The Whispering Hollows (11 page)

“It's true,” Eloise said reluctantly. “I just got back from the hospital.”

“Are you all right?”

“I'm fine, dear,” she said. “Really.”

“Why didn't you call me?” Amanda asked. She heard all the notes of fear and guilt in her daughter's voice.
Because you live all the way across the country
, Eloise thought.
Because you've made it clear that you want limited contact
. She didn't say those things.

“Because I'm fine.”

Eloise could hear Finley's mellifluous, sweet voice in the background. “I want to talk to Mimi.”

There was some muffled shuffling.

Then, “Mimi, are you okay? I saw you fall. You hit your head on the table.”

Finley was a very wise eight-year-old, a superstar reader, stellar student. Eloise badly wanted this not to be happening, and a very base part of her thought about trying to talk the girl out of it.

She could say something like: “We all have dreams, they don't always mean anything. This was just a coincidence.” But that would be a lie. The truth was that, at Agatha's behest, Eloise
had
done some research into her genealogy. Whatever it was, it came through her mother's side. It wasn't an accident. It was in her DNA. The history was an ugly one, and Eloise had not shared it with Amanda.

“Well, Finley,” Eloise said, “it's so sweet of you to worry about your Mimi, but I'm okay.”

“Mom's upset,” said Finley. There was a note of prepubescent disdain, however slight. The girl was blonde like her mother, with big dark eyes. She was tiny and pale, but as powerful as a stick of dynamite, and funny, and wild. “She doesn't like it. But it's not our fault.”

Eloise smiled. Children were so much more accepting of their circumstances than adults. Adults railed and raged, tried to change, control, and deny. Children had no idea how things were
supposed to be
. They only knew how things were. They worked with that.

“Is this the first time something like this dream has happened?” Eloise asked.

“Maybe,” Finley said. She sighed. “I don't know. Sometimes I see things.”

Eloise put her head in her hands. She was glad Finley wasn't there to see her face, which must have registered her fear, her sadness. She wouldn't have wished this on anyone.

“What kind of things?”

“People,” she said. “Dreams that come in the daytime. Dreams that aren't about me. But I don't fall down like you do.”

Oh, Lord
, thought Eloise.

“Finley, listen to Mimi,” she said. “Try not to pay too much attention to the dreams just yet, okay? They're not bad or wrong. Just try to ignore them for now.”

“I do,” she said. She was very matter-of-fact about the whole thing. She was used to it, apparently. “I can't remember them when they're over. Except for the one about you.”

“You saw me fall?”

“Yeah,” she said. “I was in the bathroom with you.”

She seemed like she was going to say more, but then she didn't. Eloise heard her yawn. It was late.

“We'll have to talk about this more,” said Eloise, trying to sound light, unconcerned. “Maybe I'll come visit you.”

“Okay,” Finley said. She sounded tired now.

“Go to bed,” said Eloise. “It's a school night.”

“Okay,” she said. “But Mimi?”

“Yes, kitten?”

“Stay away from The Burning Girl.”

Eloise's whole body tingled. “I will.”

Eloise talked to Amanda, who was apoplectic with worry and sadness.
How can this be happening? This is a nightmare? Oh, God, Mom, what should I do?
But there was none of the blame Eloise expected. Of course, Eloise was doing enough blaming for both of them. What was she carrying in her DNA? How much harm would it bring to her family? What would it mean for Finley, starting so young? She really needed to talk to Agatha. Eloise would call her in the morning. And she had to make plans to go out to see her daughter.

• • •

Ray spent the night. And in the morning, Eloise smelled burning toast and heard him crashing around the kitchen. He always tried to make breakfast, which was sweet. But the food he prepared was terrible; he had absolutely no experience in the kitchen. Eloise even had to teach him how to run the dishwasher.

She was groggy, her head pounding. Thoughts of Finley and Ella and The Burning Girl were on an endless loop in her worried mind.

What had she been supposed to do? How had she failed? She had failed before, been wrong before, been unable to determine the reason for her visions. She had often tried to help people who didn't want to be helped. She was getting better at letting go, but it wasn't easy.
It's just like being a doctor
, Agatha had offered once
. Try as you might, you can't save all your patients.
You're going to lose some of them. We're none of us gods.

Eloise forced herself out of bed. As soon as she was moving, she felt lighter—if not better. Something heavy had been lifted. She didn't know what. She went to the bathroom and regarded her battered face.

Sometimes there's nothing to do but observe. We can't always control the outcome.

“Shut up,” she told the voice. Maybe it
was
just her own deep subconscious. Whatever it was, she was sick to death of hearing it. “Just shut up.”

Eloise took a shower in her bathroom that badly needed updating. Then she chose a white blouse and a pair of jeans from a closet of clothes that consisted only of items in white, gray, or denim. Why were there no colors in her closet? she found herself wondering. She used to wear colors, didn't she?

Eloise had money, and a lot of it. There had been a life insurance payout when Alfie died fourteen years ago, and she'd banked it. They'd had a decent amount saved before that. They were never spenders. Since Alfie's death, the onset of the visions, and the work that had resulted from them, there had been consulting fees and rewards, big ones. When she partnered with Ray in his private detective business, she agreed to do so only when he agreed to handle all client interface, billing, accounting, et cetera.

“You can just pay me what you think you owe me at the end of each case,” she'd told him.

He'd stared at her a minute with the look he got, that cop's look, like
what's your angle?

“You're not a very good businesswoman, are you?” he said finally.

“I'm not,” she admitted. “And it's good that you know that going in.”

“Aren't you worried that I'm going to take advantage of you, not pay you what you're owed? How about you get a lawyer and we draw up a contract?”

“No,” she said. “I'm not worried about that at all. You're the last person I'm worried about, Ray Muldune. And I don't want a lawyer.”

He shrugged. “If you're sure,” he said. They shook on it.

“Can your accountant do my taxes, too?” she asked him. “As part of our arrangement.”

He laughed and gave his head a little shake. “Sure, Eloise,” he said. “Why not?”

The last time Eloise visited Ray's accountant, who was also her accountant now, she thought he was joking when he told her how much money she had. It was split up in various stocks, bonds, mutual funds, CDs (all things they had discussed and she promptly forgot). Ray had established a 401(k) and pension plan for their business. They got salaries and profit sharing. He did everything right, totally aboveboard, just as she knew he would. And the money that had amassed in her various accounts was significant.

“Your expenses are very low,” her accountant told her. He was young, younger than Amanda. He had a sweet, round face, and round spectacles to match, a flop of blonde hair. He had a tattoo on his arm—a mermaid on a jetty—and wore a tee-shirt to their meeting. Was that how people dressed for business these days? Ray seemed to like him, though. “You're living far below your means.”

“Is that a bad thing?” she'd asked.

“No,” he said. “But your house is paid off. Your daughter's education is paid for. And you have more than enough for whichever school your grandchildren choose, which I know is your wish.”

He looked at her a little shyly, the way that respectful young people look when they are trying to give older people advice. “I'm just saying that you can afford to live a little.”

Live a little. His words came back to her now as she looked at the drab, old clothes in her closet. It was a sad collection of frumpy, worn items. The only new things in there were clothes Amanda sent her.

“Oh my God, Mom! What are you wearing?” she'd asked when Eloise had picked her up from the airport last visit.

“What?” She was just wearing a denim empire waist dress and a pair of flats.

“You're swimming in that thing,” Amanda said, offering her a hug. “You look like you're wearing a Muumuu. We're going shopping.”

“Okay,” Eloise said.

Amanda, on the other hand, looked like a movie star. She had highlighted her wheat hair. She was meticulously groomed—makeup, nails. She was a successful accountant. But her husband, Phillip, was a hedge fund manager, whatever that meant. They were wealthy—unhappy together now, but wealthy. Eloise didn't mind Phil, but he was nothing special. One of those charming enough but vacant, entitled young men who thought the world owed them something. Maybe he'd grow up one day. Eloise wasn't sure how long he and Amanda would be together. He wasn't her “one.” Eloise knew that. Amanda hadn't met the love of her life yet; but she would.

What's wrong with me? Eloise thought. She couldn't stay in the moment at all. It was always like this now, her thoughts drifting this way and that. Her present tense barely existed. It seemed like all she did was remember or slip into visions. Maybe one day, she'd float away altogether.

• • •

Eloise went downstairs. There was black smoke coming from the toaster, and two charred pieces popped out as Eloise entered the kitchen.

“Dammit,” said Ray, trying to scrape the eggs off the pan.

But he was good at coffee. The aroma was strong and rich. Oliver the cat wove himself through her legs as she poured them each a cup, then tossed the toast, and put in two more slices.

“So, Stephanie Schaffer,” he said. “Are you up to talking about it?”

She nodded, welcoming the distraction. They were seated and eating the eggs he had prepared, which were actually not too bad.

“You found her?” she asked.

“Not exactly,” he said, with food in his mouth. Through the open window over the sink, she could hear the wind chimes singing.

“You told me to find the people who really knew her, right? So I got ahold of the woman Tim said was Stephanie's best friend. He'd always suspected that she knew more than she let on.”

He kept chewing.

“After that, I went to see her mother,” he went on. “And, I paid her doctor another visit.”

He took a bent and coffee-stained photo out of his pocket. Stephanie Schaffer, a plain girl with mousy hair, busty. She is squinting at the camera, smiling.
She's sad,
Eloise thought. She doesn't want her picture taken, wherever it was. It looked like there might be a lake behind her, some trees.

“You know what I figured out?” asked Ray.

“Hmm?” said Eloise.

“Tim Schaffer? He's an asshole,” said Ray. “He's pushy and controlling. He calls me constantly, has been dropping by the office daily.
What am I paying you for? What leads are you following?
”

Eloise took a sip of her coffee. This didn't surprise her.

“Guess what?” Ray went on. Eloise knew that she was not supposed to answer. “Her best friend was also not that nice to be around. While I was there—and I was only there for like half an hour—she referred to Stephanie as ‘weak,' ‘a little overweight,' and at one point she said that Stephanie was ‘not that bright.' ‘
If she left
,' the girl says, ‘
she shouldn't have. She was lucky to do as well as Tim.
'
”

Eloise remembered that feeling she had of not being able to breathe.

“Let me guess,” said Eloise. “Mom wasn't exactly a charmer either?”

Ray blew out a breath. “That was my mother, I'd have run away, too. Long ago. It was three in the afternoon, and she was already half in the bag. Nasty old lady, not a pleasant word out of her mouth about her kid or anyone.”

Eloise ate some more eggs, thinking about Stephanie. After she'd taken the scarf off, she hadn't gotten anything else.

“So one last time, I go to see the doctor,” Ray said. “I waited in the parking lot for her to leave the office, surprised her as she was getting into her car.”

“Sounds like a good way to get maced,” said Eloise.

Ray ignored her. “‘Let me ask you,' I said. ‘What was the first thing Stephanie Schaffer said to you when you told her she was pregnant?' ”

Oliver hopped into Eloise's lap, made himself comfortable, and started to purr.

“She gave me the usual runaround—can't talk to you, doctor-patient confidentiality, blah, blah. Then I asked her, ‘Did she seem happy with the news?' I told her the truth. I told the doctor that I wanted to know how hard I should work to find Stephanie. That seemed to get to her. Struck a nerve.”

The doctor had told Ray, that no, Stephanie hadn't seemed happy. That she'd cried. But that was all she said, though Ray suspected the doctor knew much more.

“Stephanie was one of those seeker types, you know what I mean?” Ray kept on. “She had all these self-help books around, little sayings on plaques about change, and positivity, and following your heart. In the drawer by her bed, there were like a hundred pictures of beaches, palm trees, people surfing, boating. They were wrapped up in a rubber band along with a little postcard that said: ‘We must be willing to let go of the life we planned, so as to have the life that's waiting for us.' ”