Oblivion (29 page)

“So young.”

I nod, but keep reading.

“I don’t remember reading about any missing babies from the area.” And he would know, given his self-proclaimed addiction to missing child cases. “Do they know how she died?”

“If they do, they’re not saying.” When I scan the next line, I understand why Detective Guidry hasn’t offered me much information: I can’t have had anything to do with her death, and it’s unlikely that I knew anything about her circumstances. She’s been there since I was a small child. Slowly, I lift my gaze to the road ahead of us. She’s been there the whole time—near my rosary.

How on earth did I know about it, then?

A memory nags at me from the back of my mind. I follow its pull until I’m back there again, in a white room with my mom. I’m rubbing the stone at the heart of the crucifix. My mother is turning cards. Laughing, she rests one on her pregnant belly.

Pregnant.

What happened to that baby?

“Maybe nothing.”

I look at Ewing and expect to see three eyes or a spiked tail protruding from his body. Nothing? Is he whacked? He’s pacing his office floor. I’m on the sofa with my feet curled under my rear.

“Something must’ve happened to it,” I say. “I’m an only child, aren’t I?”

“Maybe there was no baby.” Ewing taps his fingertips together. “The thing about memories, particularly memories of very young ages, is that often they’re unreliable. There was representation of a baby, no doubt about it, but whether or not there was actually a baby remains to be seen. It’s convenient that remains of a baby turn up simultaneously with these memories, but until we know otherwise, it’s a coincidence, and nothing more. Maybe it’s something you’ve conjured to help explain things to yourself, to sort things out in your mind.”

“You think I’m making it up?”

“That phrase indicates you’re lying, and I don’t think you’re lying. You honestly believe you saw your mother pregnant. But that doesn’t mean she was. Your graphomania is a perfect illustration of how mangled information can come to be, especially in traumatic situations.”

This makes sense. The yellow dress in the rowboat, for example, was a melding of suggested memories. Guidry’s already ruled out the possibility the sundress was Hannah’s, but I still associate it with her.

“I spoke with Detective Guidry this morning. He’ll be calling you to schedule another conference. I’ll relay this memory about a baby, and maybe he’ll collect some samples from you, Serena … you know, to test against the remains. If that baby was your sister, DNA tests can confirm it.” Ewing massages his chin as he walks back and forth, back and forth. “But I want to deal with the entire scope of this
situation, not just the remains of a baby on Highland Point. Some pretty distinct memories led you to that door.”

“Hannah was still alive, at least I think she was. He rolled her into the hole. He dropped the door again, and …” My head is pounding. “But she wasn’t there. Why wasn’t she there when they dug up the door?”
Imprisoned obsession
. I rub my temples and reach for my notebook. “I swear it happened.”

“We’ll sort through it, what these memories may mean,” Ewing says. “One step at a time. Write if you have to write, but let’s …” His words echo, as I tumble down an avenue in my mind.

His voice is distant, as if it’s coming to me via tins cans and a string: “You okay, Callie?”

No. It feels as if my head is in a vise, as if the words are pushing out, but all the hands of the world are pressing on my skull to keep them in. Stars dance at the corners of my eyes. I grasp at reality … something, anything, to bring me back to the here and now.

But his words are fading, as if he’s miles away on a call with a bad connection.

The grass grows grows grows. Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Blisssssssssss

The room whirls about me, as if I’m holding fast on to the hub of a carousel.

Keep digging. Keep digging. Keep digging.

The corners of the space darken, until there’s only a tunnel before me.

I smell the earth, feel the grit of dirt accumulating beneath my fingernails and grinding between my molars. My hands ache from digging. My eyes burn. Chunks of earth consume me, swallow me whole. I breathe earth into my lungs. Cough it out again.

My hand breaks through to the other side.

The ground crumbles as I emerge. I gasp when I see the moon against a midnight backdrop.

I stumble over the terrain, trip on the wilting daisies. The grass grows up here, but not down on the rocky shore.

“Callie!”

I blink through tears, and the moon fades away, but I can’t draw a breath through the sobs racking my body. Ewing’s office bleeds back into view. I glance down at my notebook:

The grass grows grows grows. Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Blisssssssssss Amputate cancer of the folds of years Does the scent of her linger within you Tempt her, break her, make her feel real. Devour her when she begins to bleed

Bleed bleed

bleed her and feed Burn her in an urn Crucify quarter and stone her Buried alive she’ll claw at the case Smile as you condone her

The grass grows grows grows. Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss

Walk not on the cobblestone paths of her memory in black-veiled grief to relieve you Mourn not for her mind her beauty her mouth drawn down so quick to believe you Pressed like a rose in a book from a lover Sift through as the hours pass Imprisoned obsession She can’t escape Amber ashes in her hourglass

“It was me he buried,” I whisper. “Not Hannah.”

Ewing stops dead in his tracks near his office door, his mouth hanging open a fraction of an inch.

“It was me, Warren,” I say with more conviction. “He buried me that night. Under the door. I saw him in the labyrinth. I was in the bell tower, and I saw what he was doing.”

“You saw Palmer.”

I nod and swallow over a lump in my throat. “And Hannah.”

“What was he doing with Hannah?”

“I felt it all. Like it was happening to me, and not Hannah. Like you said at that meeting with Guidry, about survivors assuming they felt things victims felt … I felt it, like I switched places with Hannah … It should’ve been me. Would’ve been me, if I’d been where I should’ve been.”

“I know this is hard. But tell me what you remember.”

“I was hiding, crouched down in the bell tower. I was
going to run away again, and I knew he’d look for me in the labyrinth, because that’s where I was supposed to be—scrubbing the lime deposits off the marble basin of the fountain. I was going to sneak back through the sanctuary when I knew he was outside, and make a break for it, but then … I saw he had Hannah. Her parents were coming back. I don’t know why they left her, but they were coming back. He didn’t have much time.” I wipe tears from my eyes. “I accidentally pulled on the bell when I saw him dragging her to the fountain. He looked up, but I don’t think he saw me.”

I start to tremble a little, and when I breathe in, I sound like a whispering locomotive:
chuff, chuff, chuff
. “I saw what he did, but he didn’t do it to me.”

Ewing slowly lowers his body to the coffee table before me. His eyes are wet. “This is Palmer’s shame, Callie. Not yours.”

I focus on his eyes until they become a blur of opaque hazel. I smell juniper and holy water; I feel the crunch of pebbles beneath my feet.

I’m running. Running into the labyrinth. Have to save her. Have to distract him, have to get his hand out of her pants.

Flashes of her fearful expression haunt me. Too frightened even to scream. Faithful that her parents will come for her. Faster. Have to get there faster.

I cut through the hedges to get to her faster, to stop him,
but by the time I get there, she’s gone. He’s locking the gate, swearing at the key that won’t turn it. I hold my breath and delve back into the juniper. I know where he put her; she’s in the garden house. God, what is he going to do with her? I have to get the key. Have to get it, have to get her out before it happens.

I hear her faint screams for help.

I’m shaking. Bawling. Can’t make a sound, can’t make a sound, can’t make a
sound
.

His labored breathing is getting closer. I hear the subtle limp in his step, the minute drag of his left foot, there courtesy of my mother and a pearl-handled knife. She’s been gone at the Meadows thirty-four days. I concentrate on memories of my childhood—the arts and crafts, the homemade jewelry, the songs.
Let my love open the door
.

And suddenly, the step, drag-step of his gait stops.

My heartbeat encompasses my head, pounds in my ears. I can’t hear anything but static and the adrenaline pumping through my system. Smell the sweet wine on his breath. He’s standing … right … here. He knows I’m hiding from him.

“Calliope.” His hand forms a fist around my wrist.

I plunge deeper into the juniper, yanking free from his hold. I come out on the other side, on another path. Disoriented now. Which way out? Which way, which way, which way?

“Honor thy father.”

I’m running—full speed. Skidding on the stones as I round a corner. Falling.

“Honor thy father.”

No!

His hand on my ankle. Pulling me through the juniper. Stones scraping and scratching against my flesh. Branches lacerating.

I’m dizzy. Going to be sick.

Cold marble against my pelvis.

Leather slashing over my back.

Blood dripping into the holy water in the fountain.

His hand on the back of my head. “It’s because of you! It’s because of you!”

Submerged in the water.

I breathe in a lungful of water. Can’t cough it out. Cold. Numb. Can’t breathe. Can’t move.

Something hard hits the side of my head, near my right temple.

Images flash before my eyes: my mother, the man with the watch, a burgundy-haired baby. Mom sobbing—“I killed him! I killed him!”—digging a hole behind Holy Promise, Palmer paving over the freshly overturned dirt with cobblestones.

The Vagabond, the cards, the late-night escapes from the reverend, only to be found in the morning, dragged back to Holy Promise for penance. The confessional. Her screams. Andrew Drake, the Meadows, Elijah, Lindsey,
John, Elijah, Lindsey, John, Elijah, Lindsey, John.

A blinding white light illuminates the backs of my eyes. I know I’m slipping away.

I feel the stones against my raw back, when I hit the ground. Palmer’s fingers pressing into my cheeks. “Callie.”

I can’t answer.

“Callie.”

“Callie!”

I flinch. And Ewing’s office slowly materializes around me. Tears stream over my cheeks. My eyes burn with mascara.

I look down at my journal:

Buried alive alive alive alive alive alive alive.

I killed him killed killllled killlled killed him killed him killed him killed him killed him killed him killed him killed him killed him killed him killed him killed him killed him killed him killed him killed him killed him killed him killed him killed him killed him killed him killed him killed him killed him killed him killed him killed him killed him killed him killed him killed him killed him killed him killed him killed him killed him killed him killed him killed him killed him killed him killed him.

Ewing squints at me. “Catch your breath.”

“He thought he killed me,” I say. “He thought he’d drowned me. He put me in the garden house, and he locked the door. Hannah thought I was dead, too. She couldn’t get out. The door wouldn’t open.”

“He brought Hannah to the garden house?”

“Before me.” I’m nodding. “She was screaming. His hand was over her mouth. I saw her panties on the floor. Floral cotton briefs.” I can’t see through the tears, can’t wipe them away fast enough. “And I remember thinking they were little-girl undies. I didn’t help her. She was screaming, and I tried, but I couldn’t stay awake long enough to get up. I didn’t help! God, I didn’t help!”

“Couldn’t, Callie. You couldn’t help. Palmer Prescott is responsible for what he did to Hannah, and he made it so you couldn’t help her. You’re not responsible.”

“I couldn’t stay awake.” I shudder over an inhalation. “She was the one in the yellow sundress—he made her wear it, it was too small. She was in the boat with me, rowing on the way to Highland Point.” I swallow hard. “Where he buried me. They thought I was dead. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t keep my eyes open.”

Ewing offers a hand, palm up.

I slide my hand into his and squeeze. “I think the baby on Highland Point was my sister. I remember a baby girl.”

“It’s possible. But it’s difficult to hide a baby, once she’s been spotted around town. The police will be searching the missing children databases.”

I know it’s possible my mother won’t talk about it, or maybe that she won’t have her wits about her when I approach her, but I’ve already decided to ask her about it. “Warren?”

“Hmm?”

“I think I died that night.”

His brow scrunches up. He thinks I’m crazy. But he says, “Go on.”

“The night in the fountain. The night he buried me. I think that night gave me a glimpse into what I used to be, what I’m supposed to be looking for, who I might someday become. The white room, the guitar, the poetry tumbling in my mind … It all came from somewhere. Distant memories, maybe. Mine, or someone else’s. Things I saw, but didn’t understand, maybe.”

He slowly nods his head. “When you’re ready, you’ll remember, you’ll understand.”

“Why was I spared, when Hannah wasn’t?”

“We don’t know she wasn’t, Callie. As far as Hannah’s concerned, we’re back at square one. She isn’t pronounced dead until the authorities determine there’s no likelihood she’s alive. From what you’ve just told me, she was alive the last time you saw her. There’s no body to suggest she’s dead.”

I nod at his digital recorder. “Are you going to forward this tape to Guidry?”