The Whispering Hollows (18 page)

Don't judge
, said the voice that wasn't a voice.
We all have our season, and our reason.

It was easy to be impassive when you had all the answers. Serenity was so much harder for those still flailing about on Earth.

Jones looked down at Asher wearing his usual blank expression—it might be disdain, it might be compassion. Jones was a hard man to read. Eloise wondered if he would move to comfort the other man. But he didn't, turned his gaze back toward Eloise.

“I think I'll go have a little talk with Alex Dahl,” said Jones.

“Where is he?” asked Eloise.

Jones nodded over toward the small one-story house, then headed over in that direction. Eloise went to Asher and helped him to his feet. She led him over to his car.

“Who can I call for you?” she asked.

“No one,” he said.

“What about your wife?” said Eloise. “She must be worried.”

He didn't seem to hear her. He was in a well of grief and psychic pain. He hadn't even asked her how she knew the things she knew.

“How long has your child been gone?” he asked. He was sitting in his car now, hands on the steering wheel. She could feel his exhaustion.

“Nearly thirty years,” she said. It was impossible. Could it really be that long?

“Suicide?”

“No,” said Eloise. “Car accident.”

His eyes were blank and glassy. But the rage had left him; he was deflated in its wake. That was something. Rage masquerades as power. When you let it go, you have to find the real strength it takes to move on.

“I feel like I can't breathe,” he said. “Does it get any easier?”

It was the second time she'd been asked that question today. Maybe that's what happened when you got old. It seemed to younger people that you might have answers. Sometimes you did.

“It does,” she answered truthfully. “It gets different. Some of the colors come back—eventually. If you let them.”

He shook his head but didn't say anything else. She waited for the barrage of questions, the begging to know about the last few minutes of Michelle's life. But he didn't ask about anything. She suspected that Roger Asher was a man who turned away from the things that pained him. It might have been why his daughter had felt so alone.

They waited together in silence for Jones.

When Jones returned, he and Eloise escorted Roger Asher from The Hollows, following close behind his car until he left town without a farewell gesture of any kind. They both knew he wouldn't be back.

•    •    •

The woman in the black dress came again that night. But Eloise already knew who she was. It was Faith Good—Sarah, Abigail, and Patience's mother. Eloise had figured it out last night when she'd seen the woman standing by Finley's motorcycle.

Faith wasn't there to accuse. She didn't have an axe to grind, as Finley had suggested. Faith Good was there to help Eloise protect Finley from Faith's daughters—namely Abigail, who was the oldest and had always been the wildest of the three. She wanted Eloise to know that the girls were up to mischief, at Finley's expense.

Faith was stomping around the kitchen. Finally, Eloise got up and went downstairs. She put on the kettle for tea, brewed a cup, then took a seat. Faith stood in the corner. She had her arms folded around her middle, but her face was softer, not as angry.

Eloise had called Joy Martin with her theory. And Joy had emailed Eloise some information on Faith. Faith Good was young, in her early thirties when her daughters were burned at the stake as witches. She died just a year later. The cause of death was sudden heart failure. Obviously, the woman had died of grief. Who could survive that? Who would want to?

“I know you did your best to protect them,” said Eloise. “But we can't always protect the people we love.”

Faith Good, who was a Listener like Patience, like Eloise, like Finley, had tried to teach her girls to hide themselves, to repress their powers. Patience had learned to be silent about the things she saw. But Abigail and Sarah could never hide what they were. Abigail lost control of her telekinesis when she was angry. Sarah's visions of the future were so powerful and sudden that they gave her fits.

It was Abigail who loved her power, who wanted to flaunt it. Faith had the most trouble with her oldest girl. And it was Abigail's seduction of a wealthy man in town that was the final straw. In that time, when the witch scare was at its very worst, it was enough to level the accusation.

The arrest, trial, and execution of The Three Sisters was the biggest event of the century. Everyone they had frightened or unsettled over the course of their lives came out against them.

“We especially can't protect them from themselves,” said Eloise. “Choices have consequences.”

Faith Good bowed her head. The consequences were worse than she ever imagined, and she was powerless to help them. She had tried to teach her daughters to hide themselves; she'd failed.

Amanda, too, had asked Finley to hide herself, to hold back the things that made her what she was. And Finley, like The Three Sisters and with their help, had acted out, was still acting out. The tattoos, the bad company, now the motorcycle. The consequences hadn't yet turned deadly. But there was still the motorcycle to be dealt with.

“All we can do is our best,” said Eloise. “You did yours, and I'll do mine.”

“Who are you talking to?” Finley walked into the kitchen. She took a seat across from Eloise.

“Faith Good,” said Eloise. She took a sip of her tea.

“The woman in the black dress?” Finley looked right at Faith. “I don't see her.”

Eloise told Finley who the woman was and how Eloise had figured it out. Finley didn't seem surprised. When Eloise was done, Finley ran her fingers through her hot pink hair; her nails were painted black. She was wearing a lavender tank top, her tattooed arms bare for Eloise to see. Eloise had decided that she wouldn't encourage Finley to hide or change anything about herself. She would let the girl be. Anything else was asking for trouble.

“So where's my bike?” Finley asked.

“It's at Jones Cooper's place,” she said. “I'll take you to get it tomorrow.”

Eloise didn't have a right to keep Finley from that bike. Even if Eloise was able to force her granddaughter to sell the thing, Finley would find another way to hurt herself—if that's what she wanted. Eloise had no choice but to let her go.

Eloise looked over to Faith, but the woman was gone.

•    •    •

The days were growing shorter, and the garden needed tending. Eloise put on her work gloves and her hat and went out into the warm afternoon air.

Her garden was full of monarch butterflies, thanks to the milkweed plants. She loved the big fat caterpillars that came in the spring and chewed their way through the leaves. Later, she'd find the chrysalises hanging in the eaves of the house. What a wonder to think of the creature wrapped inside, changing from one thing to another, finding its wings.

The Whispers were softer than normal today. In fact, they grew softer all the time lately. And Eloise had wondered about it enough that she'd brought it up with Agatha.

“They might need you less,” Agatha had said. “Now that Finley's here.”

Eloise wasn't sure how to feel about that. Not that she had any desire to hold on to the work. Just that she wasn't sure it was the life she wanted for Finley.

There was a stubborn weed in the back of one of her garden boxes. It was tall with a thick stalk and wide, shiny green leaves. For years, she yanked it from the earth, tossed it in trash, only to find it growing again a few weeks later. Every time she saw it, she would groan with frustration, wrest it from its spot. She'd rake the area vigorously, aerate the soil. But inevitably, she'd return to find it growing again.

People liked to think that they had control. Faith Good sought to teach her daughters to hide themselves. Amanda had “freaked out” on Finley when she realized what Finley could do, silencing her in a way. Eloise, too, had attempted to control her granddaughter's fate by hiding her motorcycle. Roger Asher had forced Michelle to do something that she didn't want to do, something that had contributed to her depression and anxiety. They all had their reasons, most of them loving and well meaning.

The weed was taller and stronger than the other plants, as if it had a right to be there. And, in fact, it did. In her research about how to get rid of the goddamn thing, she learned that it was a “native,” a plant that had grown in the region since before the European settlers. It was a Devil's Walkingstick, its flowers and berries a valuable nutrition source for butterflies, wasps, and bees. Its fruit drew robins, bluebirds, towhees, thrushes, and rusty blackbirds to her yard. It wasn't a plant that she had chosen for her garden, but there it was nonetheless. Ralph Waldo Emerson thought of weeds as plants “whose virtues had not yet been discovered.” Eloise decided that she would take the same position. She let the plant grow, only to discover that it flowered in autumn, giving her garden a final color show before winter fell.

Which was not to say that every unwanted thing left to its own devices revealed itself as something valuable. Finley was still quiet on the matter of The Three Sisters, how much time she spent with them, what was the nature of their relationship now that she had moved to The Hollows. They still wanted something that couldn't be given, and Eloise and Agatha were brainstorming about how that might be resolved to their satisfaction. And there was the issue of the “bad boy” from Seattle with whom Finley was in regular contact via FaceTime. There was a visit planned.

“I'm not worried about it,” Amanda had said, clearly very worried about it. “If that punk can afford a round-trip ticket from Seattle to New York, I'll faint dead away from the shock.”

“Maybe it won't be round trip,” Eloise said.

“Mom!”

The good news was that Amanda and Finley were talking (not fighting) regularly, and Amanda was coming out with Eloise's grandson in a few weeks. Eloise's arms ached for her daughter. For both her daughters.

When Eloise finished her gardening, the sun was low and orange in the sky, painting the gloaming pink, purple, and gold. She gave a little pat to the batch of catnip that she'd planted over Oliver's ashes, and rose to go inside.

Alfie was sitting on the bench by the old oak tree. She came to sit beside him. He was just as he was thirty years ago. He even smelled the same.

“I miss you,” she said. The terrible rush of sorrow that came up from nowhere surprised her. She drew in a shuddering breath. “I never stopped.”

He smiled at her, that patient, loving grin that always soothed her when she was anxious or sad. His periwinkle eyes still sparkled with mischief.

“I didn't think you would stay alone, Eloise.” He looked a little sad now, too, and that worried her. As if she'd let him down somehow.

“I'm not exactly alone,” she said.

“You know what I mean,” he said with a dip of his head to the side, a lift of his eyebrows.

“There's no other love like ours,” she said.

“True,” he said. “But there
is
other love.”

Eloise heard the approach of Finley's motorcycle. In the stillness of The Hollows, Eloise could literally hear it approaching from a mile away.

Alfie stood and walked toward the gate. How badly she wanted to run after him, to hold him. How badly, even now, she wished she could turn back the clock on all of it. She would linger in bed with him, just a few minutes longer. She wouldn't yell at Emily to hurry. Maybe just that would have been enough.

But there was no controlling this life, no matter how powerfully she wanted to. There were only two choices really: to act out of fear, where you clung and railed and killed yourself seeking justice or revenge for the wrongs you perceived; or to act out of love. And love lets go.

Alfie turned to look at her. The light around him was golden, and the air was filled with sparkling flecks of pollen. Somehow she knew it was the last time she would see him in this place, her beloved Alfie. He flashed that wide, warm smile that had charmed her so, always.

“Maybe you should go see Ray,” he said. “He misses you.”

And then Alfie was gone.

Eloise felt a sudden wash of deep peace, a release of something to which she'd been clinging for far too long. The energy of a smile crossed her face.

“Maybe I will.”