Hurt: A Novel (Solitary Tales Series) (10 page)

30. A Gift Returned

The snow is light and doesn’t really stick to the ground but rather seems to float upward and around as I walk. I’m heading toward the empty church that’s next to the place where I saw Iris.

I want to believe that my seeing her was real and not a vision. But I’m not exactly sure.

My hands are bundled in my coat, and I’m freezing because of the whipping wind. I make sure nobody is following me—part of the reason I chose to come here after school on Wednesday. Tuesdays and Thursdays are my pointless-but-necessary driver’s ed classes. By the time I’m old enough to buy beer, I might be driving legally.

I pass along the tall shrubs, looking for any kind of break that might be an entrance. But I can’t find anything. I walk alongside it twice.

For a while as the snow starts to stick and the daylight fades away, I just stay by the street in between the hedges and the church. I shiver and wonder again if seeing Iris was only a dream.

A wild burst of wind seems to shake something loose behind me. I turn around and see the door opening.

I don’t hesitate, but go inside, shutting the metal gate behind me.

It’s almost as if I’m already inside once I walk into this garden. There’s no wind and no snow, and I wonder if it’s a greenhouse or something like that. I walk up the stone steps to the house.

A chipmunk stands by the door as if to welcome me. He doesn’t zip away, but just watches as I walk up and stand right in front of him.

Then he casually strolls over to the side of the house.

I shake my head.

Since when does a chipmunk casually stroll?

Oh, come to Solitary and you’ll see it all!

I knock on the door, and as I do, it slowly inches open.

An image of Iris dead and bloody lying on the bed suddenly comes into my mind, and I shake it off like it’s a bug that landed in my hair.

I see the same room as before. I smell something too. Something sweet, like cinnamon.

Iris comes out of the back, carrying a tray with tea on it.

“I had just enough time to make this,” she says to me.

She looks younger again. This has happened before, but this time she looks almost like she’s Mom’s age.

No way.

Perhaps it’s the light in here. Maybe it’s extra makeup and more sleep or my lack of really, truly looking at her.

No, Chris, you know she looks a lot younger.

“Iris?”

“I know,” she says as if reading my mind. “Just sit and have some tea.”

“Is that you?”

“Please tell me I do not look that different.”

“No, it’s just—you look—”

“Younger, right?” She only smiles.

The usual lines around her lips and eyes are no longer there.

She had plastic surgery while she’s been gone!

“Please, Chris,” she says again. “Indulge me.”

So I sit and for a while I watch her go through the ritual with cups and hot water. I play along as if I’m really, deeply wanting a cup of tea.

What I really want to know is why she keeps looking younger.

Maybe she’s bathing in Marsh Falls on a daily basis.

“How is your tea?” she asks.

“Fine.”

I sip it, and then I suddenly get an idea. I look at the cup. “Is this—”

“White tea,” she answers. “And no, it’s not a magic potion. It’s just plain, ordinary white tea.”

“How did you know I was coming?”

“I saw you wandering outside.”

“You can see out onto the streets?”

“That’s the beauty of security cameras.”

I nod, a bit disappointed.

“What brings you here on a snowy day?”

“I have a lot of questions.”

“I’m sure you do,” she says in a manner that sounds like she might actually answer them.

“Do you know a man named Alfred Graff?” I ask.

For a moment Iris looks away from me, her face serious and her body language suddenly changing. “I didn’t expect to hear that name.”

“So you know him.”

“Of course.”

I tell her about the mannequin I found in my cabin and how I went to find the man who made it.

“Alfred is a giving man, just completely misguided,” Iris says. “I knew him years ago. It was during the most critical crossroad of my life, the moment where I abandoned all hope and faith. But that’s precisely what drew me closer to my heavenly Father.”

“Is Alfred part of … them?”

“Alfred believes half the story. He’s been mesmerized by the allure of sin and evil. For Alfred, it’s a fascination with dark spirits.”

“Like demons?”

Iris nods and looks at me. “He is misguided, like so many. And around here, that can turn twisted and ugly very fast.”

“I don’t know what to do. About Jeremiah Marsh. And Staunch. And Walter Kinner.”

She nods, and as she does I notice something that I didn’t initially see. Call it being a clueless guy. Iris’s hair is not pulled back like it usually is. It’s cut short with bangs in the front.

“I cannot do anything about them.”

“But why? I mean—do you know what’s happening? What they’re going to do? And what they want with me?”

“I do not know any more than you.”

“But you said you could see things, like me.”

“Yes,” Iris says. “Some things, yes. But I can’t see the future, Chris. I can’t read minds.”

“What am I supposed to do? They want me to take his place. This creepy old guy who is possessed or something. I don’t even know what that means.”

Iris sips her tea and nods as if I’m telling her about a new kind of pancake I just tasted. She waits for a moment without speaking.

I hate when people wait to talk, because I want to talk for them.

“Solitary is a gateway,” she finally says.

For a moment I think of the term
gateway drug
. I want to tell her no, that Solitary isn’t a gateway drug. Nope, Solitary is crack and heroin and every other drug blended together and served as an ice cream cone.

“I do not understand why, or even how, but I do understand that it is true,” she continues. “The original settler discovered that, the one the town is named after. The wicked man who already knew and believed in evil. It was as if this town called for him. But that was why the Crag’s Inn existed. To combat the darkness.”

“And leave it to Chris Buckley to get the place burned down,” I say.

“There is a season for everything, Chris. And for some reason, the Crag’s Inn had its life. That door is shut.”

“What do you mean, ‘door’?”

“The gateway. It served as a door, so to speak, to those willing to do spiritual battle.”

Those willing to do spiritual battle.

“You mean angels?”

She nods and smiles.

“So what—were those people I saw there—who were they?”

“Do you know that the very mention of the word
angel
conjures up many images for people?” Iris says. “A portrait on the wall attached to a Bible verse. A nice feeling for someone dealing with suffering and grief. A story told in Sunday school or to a child at bedtime. The idea of a white, glowing figure with wings and a pale but beautiful face.”

“Angels aren’t supposed to look like that?”

“The only ones I’ve seen look like me and you.”

“The ones you’ve seen.”

She nods. “You’ve seen them too. That was how I knew, Chris. How I knew that you could see. Just like your uncle.”

“Uncle Robert is still alive,” I say.

“I know.”

“Those angels looked just like anybody else I’ve seen.”

“They sometimes can. Not always, but sometimes.”

“So the Crag’s Inn was like some spa for angels or something?”

Iris laughs. “You have a way of saying things, Chris.”

“I do?”

“This entire place—Solitary—is a very special place. I don’t know why. I do know that there has been a battle going on here for a long time. When the inn burned down, I thought that the battle was over. But as I said, Chris—I think you might have been the reason why. To allow your heart to shift and you to be broken. The same way I was after losing my son.”

“But I don’t get why,” I say.

“Just because I can see doesn’t mean I know all the answers. And it certainly doesn’t mean I’m bound for greatness.”

I laugh.

If she thinks that’s where I’m headed …

“The Bible says that suffering produces perseverance, and perseverance will make you mature and complete.”

“Really?” I ask. “Wow, then I’m sure I’m going to be mature and complete any day now.”

Iris knows I’m being sarcastic, but she doesn’t reply. Instead, she stands and goes in the back.

What’s back there? A black hole to heaven? Or to a middle ground that has lots and lots of tea?

She comes back holding something that looks familiar.

The Bible my father gave me.

She hands it to me. “This is yours.”

“Where did you get this?”

“Chris—do you need everything explained to you in black-and-white?”

“No, but I—but this—I threw it away.”

She sits back down and looks at me. She looks so young, and it feels strange because she also looks so beautiful.

They’re all beautiful, all these women coming into your life, but watch out, Chris.

“Not everything can be explained. I sometimes wonder if some things will ever be explained. The story of Noah’s ark, for instance. God creates this world only to wipe it out with a flood. The story told in Sunday school is nice and sweet because it involves animals and a rainbow, but the heart of that story is terrifying. The heart of that story is death.”

“Noah and his family got out.”

“Yes. But the why and the how? I have never understood that.”

“I’m just asking about a Bible I thought was lost.”

“Some things can be found again, Chris. Without an explanation or even a hint of a reason. All I can say is that whatever questions you might have, they’ve been asked before, and the answers are in that Book.”

I sigh, and I don’t realize how loud that sigh is.

“Why the hesitation?” she asks.

“The answers are in that book,” I repeat. “That sounds a lot like the Sunday school story of Noah. A bit too simplistic.”

“Read this all the way through and then say that to me.”

“Is this another assignment?”

She laughs. “No. I won’t be paying you to read that. You are on your own. But you came here looking for answers. Looking for help. This is all I can do for you. There won’t be anyone else to help you out, Chris. They’ve left to do battles with others.”

I try to understand what she’s saying.

“But why. Why did they leave?”

“I don’t know.”

This is the first thing she’s said that isn’t told in a positive manner. She says it in an
I have no earthly idea
sort of way.

“Can I keep coming here?”

She shakes her head. “No.”

“Why not?”

“This has always been temporary.”

“But where are you going to go?”

Iris only smiles. I wait for an answer and even ask her again, but she doesn’t reply.

I hold the leather Bible in my hand. “Thanks.”

“I didn’t give you that Bible. I just returned it to you.”

I nod and think of my father.

Then I think of what I’m holding and wonder if it really does have all the answers I’m looking for. Or even a few of them.

I finish my cup of tea, which is now cold, and stay a few more minutes.

Something tells me this is the last time I’ll ever see Iris.

Or maybe just down here in Solitary.

31. Totally and Completely

Sometimes the conversations I have with Kelsey are totally and completely pointless.

“Our main character has to be dark and mysterious,” I tell Kelsey. “You know, for our epic love story.”

“But not too dark and mysterious.”

“Why not?”

“Because people need someone to relate to. He has to be nice.”

“Maybe he owns a puppy,” I say.

“That would help.”

“Then the puppy gets tragically killed.”

“No, no, no. You can’t have a puppy killed.”

“But then you’ll care even
more
for the hero.”

“Or you’ll think he’s dumb enough to get his puppy killed.”

I think about it and agree. “Yeah, you’re right. Okay. No dead dog.”

“He has to have a good sense of humor.”

“Really?”

“Women like that,” Kelsey tells me.

“Okay. But he can’t be like Will Ferrell or somebody like that. We’ve got to take him seriously.”

“Okay.”

“And the heroine has to be innocent.”

“I thought you’d say dark and wounded but gorgeous.”

“Oh, well, that all works fine,” I say. “At least the gorgeous part.”

“Great. She’s gorgeous.”

“Yes, totally. But she doesn’t know it.”

“Does our hero tell her she’s beautiful?”

“Oh, yes,” I say. “All the time.”

“But he likes to joke, so she thinks he’s joking.”

“Yeah. Amidst all his dark, brooding moments.”

“Brooding,” Kelsey repeats, laughing. “Do you ever brood?”

I try and make a serious look, but she just laughs at me.

“What?” I ask.

“You looked like you’re constipated or something.”

“Not funny.”

“I’m just being honest.”

“Our heroine should be honest. Too honest for her own good, if you ask me.”

“Okay,” Kelsey says. “And our hero can be too witty for his own good.”

“This is sounding epic.”

“Really?”

“Sure. Because they’re in a spaceship heading to the moon.”

“No, no. No science fiction. No spaceships.”

“How about a boat?” I ask.

“Let’s keep them on land.”

“Okay. But they’re in the big city.”

“Sure.”

“And the whole world is falling apart.”

“No,” Kelsey says.

“Why not?”

“No disaster stories.”

“You’re a tough editor,” I say.

“Cowriter. I’m the cowriter.”

“Then you’re a tough cowriter.”

“We’ve got to make it last.”

“The story?” I ask.

“No. The couple.”

Like I said, sometimes the conversations I have with Kelsey are totally and completely priceless.