The Rosemary Spell (19 page)

“Yes,” she says, ladling out a bowl for herself. “I love rosemary with white beans.”

“Do we have any more?” Adam asks.

“You think it needs more?” She frowns and tastes the soup.

“No,” I say. “The soup is perfect. But we're still working on that poetry project. You know? For Mr. Cates? And we thought it would be . . . well, it's hard to explain, but we need some rosemary.”

She crosses to the fridge and rummages in a small drawer. “I might have used it all. Let's see. Here's thyme . . . this is cilantro . . .” She pulls up a slim plastic package and wrinkles her nose. “This
was
mint. More thyme. I'll have to do something with that . . . Here's rosemary!”

Adam looks at me over his bowl.

Mrs. Steiner hands me the package. Two slight sprigs lie inside.

“It's too bad you can't go over to the island and pick your own. That would surely be more poetic than scrounging in the fridge.” She sits at the table. Picks up some papers.

The table is against the wall in a windowed nook. There are only three places to sit. One for Adam. One for his dad. And one for his mom. I sit in Mr. Steiner's spot.

I pat the pocket of my jeans, feeling the outline of the folded paper. I say the rosemary verse into my bowl and picture Shelby at the table with us, but there's no space for her here.

Adam and I eat in silence. He tries to use his spoon to separate the ingredients—beans clustered in one area, carrots nearby, and chicken on the other side of the bowl.

“It's soup, dork,” I say through a full mouth. “All the stuff is supposed to be mixed up. Same's true for salad, actually.”

He grins at me sheepishly. “I can't help it. You know how I like to do separate bites and together bites.” He makes careful and strategic maneuvers with his spoon.

“But it all floats back together.” I try not to laugh.

“I just have to be persistent.”

My phone rings.

I tug it from my pocket. “It's my mom.”

“Rosie?” I can hear the worry in her voice.

“What's wrong?”

Adam and Mrs. Steiner both look at me.

“Well.” She's perplexed, not worried. “This is rather odd. I just got a call from a nurse at River House . . .”

“Is Constance okay?” I look at Adam.

His jaw clenches.

I bite the inside of my cheek.

“I'm not exactly sure,” she answers. “The nurse said she's been unusually agitated and she keeps asking for you.” She finishes on a note of surprise.

“For me?”

Adam's forehead crinkles into a question. “For you what?”

“Evidently.” Mom sighs. “She says, ‘Rosemary. I need Rosemary.' Over and over again. The nurse says she's never been like this before, and she wondered if you might be able to come see her. It all seems strange to me, but . . . she's an old woman with no family . . . Would you mind? I'll come pick you up. I don't think we'll need to stay there for long.”

“Of course. I don't mind.”

She sighs with relief. “I'll be there in a few minutes.”

“Can Adam come too?” I ask.

He gives me a thumbs-up.

“I don't see why not,” she says.

“It's awfully nice of you two to take an interest in Constance Brooke,” Mrs. Steiner says.

“She doesn't have anyone,” I reply simply, but it's not simple. My eyes dart to the fourth side of the Steiners' table, the side pushed against the wall. The side for no one.

M
OM INSISTED ON STAYING
with us. She, Adam, and I sit jammed in a semicircle of chairs too close to Constance's bed. A nurse lurks in the doorway.

Constance's face is blank. She doesn't recognize me or Adam.

“Do I know you?”

“I'm Rosemary,” I remind her.

“Oh, rosemary!” She nods, but her face remains still. “Father is just wonderful with rosemary, you know. He always says . . .” Her voice trails off.

“Constance,” the nurse urges her. “You asked for Rosemary. Do you remember?”

“Remember,”
Constance echoes.

I reach for Constance's hand. It's so light, I'm afraid I will hurt her just by touching her.

She closes her fingers around mine and looks into my face. She whispers, “There's something I've forgotten.” Her eyelids droop, then close. Her mouth drops open slightly.

“She's asleep,” I whisper.

“Should we leave?” Adam asks.

She summoned us. This has to be important. “Let's wait.”

Mom's face is pinched. “Such a horrid disease,” she murmurs. She looks away, her jaw clenched, and rummages in her bag. “I should've brought a book.” She pulls out a folded newspaper and starts to read.

I wish I could disappear into reading too, but I owe Constance my attention. I watch her chest rise and fall. It shudders with each breath as her body labors to do its job, the job of keeping her alive.

Adam taps my arm, jarring me away from my morbid thoughts. “What?” I snap.

He thrusts his jaw at Mom's newspaper. At the brightly colored weather map on the back page. A big yellow blob that looks like a quotation mark, half dot and half curvy arrow, sits over Pennsylvania. In the middle of the blob it says “mild” in a friendly font. In the corner, just by Florida, a chart shows the phases of the moon. Tomorrow night is the new moon.

All warmth and patience drain out of me. I press Constance's hand. She has to wake up.

She stirs. Her eyelids are still heavy, and she doesn't seem aware that anyone is here.

I lean in and whisper in her ear. “Tomorrow is the new moon.”

She blinks and focuses on me.

“All is lost,” she murmurs.

“What's that?” Mom sets the paper on her lap.

“It's from her poem,” Adam says quickly. “‘Moon Mangled Memory.'”

Constance sits up taller and speaks firmly. “I want to talk to the girl and boy. Alone.”

Mom turns to look at the nurse. “I don't know . . .”

“It's fine.” The nurse holds the door open. “She's calm now.”

“Rosie—” Mom begins.

“We'll be fine,” I assure her.

Mom hesitates, then follows the nurse into the hallway. The door clicks shut.

Constance searches my face and Adam's. “I don't know you. Can you help me?”

I recite the rosemary verse.

Her hand spasms in mine. Her eyes shift out of focus. “Wilkie. Wilkie.”

“Constance”—I lean in again—“the new moon is tomorrow night. We have the rhyme and rue and rosemary. What do we need to do? Please. You have to remember.”

“I ran out of time.” Her voice is small, constricted by grief.

“I know.” I choke back a sob. “But we still have time. Please help us.”

Her throat spasms. Her eyes dart from side to side as if watching the memory play out in her mind. “I had to get home. For . . . for . . .”

“Rosemary?” I prompt.

“Wilkie!” Her face screws up in silent anguish. She makes no sound, but loss contorts her expression.

There is nothing we can do for her. I sit with her hand in my lap, my body heavy and awkward with its uselessness. Adam hovers behind me.

Finally, she closes her mouth. She looks from me to Adam. “Hello. Do I know you?”

The blankness on her face is a heartbreaking relief. Sometimes forgetting is better. Mom was right.

And I don't want to tell her my name, because rosemary might make her remember, and the loss will burst over her again.

Adam whispers, “Wilkie is lost, but Shelby isn't. We have to go.”

I turn to tell Constance we're leaving, but she grabs my wrist, and now her grip is strong, each one of the bones in her hand pressing into my flesh.

She speaks slowly and clearly:

Ah, treble words of absence spoken low;

For ears of fam'ly, friend, or willful foe.

Speak thrice to conjure nothing on the spot.

“No!” Adam and I gasp at once.

She doesn't hear us.

Who harkens here—

“Stop!” I twist out of her grip. “Constance, you have to stop!”

I grasp her shoulders and shake her once, trying to make her look at me, but her gaze just slides away.

—will present be forgot

Adam tugs on my arm. “We have to get away. If we don't hear it, it won't . . . it can't . . .” He drags me to the door. “Rosie, c'mon!”

Void and nothing. Void and nothing—all strife!

“Please stop!” I sob.

Adam fumbles with the door knob.

Third's the charm.

“Rosemary!” Adam grabs me around the waist and lifts me to the doorway.

“Rosemary?” Constance's voice lilts upward. She sees us. Smiles. “Why, hello. Do I know you?”

Adam sets me down but keeps hold of me, and I cling to his arm across my middle.

My legs tingle, and my heart races.

“I'm Rosemary,” I choke out. “And this is Adam.”

Adam releases me, and I drop into the chair. He crosses to the bed.

“What were you thinking?” He asks, sounding wounded.

Constance studies him. Closes her eyes for a moment. “What were you thinking?” she echoes. “Father asked the same question. He pulled me from the water. So cold. What were you thinking?” She opens her eyes. She looks sad and worried and bewildered. “What was I thinking? Do you know?”

Remembering will hurt her, but I recite the spell. She needs to know, and she'll forget again.

“Rosemary is for remembrance,” she echoes, her voice tight. “And rue is for regret. Yes. I remember. Father might have made it to the island, even in the flood. He might have made it in time. But he had to save me. He chose me.
He chose me.
And then there was only me.”

I clap my hand to my mouth. Wilkie might have been saved, and Constance . . .

She looks at me dully, waiting for the relief of forgetting to kick in.

This is too cruel. I stand quickly, and my chair squeals against the floor.

The door opens. Mom sticks her head in. “Everything all right?” she asks.

“Fine,” I lie.

“And how are you?” Constance gazes at us, her head cocked slightly to one side, like a bird's. Her voice is light, her face relaxed.

“Fine,” Adam answers.

“Would you care for a peppermint?” She raises a skeletal arm to the candy dish on the table. Offers a gentle and empty smile.

“No, thank you,” I reply. Already, Wilkie is gone.

In the car, Mom peppers us with questions about our conversation with Constance. We give her vague half-truths.

She sighs. “Dementia is a dreadful thing. So much worse than a physical disability.”

“It must be awful at the beginning.” I look out the window at the rising water. “When you're with it enough to realize that you're losing it.”

The car lurches to a stop.

“Sorry,” Mom mutters. “River Road is closed.”

Yellow lights flash on either side of a big sign.
ROAD CLOSED. FLOODING.

I bite the inside of my cheek. Look at Adam.

Mom swings the car around in a tight U-turn and takes the long way home.

She chatters about some kind of cookie she wants to make, and Adam and I take turns making interested noises, but we're both preoccupied. I keep hearing Constance's steady voice.
Void and nothing. Third's the charm.

I try to drown her out with the rosemary verse. I whisper it, and Adam joins in.

I reach into my pocket and rub my fingertip along the rue stem. We have rue. We have rosemary. We have the poem. It's not yet the new moon. It's going to be okay. In my mind, Shelby's laugh sounds and drifts away.