failed with her—that all my gifts, all my resources—.”
“Of course. I know how you love her,” I said. “I love her and I hardly know her.” This was babble. This woman was suffering. Was I suffering? The ghost was accusing me. A tall man right behind her but she had no sense of him.
What was it that was slipping out of her conscious to me? Something so very dreadful that it had shaped her entire existence; and she felt it keenly at this moment.
I have taken life.
I shuddered. Her eyes wouldn’t let me move.
I have taken life again and again.
The orderlies swept by with more equipment. Cool air flooded out of the open front door. Jasmine was there. The ghost stood firm. It seemed to me that the curve of the limbs of the pecan trees marching down the gravel drive meant something, a secret communication from the Lord of the Universe, but what?
“Come to me,” I said to Rowan. A life founded upon suffering, upon reparation. I couldn’t bear it, I had to touch it, enclose it, save it.
I took her in my arms, Dear God Forgive Me, kissing her cheeks and then her mouth.
Don’t fear for Mona.
“You don’t understand,” she whispered. In a scalding moment I saw the hospital room, a torture cell of machines and pulsing numbers, glistening plastic bags feeding into dangling tubes, and Mona sobbing, sobbing the way she was now, and Rowan standing in the doorway.
Almost used the power, almost killed—.
“I see, I do,” I said. “And it was not the right time and she wanted to come to Quinn,” I whispered the words in her ear.
“Yes,” she said, her own tears rising, “and I frightened her. You see. She knew what I meant to do, she knew I had the power, it would have showed up as a stroke on the autopsy, just a stroke, but she knew! I almost. . . . I terrified her. And. . . .”
I held her so tight. I drew in my breath.
I kissed her tears. I wished I was a saint. I wished I was the priest who stood by the car waiting for her, pretending not to see our kissing. What was kissing? Mortal kissing? I kissed her mouth again. Mortal loving and all the while the thundering desire for the link of the blood, not her death, no, Dear God, no, just the link of the blood, the knowing. Who was this Rowan Mayfair! My head swam.
And the ghost beyond her glared as though he’d harrow Hell to bring its forces against me.
“How could you tell when was the right moment?” I answered. “And the thing to cling to is that you didn’t do it. And now she has her time with Quinn.” Oh, such deceitful euphemisms for one who detests all euphemisms, and with reason. I kissed her hard and eagerly and felt her body soften, felt her lock to me for one precious instant, and then the flash of icy coldness as she pulled away.
She hurried down the steps, her heels barely making a sound. Fr. Kevin was holding the door of the car open for her. The ambulance was already backing up. She turned and looked at me and then she waved at me.
Such a tender, unexpected gesture. I felt my heart grow huge, and its beating too much for me.
No, you poor darling. You didn’t kill her. I did it. I killed her. I’m guilty. And she’s sobbing again. And the ghost knows.
5
N ONE OF THE MORTALS in the house could hear Mona sobbing. The walls were too thick.
Meantime, the middle of the dining room table was being draped and set for supper, and Jasmine wanted to know if Quinn and I would join Tommy and Nash; I told her No, we couldn’t leave Mona, which she already knew.
I told her to please call Cindy, the Nurse, though she probably wasn’t needed, and to put the oxygen tank and the medicine out of the way. (Actually, this lovely lady spells her name Cyndy, so we will start spelling it this way from here on.)
I went into the living room. I tried to clear my head. The simple perfume of Rowan on my hands paralyzed me. I had to get straight.
Snap to a tender affection for everybody in the house. Go to Mona.
What
was
all this succumbing to a
“Of course. I know how you love her,” I said. “I love her and I hardly know her.” This was babble. This woman was suffering. Was I suffering? The ghost was accusing me. A tall man right behind her but she had no sense of him.
What was it that was slipping out of her conscious to me? Something so very dreadful that it had shaped her entire existence; and she felt it keenly at this moment.
I have taken life.
I shuddered. Her eyes wouldn’t let me move.
I have taken life again and again.
The orderlies swept by with more equipment. Cool air flooded out of the open front door. Jasmine was there. The ghost stood firm. It seemed to me that the curve of the limbs of the pecan trees marching down the gravel drive meant something, a secret communication from the Lord of the Universe, but what?
“Come to me,” I said to Rowan. A life founded upon suffering, upon reparation. I couldn’t bear it, I had to touch it, enclose it, save it.
I took her in my arms, Dear God Forgive Me, kissing her cheeks and then her mouth.
Don’t fear for Mona.
“You don’t understand,” she whispered. In a scalding moment I saw the hospital room, a torture cell of machines and pulsing numbers, glistening plastic bags feeding into dangling tubes, and Mona sobbing, sobbing the way she was now, and Rowan standing in the doorway.
Almost used the power, almost killed—.
“I see, I do,” I said. “And it was not the right time and she wanted to come to Quinn,” I whispered the words in her ear.
“Yes,” she said, her own tears rising, “and I frightened her. You see. She knew what I meant to do, she knew I had the power, it would have showed up as a stroke on the autopsy, just a stroke, but she knew! I almost. . . . I terrified her. And. . . .”
I held her so tight. I drew in my breath.
I kissed her tears. I wished I was a saint. I wished I was the priest who stood by the car waiting for her, pretending not to see our kissing. What was kissing? Mortal kissing? I kissed her mouth again. Mortal loving and all the while the thundering desire for the link of the blood, not her death, no, Dear God, no, just the link of the blood, the knowing. Who was this Rowan Mayfair! My head swam.
And the ghost beyond her glared as though he’d harrow Hell to bring its forces against me.
“How could you tell when was the right moment?” I answered. “And the thing to cling to is that you didn’t do it. And now she has her time with Quinn.” Oh, such deceitful euphemisms for one who detests all euphemisms, and with reason. I kissed her hard and eagerly and felt her body soften, felt her lock to me for one precious instant, and then the flash of icy coldness as she pulled away.
She hurried down the steps, her heels barely making a sound. Fr. Kevin was holding the door of the car open for her. The ambulance was already backing up. She turned and looked at me and then she waved at me.
Such a tender, unexpected gesture. I felt my heart grow huge, and its beating too much for me.
No, you poor darling. You didn’t kill her. I did it. I killed her. I’m guilty. And she’s sobbing again. And the ghost knows.
5
N ONE OF THE MORTALS in the house could hear Mona sobbing. The walls were too thick.
Meantime, the middle of the dining room table was being draped and set for supper, and Jasmine wanted to know if Quinn and I would join Tommy and Nash; I told her No, we couldn’t leave Mona, which she already knew.
I told her to please call Cindy, the Nurse, though she probably wasn’t needed, and to put the oxygen tank and the medicine out of the way. (Actually, this lovely lady spells her name Cyndy, so we will start spelling it this way from here on.)
I went into the living room. I tried to clear my head. The simple perfume of Rowan on my hands paralyzed me. I had to get straight.
Snap to a tender affection for everybody in the house. Go to Mona.
What
was
all this succumbing to a
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