Rituals (2 page)

“The chrome-yellow '72 Monte Carlo out front? It's only got five thousand original miles?” Life without a car had given Amande a motorhead's heart.

“I bet Tilda would let you take it for a spin. She leaves the keys in it.”

Amande looked ready to forget the séance, so she could sprint outside and ogle the classic car before dark. She kept her seat, though, because Tilda had entered the room. An air of stillness entered with her, but Myrna couldn't let the stillness settle without sneaking in a little more family lore.

“Tilda was…is…the most gifted medium of her age, just as Father was before her. She still takes the occasional client, but she must really like you girls. She doesn't do this for everybody.”

Windowless and claustrophobic, the tiny room made Faye feel disoriented even before Tilda, still silent, lit a low oil lamp and placed its open flame under the crystal ball. Faye grew curious, despite her skeptical nature. The ball, lit from below in a way she'd never seen in the movies, glowed as if from within. At the risk of ruining the spiritual tone of the evening, Faye indulged her own geekiness, leaning in to examine it. When she tried to look through the crystal, images of objects on the other side were inverted.

Faye understood the optical principle at work, but its effect was hypnotic and unfamiliar. When Tilda daubed her palms with scented oil and rubbed them over the crystal ball, warmed by flame, Faye thought,
This is interesting. None of the fortune-telling gypsies on
Scooby-Doo
ever did that.

The fragrance of the heated oil was already rising on warm air when Tilda lit a misshapen lump of incense. She placed it on a ceramic tray that was painted with intricate geometric patterns, holding the burning incense in front of her face with both hands and drawing the aroma in through her nose. Combined with the perfumed oil, it filled the room with a fragrance that was too strong to be pleasant, yet wasn't oppressive.

“Join hands, please,” Tilda said in a commanding voice. After three deep breaths, she said, “You were not always mother and daughter.”

Faye's mental fraud detector gave Tilda demerits. She was certain that Myrna knew she'd adopted Amande recently, and it was obvious that Tilda immediately heard any gossipy tidbit that Myrna discovered.

“Amande's mother sent you to her. She knew that you would care for her child.”

The curmudgeon inside Faye who bore a grudge against Justine snorted. If Amande's mother had cared so much, why had she walked away from a toddler and never come home?

Then Faye's internal fact checker reminded her that Justine had died only a few days before Faye got the job that took her to Amande. From a Spiritualist's perspective, death had finally given Justine the chance to manipulate events in her daughter's favor. She'd never had a shot when she was alive. Justine's life had been hard from birth to grave.

Faye's fraud detector, always fair, removed one demerit from Tilda's side of the ledger.

Tilda closed her eyes and took more easy breaths. “The two of you are bound by more than blood. Your ancestors are happy that you found one another. Your mothers have found each other on the other side, and they share your joy.”

Well, that was an unprovable bit of feel-good psychobabble. Faye was about to issue another skeptic's demerit when she noticed an uncountable number of orbs of light flickering in her peripheral vision. The orbs were all colors, pure and beautiful, without a tone of gray in any of them. The lights danced. They passed through objects and human bodies. They couldn't possibly be real, not in a physical sense, but she couldn't stop looking. Could anyone else see them?

Myrna and Tilda were looking only at the uplit crystal ball, but Amande's eyes were darting from the lamplight to the room's dark corners and back again. The girl wasn't just confused by what she saw. She was scared.

Faye gave her daughter's hand a squeeze. Then Tilda mentioned their mothers again and a shadow fell over Amande's face. “Your mothers are both here. They have not let go of the pain of living. You should know that your fathers left of their own accord. Your mothers did not send them away.”

Tilda had nailed that one, almost. Faye wasn't sure she'd say her father had left of his own accord. More accurately, the draft board had said, “Here's a one-way ticket to Vietnam,” but Tilda was right that her mother hadn't sent him away.

About Amande's father, she knew exactly nothing, because Justine had never told anyone who he was. Justine had abandoned her daughter after a year of single motherhood and she was dead now, so there was no one to ask. There never would be. If Faye were to ever muster a grain of sympathy for Justine, it would be because she could imagine being a lonely teenaged mother with no help in sight.

The glowing lights flitted around the room, reflecting in Tilda's glasses and throwing a luminous glow on Amande's dark curls and her honeyed-brown skin. Faye wanted to ask Tilda whether the orbs were supposed to be the souls of dead people, but she was too relaxed to make the effort.

Even if they were ghosts, they didn't scare her. They hovered near the four women at the table, flirting with the idea of touching them, then passing right through their bodies, always at the heart.

Faye tried to decide what color her mother's orb would be, or her grandmother's, or her father's. What about Douglass? What color was his soul? He had been a rock for her, almost a father, someone she could trust to protect her when needed and to let her go when the time came. Two glowing orbs, cool green and deep blue, flew in tandem past her cheek, and she heard Douglass' voice rumble in her ear. “He sent me, you know. Your father sent me to take care of you. And now we're both here.”

Then she felt herself enfolded by woman-arms, more than two of them. Her mother and her grandmother were there, both of them, but they were silent, because there was nothing about their love for her that she didn't already know. She wanted to stay there with them, but she looked at her daughter's face and saw a tear streaking down her cheek. The tear brought Faye back to herself.

“Stop it.” She half-rose from her chair, breaking her hold on Myrna's hand. “Stop it now. We've had enough.”

Stupid. How stupid could she be?

Amande didn't have Faye's memories of being a cherished child. There had been only one stable force in Amande's life before Faye and Joe came along, and that was Miranda, the step-grandmother who had raised her. Hardly a year had passed since Amande learned that her runaway mother had succumbed to cancer. Days after receiving that tragic news, Miranda had been knifed to death.

It was too soon for Amande to be reminded of the grandmother she'd lost and the birth mother she'd never known. It was simply too soon.

There were arms around Amande now, real ones, as Myrna reached out for the shaken girl, who was already cradled against Faye's chest.

“I'm so sorry, Dear,” Myrna said. “Sometimes this happens. Sometimes, it hurts to touch the ones we miss so terribly. The pain will get better. You'll be glad later, I promise. These experiences freshen the bonds and bring our loved ones closer. But there's no need to rush things, now that you know what's possible. Any time you feel like talking to your mother…or anybody, really…you come back here. Tilda can help you.”

Tilda hadn't spoken yet. While they talked, she'd turned her drooping eyes from one face to another, as if hoping someone would tell her what had happened. If Tilda were to ask Faye that question out loud, the only answer she'd get would be, “Hell if I know.”

Faye wished for Joe. Every last gram of her was a scientist, so she would never stop looking for rational explanations for even the strangest events. Her husband, on the other hand, was sometimes content to let things be. He also possessed a comfort with the power of nature that was rooted in his Creek heritage, and his intuition was so keen that he often seemed psychic when he'd done nothing more than pay attention.

Faye's own Creek heritage was so diluted by her African and European blood that she rarely felt a connection like Joe's to her American roots. Joe was her spiritual touchstone.

Joe would be able to help her make sense of this experience under Tilda's staircase. If Faye had thought Tilda possessed psychokinetic powers that could magically snatch Joe out of Florida and bring him to her, Faye would have willingly braved another session around the crystal ball. But not with Amande. Faye knew she was wishing for the impossible, but she didn't ever want to see another tear on that vulnerable cheek.

Chapter Two

Myrna was gathering up the leftover licorice. From the number of pieces left in the box, Faye judged that even Tilda didn't like it. Faye became very intent on looking for her purse, hoping to avoid eye contact that would prompt Myrna to offer her another piece.

Tilda stepped between Faye and Myrna's foul candy. Faye was deeply relieved.

There was an ache in the psychic's sharp blue eyes. “I grieve for your daughter's pain. If I'd known about her mother, I wouldn't have…well, it's done now. And to have lost her grandmother as she did. It was brave of her to open up to you and your husband. Very brave.”

She looked over her shoulder to be sure that Amande was out of earshot in the next room, trying out Lucretia Mott's chair.

“One day, when she's ready—and she
will
be ready—tell her that her mother came back to her when she died. Everywhere Amande goes, Justine is there. She couldn't help her daughter when she was alive, but now she can.”

Faye wanted to be jealous.
She
was Amande's mother now. Justine had forfeited everything when she abandoned her. In her heart, though, she knew it would be better for Amande to feel that her mother cared, even if she had no evidence beyond the word of an octogenarian who believed she could talk to dead people. One day, she would tell her daughter what Tilda had said.

Myrna walked them to their car, hugged them both and made sure they used their seat belts, then she walked toward the sidewalk, purse in hand. Where in Rosebower could she be going? Everything was closed.

Faye didn't like to see Myrna walking alone after dark. Her vision was bad. She was gasping before she even reached the sidewalk. Her short-term memory left a little to be desired. Sometimes old people wandered away and never came home, and moments like this made those tragedies possible.

Faye rolled down her window. “Do you need a ride somewhere, Myrna? I thought I heard you say you were ready for bed. Let me take you back inside.”

“I
am
going to bed. My bed's over there.” Myrna gestured at another early nineteenth-century house across the street, just as impressive as Tilda's. In fact, it was utterly identical to Tilda's. “Our great-great-great-grandfather built hers, and his brother built mine.”

Amande poked her head out her own window. “Do you have a secret room under the staircase, too?”

Myrna hobbled over to be close to the girl. “I
do
. The banisters on my staircase are carved of the same pretty wood, and my brass chandeliers are just as brassy. And I have the other half of the family antiques. You have to see it all. Say you'll come soon.”

Amande promised she would, and Faye pulled the car out of Tilda's driveway. If she'd been dog-tired before, she didn't know how to describe her status now. Double-dog-tired?

The rental car gave a polite ding. She might be double-dog-tired, but now she was going to have to find the energy to feed this car another tank of expensive gasoline.

***

Amande hadn't spoken while Faye pumped the gas. She hadn't said more than two words since they drove away from Myrna. At first, Faye's judgment had been that it was better to leave her alone. Right now, she was doubting her judgment.

Finally, Amande spoke. “I saw her. I saw my mother. In the crystal ball. I wanted to bust it open and let her out, because she looked like she was trapped in there.”

“I saw some weird things, too. How do you feel about seeing Justine?”

“I feel like I've had some questions answered, except I don't know what my questions were.”

Faye pulled out of the gas station parking lot and turned onto the narrow northbound lane of Rosebower's Main Street. She felt like she needed to maneuver carefully through this conversation.

“How did you know which one was your mother?”

Amande cocked her head in Faye's direction. “She looked like the picture I have of her, the one taken when she was my age. Only she was older. But why do you say ‘which one'?” My mother was the only…um…visitor I saw. Who did you see?”

“I didn't see anybody I recognized. I didn't see anything but lights…pretty lights. It was better than it sounds. My mother was there, and my grandmother. I think my father was there, right next to Douglass.”

“You've told me about Douglass. He came to you tonight? And you were with your father for the first time that you remember? How cool is that?”

It was cooler than Faye could say, so she didn't try. Instead, she said, “Look. The diner's still open. I happen to know that they have banana splits on the menu.”

Faye could hardly have been less hungry, not after their gargantuan meal. Also, the flavor of licorice might have put her off her food forever. Amande, however, was a growing girl and she'd had no dessert that she was willing to swallow.

Within minutes, they were giving their order to Julie, the waitress.

“I'm not very hungry,” Faye said. “Let's split one.”

“That's not why they call it a banana split.”

“You're going to make your old mother eat a whole banana split? She'll get fat.”

“You're not old and you have the metabolism of a hummingbird.”

Faye rewarded Amande for this flattery with an entire banana split, and she couldn't say she didn't intend to eat every bite of her own.

She eyeballed the solemn girl. “You okay?”

“I'm always okay.”

“Yes, you are.”

“We're alike that way.” Amande used her napkin to wipe a stray spot of chocolate syrup off the table. “Other people have had it easy so far, but maybe they'll fall apart when things get bad. You and me…we already know what bad is, and we already know we can take it.”

Faye wished she'd been the one offering the sage observations.

Six scoops of ice cream, two bananas, and four bad jokes later, Faye saw her daughter smile. Her work was done.

***

Joe woke suddenly. It took a moment to come back from the dream and realize where he was.

Faye wasn't here, and that felt wrong. He was still wearing his clothes, and he felt like he'd just finished running a marathon.

Oh, yeah. He'd spent the day chasing a two-year-old. He
had
just finished running a marathon.

This revelation also explained why there was a crushing weight on his chest. He'd gone to sleep with Michael on top of him. This beat the other explanation for that crushing weight, a heart attack at the tender age of thirty-three.

The dream was still reaching for him. Now he remembered what woke him.

Douglass. Douglass didn't come to him often. When he did, it meant Faye needed him. He put the boy to bed and picked up the phone.

Later tonight, he'd build a fire in the fireplace. Just a little one, because it was hot outside. When Joe needed to commune with the dead, he didn't need much. A little fire and a fistful of sacred herbs would do.

***

A stop for gas. A stop for ice cream. Faye's bed didn't feel any closer than it had when she'd left Rosebower.

She had picked their quaint bed and breakfast at the Vandorn House on the outskirts of Buffalo for several reasons—some of them rational. It was cheaper than Rosebower's one and only inn, and it was even quainter. Faye had totally gotten into planning this mother-daughter trip, so when it came to choosing their lodgings, she'd decided that girlier was better. Their bedroom dripped with chintz, ruffles, and lace, and the thought of its million-thread-count sheets made Faye long for bed even more.

From the comfort of home, she'd figured that this place's quaintness-to-cheapness ratio made the thirty-minute drive to Rosebower worthwhile. It was also situated near several major highways, and Faye had big plans for this trip that didn't all involve work. The time they lost on their daily drives to Rosebower would be made up on the weekends, when she planned to take Amande on road trips in all directions to look at potential colleges. And, of course, there would be the very girly pilgrimage to Seneca Falls.

When it came to travel-planning, Faye was uncommonly astute at figuring out how to get the most experiences per dollar spent, but she sometimes neglected the limits of human endurance. She was exhausted, and Amande looked like she could hardly hold her head up. A more convenient hotel might have been better, but they were locked into their current lodgings because she had negotiated a sweet monthly rate with the proprietor.

Her phone rang and she saw that it was Joe. Damn her self-imposed rule against talking on the phone while driving. She believed in the good example mode of parenting, and she didn't ever want Amande careening down a highway with her phone in her hand and her mind a million miles away. Faye needed to talk to Joe even more than usual, and that was saying a lot, but rules were rules. She let the call go to voice mail.

Amande rested her head against the passenger window. Faye hoped she was sleeping instead of seeing her dead mother trapped in a crystal ball.

***

The parking situation at the B&B was almost as quaint as its pocket-sized bathroom. Faye took care navigating the narrow lane to the parking lot around back. This was good, because as she rounded the sharp curve, she found her way blocked by a lemon-colored car. It had missed the final curve, then skidded sideways into three parked cars. The echoes of those three impacts, one after the other, must have been still reverberating when Faye and Amande arrived, because a crowd was only beginning to gather.

Faye stopped her car and got out. Various versions of “What in the hell just happened?” were sounding as she pushed her way through the onlookers. She didn't know what in the hell had just happened, but she certainly knew who owned that car. How many mint-condition yellow 1972 Monte Carlos could there be in western New York? Amande was at her side, helping her get through the crowd. Faye wished she'd had the presence of mind to tell the girl to wait in the car.

Faye recognized the B&B's owner, who was leaning in the window of the old Monte Carlo, and she recognized the woman at the wheel. It was Tilda, who looked uninjured but terribly upset.

“Faye!” Tilda called out. Her voice was weak and harsh.

The hotel manager stepped aside. Faye had to lean in close to hear Tilda. A strong odor of smoke from her clothes and hair and breath signaled that all was not as it seemed. Tilda's wheezing breaths scared Faye enough to make her ask if someone had called 911.

Three people pointed to the cell phones at their ears. Help was on its way. Faye sensed that this was a good thing.

Tilda had a lot to say, most of it unintelligible. Exhausted from trying to speak, she sank back, her head lolling against the driver's seat. Faye hadn't understood much, but she'd caught a few troubling phrases. “Needed to be safe,” and “No place to go,” and “Nobody to trust.” Still more troubling was this: “Myrna…she wouldn't wake up. I couldn't…Faye, can you help?”

By the time the paramedics arrived, Tilda was dead, and Faye was left to wonder why a dying agoraphobic who had traveled only a couple thousand miles since 1972 had driven thirty miles to ask a relative stranger for help.