The Cabin on Souder Hill Read online

  “Mama?” Pink said, almost in a whisper, not wanting to startle her.

  His mother looked over, her eyes shiny and orange with fire. Pink stepped back, frightened momentarily by his mother’s queer appearance, until she wiped her hand across her cheeks. She stepped toward him and drew her athame from the pocket of her robe, using the black-handled knife to slice an imaginary circular door in the invisible barrier beneath the arbor. Pink knew not to step over the stones or enter the ceremonial circle through the arbor before his mother performed this ritual, even though he thought it was silly.

  He entered quietly and took his place at the south altar, next to the chimenea. Maybe the heat would warm his legs and toes. He wished he’d worn long underwear.

  “No, Pink. Come stand with me,” his mother said, taking his hand, guiding him toward the altar covered in green cloth. A white candle burned next to the brown plastic container holding Lulu’s ashes.

  “Where is everyone?” Pink asked, feeling a draft of warm air from the fire beneath the cauldron.

  “Don’t speak, son.” She pointed at the box of ashes, indicating that Pink should pick them up. When he did, she stepped back and nodded for him to stand beside her. After reaching her hand into Lulu’s ashes, she faced east and extended her arm straight out from her body.

  “Ye Lords of the Watchtowers of the East, ye Lords of Air, please witness these ashes and carry Lulu on sacred winds, that we may breathe her in with each and every breath. With these ashes I honor Lulu’s descendants, offspring born not of her womb, but of her spirit, the blood which lived in her veins now lives in theirs, and theirs in hers.” His mother closed her eyes and opened her fingers slowly, releasing the ashes into the night air. After a moment of silence, she faced south, evoking the Lords of Fire, honoring Lulu’s descendants once again, releasing ashes into the air, then she turned to the west. Tears trailed down her face, “Ye Lords of Death and Initiation, please witness these ashes and embrace her warmly, that we may feel her presence in the rain that falls, in the tears that grace our flesh.” She finished by facing north, repeating her incantations into the frigid air, steam billowing from her lips.

  Even though Mattie released Lulu’s ashes, the container seemed to be getting no lighter. Pink readjusted the brown container, supporting it against his belly, hoping his mama wouldn’t notice his fatigue. Her unflinching resolve made him feel weak. She was dressed in nothing but a robe—no coat, hat, or gloves, frost forming on her eyebrows—and yet she seemed impervious to the chill, while Pink’s feet were hard and cold as hammers. He wanted to ask how much longer this would go on, but fought the urge, knowing she would never acknowledge his plea anyway and reprimand him afterward.

  She performed the ritual to each direction again, this time releasing the ashes below knee level, honoring Lulu’s ancestors. With the final invocations to the four directions, she released Lulu’s ashes at waist level while honoring her own relationship to Lulu. When she finished, the container was empty and Pink figured they were done. He was ready to warm up at the house and make a sandwich. He remembered the leftover blood sausage in his mama’s fridge and could almost taste it. He waited, trying to bolster his patience, as she stood facing north, unmoving. Wind raced down the mountain, sending a shiver through Pink.

  After a few moments, his mother picked up a silver spade with a plain wooden handle and used her athame to cut a door into the space beneath the arbor. “Pink, please bring that small silver box.”

  Pink didn’t want to pick it up. He pictured Lulu’s shriveled, brown umbilical cord inside. He knew he’d never eat beef jerky again. He was about to protest his mama’s request when she turned away from him, knelt in the snow outside the north edge of the ceremonial circle, and started digging. Pink picked up the filigreed box and carried it like a dead mouse to his mother’s side.

  “Take it out, Pink,” she said, still kneeling in the snow.

  “Aw, Mama. I don’t want to touch that thing.”

  The disappointment on her face nearly crushed him. “That thing was Lulu’s lifeline, her connection between this life and the other. It is Lulu. I want you to place it in this hole, Pink.”

  Pink opened the box carefully, staring at the dried hunk as if it were a scorpion. Using his thumb and forefinger, he withdrew the shriveled flesh, squatted down, and placed it in the hole. When he stood up, his mother reached into the pocket of her robe and withdrew a small seed and placed it next to the umbilical. With her bare hands, she eased the piled dirt from the verge of the hole and carefully covered the items.

  “What was that, Mama?”

  “The seed of a rowan tree. It will grow here, and Lulu will be born again in its roots and limbs.”

  “We finished now?” Pink said, stepping from foot to foot to pump heat into his toes.

  His mother glared up at him. “No, not yet, son. There’s something we must do tonight.”

  Chapter 27

  A woman stood at the window holding the curtains open, staring out, light from the hospital parking lot burning a bright line along the hard, angular profile of her face. Michelle knew it wasn’t Darcy, thinking at first it might be a nurse. But the woman wore the same kind of flowered blue gown Michelle was wearing. Michelle pushed herself up, groggy from the medication she’d taken, wondering what time it was, where Darcy had gone.

  “I’m sorry if I woke you,” the woman said, glancing at Michelle.

  “You didn’t.”

  “I’m your roommate.”

  Michelle had heard someone speaking with the nurse earlier but had been unable to see who she was because the nurse had drawn the privacy curtain.

  Cliff’s suicide flashed across Michelle’s mind in such a way that it felt at first like a distant memory, an event caught in a safe and comfortable orbit outside her life. Soon the image of Cliff spiraled closer, growing larger—his blank frozen eyes, the frost covering his face and hair, his snow-encrusted fingers clutching the gun.

  “Are you okay?” the woman said, sitting down on the corner of Michelle’s bed, taking her hand.

  “Yes.” She took a deep breath, grateful for the woman’s warm touch, the softness in her voice. “I’m Michelle.”

  The woman looked toward the white message board on the wall where Michelle Stage was written in blue marker, alongside it the attending nurse’s name. “Yes, I know. I’m the other name, Ms. Smith . . . at least that’s what they’re calling me. I’m glad they didn’t put Jane Doe.”

  “I’m sorry,” Michelle said. “I don’t understand.”

  The woman looked toward the white message board. “I don’t know who I am. They had to call me something.”

  The woman spoke slowly, deliberately, as if she were on a budget and words were costly. Michelle thought maybe the woman was speaking precisely for her benefit, until it occurred to her that maybe the woman was piecing the story together from what people had told her. Occasionally the woman glanced back toward the window, then at Michelle, as she explained that she had been found on the AT a few days earlier with no food or shoes, nothing but the clothes on her back. A young couple, hikers from Virginia, had found her and called the police with their cell phone.

  “The nurse said I hadn’t spoken to them, only stared.” The woman smiled wryly. “I have no idea why I was up in the mountains.”

  “What’s the AT?”

  “The Appalachian Trail,” the woman said. “That’s what the psychiatrist told me. They thought maybe I was a through-hiker, so they searched the surrounding area where the couple had found me for some sign of a tent, or backpack, but found nothing.” The woman laughed nervously, looking over at Michelle. “Sounds like one of those bad movies you see on cable television, doesn’t it?”

  “At least you remember cable television,” Michelle said, instantly regretting the stupid remark. “I’m sorry, that was—”

  “Don’t apologize. You
’re absolutely right. I mean . . . I’m thankful I can remember how to talk, and walk, and feed myself with a spoon. I’d hate to start over at my age.”

  “So you remember your age?”

  “No, dear. But I’ve looked in the mirror. I haven’t forgotten what old looks like.”

  Michelle’s mind spun with questions she wouldn’t allow herself to ask—Can they cure it? Is it permanent? What will you do? Where will you go?

  “Everyone’s been very nice,” the woman told Michelle, “especially since there’s every chance I will not be able to pay. If this had happened in Chicago . . .”

  The woman broke off suddenly, staring at the wall. “Why did I say Chicago?” Her face brightened for a moment, then faded. “The doctor mentioned Chicago the other day. He’s from Chicago, and he thought my speech pattern sounded familiar. It’s not my own memory.”

  How horrible, Michelle thought, to have your life handed back to you by strangers, as if you were expected to take what they’d given you and build your existence from the scraps. Is that what Cliff and Darcy had been trying to do, hand Michelle her life back, a life she had blocked out? Had Cassie’s death been too crushing a blow? Cassie had become Michelle’s entire life, especially when Cliff’s presence faded from the marriage. Had Cassie’s death made her life intolerable?

  Michelle despaired, not only for this woman’s situation, but her own as well. According to Cliff, everyone close to her had been trying to resurrect Michelle’s own memories for over a year to no avail. What would this woman do? Live alone in hospitals until she recalled who she was? Would they even let her? And what if she never remembered who she was, or where she belonged? Disturbing images of homeless wanderers flooded Michelle’s mind, shuffling nomads in search of themselves, living a life that wasn’t theirs, in search of one that was.

  “We always have slightly more strength than the adversity we face,” the woman said, stepping back to the window.

  “How do you know that?” Michelle said, contemplating the strange statement, imagining Cliff all alone on the deck, a cold gun barrel pressed under his jaw.

  “I don’t know how I know, dear. I just do.”

  “What about people who commit suicide?” Michelle asked, feeling a new impatience with the woman.

  The woman looked over at Michelle, her eyes shining from her dull face like the last living things there. “I guess they forget. I guess for that one unfortunate, irretrievable moment, they forget.”

  Michelle was sorry she had spoken to her in the harsh tone. The woman said something Michelle didn’t catch.

  “What?” Michelle asked.

  The woman had resumed her station at the window, the curtains pulled back, a stark parking lot light defining the edge of her forehead and nose.

  “I know I’m out there somewhere,” the woman said, her features doubled in the glass.

  Chapter 28

  Mattie didn’t want to talk, but Pink wouldn’t stop asking questions or voicing protests. She ignored his complaints and told him to keep his eyes on the road, unable to look at her son, her mind on Lulu. Even though Lulu and she had talked at great length about Lulu’s impending death, preparing her, Mattie had never imagined how lost she’d feel, how alone, when Lulu was gone. She needed to ask Lulu things, needed to confide in her, ask her advice. Lulu would know what to do now and had warned Mattie that something like this could happen if they tricked the natural order of things. “Cheating one’s fate can bring about an even worse fate,” Lulu had warned Mattie. But Mattie had not wanted to lose Pink and pleaded with Lulu to help her. Lulu reluctantly agreed. Now, Mattie thought, she might lose Pink anyway, not to mention the damage done to Mrs. Stage and her family.

  “They ain’t gonna let you in the dang hospital, Mama,” Pink said, interrupting her thoughts. “It’s too late. It’s after midnight!”

  “Evelyn will. Lulu cured Hubie’s erysipelas. She owes Lulu. She’ll do it for Lulu.”

  “How do you know the Stage woman is even at the dang hospital anymore? Maybe they released her.”

  “Loudon told me they might release her tomorrow. She’s in the psychiatric ward.”

  “Well, I don’t know why you want to see her anyway. You don’t even know her.”

  “I think I can help.”

  Pink huffed and fell quiet until they came within sight of the hospital. “Aw, this is crazy, Mama. Heck, I think Evelyn works in the cafeteria or something. How’s she going to get you in the psychiatric ward?”

  “She will. Drop me at the front doors.”

  “I better come in with you,” Pink said.

  “No. You wait here. I’ll only be a minute.”

  “Well, shoot, Mama, you don’t even know what Mrs. Stage looks like.”

  “I’ll find her, Pink. Just wait here.”

  No matter how quietly Mattie tried to walk the hospital corridor, her shoes echoed rudely in the empty hall. Evelyn was seated behind the reception desk, her auburn hair pulled into a tight bun, her white scalp showing through her thinning hair. She appeared to be doing paperwork, when in fact she was reading a novel.

  “Hello, Evelyn.”

  “Mattie. What are you doing here?” Evelyn spread her novel face down on the desk, the spine wrinkled and strained at the center.

  “I need to see someone in the psychiatric ward.”

  Evelyn shook her head, her features glum and confused. “I can’t let you on any of the floors, Mattie. It’s after hours.”

  “Take me up the back way. Surely there must be a back entrance to all the floors.”

  “I would get in so much trouble, Mattie. Can’t you come back tomorrow?”

  “No. Tonight.”

  “But . . .”

  “Did you know Lulu died?”

  Evelyn looked down at her novel, running her finger along the spine “Yes, I heard. I’m sorry.”

  “How is Hubie?”

  Evelyn looked up. “Hubie went back to work, took a job over at the recreation center. No more bouts with the fire. I’ve never seen him so content.”

  “I’m happy for him,” Mattie said. “I’m happy for both of you.”

  Evelyn stood up, reading Mattie perfectly. She lifted the ring of keys from her desk and placed them in the pocket of her sweater. “Follow me, Mattie.”

  *****

  Michelle heard a noise and thought it was Ms. Smith searching for something in the dark. “Connie, is that you? Turn the light on.” Ms. Smith had told Michelle to call her Connie, a name she’d heard on television a few days earlier and liked. “Maybe that’s my real name,” Connie had said.

  A woman appeared at the foot of Michelle’s bed, a woman Michelle didn’t recognize from the hospital staff, but who looked vaguely familiar nonetheless, with her gray-streaked black hair, round face, and deep, hooded eyes.

  “I’m Mattie Souder,” the woman said, scooting the chair closer to Michelle’s bed. “I hope you don’t mind if I sit a moment.”

  Pink’s mother. Michelle remembered her from Lulu’s house the day Lulu died.

  “Please. Yes, have a seat.” Michelle sat up, uncomfortable with the woman’s presence, a bit dizzy from medication.

  “I’m very sorry about your husband,” said Mrs. Souder.

  It was strange to Michelle how she could wake and, for a moment, be unaware of anything in her life, as if it had just begun upon opening her eyes. But Mattie’s condolences brought the past back instantly—Cliff’s death, Cassie’s gravestone. Michelle had no idea how to start over. What would that even look like?

  “Are you okay?” Mrs. Souder asked.

  “Yes,” Michelle said. “I’m sorry for your loss as well.”

  Mattie shook her head, obviously confused.

  “I was with your son when he found your best friend. I think her name was Lulu.”

  Pink’s mot
her seemed surprised and annoyed in the same instant. “I don’t remember seeing you.”

  “I walked to the edge of the yard. I didn’t want to interfere.”

  “Why were you there?”

  “Your son was going to look at my property.”

  “I thought you owned Pink’s cabin. Why would he have to look at that? He would know his own property.”

  “I didn’t know it was his at the time,” Michelle said.

  “Of course, what was I thinking?” Mattie said.

  The statement had sounded a bit sarcastic to Michelle.

  “Do you know my son’s wife, Isabelle?” Mattie continued.

  “No, I never—”

  “Why did you think she was dead?”

  Michelle took a tissue from the box and wiped her nose, remembering the things she’d said to Pink at the Hilltop. Had Pink told his mother? Was that why she was here?

  “I was not myself that night. I’m . . . I’m very sorry. I have been through a lot over the last year,” Michelle said, suddenly feeling like Ms. Smith, piecing together a life from someone else’s reality.

  “Yes, I know. But what did you want with my son?”

  “Uh . . . to sell my property . . . his cabin, my . . .”

  Michelle couldn’t assemble complete sentences, couldn’t stop shaking. She felt like a fool, pleading with herself to pull it together. This was her chance to get answers.

  Mrs. Souder stood to leave.

  “No, please, stop. I want to talk with you,” Michelle said, sitting up, pushing the tray holder away from her chest. “I want answers!”

  “Answers? What answers could my son possibly have for you? He barely knows you.”

  Michelle thought a moment. “Answers to why . . . if . . . he killed his wife, Isabelle?”

  Mattie glared at Michelle. The comment seemed to have torn the color from the old woman’s face. She spun toward the doorway.