Page 8 of We Already Dug the Grave

“No, ma’am.” I shrugged. “My sister can draw a little, but not me.”

As if my thoughts had conjured her, the front door creaked open, and Aunt Hattie-May shuffled inside. The wicker basket she used to carry her sketch pad and pencils when she went on one of her nature walks was looped over her dimpled arm.

“Earline?” Her voice carried like a song through the small room. “Thought that was your car in the yard. My ears are burning. You and Milly must be in here talking about me.”

“Hi there, Hattie-May. Milly was telling me about her future nursing plans. You must be so proud.”

“Couldn’t be prouder.” Aunt Hattie beamed and shut the door, then set her basket of art supplies on the coffee table. “How are you doing, honey?”

“Oh, I’m all right. That elderberry syrup you gave me knocked the croup right out of my system, and I—”

Hattie-May gasped, the sharp inhalation stopping the conversation like a kink in a garden hose. Her eyes narrowed on Mrs. Earline’s bruised cheek.

Neither of my aunts ever looked away from life’s ugly parts, and Hattie-May, unfortunately, struggled to be subtle about it. Or maybe it wasn’t a struggle at all. Maybe, like most things with Hattie-May, it was a choice.

I’d long ago trained myself not to react. Not to scowl nor act surprised at any of the questions that crossed clients’ lips. People came to me for answers, not judgment.

The tiny lines feathering around Mrs. Earline’s mouth deepened as she pursed her lips.

Great… I turned away and placed the kettle on the gas burner with a thunk. No one spoke. The only sound was the click of the stovetop’s igniter before the flame caught.

If Mrs. Earline got upset and bolted, that was thirty-five dollars plus (generous) tip down the drain. I should’ve collected payment up front like Aunt Ruth always nagged me to do.

“Well,” Hattie-May said finally, walking into the small kitchen and retrieving a water glass from the cabinet. “Glad to hear the syrup helped.”

She smiled at Mrs. Earline, whose expression relaxed, before walking to the sink. As Hattie-May stood next to me to fill her glass from the tap, her scent enveloped me like one of her hugs. Suddenly I was back in that yard again, my small hand gripped on my aunt’s forearm. Tears filling my eyes, my sister peering around my body.

Would this strange old lady yell about tears the same way Daddy had? I’d set my jaw, every muscle in my body going tense, ready to do battle if necessary.

“I see you fighting something in there. Speak and let it out. Let me help.” The gentleness in Hattie-May’s voice had caught me by surprise. Maybe it was relief. Maybe I was just a little girl longing for someone to hear her. Maybe it was more than that, but as if my words had been summoned, I found myself answering her.

“If I’d stayed home from school…”

If I’d stayed home from school, everything would be different. If I’d been there. I could’ve stopped it.

“Oh honey,” she soothed. “There’s nothing you could’ve done.”

“Uh-huh,” I sniffed. “I saw—” I stopped myself, clamping my mouth closed. Don’t talk about that. Never ever.

The old woman—Hattie-May—tilted her head. “You saw something?” It wasn’t a question. “Something in here?” She tapped my forehead.

My brows knitted together. How could she know?

Hattie-May had sighed. “Listen to me again, dearie. There’s nothing you could’ve done.”

“But—”

“Nothing,” she’d interrupted firmly. “None of this is your fault. What you experienced—the knowing, the seeing—it’s normal.”

“No,” I whispered, shielding Frances further. “Mama said to hush.”

She smiled sadly. “You can talk about it here. In fact, you should talk about it with me. As much as you want. It seems impossible now, but I promise you the Sight, that’s what we call it, is a good thing. When you learn to use it, it can be a gift.” Hattie-May had winced as she pushed to her feet. “And I have it too. So does your mama.”

My mouth had dropped open. That piece of me desperate for understanding scrambled forward, feral in its urgency.

“How do you know?” I asked. The door squeaked open, and another woman, who was as tall and slim and sharp as Hattie-May was soft, appeared on the porch, her boots clomping with each step.

“The Sight’s been passed down through generations of Robbins women. I’m a Robbins woman. And this is your Aunt Ruth.” She gestured behind her, to the woman who was her physical opposite. “She’s your mama’s older sister. She’s a Robbins too. So is your mama. And you.”