We drove down the road that they called the scenic route, which ran parallel to the sea. Winter had transformed the land, lending it a melancholic quality. We parked by a desolate cove and stood by a wild blackberry bush, its brambles weighed down by snow, looking out at the water. In September, at the beginning of the school term, several of the girls, including Ginny and me, had stopped there for a picnic.
The cove was dead and quiet, and the December air was cold. I was wrapped in my ugly sweater and had gloves on my hands. Edgar’s coat seemed expensive and warm. We both stared at the ocean.
“I’m worried about Ginny,” he said. “I need to know if she’s told you anything about…well, about hurting herself.”
I looked up sharply at Edgar. “No. What has she said to you? Has she—”
“She hasn’t said anything…. She hasn’t beenexplicit,but she has talked about death and dying.”
“What?”
He crossed his arms and shook his head. “I can’t even explain what she’s said, only that from several allusions and comments I have the impression that death is constantly on her mind. Andshe’s very different lately; Betty, you must have noticed it. How anxious she seems, how every noise seems to startle her? Did she tell you what happened over Thanksgiving?”
“You were upset at her because she spoke of ghosts.”
“Not just of ghosts. Of faceless men who lurk outside the windows and peek into her room. Those mad scribblings of hers! Have you looked at her notebooks? She spent two days trying to commune with the dead and writing down their laments.”
What could I say? Of course I’d noticed her drawings, her scribblings, the stacks of books on witchcraft and the occult multiplying around her bed. Her evasiveness, her tense face, how each creak of the boards of the old house made her sit up expectantly, how her eyes darted across the room. I’d heard her speak of men who followed her, men who paced below windows, and vague worries that became incoherent murmurs. She was like an orchid that wilts in a pot, yet I did not like to discuss this, not with anyone, not with him.
“I fear she may be going mad. I think it would be best if I took her away. Perhaps a sanatorium might be the best place for her.”
Those words were like a blow to the temple. I felt as if I might lose my balance and looked at him in wide-eyed surprise. A sanatorium! Did he mean the State Lunatic Hospital at Danvers, that grand old building perched like a vulture upon a hill? Would they place Ginny in a straitjacket? Would they make her take one thousand pills and tinctures and remedies? I pictured him dragging Ginny by the hair up to an attic where she’d be locked away.
“Ginny has certain eccentricities. But madness! No!”
“Madness. Nerves. I have no idea what to call it.”
I moved away from him, my feet stomping upon the fresh snow. This landscape of white and cold was like a knife to my throat. My voice was hoarse and pained.
“How can you say such a thing! You who are supposed to love her.”
“It’s because I love her that I’m talking to you.”
“You probably have cold feet. Maybe you don’t want to marry her anymore,” I said. I had a sudden hope that this would be thecase, that he might leave Ginny and me alone. That I wouldn’t have to part from her side. I’d take care of her. I would. I wouldn’t abandon her.
Edgar shook his head vehemently. “I do want to marry her. More than anything in the world. But you can’t tell me she hasn’t changed. You can’t tell me everything is fine with her.”
No, I couldn’t. I opened my mouth and sighed, letting out a puff of warm breath. We had drifted away from the car and now turned around, retracing the steps we had left in the snow.
“Betty, I’m afraid she’ll hurt herself, that’s what it is. She won’t listen to me, but perhaps she’d listen to you. A doctor is not the end of the world, is it? At least if she had a chat with one…I want her to stay with my family during Christmas break, and then afterward it would be easy to see Dr. Landis while we’re in Boston. You’re her close friend, if anyone can talk to her, it’s you.”
“Me, Edgar? What would I say? I wouldn’t know how to bring it up.”
“At least promise me you’ll keep a careful eye on her, Betty. I call each day but still I worry. Please watch over her.”
His anguish was obvious and when I nodded he smiled that great big smile that Ginny adored. Poor Edgar! Ginny’s disappearance robbed him of his youth and easy joy; that smile seldom adorned his lips afterward. It robbed me of something, too. Innocence and ease. I can never look at the darkness outside without wondering what lurks in the corners. When the lamps bloom on the street, I peek through the curtains and gaze at shadows.
Who goes there, I wonder.Whatgoes there.
The winter season also changed for me. When I was a girl, winter was the season of snowball fights and sleds. After Ginny vanished, winter became the season of death and sorrow. For a few years I lived in Arizona, lived with a woman whom I loved dearly, and escaped those New England winters. But eventually I returned, drawn back to northern latitudes. Drawn back to the questions and the incertitude.
Winter brings with it too many memories; the warmth and cheer of a fireplace give way to painful recollections when I turnmy head and contemplate the snow. I remember that night when Ginny vanished. I did not see a person outside, an intruder who might have been lying in wait for her.
Yet I’ve never been able to shake off a feeling that, as I pressed a hand against the trunk of a tree, I was not alone that night. That something watched and hungered and waited in the dark.
The older I grow, the shorter the days seem to become, and I’m certain that what I sensed that night was the shadow of death. But I’m getting ahead of myself. I’m proceeding too quickly.
For now, let us return to the car, where Edgar toys with the radio and I look out at the trees covered in snow. Let us return to those first days of December, when my heart is still whole and Edgar’s smile spreads across his face. Let us remain there, one second longer.
