Where he left me, p.5
Where He Left Me, page 5
“I don’t want to speak ill of the dead,” Cleo says eventually, “but the Grahams were eccentric. Living way out here, keeping to themselves, you know. They never really made friends in Requiem.”
“So? Being private is hardly suspicious.”
“They were.” Cleo shoots me a sidelong glance, then begins re-braiding the hair she just unwound. I can tell that she’s decided to give me the unvarnished truth and I’m grateful. “David Graham was a bachelor—living out here alone—until one day he showed up with a wife half his age. She was small, pretty, could barely speak a word of English. The joke was that Lucia was a mail-order bride.”
I bristle. “That’s cruel.”
“Do you want me to tell you or not?” Cleo doesn’t wait for an answer. “Felix was born right away, Gabriella less than two years later. We only knew about them because Lucia showed up in town with one baby in a sling around her chest, and the other on her hip. It wasn’t obvious they were David’s kids, but she paid with his bank card, so.”
Cleo’s hair tie has slid off her knee and fallen to the porch step, and I bend down to grab it for her. “Still not strange.”
“I’m getting to it.” She takes the tie, secures the braid, and then leans back with her elbows on the porch floor. “So, Lucia and the kids would disappear for long stretches of time—”
“Back to Mexico,” I interject, because I know this part. “To see her family.”
“I guess. But it’s almost like David and Lucia and the kids weren’t really a family at all, because whenever she came back, he disappeared.”
“Where?”
Cleo bobs one shoulder. “Who knows? David was really into the supernatural—like, lots of people around here talk about the Sasquatch, but it’s not real, you know? We don’t actually believe in it. He did.”
I think of the hunting cameras, the phosphorescent glow of strange men in the darkness, and feel the hair rise on the back of my neck. “So, what? He was off tracking Bigfoot?”
“I guess. David Graham was always banging on about one crackpot theory or another. Rumor had it he was working with a film production crew on a documentary about paranormal activity in the Pacific Northwest, but I don’t know if that’s true or not. Have you heard of the Wendigo?”
I shake my head.
“Skinwalkers? The Ogopogo?” Cleo tries. When I don’t bite, she goes on. “Doesn’t matter. He was big into Indigenous mythology. Bit of an expert, from what I understand. He was always chasing the next sighting, the next story.”
“Flighty,” I say, using her word.
“Strange,” she counters. “Disengaged, isolated, prone to taking off. By the time Felix and Gabi were teenagers, David Graham was gone more than he was home. It didn’t seem to bother Lucia much. I think they all did better when he wasn’t around.”
“And you think Felix is the same way?” I can’t keep the hurt out of my voice.
“Hey.” Cleo sits up and drapes an arm around me, pulling me closer for just a moment. “That’s not what I meant. I don’t think Felix is crazy or indifferent to you and what you must be feeling. But he grew up with a revolving door at Hemlock House. If he wasn’t leaving with his mom and sister, his dad was. Now Felix is home, back in the place where all his childhood heartaches occurred… Coming and going was simply a part of his life. There wasn’t much stability, you know?”
“Stable” is exactly the word I would use to describe my husband. Steady, dependable, sure. But my mind skitters to his office—printouts of the ink-black heart of deep space, galaxies spread out like radiated bone, the gunmetal clouds of the Pillars of Creation and their war waged against the backdrop of a bloody sky—and I know that he inherited his father’s curiosity, his dark wonder. And compulsion. Felix’s monsters are well documented, but they are not entirely knowable. He chases them with the single-minded intensity of a hunter.
“I’m just saying, coming home a day late from a conference wouldn’t be a big deal for Felix. It’s Graham family modus operandi, you know? Give it a day or two, and if he doesn’t turn up, then we’ll start to worry.”
Too late, I want to tell her, but instead I say, “I guess every family has their quirks.”
“The Grahams were more than quirky!” Cleo laughs, seemingly relieved that I’m not crushed by her revelation of my husband’s strange family dynamics—or possible proclivity to repeat them. “Felix even landed on our couch a few times. I was his sixth-grade teacher, you know, and we had quite a close relationship back then…”
“Thank you,” I say, which is stupid, and Cleo brushes me off.
“Lucia had a beautiful heart, but that family was messed up. Living with David was nothing but misery for all involved.” Cleo slaps her hands on her thighs, a sure sign that the conversation is over, and pushes herself to stand.
I rise, too, and fix a pained half smile on my face. It isn’t hard.
“Go grab some things,” Cleo says. “The guest room is ready for you. I washed the sheets a few days ago.”
“What?”
“Well, you’re coming home with me, of course.” Cleo zips her fleece up as far as it’ll go and stuffs her hands into the kangaroo pocket against the growing chill. “I have some leftover potato soup, and we can watch a movie. We’ll make it a fun girls’ night.”
“I can’t,” I tell her, my voice strangled. “I can’t leave Hemlock House. What if Felix comes back? What if he needs me and I’m not here?”
The look on Cleo’s face says it all: I’m crazy. Crazy to stay out here by myself, and crazy to cling to the notion that something’s wrong when she’s made such a compelling case for both the genetic factors and learned behaviors that would enable my husband to simply not come home as planned. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I’m making way too much of this. But I don’t care.
“He can call you, Sadie. If he comes home and you’re not here, he’ll call.”
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “I’ll be fine. I’m sure you’re right—he’ll turn up soon, and I want to be here when he does.”
Cleo narrows her eyes, skeptical, but I hold her gaze and don’t waver. I was planning to tell her about the trespassers, but I tuck that little tidbit away, knowing that she wouldn’t take no for an answer if she realized I wasn’t quite out here alone. But I have to believe the park ranger was right: the men were poachers who didn’t find what they were looking for in my backyard. They won’t be back. And I refuse to leave.
“I don’t like this,” Cleo tells me as she pulls me in for one last hug. Her left hand is balled around my used coffee cup and wrapper, but she rubs my back with her right. “Call me if you need anything—and I mean anything. Your faucet leaks, I’m your girl. Feeling lonely? I’ll come get you in the middle of the night.”
“I’ll be fine,” I tell her again, then try to appease her by saying, “I’m sure Felix is on his way as we speak.” I’m shocked I don’t choke on the words.
Cleo nods but turns away quickly to hide the doubt that suddenly clouds her eyes. She’s not fast enough. I see it, and know that deep down, she’s worried, too.
I watch her drive away, the dramatic smudge of a crimson sunset bleeding between the fingers of the trees that line the yard of Hemlock House. Something about the dark draw of approaching night, the red claw marks of a gory sky, and my own deep isolation conspires to disturb me. I cross my arms against the night, unsettled by Cleo’s stories and the history of this beautiful, toxic place. There is a reason I both love and hate it here, the relentless, arcane beauty and the malicious, encroaching wild: it’s haunted. By sadness and loneliness and the ghosts of David Graham’s futile search for imaginary demons.
I shiver, and not from the cold. As if the lines have been conjured by an unspoken spell, I remember the witches of Macbeth. It’s been years since I memorized the scene, but it floats back to me in bits as a gust of wind sweeps down from the mountain, scattering the carpet of brown leaves at my feet.
Round about the cauldron go.
I don’t know why I never thought of it before. Haven’t wondered why Hemlock House isn’t River Run or Summit View or Cottonwood Estate—all of which would be perfectly apt names for this sprawling mountain homestead.
But hemlock is poison.
I turn to the house, the windows opaque and unknowable as if they are keeping secrets. Maybe they are. Maybe they always have been. And maybe, if I want to know what happened to my husband—where he is and why—I’m going to have to do some digging.
I can’t help myself. I say the last bit out loud: “Root of hemlock, digged in the dark.”
BEFORE
FRIDAY, DECEMBER 20
WAXING GIBBOUS MOON / URSIDS METEOR SHOWER / WINTER SOLSTICE
Sadie’s office looked like it belonged on the set of Dead Poets Society. Newcastle University provided the bones—creaky hardwood floors, dark paneled bookshelves, mullioned windows—but she leaned into the aesthetic with overflowing stacks of old books, a leather-and-bourbon-scented candle, and a gilt frame that contained one willowy, hand-lettered word: Ardently. There was an antique map of Middle Earth and an African violet on the windowsill that had just unfurled three perfect lavender blooms like an early Christmas present. The office was small, but to Sadie, it was perfect. Rich and delicious as warm pumpkin cake.
The students were gone for semester break, and the English pod was silent but for the quiet hum of central heating and the rap of snow on the window. The flakes were hard little crystals, dry as cut diamonds because of a cold snap that had plunged temperatures into the single digits. It was late on a Friday night, and Sadie knew she should take the remaining Introduction to Creative Writing short stories home to grade, but her office was far cozier than her condo. Besides, she had told her mother weeks ago that reception was poor in the garden-level English Department, and when Alice’s aides knew Sadie was working, they rarely allowed her mother to call.
Sadie had a mug of peppermint tea, a space heater under her desk, and the muted glow from a strand of white Christmas lights that she had draped across one of her floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. What more could she possibly want?
When the door to the department pod creaked open, it sounded thunderous in the silent space. Sadie felt a stab of irritation, because the peaceful cluster of offices after hours was her own private kingdom. She nursed an irrational, proprietary claim on the anteroom—with its mismatched sofas and burbling water cooler—since her colleagues were all married with children at various ages and stages, who raced home at the first opportunity. They didn’t seem to notice the knitted throw she had carefully positioned over the dark stain on one of the couch cushions, or the snake plant that now graced a low table near the glass-paneled door to the hallway. Sadie sighed, hoping whoever it was had simply forgotten something and would be in and out in minutes. Still, she turned down the volume on her speaker in case the velvety instrumental arrangement alerted the interloper to her presence.
A gust of cold air was accompanied by the light thump of a palm on Sadie’s half-open office door, and it nearly sent her to the ceiling. She gasped like the heroine in a Regency romance and pressed one hand to her chest.
“Whoa,” Felix Graham said, stepping into her office uninvited. He crossed the narrow space in two large strides. His dark eyes were sheepish, but the lift at one corner of his mouth betrayed amusement. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
Sadie was struck dumb. Felix Graham was in her office. She hadn’t spoken to him since the night on the football field, though she had hoped to. For a couple of weeks she idly wondered if there was a way she could orchestrate an accidental meeting, and had even gone so far as to walk through the science building en route to different locations on campus. Once, she caught sight of him after a guest lecturer had presented in Newcastle’s stately chapel, but after hurrying to catch up, she stopped so quickly it was as if she was tethered, and someone had yanked the chain. What was she thinking? She was hopeless at relationships, and she knew it. A botched romance—no matter how attracted she was to Felix—would be her undoing. She simply couldn’t risk it. Instead of catching up to him, Sadie took a shuddering breath, straightened her pencil skirt, and cast a furtive glance around to make sure no one was watching. Then she’d walked off in the opposite direction.
Now he was standing at her desk. Towering over her, actually, as she sat with a red pen in one hand and her mouth slightly agape. She snapped her teeth together. “You surprised me.”
“Sorry, I’ve been meaning to stop by and keep getting sidetracked. It’s been a busy semester.” He raised one knowing eyebrow at the untidy stack of papers on her desk.
“It has,” she said, putting down the red pen and pushing back her chair. “Very busy semester. Can I get you a cup of tea?” Sadie’s manners were coming back to her slowly. Felix’s shoulders were dusted with snow, as if he had been sprinkled with powdered sugar, and his hair sparkled white. “You must be freezing.”
Felix shook his head, sending a fine spray of droplets across the room. “Not at all. I like the cold.” Then he looked down. “Nice slippers.”
Sadie had forgotten she was wearing them. She kept a pair of fluffy, faux fur–lined slippers beneath her desk. Often, her favorite part of the day was when she sunk into her ergonomic office chair and kicked off her shoes so she could slide her toes into the soft, warm slippers. Looking down, she realized they were ratty and worn. One discolored sole was peeling loose.
“Oh, these old things?” She laughed, her heart light for the first time in weeks. “Now that you’ve seen them, I can’t let you leave this office. No witnesses.”
“I solemnly swear your secret is safe with me.” Felix crossed his heart with a finger and then settled into one of two chairs Sadie used for student meetings. He seemed perfectly at home in her space, as comfortable as if they’d known each other for ages.
“Peppermint?” Sadie asked, lifting the last remaining tea tin from the bookshelf that doubled as a drink station. “Or peppermint? It’s getting a little lean around here. Christmas break and all.”
“I’ll go with peppermint.” Felix looked around her office curiously, his gaze raking over the knickknacks and books arranged alphabetically by genre until they landed on a photograph of Sadie and Alice. They were obviously mother and daughter: blond and lean, with the same narrow nose, small mouth, and gray-green eyes. He didn’t comment on it, but said, “Speaking of Christmas break, what are you still doing here?”
Sadie set the electric kettle to boil and pulled a pyramid-shaped teabag from the tin. “I leave tomorrow.” She tried to keep the angst out of her voice. She was looking forward to seeing her mother, but holidays were especially hard. It’s why she had chosen to linger in Newcastle as long as possible. “What about you?”
“Nowhere to go,” Felix said with a candor that didn’t veer into self-pity.
Sadie released a shallow breath she didn’t realize she was holding. She hadn’t known for sure if Felix was unattached until that very moment, and although she didn’t want it to matter, it did. “Where’s home?” she asked, grabbing a mug from her stash and checking to make sure it was clean.
“Newcastle now. But I was born in Washington state. I’ve also lived in Oregon, Arizona, and Nebraska. My mom’s family is from Mexico City. I spent part of my summers there when I was a kid.”
“A true nomad. I’m from Wisconsin,” Sadie offered. “Lived there my whole life until I moved here a couple months ago.”
“A Midwestern girl through and through.” Felix accepted the mug of hot tea and motioned toward the framed photo on Sadie’s desk. “You look just like your mom.”
Sadie curled one hand into a fist as she took the chair beside Felix. She’d discovered long ago that it was best to get this part out of the way as soon as possible. Hiding the biggest defining event of her life only made things awkward later on. At best, people felt like she’d kept important information from them; at worst they felt lied to. “My dad and older brother were killed in a car wreck when I was four. It’s just the two of us.”
Felix had the grace not to look stricken. Instead, he studied her carefully, his eyes penetrating hers as if looking for the veiled grief of the left behind. She fought the urge to look away. Sadie didn’t miss her father or brother, per se, but she felt their absence like a bomb-size crater in her world. It never grew over, and her mother had never healed. Sadie had known from a very young age that it was her job to be everything Alice had lost: her partner, her son, the life she was supposed to have. Sadie tried, but she was never, ever enough.
“It’s okay,” Sadie said when the silence between them stretched on. “It was a long time ago.”
Now Felix seemed shocked. “Is it okay?”
No, Sadie thought, and felt a rush of something that was dangerously close to affection for the enigmatic professor. Wasn’t he supposed to be cold? Closed off? Weren’t scientists aloof and passionless?
Before Felix could express his condolences or probe deeper into the mechanics of her sad little family of two, Sadie asked: “What about you?” Now that the hard part was over, she was eager to steer the conversation away from her life. She didn’t want his pity or his scrutiny. And she definitely didn’t want to talk about Alice. How her mother had never been satisfied, never okay. Always wanting—demanding—her daughter’s time, attention, and focus. Alice Sheridan was quicksand, a gaping chasm of need with razor-sharp edges that ensured Sadie could never escape. Sadie was only here—nearly thirty-eight years later and a couple hundred miles away from the assisted care home—because of Alice’s dementia.
