The Fate of Mercy Alban (26 page)

“Can’t you stay with your pastor friend?” she asked, her eyes earnest.

I leaned against the window frame. “No, that’s out of the question. I could just stay in a hotel … but Jane, aren’t you overreacting? Getting the girls out of here is one thing, but me? You sound afraid, Jane. But she’s just a sick, old lady. Isn’t she?”

“Miss Grace,” she said, her voice low and guttural, her old accent more pronounced than I had heard it in years. “You need to understand. Listen to me, and hear this now. It may be true that it’s not Fate Alban upstairs in her old suite of rooms. It may be true that, like the doctor said, it is indeed Mercy Alban.” She took a long breath and shook her head. “But it is also true that Mercy Alban died, right here at Alban House, when she was ten years old. I buried her myself.”

I blinked at Jane and then closed my eyes, draping a hand across my forehead. I was having a hard time processing everything that had come at me in the past few minutes, especially considering the fact that I had had only one cup of coffee to kickstart my brain.

“So Mercy died,” I said, my voice dropping to a whisper. “You buried her. Then … I don’t get it. Why are you even entertaining the thought that it might be Mercy upstairs?”

Jane twisted her apron in her lap and shifted her eyes from side to side. Obviously, there was something she wasn’t telling me.

“What is it, Jane?” I prodded.

Jane leaned in close to me, her voice gravelly and rough. “She didn’t stay dead.”

I squinted at her, shaking my head. “That’s … well, forgive me, Jane, but that’s just crazy.”

“I know how it sounds,” she said to me. “But it’s the honest truth.”

I waited another moment for her to go on, but she stayed quiet, twisting her apron and looking down.

“You’ll have to do better than that,” I told her. “You’re telling me a girl died and then came back to life. You’ve got to know that’s impossible, right?”

Even as I grilled Jane about this, an idea was formulating in the outer reaches of my brain. Coleville’s story about the dead twin still haunting Whitehall Manor was becoming all too real.

Jane shook her head and closed her eyes, and, as though she could read my thoughts, I saw a shudder pass through her.

“Listen, maybe Mercy slipped into a coma and came out of it?” I offered. “Couldn’t that be what it was? Back then, medicine certainly wasn’t as advanced as it is now. It might have seemed—”

Jane’s eyes shot open. “Medicine had nothing to do with this. What I’m telling you is Mercy was dead and gone. Died in the very rooms where she is right now. We laid her to rest in the family crypt.”

“And then?”

“You have to understand a mother’s grief, child.” Jane’s voice was barely audible now.

As she met my gaze, I thought again of Coleville’s manuscript and the description of the ghostly girl in white, whom Mickey—Coleville—saw out of his bedroom window the first night he stayed here. Was it just artistic license, or could it be …?

I also thought of my father’s warning, and an icy chill ran through me.

Jane stood up in a hurry. “I can’t talk about this anymore, Miss Grace,” she said. “Not right now. I’ll tell you everything, but time is of the essence. The nurse from the hospital is on her way here, but she won’t arrive for more than twelve hours. The girls are leaving—”

I interrupted her. “After breakfast, yes. They’re going to bring their bags downstairs with them.”

“Then I had better get to the kitchen to make sure they get something to eat,” Jane said, moving toward the door. “Once they’re off, I’ll head to the pharmacy. I’ll take
her
with me. I don’t want her in the house alone.”

“Are you sure, Jane? If she’s as dangerous as you say—” I began, but was greeted with her shaking head, stopping my words.

“She’s been as cooperative as a child up to now,” Jane said. “And we’ve got things to do. You need to get your daughter safely out of this house. When that’s done, and when you’re packed to leave for the night, I’ll tell you the truth about Mercy Alban. It’s a story you’re not going to want to hear, child, but it has to be told.”

And with that, she flew out the door, presumably down to the kitchen. I turned around in a slow circle in my room and wondered what had just happened.

I found myself with my hand on the phone receiver and hesitated for a moment before picking it up to dial. What I said to Matthew the night before was true—he was my only friend here in town and I desperately needed to talk to somebody. But after the awkwardness that passed between us—friends? more than friends?—I wasn’t sure it was right to make contact again so soon.

Oh, what the hell, I thought and dialed his number.

“Hello?” Matthew said, coughing slightly on the other end of the line.

“Sorry for calling so early,” I said. “You probably haven’t had your coffee yet.”

“Oh, I’m an early riser,” he said. “I’ve had my run on the lakeshore already. What’s up?”

Now that I had him on the line, I didn’t know quite what to say. How could I tell him the ghost story we had read the night before was becoming all too real. Finally, I said: “I’m getting Heather and Amity out of the house this morning.”

“Did something else happen last night? She didn’t find her way out of her rooms again, did she?”

“No,” I said, sitting down in the chair by the desk. “It happened this morning. I don’t want to get into it until I get the girls out of the house, but …” I stopped short.

“But what?”

Good question. What is it that I wanted of this man who I was determined to keep as just a friend? “I’m hoping we can meet for coffee and I’ll tell you all about it,” I said finally.

“How’s the Breakwater Café in an hour?”

I looked at my watch. It was only eight o’clock—yet it felt like I had been up forever. “Sounds perfect,” I said. “I’ll see you there.”

I hung up and buzzed Jane in the kitchen. “Are the girls downstairs?” I asked her.

“Aye. I’m just ready to serve their breakfast, and Mr. Jameson is with Miss Mercy. Do you want some eggs?”

“No thanks,” I said. “I’m going to hop in the shower and leave for a bit when I take the girls to Heather’s house. Then I’ll come back and we can finish our talk.”

An hour later, I was standing on the doorstep of Heather’s house, the girls and their bags in tow. I didn’t intend to tell her parents the whole story, obviously, but I also didn’t want them to think I was a flake for dropping the girls off so early and then asking if my daughter could spend the night with them.

“I’m sorry to throw this onto you so abruptly”—I smiled broadly at Heather’s mother, whose name I still couldn’t remember—“but it has to do with Amity’s great-aunt, who is decidedly unwell. Frankly …”—I lowered my voice, taking her into my confidence—“… and please keep this between us, but I’m not quite sure about her mental state. I’m afraid she gave the girls a start last night.”

“It’s like Grandma,” Heather piped up.

Her mother nodded. “I understand,” she said with a genuine smile. “It’s not easy, dealing with a relative with Alzheimer’s.”

If she only knew. “We’ve got a nurse on the way to take my aunt back to the hospital,” I explained. “She should be here later today or tomorrow. But until that happens, I think it’s best that the girls be out of the house. For their sakes as well as for my aunt’s.”

“Not a problem,” Heather’s mother said, grasping my hand. “I know how trying this type of thing can be.” She radiated warmth. “More than trying.”

“Thank you,” I said to her, and I could feel the stress seeping from my shoulders. Trying, indeed. “It has been quite a lot to deal with.”

“Grace, I’m sorry I couldn’t join you last night for a drink. Would you like to come in for a cup of coffee now?” Heather’s mother asked.

I squeezed her hand. “Thank you, but now I’m the one who has to get going.” Her face dropped. “I’ve got an appointment,” I quickly added. “But I’d love a rain check, after all of this gets settled. Next week?”

“You’ve got it.” She smiled. “We’ll have you over for dinner.”

I held her gaze and thankfully, her name popped into my mind. “Sarah, that would be lovely,” I said, meaning it. “And I really appreciate you taking Amity for the night. I don’t have many friends here in town anymore. I’ve been away for so long and it feels good—really good—to be able to rely on someone.”

“Not a problem. Amity is welcome here anytime. She’s a lovely girl.”

I started off down the steps and then turned back. “Next week, then?”

Sarah nodded. “If not dinner, maybe the two of us could sneak off for a glass of wine. There’s a new wine bar downtown I’ve been wanting to try.”

I liked her better and better with every passing minute. “Sounds great!” I called over my shoulder, giving her a quick wave. “I’ll be in touch. And thanks!”

I pulled into the parking lot at the old Breakwater Café, glad to see Matthew’s green Volvo. I found him sitting at a booth by the window, cradling a cup of steaming coffee in both hands.

“Hi.” He smiled at me as I slid into the seat opposite him.

I held his gaze for a moment and then put my head down on the table, gently knocking my forehead on the Formica a few times. “You are not going to believe this,” I mumbled.

“What can I get you, honey?”

I looked up to see the waitress, holding a pot of coffee.

“Some of that,” I gestured toward the pot. “With cream. And do you still have the Trail Breakfast?” I remembered coming to this place when I was a kid and ordering their sinfully enormous concoction of crispy hash browns topped with onion, sausage, and eggs, all smothered with cheese. I hadn’t eaten anything like that in years, but if ever I had a need for comfort food, it was right then.

“We sure do.” She smiled, her free hand on her hip.

She turned to Matthew. “Make it two,” he said, and she was off.

“I’ve been eating low-carb, low-fat, egg white omelets for so long that my heart may actually stop when I take my first bite,” I said. “Get me directly to a hospital if that happens, will you?”

“With their menu, I think they’re required by law to have a defib machine in the back.” He took a sip of his coffee. “So what’s up, Grace? You sounded fairly upset on the phone.”

The waitress set a ceramic mug in front of me, along with a small silver pitcher of cream. I poured a splash into my coffee and stirred.

“The crazy lady at Alban House right now isn’t my aunt Fate,” I said, taking a sip.

Matthew wrinkled his nose. “Okay,” he said, drawing out the word into several syllables. “Who is it?”

“I finally connected with her doctor in Switzerland this morning,” I continued. “The woman at the house right now is my aunt Mercy, Fate’s twin. The place where she’s been living all these years is called Mercy House because of the enormous sum of money my grandfather donated for her care.”

Matthew shook his head. “But didn’t Jane tell us that Mercy—”

I cut him off. “Died? Yup.” I took another sip of my coffee, and as I looked at his utterly confused face, I began to laugh, my shoulders shaking and eyes watering with the force of it.

“I’m sorry,” I choked out after the wave had passed, dabbing at my eyes with a napkin. “I shouldn’t be laughing. None of this is funny in the least. But I am completely overwhelmed right now and the absurdity of my life has just hit a new high.”

Matthew reached over the table, took my hand, and squeezed it. The simple, kind act nudged my borderline-hysterical laughter over to tears. My eyes welled up and I covered them with my napkin, shaking my head. “I’ve officially gone off the deep end,” I squeaked out.

“This is what I’ve been saying for days, Grace, you’ve got a lot to deal with right now,” he said as the waitress returned to our table with our heaping plates. “I’m surprised you’ve held it together as well as you have.”

“Oh, you don’t know the half of it.” I shook my head. “It’s not just that her name is different. The place where she’s been living all this time? Mercy House? Not a psychiatric hospital.”

He furrowed his brow. “What is it, then?”

“A private facility for the criminally insane.” I couldn’t believe I was even saying the words, and Matthew’s expression told me he couldn’t believe he was hearing them.

“And that’s … what, exactly?”

I sank my fork into the pile of hash browns, eggs, and cheese and took a huge bite, savoring the decadence of this forbidden food before continuing. “It’s a place where ultrarich people put their family members who are crazy and violent.
Criminally insane
, it’s a perfect term. They’re nuts and they’ve hurt somebody or worse. Instead of delivering them to the police, the families hide them away in facilities like Mercy House, so they’re locked up, out of society, but without the embarrassment and scandal of a public trial.”

As I said it, I knew that’s exactly the sort of thing my Alban ancestors would have done with one of their own who they realized was a danger to herself or others.

“Mercy was taken to this facility that night in 1956, not Fate?” Matthew asked.

“Exactly.”

“So where’s Fate?”

“Whereabouts unknown.” I took another bite.

“But, Grace, can we go back a little bit? Jane told us Mercy died when she was a child, right?”