A Sound Among the Trees (15 page)

The journals weren’t some old thing Sara had kept for memory’s sake. They were part of her life as an adult. And she had kept them secret.

Marielle smoothed back the first page. Sara had entitled the first poem “Suitcase.” It was dated February 12, 1990.

Suitcase

Your letter came

A fold of pink

Your announcement

Home for a few days

But you don’t live here

And this is not Home

For you

You rang the bell

The button guests touch

Your announcement

Home for a few days

But you waited for the door to open

For this is not Home

For you

You said my name softly

The one you gave me

Your warning

Home for a few days

You carry no suitcase

Because this is not Home

For you

You left in darkness

A touch on my cheek

Your apology

Home for a few days

And you disappeared as always

Leaving me in this Home, to ever watch from its windows

For you

A tightness gathered in Marielle’s chest. The pained words of a teenager mourning the absence of her mother tugged at her. She turned the page and read the next one.

Imagine

I see you in the man at the library …

Who wears a striped vest and combs his hair straight

Who chews his pencil and hates to be late

Who wears a gold ring and canvas shoes

When I see that man

I see you

I see you in the man at the park …

Who jogs with his dog and wears a blue shirt

Who helped the young girl who fell and got hurt

Who told me once the day is new

When I see that man

I see you

I see you in the man at the store …

Who smiles at me and says my name

Who laughs at my jokes and likes to play games

Who has a new baby and a love that’s true

When I see that man

I see you

I see you in the man in my dreams …

Who sings me to sleep and kills the fears

Who fixes my car and kisses the tears

Who always knows the right thing to do

When I see that man
,

I see you

Marielle sat back against the leg of the table, holding the book up to her chest, awash in Sara’s long-ago ache of missing her parents. Carson had told her no one knew who Sara’s father was. Not even Caroline. Sara had grieved over this.

She contemplated continuing to read or replacing the journals and showing them to Carson later when he got home. What if he decided they needed to stay private? He might even decide to read them on his own and not share them with her.

But surely Sara had kept them secret because she never intended Carson to read them. Maybe if Sara were here she would tell Marielle under no circumstances was she to show the journals to Carson.

The only way to know for sure was to keep reading.

Marielle pulled the book away from her chest and turned the page.

For the next hour she read the entirety of the first journal. Sara wrote of other things besides her missing parents. She wrote about the house, the cannonball, the river, the trees at the edge of the garden, her friends at school, love, boyfriends, art, God, and dreams.

She also wrote several poems about soft voices she heard when she closed her eyes and how she wished she knew if they were voices she was to trust or fear. She couldn’t tell. She wondered if she was hearing the whispers of her own conscience—an angel on one shoulder and a demon on the other—or messengers from heaven, or ghosts from the past trying to communicate with her.

The last poem in the first book made Marielle’s skin tingle.

Whispers

The river whispers

A steady voice

Reminding me I have a choice

The trees whisper

A swaying tune

Telling me of former ruin

The garden whispers

A quiet twitter

Life is grand, life is bitter

The house whispers

A rasping melee

I turn away, I run, I flee

Marielle closed the book. Sara had written the poem long before Eldora Meeks visited Holly Oak. Long before Pearl had any reason to tell the world Holly Oak had a ghost.

Carson hadn’t actually told her whether or not Sara believed in Holly Oak’s ghost or if she had bought into Adelaide’s strange belief that the house demanded restitution. But clearly Sara had sensed something …

Marielle’s back ached and her eyes hurt from squinting in the poor light. She decided to go back to the house to get a camping light, something to drink, and a cushion to sit on to read the rest. Bringing the books into the house seemed a little risky, even with the kids gone for three weeks. She could perhaps put them in her little office off the kitchen, but
Carson was still in and out of that room, making little improvements for her. It would be too hard to conceal the books in there. No, it was best for now to keep them here in the studio until she had read them.

She set the journals on top of the museum catalogs and got up. She made her way to the open door and paused for a moment before emerging into the late morning sunshine. As she stood there, she remembered the little bench at the back, where she had come across Adelaide on the day of her reception. Perhaps she could come back and read the other two journals on the bench instead of the darkness of the studio.

That was a much better idea than reading by camping light in the musty studio.

Marielle walked up the grassy slope to the patio steps and across the garden to her office door. The house was completely silent when she stepped inside. She didn’t even hear the whir of Adelaide’s sewing machine. Marielle walked past her desk chair on her way to the kitchen, and her arm brushed a dress-up gown Brette had left over the back of it. Brette had given it to Marielle to mend. She grabbed the dress to hand over to Adelaide on her way back outside. Sewing was not Marielle’s forte. She stepped into the kitchen, grabbed a can of Coke to take with her, and then headed for the parlor. A muffled grunt caught her attention, and she turned toward the sound.

Adelaide lay in a quivering heap at the bottom of the stairs, a gash on her forehead bleeding crimson on the floor.

he felt hands touching her, heard the rustle of a skirt, and the sound of her name. Her wrist was on fire. And her head. Her back. Everything was on fire. The house was on fire.

She had been wrong about the house.

Eldora was right. It was Susannah all along. Susannah, the tortured woman who could not forgive herself. It was all Susannah. Not the house. It was Susannah’s cursed presence who had spoken dementia into her mother, who somehow took all those baby girls Adelaide had lost, who had caused Charles’s heart attack, foisted on Caroline a host of emotional issues and drug addictions, and caused Sara’s third child to begin its life in a place destined to kill both child and mother.

It had been Susannah all along, making everyone else pay for her sins.

Not the house valiantly trying to purge itself of the wrongs committed against it.

No. Susannah. Mad Susannah. Holly Oak’s ghost.

Holly Oak’s curse.

She had been wrong. Eldora was right. Pearl was right.

It was Susannah who pushed her down the stairs.

Susannah who stood now at her mangled body, dousing her with fire.

“Adelaide!” The ghost wailed. “Adelaide!”

Adelaide opened her mouth to beg for mercy, but only a moan escaped her lips.

Susannah leaned over her.

“I’ve got you.”

And Adelaide let the ghost take her.

And then there were lights.

Blinking lights.

And voices.

“Pupils are responsive.”

“Adelaide.”

She felt movement. She was in a wagon. Susannah was taking her to the graveyard in a wagon.

“Adelaide.”

“Mrs. McClane, can you hear me?”

She opened her mouth. “Susannah …,” she whispered.

“Who is Susannah? Is that her daughter?”

“No. That’s … No, that’s not her daughter.”

She didn’t recognize the man’s voice. But the other one. That was Marielle. Good heavens, Susannah was after Marielle, too …

“Marielle.” Her voice was a raspy mutter.

“I’m right here, Mimi. You fell. We’re taking you to the hospital. Okay? You’re in an ambulance.”

She opened her eyes; they were so heavy. She saw Marielle leaning over her.

“The house is on fire! It was Susannah!” she whispered.

Marielle looked up. There was a man on the other side of her. He was wearing a uniform. The man looked at Marielle.

“She hit her head pretty hard,” he said.

Marielle looked back down at her, and her eyes were glistening.

“Did you see her?” Adelaide whispered.

Marielle bit her lip. “We’re almost there,” she said.

And the wagon sped away as darkness again crept in.

When she awoke, she felt something soft and cool on her head. She was surrounded by white. She felt light. Weightless. A curly clear tube poked out of her arm, and a face leaned in.

Marielle.

“Mimi, you’re at the hospital. They’re going to take some x-rays, okay? But I’m going to be right here. I’ll be right here when you’re done.”