No one answers.
Having shower flashbacks, and not the good kind, I knock again, and when she doesn’t answer, I let myself in, announcing, “I just need to know you’re okay. We’re all worried about you.”
Callie’s room has come a long way since she first moved into Twin Cedar Pass, and now looks lived in. Pictures hang on the walls, books and papers are stacked around her laptop on her desk, her bed is half made, and there are discarded clothes on the floor—all signs that this is her home. Her space… which she’s currently not occupying. Worried that I’ll have to be the one to tell Mildred her granddaughter is missing, I walk over to the door that opens out to the balcony, and find Callie curled into herself, sitting on one of the wrought iron chairs. She’s bundled in her coat and a blanket, staring blankly out at the forest.
Explains why she couldn’t hear me.
I use a knuckle to gently tap on the wood frame of the glass door, and she startles before looking over her shoulder. Her eyes widen in surprise then her expression falls as she waves me onto the balcony.
Walking out onto the balcony, the air cuts through my long-sleeved shirt, and the wood floor feels like ice through my socks. Putting the tray down on the small table near her, I probe, “It’s cold out here. Wouldn’t it be better if you came inside?”
“I like it out here,” Callie answers, untangling herself from her thick blanket to hand it to me. “It’s quiet and makes me feel… small, but in a good way. Reminds me that I’m a tiny piece in something much bigger, and there are countless people living their lives that have nothing to do with me.”
She still looks warmly bundled in her coat, scarf, and gloves, so I appreciatively take the offered blanket, wrap it around me, and sit down on the cold chair beside her. “I heard about Ruth.”
“Figured that was why you were here,” she murmurs, sniffling as she goes back to staring out at the trees. “Did Felix tell you everything or just that Ruth passed?”
“Felix didn’t tell me anything,” I answer, studying her profile. “Mildred was the one that filled me in, while shoving that tray into my hands. I’m supposed to encourage you to eat something.”
She nods, her lips pressed tightly together, and her chin begins to quiver. So quiet I almost think I imagine it, she confesses, “You were right.”
My heart aches under the frailty of her voice, and I shift my chair closer so that we’re now shoulder to shoulder. Taking her hand and holding it between mine, I whisper, “This is about more than Ruth’s death, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” she hiccups, tears dripping down her cheeks.
Reaching up, I wipe her tears and gently cup her face, encouraging her to look at me. Her eyes are the color of turbulent storms with guilt and grief fighting for control. I know whatever this is, I don’t want to be right. “Tell me what happened.”
“I’m so sorry,” she whimpers, her expression collapsing under the weight of her emotions.
Her pain feels like a crushing weight on my chest. Pulling back, I open my arms. “Come here.”
“Promise not to hate me?” she pleads, climbing into my lap and burying her face against my shoulder.
“I don’t think I could ever hate you,” I admit, closing my arms around her, bundling us both in the warm blanket. “Tell me what happened.”
Callie grips my shirt, the fabric twisting between her fingers, and explains, “I went to see Dorothy and Ruth since I knew none of their family could come to see them this Christmas. Drove myself since the streets would be pretty clear today. When I…” She releases a shaky breath and swallows heavily. “When I got there, Ruth’s bed was empty. She died in her sleep the night before. Even her spirit was gone.”
Rocking her side to side, I hold the blanket closed with one hand, so I can rub her back with the other. “Not every spirit needs help crossing over. Ruth was ready to move on.”
“But I could’ve saved her,” she whimpers, tears thick in her voice. “I sat with her. Talked with her. Acted as the face for so many loved ones that weren’t there with her… and I watched her waste away.”
“Death is a natural part of life,” I murmur, having the uncomfortable déjà vu feeling of my dad telling me something similar.
She shakes her head, her hair a thick curtain that covers most of her face. “I couldn’t watch it happen again.”
My heart misses a beat and everything freezes inside of me. “Columba mea,what did you do?”
“I planned only to help Dorothy, at first, I swear,” Callie insists, sitting up enough to look at me. Her gaze begs me to understand. “She was asleep. No one was around. So I thought… who would one Christmas miracle hurt? Her recovery is still going to take time, even with the cancer gone. Nothing should make anyone suspect me.”
Her jumps between storytelling and assurance that no one should suspect supernatural involvement make my head spin a little. Relieved to hear that Dorothy will make a full recovery, I latch on to the part that I think is the root of her guilt. “At first? Who else did you heal?”
“Andrew McGowen,” she cries, then breaks into racking sobs, both of her hands pressed against my chest. “I’m so sorry. His whole family was with him. So many people that couldn’t stand to lose him, and I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t walk away and let him die. I killed Felix because I couldn’t let astrangerdie!”
I pull her back against me and hold her while she cries. Meanwhile, it feels like a metal band has encircled my chest and keeps squeezing tighter with every breath. I knew what we were doing was wrong, that it went against the natural order, but I convinced myself it didn’t matter. Four days ago, I was able to hug Felix and was letting myself hope, getting wrapped up in the dream of all of us together again. Because of that, I’m reeling when I should be praising Callie for saving someone’s life.
“You didn’t kill Felix. Demons did,” I croak, my voice unsteady as I fight back my own selfish disappointment. “And Felix chose to reject his door. You didn’t force him to do it.”
“But I told him I could bring him back,” she whimpers, her tears warm as they fall down her cheeks and onto my shirt. “He stayed because—”
