Page 56 of Wildwood

“Am I like Jack Nicholson in The Shining?”

Mia laughs. “No. As long as you don’t see blood pouring down the walls and creepy twins at the end of the hall, I think you are okay. But you need to take care of yourself.” She clears her throat. “Do you feel okay being up there?”

“I don’t know how to answer that. I’m regularly terrified. But I also don’t think the person means me harm. And I just feel like I need to figure this out. I don’t think I can just drop it.”

Mia’s eyes search my face. “Okay,” she says. “But you can come stay here any time. And I can come up to you.”

“You have two kids,” I protest.

“Yes, I do! So, give me an excuse for a girls’ weekend!”

We sit in comfortable silence.

“So, I’m not Jack Nicholson?”

“You are not Jack Nicholson.”

* * *

Driving away from Mia’s the next morning, I feel lighter than I have in a while. I also had the deepest, most restful sleep I’ve had in weeks. But as I drive to Garden Vistas, I feel my mood darken. It’s my first time visiting my grandmother since moving to Vermont and I feel racked with guilt. I worry what Bev at the front desk will think when I arrive. Will she think I’m a neglectful granddaughter? Or am I flattering myself that she’ll think anything at all about me? I also can’t stop thinking about the Tarot reading. I know it’s silly. I know I shouldn’t let something that Gina with the purple hair, with the “you take the blonde, I’ll take the brunette,” said affect me so much. But it has.

When I get to Mathilde’s room, she’s sleeping in her hospital bed. I gently kiss her cheeks and smooth down her hair. If it’s even possible, she looks smaller and frailer than the last time I’d seen her. When I picture her in my mind, I see my grandmother of five years ago. A woman who was vivacious and witty, who loved fried clams and a good beer. I squeeze my eyes shut a moment.

I take her hand and talk for a while. I tell her that the baby is growing well, and that we’ve learned she’s a girl.

“We will name her Mathilde.” My voice is beginning to crack, and I don’t want her to hear me cry, so I stand up and walk over to her closet. I roll the door open and look inside, running my hands over her clothes. She had a simple, but elegant style in her life before Garden Vistas. Floral blouses with a strand of pearls, sensible slacks. I notice a box on the floor of the closet, labeled “Mathilde’s Personal Documents.” I’m sure I’ve seen the box before, most likely when I moved Mathilde from her old nursing home to Garden Vistas. But I must not have paid any attention to it before.

I kneel on the floor and slide out the box. I glance over my shoulder and Mathilde is still sleeping peacefully. Inside the box, I find a series of folders. One folder is labeled “Estate Planning.” Inside, I find typed and signed copies of her will, her health care proxy and power of attorney.

There’s another folder labeled “Medical Records.” I hesitate to flip through this one, as it somehow feels more personal, but I do it anyway. There’s a set of printed-out sheets, which look like copies of her more recent medical records. I glance at these briefly and see a laundry list of medications. Ditropan. Lopressor. Clozapine. Zyprexa. Zestril. There’s an ancient-looking vaccination card, with handwritten dates for diphtheria, tetanus, and pertussis. I hold the card in my palms, like it’s a baby bird. My great-grandmother must have first held on to this when Mathilde was just a baby. And when Mathilde was grown and setting off on her own, her mother would have given her this card. Keep it somewhere safe, she would have said. I picture my grandmother, young and with her whole life ahead of her. My throat feels tight.

I’m about to put the cover back on and shove the box back in the closet when I notice a small paperback book at the bottom. The cover shows a stern-faced man, dressed in eighteenth-century preacher’s clothes. His arms are spread wide, and he is surrounded by Puritans, who look up at him in adoration. It’s titled Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God and Other Puritan Sermons. I flip through the book and notice the pages are worn thin and dog-eared. I remember this from high school. Jonathan Edwards’s fiery sermon that reenergized religion after the Enlightenment. My grandmother was never a religious woman, at least as far as I remember. It seems strange that she would have kept a copy of this and preserved it over the years and moves, given it as much care as her medical and financial records, as her childhood immunization card.

I pop the book into my purse, move the box back to the closet, and give my grandmother one more soft kiss. Before starting the drive back to Newfield, I give the book one more scan in the car. Mathilde had highlighted text that apparently held significance, and some pages nearly bleed with yellow. One line that she highlighted is also circled with red ink. There is laid in the very nature of carnal men a foundation for the torments of hell. Next to it, she’d written one word. Fools.

* * *

“How was Mia’s?” Topher asks, helping me unload the car.

Such an innocent question. Once upon a time, I would have smiled dreamily and gushed about the way time never seemed to have passed when we got together, shared stories of the rest of our squad of girlfriends who would have joined the night out, bemoaned the number of tequila shots we’d taken, the liquor and lime still churning my stomach.

But this was not a normal trip. This time, we were hunting for witches and consulting with psychics.

“Fantastic. So good to see her kids again. It was definitely a much-needed trip.”

“I’m so glad.”

Topher doesn’t seem too bothered by the lack of elaboration. Perhaps he can’t ask for more than a succinct and happy report. Even if he knows I’m lying.

Chapter 46

I glance at the clock. It’s three in the morning. The wicked hour. I think I had just fallen into a light and fitful sleep. But then, I was jolted awake. It was a thud, that same sound, like something heavy on the roof, followed by creaks. Like the sound of wood slowly splitting. There is another noise. Hugo’s growl. It’s happening again.

I hear a slow creak, this time from below, and feel the house shift. Something is here. Hugo bolts for the door, barking ferociously. I start, too, knocking my mug off the bedside table, brown tea exploding onto the floor. I run down the hall and make my way down the stairs as quickly and carefully as I can, one hand on the rail, the other instinctively on my belly. Once at the landing, I stand for a moment, bewildered in the parlor. I hear Hugo barking. I follow his sounds to the conservatory. The door to the conservatory is open. We usually keep it closed. Hugo is jumping and howling by the wall that looks out onto the back meadow. I walk on trembling limbs to stand beside him. My stomach drops as I see the same ghostly figure I saw before. A cloak and a pale face, illuminated by the moon. It’s Lydia, I tell myself, wanting this to be true, the real-world incarnation of the ghost in my dreams less frightening than other possibilities. She’s maybe ten yards out, not too far. She isn’t moving, but stands, simply looking at me. It’s probably a matter of seconds, though they stretch on. A roll of fog passes over and when it’s gone, she is too. All I see is my own reflection, equally pale and ghostly, standing in my nightgown.

I check all the locks. They are secure. I double-check the alarm system. I stare at my phone while pacing the downstairs. Do I call Topher? Do I call the police? My thumb taps out each option, then pauses and backs out each time. No. I’m not going to do either. If Topher doesn’t believe me, I doubt the police will. Besides, what could they do to help in a situation like this? Would they even see her? And while my body feels like it’s humming, with both fear and adrenaline, I don’t know if she means me harm. I think she’s trying to get my attention. Mission accomplished.

I’m about to head back upstairs when something below catches my eye. The gaps between the floorboards are glowing. A shiver runs through my body. I haven’t been in the basement in days, nor has Topher as far as I know. And he’s anal about turning off the lights. My heart starts to thud again as I step ever so carefully over to the basement door. Hugo has followed me, whimpering. For a moment, I don’t want to open the door. I lean my head against the old wood, my hand gripping but not moving the old metal slide lock, staring down at the thin bars of light. Nothing is down there. Nothing is down there. I feel like I’m going to pass out. I take a deep breath, attempting to steady myself, and slide the lock open with a dull clank. Before I open the door, the basement light goes out and bars of light disappear into blackness. There is a screeching noise, and it takes me a moment to realize it’s coming from me.