Homecoming (17 page)

“So, that's a yes, then?” Eleanora said, swallowing back the bile always lingering at the back of her throat.

She'd vomited so many times in the past few weeks she couldn't keep count. Fear was the main culprit, and when they'd tried to baptize her . . . that'd been the worst. Getting baptized was too similar to Mimi's scalding baths, and she'd clawed at the men like an animal when they'd tried to force her under the water. This they took as another sign she was in Lucifer's thrall.

She protested her innocence, begged them to let her go, but to no avail; she was trapped—and, after a while, it seemed as if anything she did or said was proof of her possession, so she became mute.

Except with Mitchell.

“I don't know if there's a correct answer to the question,” Mitchell said, as he took out a cigarette and slid it between his lips.

Under different circumstances, she would have still found him attractive, but locked in a tiny, cell-like room whose walls and floor were colder than ice, and where she only had one meager woolen blanket to keep her warm? Here she was immune to his charm.

“I'm not possessed,” she said, fingernails digging into the flesh of her upper arms. The scratching was becoming obsessive. She did it constantly and unconsciously, her tormentors documenting the red welts she brought up on her arms and legs as visible signs of her demonic possession.

It was strange that where they saw evil, she saw a way to cope with an untenable situation.

She spoke to Mitchell of her innocence as often as possible. She didn't know if he believed her or not, but she felt better when she did it. Of course, this lasted only a few hours, and then the hysteria was back, threatening to overwhelm her.

“Can you prove it?” he asked.

She sat up on her elbows, the metal cot she'd been lying on squeaking under her weight. There was a large, wooden cross nailed high up on the wall, but the cot was the sole piece of furniture in the room.

“Are you serious?” she asked.

This was his first-ever deviation from the norm. Usually, he responded to her protestations of innocence with, “That's not for me to judge.” Now he was asking her for proof—and she felt her heart lift with hope for the first time since her incarceration began.

“Deadly so,” he replied. “I want to hear why you think you aren't possessed.”

She sat up on her knees, toes pressing into the spongy mattress of the cot, until she could feel the outline of the coiled metal springs underneath her. She assumed Mitchell's interest wasn't real, that it was some kind of trap, some new way of testing her. Still, it was also a chance to say her piece.

“What happens to me isn't the work of Lucifer—”

Mitchell stood up and began to pace, the lit cigarette smoking in his hand.

“You say that, but what about your grandfather?” he said, shaking his head. “His death had all the hallmarks of the Devil's work.”

Eleanora was determined not to cry. She was tired of these men—stupid, ignorant men—being able to wrest so much emotion out of her. If she could learn to keep her feelings under control, to treat them as she'd learned to treat Mimi, then maybe she could survive this.

“Papa died,” Eleanora said. “I was holding his hand when he passed. That had nothing to do with the Devil.”

Mitchell moved closer to her, his chiseled face showing nothing of what he truly felt. He knelt down beside her and offered her a drag from his cigarette. She wondered if this was a trick to manipulate her, to create some kind of false bond between them.

“I don't smoke,” she said, waving the cigarette away.

He grinned up at her.

“Good for you. It's a nasty habit.”

“You wanted proof,” she said, crawling over to the edge of the bed so her bare knees were clearly in his view. “I can show you, but you have to take my hand and close your eyes.”

He shook his head.

“I don't think so.”

She reached down and raised the hem of her nightgown, revealing a slice of one pale white thigh. Mitchell stared at her exposed leg and swallowed, hard.

“Are you trying to tempt me?” he asked.

“If that's what it takes to get you to help me,” she said, as frankly as she could manage. “And I'm a virgin.”

He sat back on his heels, and she could see his faith warring with his libido. She prayed his libido would win out. He lifted his hand, and in the sickly yellow overhead light she could see it was shaking. It hung there for a moment, uncertainty playing across his face like a frenetic concerto, and so she did the only thing she could to sway things in her favor.

She took his trembling fingers in her hand and guided them toward her mouth, gently pressing his hand against her lips, kissing his knuckles.

“My grandmother hates me. That's why I'm here,” she said, leading his hand to her cheek and letting him stroke her face with the pads of his fingertips. “That's my proof.”

To his bafflement, she lowered his fingers toward the delicate flesh of her inner thighs, then firmly pushed his hand between her legs.

“Lord, please, help me,” he moaned, dropping his cigarette and reaching for her.

T
he weight of Mitchell's body pushed Eleanora back onto the cot. His fingers were rough, unused to dealing with the delicate parts of a girl, and her body stiffened as his fingernails scraped against her skin. She forced herself to relax. She was inexperienced, but she knew she couldn't let him sense her fear, or this would all be for nothing.

“I think I love you,” he whispered in her ear—as if saying those words made everything all right—and then he slipped her white cotton panties down from her hips, pressing himself against her.

He was still fully dressed, his gray twill pants scratching against her bare skin. As nervous as she was, the itch of the twill on her skin was unbearable, and she wanted the pants off—couldn't bear the itchiness—and she gritted her teeth to stop herself from speaking. He pulled on his zipper, undid the button, and yanked them down himself. He was wearing white briefs, but she could feel the hard part of him through the softness of the fabric, and the strangeness of being so close to an almost-naked man made her stop breathing for a moment.

He planted his lips on hers, and she forced herself to remain calm, to be pliant as he kissed her. She closed her eyes—then, ever practical, decided it was better to see what was going to happen to her rather than to be a coward about it.

She tried to participate in the experience by kissing the side of his face but pulled away because his cheek was so scratchy. Like the twill pants, anything rough that touched her skin set her teeth on edge and made her start itching.

“You're so beautiful,” he moaned in her ear. “From the first moment I saw you, I wanted you.”

From the moment you kidnapped me,
she thought, but pushed it away.

She couldn't think like that if she wanted him to help her. She needed to give over to him, to entice him however she could—even if there was something abrasive about him that reminded her of sandpaper.

“You were so handsome,” she whispered back to him. “When you came to the door. I wanted you, too.”

She felt sick the moment the lie left her mouth. She realized then that this was a terrible mistake.

“Oh, Eleanora,” he whispered into her throat, kissing the tender flesh there.

She felt him take off one of his shoes and heard it clatter to the concrete floor, where the other shoe quickly followed, the sound echoing in the windowless room. He yanked at his underwear until they were awkwardly bunched around his ankles, then stopped kissing her long enough to remove them and his pants altogether.

“That's better,” he murmured into her ear as she felt the length of his naked body pressing against her.

He slid his fingers underneath the thin cotton of her nightdress, touching her with clumsy hands.

Against her will, she cried out, heat burning between her legs as her own traitorous body responded to his touch.

This is a mistake and I've let it go too far,
she thought as the bile rose in her throat.

“I want you,” he said, his voice almost a growl.

She tried to open her mouth. To tell him to stop, but she was scared. Afraid that telling him no would only make her time in this place worse. She wanted out, and maybe letting him do this to her would make that happen. Maybe the best thing she could do was to just close her eyes and let what would be . . .
be
.

He leaned down to kiss her, his lips parting hers, so he could taste the sweetness of her mouth. She breathed against him, her own lips moving instinctively.

He reached down, grasping himself, and she cried out as a white-hot pain shot through her middle, and she felt something snap. Going into shock from the pain and fear, she began to dissociate from her body, floating up and over their combined flesh, eyes pinned to Mitchell's back as he moved on top of her. She searched out her own face and was surprised to find calm eyes staring back at her.

She blinked and the image reversed. Now she was back in her body, staring up at an empty ceiling.

Reconnected to herself again, she felt a deep ache inside her. She wanted to scream, to push him off, and she grabbed him around the shoulders, scratching her nails into the soft skin of his back as she tried to make the pain stop. Her actions had the opposite effect, seeming to drive him to distraction, and the pain only became more intense. She stared at him, his eyes almost black with desire, and prayed this awful moment in her life would be over soon.

As if he'd read her mind, he bit his lip and squeezed his eyes shut tight, his body shuddering against her.

“Unh . . . unh . . .” he moaned in between gasps—then fell limply onto her chest, his breathing ragged.

She wanted him off her body. He was deadweight crushing her, making it hard to breathe. She pushed at him, but he was so much bigger than her that she couldn't budge him.

“Please,” she whispered. “Can't. Breathe. Get off.”

“Oh,” he said, his voice sated and dreamy. He kissed her lips before she could turn her head away, then climbed off her.

The door to her room was thrown open, and angry voices filled the air. Mitchell shot to his feet, grabbing his pants from the floor to cover his nakedness. She didn't get up from the mattress, just lay there, limp and ashamed and in pain, hating herself for what she'd just done. She heard Mitchell protesting with a loud, hysterical voice, and then she closed her eyes.

It hadn't been worth it. She was never getting out of there.

*   *   *

She woke up the first time underwater. Eyes bulging from lack of oxygen, she screamed, but no one could hear her, the sound muffled by the water.

*   *   *

She woke up the second time in a hospital bed, all kinds of tubes and sensors protruding from and attached to her body. She reached up and tried to yank them out, but a loud beeping from one of the machines brought in a cadre of nurses. One of them held up a long, evil-looking syringe.

She screamed, and the nurse descended on her, jamming the needle into the fleshy part of her upper arm. She continued to struggle for a few more seconds, but then the drugs took effect and, sedated, she drifted back to sleep.

*   *   *

She woke up for the third and final time still in the hospital bed. She calmly opened her eyes and took in the strange new environment without comment. It was either that or get stabbed with another needle.

The first thing she noticed was a bouquet of white daisies sitting on the nightstand to her right. The flowers looked fresh. Like someone had only just sent them, knowing somehow that she was about to wake up.

“Well, look who's back in the land of the living.” It was a new nurse, or at least Eleanora didn't recognize her.

The nurse smiled pleasantly from the doorway and, noticing Eleanora's gaze fixed on the bouquet, came into the room, retrieving the card nestled inside the flowers.

She leaned over the bed and placed the small, square card in Eleanora's hands.

“Here ya go,” the nurse said, continuing to smile down at her.

“Thank you.” Eleanora's voice was cracked from disuse. “How long have I been here?”

The nurse, a plain-faced woman with short blond hair, thought for a moment, then said, “Two weeks, I believe.”

It was a staggering amount of time.

“Oh,” Eleanora replied—and she felt lost, like something was missing inside her.

The nurse patted her arm, then began to busy herself changing Eleanora's bedclothes. She watched the woman work for a few moments, then turned her attention to the card. Flipping it over in her hands, she found nothing written on the white envelope. With trembling fingers, she unsealed it and discovered a handwritten note and a newspaper clipping nestled inside.

She set the newspaper clipping aside and went for the letter first, a creased fifty-dollar bill falling into her lap as she unfolded the cream-colored stationery.

She read the note through once and then immediately reread it.

“From your sweetheart?” the nurse asked.

Eleanora jumped, so intent on the letter she'd forgotten the nurse was even there.

“Uhm, yes, my sweetheart, yes.”

But the letter and flowers had come from a complete stranger.

The letter read:

My Dearest Eleanora,

I saw the enclosed
Los Angeles Times
clipping about the atrocities perpetrated against you, and knew you were the one I'd dreamed about. There is a place for you in California, if you want it. Use the money I've included with this letter and buy a train ticket to Los Angeles.

There are sisters waiting for you.

I'll know when you are coming.

Your friend,

Hessika

Eleanora waited until the nurse was gone to unfold the newspaper clipping Hessika had sent her.

It was about a botched exorcism attempted by a group of lay pastors in Massachusetts. The article said the girl, Eleanora Eames, had almost died—Eleanora began to shake as she realized how close those men had actually come to killing her.

Of course, the article did not name Eleanora's tormentors, but her high school yearbook picture was right at the top of the clipping.

She read on and saw that as of the writing of the piece, the pastors had not been charged for the crime—and Eleanora doubted they ever would be.

The newspaper article should have made her feel ashamed, but it didn't. She was tired of being a victim. She'd experienced enough pain for one lifetime, and she was done with letting bad things destroy her. She wasn't going to allow anyone—not Mimi, not Mitchell, not those horrible men—to make her feel bad about herself ever again. She was in control of her life now, and no one was going to touch her heart.

She slipped everything—the letter, the money, and the clipping—back into the envelope and set it on the nightstand beside her bed. At least now she knew where she was going.

She just needed to do a few things before she disappeared.

*   *   *

There was no one home when Eleanora let herself into the house. Mimi didn't lock her doors, didn't feel the need to in such a small town where everyone knew everyone else and your neighbors looked out for you, as you did for them.

She closed the back door, and the screen slammed loudly against the doorframe. There was a dish in the drying rack and a glass in the sink, but otherwise the kitchen was spotless.

As she crossed the room, she heard the squeak of the linoleum underneath her feet, and it made her sad to think this would be the last time she was ever in this room. She touched the top of the worn wooden table, remembering mornings spent with Mimi and Papa, eating oatmeal with brown sugar and a dollop of peanut butter. While they ate, Papa would tell her stories about when he was a little boy growing up in Boston—before he met Mimi and married her and came to live in Duxbury.

Papa had so many stories. Many were about his best friend, Ignatius. How they were like brothers and spent time at each other's houses getting up to all kinds of trouble. The stories made Eleanora wish she had a sibling, or a best friend.

She remembered making dinner with Mimi each night. Eleanora chopping the vegetables while Mimi did the heavy lifting, the two of them working in quiet synchronicity to get the job done.

Mimi making Eleanora's birthday cake each year. Yellow cake with chocolate icing, and Eleanora allowed to lick the icing bowl clean—the only time anything so decadent was tolerated in their house.

These were the memories she wanted to keep with her, the good things from her childhood and adolescence that needed to be tucked away for remembering. The bad things could be lost forever, burned up and forgotten.

She passed through the living room on her way to the back stairs and realized the whole house smelled like Mimi's pungent homemade lemon-beeswax wood polish. She used the banister to pull herself up the sloped stairway, ascending each step as quickly as she could. She didn't want to be tempted to stay and wait for Mimi to come home. Better—and safer—to get out before her grandmother returned.

Besides, what could she say to the woman who'd raised her:
Why did you do this to me? Why did you let me almost die?

She doubted if Mimi even understood the magnitude of what she'd done—and she'd never have to answer for it because she hadn't actually physically committed the crime.

Eleanora shrieked as she opened the door to her bedroom and found Mimi sitting on her bed, waiting for her.

Her Mimi looked shriveled, a husk of her former self. The flesh below her cheekbones had collapsed in on itself, and her jowls were slack. Heavy bags pulled at the skin below her eyes, dragging down her lower eyelids and exposing their raw pink interior.

After taking a moment to calm herself, Eleanora said, “You look awful.”

Mimi stared back at her, then said, “You should never have been born.”

“I don't think that's true,” Eleanora said, standing her ground.

She could see her mama's star quilt resting on the seat of the rocking chair by the window, but her mama's Bible—the only other thing she'd come to take—wasn't on her bedside table.