Grim (7 page)

Megan crept into the kitchen, her eyes huge and round. “You didn't come get me,” she said, sounding wounded. “I called and you didn't come get me. I waited and you didn't —” Her voice caught.

Rebecca opened her arms. “It's okay, Meg,” she said. “We didn't hear you. We've all been having a rough night.”

Megan ran up and buried her face in Rebecca's stomach. “He killed her,” she whimpered. “He killed her in the backyard and you didn't do anything.”

Rebecca looked up at Shawn. Her hands were pressed against Megan's back, but Shawn could tell that they were shaking.

He reached for her. “Becca —”

“We're going to church in the morning,” she said in a low voice.

“Listen —”

She held up a hand, cutting him off, and pulled Megan away to look her in the eye. “How about you come have a sleepover, Meg?” she asked. “My bed's big enough for two.”

Megan nodded and Rebecca tried to smile. She ran her thumbs over Megan's cheeks, wiping off the tears. The two of them headed for the stairwell entry.

“You should get some sleep, Shawn,” Rebecca said over her shoulder.

Shawn heard them pad up the stairs and across the hall. Their footsteps were punctuated by the hard
click
of the lock on Rebecca's bedroom door.

 

Erika's whole body felt shrunken and afraid as she walked into the dining room. It was like she was sixteen again and about to face her mother at the kitchen counter, a whole nest of plastic sticks with plus signs buried in the bathroom garbage. Only tonight she was in a ball gown instead of ripped denim, her skin uncomfortably naked even under all the layers of stiff green taffeta. The dress had been chosen to match the gem around Erika's neck, a small gold and emerald teardrop that she refused to part with.

A thick white drop cloth covered most of the dining table, which looked long enough to seat thirty on either side. At the far end, the sheet had been peeled back and places set for two, a candelabra tossing its steady flames across the silverware and painted china. Jeremiah sat at the head of the table, as if holding court to a hall of ghosts. He rose and offered her a stiff bow.

“You look nice,” he said. “The dress suits you.”

“Thank you.”

“Please. Sit.”

The chair had already been drawn out for her. She took her seat.

“Bread?” He passed her a covered wicker basket.

She pulled away the cloth and felt the steam rising from each perfect little loaf.

“Hungry?”

Erika set the basket down beside her glass.

“Not especially,” she said.

Jeremiah took a piece of bread for himself and broke it over his plate, the crust making a soft crackle in protest. “Have I upset you?”

“No more than I deserve.” Erika glanced over at him. “I feel awful, Jeremiah. I know that I shouldn't have stolen your knife, but I just … I only … I'm worried about them.” She shook her head. “I want to see my kids.”

“And I told you that you would,” Jeremiah said smoothly. “I don't lie, Erika. There are some things that I simply cannot tell you right now, but I would never lie.”

“But you shouldn't have to chase me into their dreams. You won't get anything done for them if you do.”

“Yes. Well.” Jeremiah set aside his uneaten bread. Struggled for a moment to compose his thoughts. Finally, he sighed and reached for Erika's glass. The dark wine barely splashed as he poured it onto her empty porcelain dinner plate.

“Give me your earring,” he said.

Erika took one of the Tahitian pearls from her ears and handed it to him. He dropped it onto the plate, the pearl's rounded edge jutting out a little above the surface. They both watched as the ripples stilled and the pear-shaped lights of the candelabra became clear in the reflection.

Jeremiah leaned in close and let a slow breath skim the wine, but it stayed blank.

“They aren't sleeping any longer,” he said, drawing back to his own plate. “You can try later. But I warn you, Erika, some dreams are more true than we would like to think.”

He didn't give Erika time to respond before he lifted the lid from the platter in the middle of the table, revealing a leg of lamb on a bed of greens and fruit. Jeremiah reached over and placed a sprig of grapes in Erika's empty soup bowl. “Eat something.”

“I'm really not hungry.”

“It'll make you feel more lively,” he said.

“I don't want to feel more lively. I've had enough excitement for one day.”

Jeremiah pursed his lips and moved his hands from the serving ware. “Then talk,” he said. “Tell me about yourself.”

“About me?”

“What else would you tell me about?”

Erika picked up her fork and nudged the pearl in circles around her plate. Wine dripped from its surface like blood as it tumbled over and over the bottom of the dish.

“The last thing I remember,” she said, “were lights. Headlights. Someone hit me, didn't they? Is that why I'm here?”

Jeremiah cleared his throat and flexed his fingers, then chose a thin slice of lamb for himself. It lay folded on his plate, steaming.

“Yes,” he said. “That's why you're here.”

“And in the gas station. Did you know then?”

“At the end,” said Jeremiah slowly. “Just as you were driving off, I realized that there would be an accident.”

“Why didn't you stop it?”

Jeremiah let out a breath and looked away, down to the floor on his right. Then he looked back at his guest. “I'm not human, Erika,” he said. “I think you've gathered that much.”

“Don't make fun of me.”

He nodded. “There are some things that I can't control. That I'm not supposed to get my hands in. I'm a guide. I teach the dead how to die, and I show them where to go. Ferry them across. That's all I'm supposed to do. It's all I'm made to do.”

“So I'm dead?”

Jeremiah stopped again, then reached out and took her hand from her fork. Held it tightly in one of his own. “I suppose,” he said, “that sometimes I can make exceptions.”

“But you can't make exceptions for stopping it in the first place?”

“You …” He wet his lips. “I'm trying to help you, Erika. But some things must be figured out first.”

“What does that even mean? Please just tell me, Jeremiah. Am I alive or not?”

He pressed against the back of her hand. “You're waiting, Erika,” he said. “You're waiting because someone made a mistake. But you're safe now, and we'll know something soon. I promise you that.” When she finally nodded, he let go of her hand. “Tell me about yourself. About who you were before you got mixed up with me.”

Erika looked down at her hand, where Jeremiah had touched her. She pulled her fingers away from the table and folded them safely in her lap. “I was born in Pennsylvania,” she said. As the memories stirred in the back of her mind, she smiled to herself. “I miss it. It was a beautiful place to grow up.”

“Why did you leave?”

The smiled faded. “Because I got pregnant,” she said. “Things changed a lot after that. My mother disowned me, for one. My father had died by then.”

“Was that Rebecca?”

Erika started. “What?”

“The baby,” said Jeremiah carefully. “It was Rebecca?”

“Yes.”

“What did you do?”

“I married her father. We moved back to his hometown.”

“Were you happy?”

Erika shrugged. “I thought that I loved him.”

“You did love him.”

She gritted her teeth.

“Don't do that,” said Jeremiah. “I know what I'm talking about. It
is
possible to fall out of love, you know.”

“That's true, I guess.”

“But you never did, did you? Fall out of love, I mean.”

Erika sucked her lips into her mouth and bit down on them. “I should've left after Rebecca. I knew that it wasn't working. But I couldn't go. I couldn't —” She faltered. “And we decided to have Shawn and I thought that it would fix things, but it didn't. He was just a baby. How could he fix anything?” She kept her eyes open to hold back tears. They started to weigh on her lids and lashes, but she couldn't bring herself to let them fall. “You would've thought Megan was his farewell present. ‘She's yours,' he said, and walked out of the hospital. And she
was
mine, I guess. He didn't want another one. He barely touched her when he came back.” Erika pressed one hand against her mouth and closed her eyes. “He never loved Meg. Or me.”

“You're wrong again,” Jeremiah said gently. “He did love you, Erika. He loved you very much. He just loved himself more.” He lifted her free hand from the table again. “You did the right thing, Erika, by leaving him.”

“I wanted it to work.”

“I know you did. You both did. But sometimes the world gets confused. I'm sorry it happened.”

“I am too,” she said in her smallest voice.

“And I'm sorry that this happened. You shouldn't be here.”

Her eyes flashed up and now she didn't care that the tears fell, clearing themselves away.

“Of course I shouldn't be here,” she said. “Do you think I wanted to get killed by a drunk on the highway?”

Jeremiah flinched and withdrew his hand. “Erika, please,” he said. “Don't. I'm doing the best I can, but I don't have the same standing I once did.”

“What standing?”

He shrugged. “That of a very sad bastard,” he said. “My father would have me scrubbed out of the picture if he hadn't promised my mother not to touch me. He loved her. He did.” He dropped his napkin on the table and got up from his chair. “You have full license of the house, Erika,” he said. “No secret rooms for you, or locked doors with conspicuous keys. And you won't find a magic wardrobe or mirror. We sold that with the flying carpet.”

Erika felt too tired to play along.

“I think I'll just go to bed.”

They walked together down the dark stretch of the dining room, leaving the haze of candlelight behind them.

“I'll be in my study,” Jeremiah said, “if you need anything.” He paused as if he intended to say something more, but then he just took a step away and dipped his head in a small bow. “Good night, Erika. I'll see you in the morning.”

“Good night.”

“And please don't leave the grounds. I wouldn't want you getting lost.”

Erika nodded and went out into the entrance hall and up the smooth marble steps. She didn't feel at all hungry or tired. She felt only hollowed out — empty. She wanted so badly to go home.

When Shawn came downstairs in the morning, Rebecca sat waiting at the breakfast table with her hands around a coffee cup. She looked him over.

“It's nine o'clock,” she said. “Mass starts at ten.”

“You aren't serious.”

“Yes, I am. Go change.”

“Don't be ridiculous, Becca.”

“I don't know what's going on. I just think we need some comfort right now. I'm doing this for Meg.”

“Meg is
sleeping
,” said Shawn. “She was up half the night crying. She needs a nap, not a sermon.”

“Don't make excuses, Shawn,” she said, getting to her slippered feet. “I'll wake her up. Just worry about yourself.”

Shawn stood alone in the kitchen for a few minutes, debating whether or not he should just leave and come back later that afternoon. He thought better of it. After all, Rebecca had kept her word at the funeral by letting Megan stay in the car while their father said his piece. An hour at mass seemed the least that he could do.

 

The church delighted Megan. She tugged on Shawn's and Rebecca's shirtsleeves and pointed out the murals across the high ceiling, and the stained glass windows, and the brass organ pipes along the back wall. They nodded, smiling, and led her a little farther down the aisle. A lady stepping into a pew ahead of them smiled at Megan, and Megan smiled back at her, and then at her hat, which had a cloth rose on it and a little yellow bird.

It had been five years since Shawn had come into the Church of Saint Jerome, and he kept an eye out for anyone he might know from childhood. He wanted to avoid them.

Rebecca remembered her first Communion and the tedious confirmation classes every Sunday. She remembered the way the wafers always stuck to the roof of her mouth. The sweet taste of grape juice from a cup that everyone shared. Body and blood. Even then she stumbled after salvation.

The Stripling family had stopped coming to church after Erika's divorce. As a Catholic, she hadn't wanted to face the congregation with the news. Rebecca and Shawn soon became used to staying home on weekends. After Matt started coming over, church found itself replaced by long breakfasts and walks in the park. Erika found that her children preferred this to the rolling monotone of mass anyway.

Shawn led his sisters to a row halfway down the aisle and waited for them to be seated before he took his place beside Rebecca. The pews were made of burnished oak, cool to the touch, and the faux-leather Bibles smelled softly of myrrh.

The congregation at Saint Jerome's settled into place, pretty in their church clothes. They waited for the priest to bring them closer to God.

 

The room had been scrubbed free of dust by the time Erika returned, the four-poster remade with fresh linen and clean blankets. She washed her face and stripped off the borrowed gown and its soft scent of vanilla, but, after an hour of staring at the carved ceiling, felt resigned to not falling asleep. She slipped out of bed.

In the hall, Erika felt along the wall with her fingertips to avoid tripping in the dark. Feet cold on the marble staircase, eyes adjusting to the midnight shadows: She was a child waiting for Santa. A cheerleader crazy in lust and holding her breath until a set of headlights swung into view. A mother desperate for her children. Erika tried not to dwell on the repetitions of her life — she'd always been afraid to wake those who knew better.

The candelabra still burned at the end of the dining table, but the wicks had sunk into pools of melted wax and sputtered in a desperate attempt to stay lit. The dishes too were waiting to be picked up. Erika sat back down on her chair and studied the porcelain plate, where her earring lay in the pool of warm wine. She nudged it with her forefinger and watched as the reflection shuddered before growing still again. Erika sighed.

 

Shawn felt his eyelids grow heavy. He'd only managed to catch a few hours of sleep. He dug his thumbnail into his palm to keep himself awake and shifted in his seat. When Rebecca threw an angry look at him, he turned away and rested his chin on the back of his hand.

“Now, our Lord,” said the priest, “is merciful because He knows that we make mistakes. He knows that no person is perfect because He did not make us to
be
perfect. In truth, our faults make us beautiful to Him because they show Him that we are ready to change. That we are ready to become better in His name.”

Shawn drifted off to sleep.

 

Erika's eyes widened as she saw the gentle waves from her breath glimmer and spread out in a slow starburst. She leaned in closer. There was Shawn, standing over a slash in the ground and looking down. And then she realized that the slash was a hole, and that the hole was a grave, and that it was her body lying inside. She blinked.

When she opened her eyes, she was looking up at her son, an impossible stretch of smooth dirt keeping her away.

He knelt down. The movement knocked a trickle of dust and clay into the grave. It settled in her hair and on her dress. She rubbed soil from her eyes.

“Am I dead, Shawn?”

He stayed there, above her, his face downcast. “Yes, Mom,” he said. He hesitated and then knelt down and reached deep into the grave. Erika got to her feet and stretched up on tiptoe to take his hand. She felt him shiver as he touched her bloodless skin. It broke her heart.

Her voice shook as she spoke. “Am I scaring you?”

When he didn't answer, her knees buckled under her and she fell forward.

“Mom!” Shawn leaned in to catch her but lost his own balance. He tumbled down beside her, headfirst, and landed with a heavy
crack
on the packed earth.

Erika screamed and pulled away. She plunged through a chute of rushing air, out of the dream, and back into her own body. The wooden lattice of the dining chair bit into her spine as she fell backward with it and thumped to the ground. She rolled over onto her side and pressed her chin down against her knees.

Erika's breath came shallow as she sucked thin, trembling mouthfuls of air into her throat.
Yes, Mom
. Before she realized it, she was sobbing. Hot tears slipped down her nose and cheeks. The curls of her hair grew damp and sticky as she cried, and the floor felt like a cold compress against her flushed skin.

It took Erika a few minutes to realize that she hadn't left the room because she wanted Jeremiah. It took her longer to realize that he wasn't going to come.

She lacked the energy to move. She just lay there on the unwashed tiles, her body twisted into a question mark, and shivered against the satin of her nightdress.

 

Shawn woke up on the floor of the church, with his head pounding. Rebecca towered above him, staring, horrified, at his limp body. Megan pressed her head against her sister's ribs.

The priest stood planted at his pulpit, a Bible and the scribbled notes of his sermon on the dais in front of him.

A few seconds went by before Shawn noticed that he had the attention of the entire congregation.

Shawn reached for Rebecca's arm, but she recoiled and he had to push himself up on his own. He pressed one hand against the back of his throbbing head and waved an embarrassed apology.

“You'll want to go to the clinic, young man,” said a woman in the next pew, a book of hymns clutched against her chest. She sounded as if Shawn had personally wronged her. “You may have a concussion.”

Shawn turned to Rebecca for help, but she had already sunk back into her seat, her eyes fixed on the India-paper pages of an open Bible. Her lips formed a thin, irritated line.

“I'll pick you up after the service, then,” Shawn said weakly. When Rebecca didn't answer, he turned on his heel and hurried down the aisle and through the heavy front doors.

The priest looked back down at his notes as the doors swung into place.

“Luke thirteen,” he said. “‘He answered them: Do you imagine that, because these Galileans suffered this fate, they must have been greater sinners than anyone else in Galilee? I tell you they were not; but unless you repent, you will all of you come to the same end. Or the eighteen people who were killed when the tower fell on them at Siloam — do you imagine they were more guilty than all the other people living in Jerusalem? I tell you they were not; but unless you repent, you will all of you come to the same end.'”

 

Jeremiah sat on the terrace overlooking the back gardens. To the north, where the city's center crouched, buildings posed themselves at angles, forming crooked, black teeth. It was past sundown, past curfew, and Limbo held its breath, but Jeremiah wasn't listening. He had a sheet of paper pressed against his knee, and a glass of brandy in his hand.

Jeremiah reread the note one last time before reaching for the candlestick on the table beside him. Martha opened the door as he peeled his ring from the molten wax.

“Miss Erika is in the dining room, sir,” she said.

He looked down at the sealed letter and let a small breath spill out. “I thought so,” he said, passing it to Martha. “Make sure he gets this by morning.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And make sure he opens it.”

“Of course, sir.”

“That's all.”

“And the miss?”

Jeremiah took a final sip of brandy and looked into the mouth of the city. It waited, hungry and all too ready to swallow them up.

“I'll take care of her,” he said. “You know that.”

 

Rebecca and Megan waited on the front steps of the church until Shawn pulled up, with the car windows rolled down. Megan gave him a peck on the cheek as they climbed in.

“Jesus loves you,” she said.

“The priest talked to us after mass,” Rebecca told him. “Apparently, God understands. That's more than I can say for myself.”

“I'm not having the best day, Becca.”

“Really?” she scoffed. “Because mine has been spectacular. My family sees dead people in their sleep and my brother collapsed in church during a sermon about infidels. I'm surprised you didn't sizzle when you hit the ground.”

“It's not like I was trying.”

“Weren't you? I'm impressed.”

“You know, you can act like this all you want, but it won't help anything.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Mom's still around.”

Rebecca glanced at Megan's reflection in the rearview mirror. “Don't say that, Shawn.”

“Say what?”

“
That
. About
her
.”

“I don't mean that she's going to pull up the driveway and ask us to help carry in groceries, Becca. But my dreams aren't random. She's watching us. I know she is.” His eyes flicked from the road to Rebecca and back again. “I'm not crazy,” he added.

Rebecca stiffened. “Well, I'm not, either.”

“I'm glad we've cleared that up.”

“I just don't find it necessary to talk about this with Meg here,” Rebecca hissed. “She might get the wrong idea.”

“About Mom?” Megan asked. Her head rested against the tinted glass of one of the back windows. As she talked, she kept her eyes on the houses that slid past her. “I think Shawn's right.”

Rebecca let out a tired groan. “See?”

“I'm eight, Becky,” Megan said. “Not stupid.”

 

When Erika woke, she didn't know where she was. She stared at the ceiling for a few minutes, taking in the soft twist of gold fabric and trying to place it with a bedroom that she recognized. When she rolled onto her side and caught sight of the faded armchair, the heartbreak of last night came flooding back. Limbo wasn't a dream — it was silk sheets swallowing her up and keeping her from her children. And she wasn't alone.

Jeremiah turned away from the window. When he saw her awake, his face relaxed into a smile.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Not well.”

He looked down at her, hands clasped behind his back.

“Are you coming down for breakfast?”

She dipped her cheek against the plush of the pillows and drank in the fresh, expensive-smelling perfume they'd been sprinkled with.

“No,” she said. “I'm sorry.”

“I'll have something sent up.”

“Don't,” she said.

Jeremiah knelt on the floor by her bed and rested his chin against the mattress. The sleep-fluffed curls of his hair were a dark cinnamon in the morning sunlight. He smiled again. “You aren't going to starve yourself, are you?”

“Is that possible?” Erika asked. “I'm already dead.”

Jeremiah lost his smile. He let a long breath out between his teeth.

“Who would tell you something like that?” he asked.

“Shawn.”

He gave her a half laugh. “Your son? I'm sure you love him, Erika, but can you really trust him over me in a question of death?”

Erika pressed her eyes shut. “I don't know.”

“Bless him,” he said. “No human being knows the first thing about death.”

“Except for the dead ones.”

Jeremiah smirked. “No,” he said. “Not even them. Especially not them.”

He took Erika's hand from the pillow and pressed her fingers against his palm.

“Do you think that I could feel your heartbeat if you were dead? Do you think that I could feel your breath on my hand if your lungs had collapsed? Or hear your voice? Believe me. Trust me.” He grazed her fingertips with his lips before tucking her hand back beneath the covers. “I have to go to my study,” he whispered, “but let me know if there's anything you need, Erika. Anything at all.” He got to his feet again and went to her door. She flexed her hand against her leg. Her fingers burned.