Her Dear and Loving Husband (23 page)

“But if I am Elizabeth, if I do have the soul of some long-gone woman living inside me, are you sure you won’t want only Elizabeth and toss away the parts that are Sarah, like trash along the side of the road?”

“That will never happen. You are my Sarah. My Sarah.”

She sat next to him, not wanting to miss anything about the way he looked then, his eyes serious, his hands gentle, trying to share without words what was in his heart. Finally, he melted his lips into hers. Finally, they kissed. Why had it taken so long? He kissed her gently at first, and when she didn't pull away he kissed her more deeply. She felt welded to him, as though this was how it was supposed to be between them all along, and she forgot why she had been so upset just moments before. After he kissed her darkness away, they sat huddled together, intertwined, until iridescent rays flashed pink along the bottom of the sky. She counted the hours until she could see him again.

CHAPTER 19

Three weeks later, the night of the past-life regression, it was nearly silent outside the old gabled house. The only sounds in the neighborhood were the chirping of love-calling crickets and the wheezing of the New England wind rustling the new-smelling leaves and the fresh-growing grass. Spring in New England is tawny as the skeleton barrenness of winter is magically, as if overnight, transformed into scented color and budding life. Darkness becomes light. The sun, for those fortunate enough to see it, makes life vigorous again. But at night everything became nearly silent. The old gabled house was used to silence. In over three hundred years it was left empty more than it was occupied while James was off living somewhere else and somewhere else again, hiding himself among people, trying to stay inconspicuous, going about his nights and moving on again when he felt prying eyes watching too closely. Even when he was home it was silent inside except for the scratching of quill and ink against paper, the turning of book pages, an occasional sigh from breathless lungs. The house was not haunted by a ghostly specter, though it seemed that way to passers-by who saw the candlelight flickering through the window even after electricity became the norm. Those who looked closely enough could see the phantasmal man illuminated in the shadows, and he was always alone. But more than a specter, as the neighbors suspected, the house was haunted by memories. There was no happy laughter in that house. There were no stolen kisses, no passion. Not anymore. There was, once, a long time ago, but the house had been in mourning since. The silence was fitting since it spoke to the mute longing of the sadness left behind in the walls, the rugs, the cauldron in the hearth. The house, even with its modern amenities, was set firmly in a frame from the past like a painting that captured another era.     

But that night was different. That night there were people inside. Maybe there would be life in the house again. It would never be exactly the way it was before since time, for all its incessant rolling toward tomorrow, cannot go backwards. Yet new laughter, new kisses, new passion seemed possible. Maybe there really were second chances. Maybe it could happen again. 

The hearth in the great room was lit despite the warmer weather, sending heat and cinders into the air, and the house glowed shadows and gold. There were thirty candles set out around the hearth, on the tables, in the sconces on the walls. Martha, dressed in flowing white, waved a lace fan, then a candle, then incense around the four corners of the room, blessing the space and showing the good spirits the way in and the bad spirits the door. She waved her hands to the heavens, the east, west, north, and south, praying, her voice a whisper, beckoning the spirits to bring them safely on their journey. Jennifer and Olivia sat at the table holding hands, their eyes closed, their mouths whispering Wiccan prayers only witches would know. There was a tangible turn in the energy in the room as it shifted from being just James’s house to something else entirely, a calming haven where the mystical was possible. The air felt static, as if there were sparks of electricity, like fireflies in the air.

Sarah struggled to maintain her outward composure. She didn’t want anyone to know how agitated she felt, as if someone were pricking her skin with the point of a pin. The sharpness stopped when James knelt beside her and took her hands in his. He kissed her lips.

“No matter what happens, it’ll be all right,” he said. “Look at everything that had to come together for us to be here now. I had to come back to Salem at the right time after being away, and you had to move here at the right time. You felt compelled to learn about the witch trials, and your dreams have been bothering you enough for you to need to understand them.”

“You had to be—turned—or you wouldn’t be here now.”

“That’s right. Tonight is the final piece of the puzzle, but the whole picture has been there all along.”

“And if I’m not Elizabeth?”

“It doesn’t matter. You are my Sarah. My Sarah.”

Martha stepped beside them. “We’re ready to begin,” she said.

Sarah sat alone in the center of the sofa, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes wide and worried as she stared at the weaved rug beneath her feet. She felt like a schoolgirl waiting to see the principal for something she didn’t do. Martha knelt next to her and took her hand.

“There’s something I need you to understand before we begin,” Martha said. “I’m sure you’re worried about what’s going to happen to Sarah if we find that Elizabeth has been reborn in you. You don’t need to be afraid. You’ll always have your own memories. You’ll always have your own personality, your own sense of humor, your own emotions. You’ll always love who you love.” Martha looked at James. “It’s not like being possessed by an evil spirit, or even a kindly spirit. It simply means that Elizabeth’s memories are inside you.”

Martha sat close to Sarah as she tried to explain. She spoke slowly, natural for her southern accent, enunciating her words. Sarah thought Martha was being careful because the concepts she took for granted in her mystic-filled life were too out there, too hocus pocus, for average people who believed in nothing more than their five senses could tell them. Sarah realized suddenly that those people lived in a small box in a big universe.

“Not everything about us dies when our bodies die,” Martha said. “Humans are composed of body, mind, and spirit, and though our bodies will one day cease to exist in any earthly way, our spirits go on. They can’t be harmed. Even with the destruction at the end of the world, our spirits will go on. Sometimes spirits exist close to the ones they loved in life and help guide them through the perilous journey we face here on earth. Sometimes spirits help creation. Sometimes they change energy. Sometimes spirits are reborn in new life. No one knows for sure why a spirit may choose to be reborn. Some speculate a spirit will continue being reborn until it learns some lesson it’s supposed to learn. Or righted some wrong. Or reconnected with someone it loved.” Again, Martha looked at James. “So you see, Sarah, there’s nothing to be afraid of. I’ve been doing this a long time and I’ve helped many people find new peace by understanding their past lives. Are you ready?”

Sarah nodded. “Yes,” she said, “I think so.” She looked at James, and he nodded in encouragement. He knelt beside her, took her hands, and kissed them. 

“Don’t be afraid,” he said. “I’ll be right here. The whole time. Right here.”

Martha stood up and walked across the room. “Now, Sarah, lay back. Close your eyes and relax. I promise you everything will be fine.” Martha raised her hands in a sweeping gesture toward the ceiling. When she spoke her voice was controlled, calming. 

“Sarah, as you hear me you will fall into the deepest sleep you have ever known. You will be conscious and unconscious. You are relaxed and comfortable because you know I will lead you safely on your journey. Can you hear me, Sarah?”

“Yes,” Sarah said, “I can hear you.” Her own voice startled her because she thought she sounded as if a ventriloquist were working her mouth, making her words come from somewhere else, from across the room, or somewhere farther away. Her eyes closed and her body fell limp. She didn’t feel like she was sleeping, only like she wasn’t quite connected to herself.

“Now I want you to picture yourself falling backward, spiraling through a long line of yesterdays. You aren't afraid while you're falling because you know your landing will be as soft as a feather bed. Are you falling, Sarah?”

“Yes, I’m falling.”

“Have you landed?”

“Yes, I’ve landed.”

“Take a moment to look around. Notice your surroundings. Tell me where you are.”

Under her closed lids Sarah felt her eyes move from side to side as if she were in REM sleep. “I’m in Salem, I think, but it’s a long time ago.”

“How do you know it’s Salem?”

“A lot of it looks the same, the houses, the seaport, the bay. The people are in Pilgrim clothing and everything looks sparse and rural.”

“Where are you now? What are you doing?”

“I’m kneeling by the shore, splashing water on my face. It’s very hot.”

“And then what?”

“He helps me to my feet.”

“Who helps you?”

Sarah’s brow furrowed. “I don’t know. A man.”

“What man?”

“I think he’s my husband.”

“What does he look like?”

“I can’t see his face. I can never see his face.”

“What else can you describe about him?”

“He’s tall, and his hair is gold, like an angel’s halo. I still can’t see his face, but I think his eyes are blue.”

“What is his name?”

“His name?” Sarah had to think. “I don’t know his name.”

“Take your time. You’ll remember. What is his name?”

Sarah shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“All right. Now what are you doing?”

“We’re out walking, and we walked far. We pass a rocky hill with ropes hanging from an ugly tree and a crowd of people jeering. I wanted to leave as soon as I realized where we were. I didn’t want to see it.” 

“What did you see?”

Sarah shook her head. “They’re hanging her but she’s innocent. She’s not a witch. She’s a good, kind woman. How can they hang her for a witch? They’re hanging her!”

Martha brushed Sarah’s hair back from her forehead. “It’s all right. You’re not by the rocky hill any more. You’ve moved onto somewhere else. Look around. Where are you now?”

Sarah’s face softened. She was somewhere more pleasant than the gallows on the hill.

“I’m in my house.”

“Which house?”

“This house.”

“The one we’re in right now?”

“Yes.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m over there,” she gestured toward the kitchen, “cooking Indian pudding for my father-in-law. He’s coming over for supper and he loves Indian pudding more than anything. Suddenly he comes in the door.”

“Who comes in the door?”

“My husband.”

“The same man who was by the seaside with you?”

“Yes.”

“What does he do when he comes in?”

“The same thing he always does. He lifts me, kisses me, and tells me how seeing me is the best part of his day. He tells me how much he misses me when he’s gone.”

“And then?”

“He sits at the table there next to the hearth.” She gestured toward the table where Olivia and Jennifer sat. “He pulls me close and kisses me more, but I’m blushing because our helping-girl is watching, and I need to keep stirring the pudding or it will scald. Indian pudding tastes terrible if the cornmeal or the molasses burn. But even as I’m pulling away he’s pulling me closer, and we’re laughing because it’s funny that he can’t let me go long enough to finish cooking for his father. And then…”

She stopped, her body tense, her face troubled. Her head turned as she listened for something.

“And then what?” Martha asked.

“And then there was angry banging on the door, like the walls would buckle and the gables would crash down. I knew immediately something was wrong. We were expecting my father-in-law, but that was not his knock.”

“Who was at the door?”

Sarah cringed in terror, and she saw it all again, being accused and arrested. Being in jail and dying. Knowing all along that no matter how much her husband loved her this chain of events was beyond his control. There was no helping her. No matter how many kisses he gave her he couldn’t stop the madness from consuming her as it consumed so many in Salem then.  

“He was,” Sarah said, her hand over her eyes so she wouldn’t have to see him. “The man who arrested me.” Sarah’s mouth opened in a circle of fear, her body rigid, trying to disappear into empty space so no one could grab her and drag her away to hell.

“No!” James yelled. “Stop it! It’s hurting her too much.” 

“James,” said Martha, “I know this is hard for you, but she needs to do this. She needs to remember.”

“She can’t do this,” he said. “It’s too hard.”

Jennifer spoke softly. “Is it too hard for her, or is it too hard for you?”

Sarah heard James groan, but he didn’t say anything more. After a moment, Martha said, “Tell me what happened when the man came to arrest you. Tell me everything you remember.”

Sarah shook her head, her hand on her cheek. “My husband and I gasped in horror when we saw the man we despised for arresting the charged witches standing in front of our home. He grimaced at me with his pockmarked face as though he were wearing a skeleton mask.” 

“‘Are you a witch?’ he asked me.

“My husband laughed. I laughed. It had to be a joke. Dear God, please, I begged silently, this has to be a joke. Surely no one would speak out evil lies against me. I had no enemies, only friends. But I felt the impending doom in my gut and thought I would vomit.   

“‘Did you sign a pact with the Devil in your own blood?’ the constable asked. ‘How long have you been a witch?’ The man’s eyes blazed with haughty fire. My husband and I weren’t laughing any more. I don’t think I ever laughed again.   

“‘I am no witch, sir,’ I said. 

“‘I can assure you,’ my husband said, ‘my wife is no witch. What proof have you for such groundless accusations against my wife?’