” Vivian says in her I'm-the-nicest-person voice.
Gross, did she just call him Jimmy?

I look between them and take the seat next to Vivian. Am I in trouble?

“Now, Sam,” Brennan says, “I know you've struggled to adjust in your first week at Salem High. Which is perfectly understandable given your father's illness and all. But it's come to my attention that the problem is larger than I imagined.”

At least this isn't about those papers I gave to Susannah.
“Okay?”

“I think it best you visit the school counselor once a week for the next couple of months, to monitor your progress,” Brennan continues.

“Monitor my progress? Like therapy?” I glare at Vivian. I'll give her one thing; she's persistent.

“Not therapy. Just an informal check-in. Jimmy—'scuse me,
Principal Brennan
—thought it would make your transition easier. That way you could discuss anything that's bothering you.”

“No.”

“Sam.” Principal Brennan runs his hand through his thinning hair. “It's not a request. I want you to go to the counseling office and set a schedule with Mrs. Lippy before you return to class.”

“You want me to go talk to someone named Mrs. Lippy? If you—”

“Let's discuss this outside.” Vivian cuts me off. “Don't worry, Principal Brennan. I'll handle it.”

He looks at me sharply, but Vivian stands, and her long legs distract him. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Vivian. Sam, I look forward to good progress reports.”

I get up and walk straight through the waiting room and into the hallway.

“Sam.” Vivian catches up with me. “It was the best I could do. Apparently, a lot of students complain about you. I know how it sounds, but the principal called all concerned about you not fitting in with the school. This seemed like the best-case scenario. That is, if you want to continue going to high school.”

“Whatever.”

“Do not give me attitude when I just saved you in there.”

“I can't talk. Mrs. Lippy is waiting.”