The Presence (9 page)

"I should let you go in." He held on to my hand. "Can I call tomorrow?"

I nodded. "That would be great. Good night, Collin. Thanks for tonight."

Grandma was playing Solitaire on her laptop when I came in. "You look like a happy girl," she said, glancing up and smiling. "I'll stop this in just a minute. I'm almost finished—darn!" She placed the king of hearts up in a space in the back row. "Did you know," she asked absently, "that each king in a deck of playing cards represents a great king from history?"

"I didn't," I said.

"Well, it's true. As you are aware"—she gave me a roguish glance—"I'm quite a student of history, what with all my scholarly reading. I learned this in
The Young Earl of Stratcommon.
Now, the king of hearts here is Charlemagne. The king of diamonds is Julius Caesar, spades is King David, and clubs is Alexander the Great."

"You are remarkable," I said.

Grandma nodded. "I am. Now, look over there on the table. An e-mail came for you, and I printed it out. It came to my address, of course, and it's from St. Matthew's, so I'm afraid I read it."

My heart began to beat uncomfortably fast as I walked across to the table. There it was. "I got your message," it said. "I'll see you tomorrow at three."

There was no signature. There didn't have to be.

"I'm guessing it's from Dr. Miller," Grandma said, turning to look at me. "I'm glad you're going to see him, love. You will be helped."

"I know I will," I said.

Charlemagne, Julius Caesar, King David, and Alexander the Great watched me impassively from the computer screen.

The Presence looked with satisfaction around his den. It was all ready for Catherine. His hooks were neatly arranged. His stereo had the tape of Bach's
Pastorale,
just waiting to be turned on. He'd stolen the stereo and CD player from the office a few years back. "Someone
broke in again," Manuel had said, and he'd arranged to have the locks changed. The Presence smiled, remembering. He enjoyed his stolen music. He glanced at the poinsettia he'd taken from Maureen's desk and placed on the table that he sat at to write his memoirs. It made him smile again when he thought of Maureen fussing over where her poinsettia had disappeared to when he'd taken it to add to the others at the altar. Now he'd taken it again. Rita's blue comforter was folded on the recliner chair.

He'd sent the e-mail to reassure Catherine and make certain she'd come. He examined the note she'd written one more time, then placed it carefully in the drawer of his desk. "For afterwards," he told his ladies. The serpent ring with the two red stones was in its velvet box. "You've all worn this," he said, lifting it out. "I've had to take it back from each of you. Not a gentlemanly thing to do, but under the circumstances..." There was no light down here, but he had no need of light, and he could see the ring clearly, its red stones glittering, the serpent coiled, at rest.

Soon she'd be here.

He'd try not to frighten her too much. If circumstances had been different, he would have wooed her with
prettier flowers and candy in a red heart-shaped box. They would have kissed and held hands. But those delights had been taken from him. It couldn't be helped. And in time she would love him in spite of what he was. She would love him.

When I woke up next morning, a jumble of thoughts pounded through my mind. Noah today. Miss Lovelace today. I wrapped my arms tight around myself and squeezed my eyes shut. Terrifying, both of these appointments, but necessary, and, in the end, I hoped, good. Fleetingly, I remembered last night and being with Collin. There was a sweetness then. But Collin would have to be on hold till today was over.

"All well this morning?" Grandma asked when I came downstairs.

"Fine." I bent to kiss her cheek, and she laid down the
Times
and smiled up at me.

"Breakfast?" She poured orange juice and passed the toast and coffee.

"Now," she said. "Let's talk about this morning. Since tomorrow is Christmas Eve, I don't have to go in to St. Matthew's. The office is closed till after the holidays and everything's ready for the midnight service...." She paused. "I know you're busy this afternoon."

I pretended to be interested in spreading marmalade on my wheat toast. Busy this afternoon. Busy!

"So," she went on, "I thought we'd go this morning and check out Old Town. It will be fun. The shops are decorated for Christmas, and there are lots of things going on. How does that sound?"

"Sounds cool," I said, thinking it sounded better than staying home watching the clock. Miss Lovelace's nurse had said to come after two. Noah had said to come at three.

There was such a tightness in my throat that I couldn't swallow, and when I took a sip of coffee, I choked. "Sorry," I croaked. My eyes streamed.

"Are you all right, pet?" Grandma had risen to pat my back.

"Fine. A crumb went down the wrong way."

We left as soon as we cleared the dishes. Grandma drove her shiny red Volkswagen, a fresh daisy in the flower holder. The big doors of St. Matthew's were shut tight as we passed. Grandma beeped her little horn. "I always like to say hello to the church," she said.

I glanced up at the red stones of the walls set so tidily together. Grandma loved St. Matthew's. So did my mother. I should, too, because this afternoon I might find my salvation in its holy space. But I was wary of it now. Unsure. Tomorrow I would love it.

Old Town teemed with Christmas crowds, swarming along the narrow sidewalks. Fiddlers fiddled, steel drummers drummed, a clown blew up Santa balloons, and Santa himself posed for pictures beside his sleigh.

We wandered and strolled, stopping now and then to watch a performer. I checked and rechecked my watch. I didn't want time to pass quickly, but that's what I did want. My stomach roiled as I smiled and talked and acted out my part.

"I made lunch reservations here," Grandma said, stopping at a restaurant that looked like a gigantic white tent with two large palm trees reaching up through the roof. She lowered her voice. "You know who owns this place? A movie star."

"Really?" I pretended interest.

"Really. And sometimes he puts in an appearance. Take a look around."

There was no movie star to be seen, but there was a really good Chinese chicken salad and papaya iced tea. Grandma caught me sneaking a look at my watch and said softly, "You'll be in lots of time. Don't worry. I'll drop you off at the church on the way home."

"I'd be way too early for Dr. Miller," I said. "If it's OK, I'll go home first, borrow your bike, and ride over."

"Fine." Grandma reached across the table and took my hands. "I'm glad you're going to talk to him. I'm actually relieved."

Tears gathered behind my eyes. She was so caring, so trusting, and here I was, keeping everything from her. But if I told her now, she'd never let me go. "A psychic—getting you in touch with someone who's dead. Absolutely not. I'm responsible." And so on, ending with, "That's all you need to make you crazy again."

And she might be right. I promised myself that when this was over, I'd never deceive her again. I squeezed her hand. "I love you, Grandma."

"I love you, too, Catherine," she said, and then her face brightened. "Look over there! Look fast! Isn't that what's-his-name in person? The movie star?"

I looked. "If it is, he's smaller than I expected," I said, and Grandma sighed and said, "Just like the
Mona Lisa.
"

It was twenty minutes to two when we got home.

"I think I'd like to leave a little early," I told her. "Maybe, you know, get in some quiet thinking."

"I understand."

She didn't, of course. I was giving myself more than enough time to ride first to Miss Lovelace's house.

"Take a sweater, love," Grandma advised. "St. Matthew's can be very cold."

I knew.

Upstairs I grabbed a jacket and tied the sleeves around my waist. In the mirror, I saw me, looking back at myself. White face, black hair, frightened eyes. But soon it would be over. I'd say what I had to say to Kirsty.

And what would that be?

I bit my lips, still staring at myself in the mirror. I'd say, "I know you didn't want to drive. You didn't want to die. Every day I hear your voice, 'You can't do this to me, wee hen. I'm still no' used to the way you Yanks drive on the wrong side of the road. It makes me gey nervous even thinking about it.'"

Her words had come to me that night through a haze of beer, beer that I wasn't used to. Two cans. Two rotten cans. "You'll do it, Kirsty. No problem." My words probably slurred, stupid, thick. Kirsty driving around the bend in the highway, me half-asleep beside her. The Taurus veering to the wrong side of the road. The big truck coming right at us, horn blaring, brakes screeching. Kirsty's scream, the rush of air as the truck passed us, the car wavering, crashing nose first over the embankment, smashing, sliding, coming to a stop. I remember whispering Kirsty's name. I remember—or thought I remembered—her groans. Her pleas for help. That much and then only darkness.

It was a long time before they found us and helicoptered us out. I had a concussion, two broken legs, a crushed pelvis, and eight broken ribs. I never knew a person had that many ribs. Kirsty was dead, her neck broken.

"She died on impact," the police said, as if that made it somehow better. Maybe it did. But, then, how was it she'd spoken? How did they know that for sure?

My fault, every bit of it. And I'd never had the chance to beg her forgiveness. Would I have that chance today? Would she listen? Would she forgive?

I went shakily downstairs.

Grandma came with me to the garage and handed me her helmet. "Here, sweetie, we don't want an accident." She stopped and stared at me, wide-eyed. "Oh, mercy, do I always have to say the wrong thing?"

"You don't, of course. You say what's in your heart, and that isn't wrong."

She held the bike for me to climb on as if I were a little kid. "Take care, Catherine," she said softly, and I nodded, not even able to speak.

I rode fast to Miss Lovelace's, so fast that I was early. When I came to the little park by her house, I wheeled in, propped my bike, and sat on a green-painted seat. Ten minutes to wait.

A little boy and his dad were playing Frisbee on the grass. Pigeons flocked around my feet, then sauntered away, disappointed that I had no food to give them.

I felt the droop of the locket that hung on its little gold chain inside my T-shirt and pulled it up. Inside, facing each other, were two photos, one of me and one of Kirsty. We'd taken the pictures in one of those silly photo booths at the Paisley fair. It was the same day I'd bought the kiltie doll. We'd mugged for the camera, making ridiculous faces, and when we'd gotten back to Kirsty's house, I'd cut the pictures and fitted them into my locket. Kirsty'd said, "You realize when this is closed, we'll be kissing," and we'd staggered around, pretending to throw up.

My hands shook as I clicked the locket shut again and let it hang outside my Tshirt, where it could be seen. Would she see it today? Would she recognize it? Would it make her think of all the good times we'd had, all the closeness? ... But how could she see or hear or remember? She was dead.

Panic filled me. I couldn't wait another minute. I'd get whatever Miss Lovelace had for me and go. I wheeled my bike up to her front door and pressed the bell.

The nurse came in what seemed like the same second. "Here." She handed me an ancient-looking brown package maybe six inches by eight, tied with old string. It had
Charlotte Lovelace
written across the front in girlish writing. Underneath, in solid black print, it said,
NOT TO BE OPENED UNTIL HER DEATH.

I looked at the nurse. "But..."

"You're to open it now," she said. "No one else is to see it." She kept jiggling the door impatiently, as if she had better things to do. "I'm to get your word on that."

Behind her, I could see the picture of Miss Lovelace, so very like me. "You have my word."

"And she wants it back as quickly as you can. It's not to be left for other eyes to see."

I turned the package in my hand. "Thanks. You have my word on that, too."

I felt the nurse watching me as I walked to my bike. I pushed the bike along beside me, holding the package in my free hand. It was bulky but not heavy. There were different thicknesses inside, something square and hard.

I glanced at my watch. Almost an hour to wait. Noah probably wouldn't be there yet. I wanted to rush, to hurry to get there, but the church doors wouldn't even be open till he came.

The boy and his dad were still playing Frisbee in the park. A gardener was snipping dead heads off the pink camellias that bordered the path. I made myself sit in the same seat and ease the string off the envelope.
NOT TO BE OPENED UNTIL HER DEATH.
The words made me crawly inside. Kirsty was dead.

I spread my jacket across my knees and lifted everything out. There was a small notebook with a worn leather cover, the gold letters
DIARY
1928 almost rubbed away. There was a bundle of letters tied with a bedraggled blue ribbon, a folded yellowed piece of newspaper, and a photograph.

I picked the photograph up. Written on the back was the name Noah. When I turned it over, it was totally blank. The image that must have been of Noah's grandfather had faded to nothingness, the picture lost somewhere in time. I glanced again at my watch, opened the diary, and began to read.

Usually the Presence didn't bother about time. Why should he, when he had all the time in the world? But sometimes, like today, he was impatient, and he'd go
check the office clock. Almost an hour till she'd be here.

He wandered into the library. The Presence knew that he'd been deprived when he was young. His "parents" had never read to him. He'd never had his own children's books, not even one. Sometimes he told himself grimly that he'd come to fairy tales and fantasy and Mother Goose too late in life.... Still, he loved them now. He had his favorites.
The Little Prince, The Phantom Tollbooth,
and, of course,
The Secret Garden.
Oh, to have friends like Mistress Mary and Dickon, to have a garden of his own and a bird to sing to him.