Ink and Bone(29)

It had been on the tip of her tongue, the thing Eloise wanted to say. “Finley,” she almost said. “Can you be late today? We should have a talk.” But she’d never found the courage to push the words out. What point was there, really? What good would it do?

Back inside the house, the old clock ticked, the floorboards creaked, the pictures of her family stared at her from the wall. All these things seemed real and solid, permanent. Of course, it wasn’t so. Everything tended toward breaking down, entropy. Time and gravity were immutable forces that pulled the world apart. If not for constant vigilance, the fabric on the sofas would mold and rot, the roof would start to sink, shingles and shutters would fall. The house would be a ruin one day. And that was right, as it should be. Nothing is forever.

Eloise took her bag from the hall table and headed out the door.

In the car, she drove down the road. So many years later, she never failed to remember the day Emily and Alfie died whenever she passed the place where the tractor-trailer drifted into their lane, forcing them all into a head-on collision. After which: Alfie and Emily were gone; Eloise and Amanda were left to go on; and Eloise began to hear the dead—their voices, their stories. It had been a day like any other day, not the shade of any warning, not a tingle, not a sense of anything to come. Lives lost, lives altered from one moment to the next. Other people would have moved, left this place, at least not forced themselves to drive the same road every day. But Eloise was not other people. She didn’t want to forget, to move on. You didn’t have to do those things to let go.

She drove through town, past the Java Stop and Miss Lovely’s Bed & Breakfast. At the light, Jake, proprietor of Jake’s Pub, waved to her as he crossed in front of her car. She lowered her window to hear what he was saying.

“I can feel winter coming,” he said again.

“Me, too,” she said, smiling. “Have a good one.”

He smiled in that way they sometimes do afterwards, after they’d laid their problems at your feet, and she’d helped the best she could. Sometimes it was enough and they were grateful; sometimes not, and they were disappointed. But it was always awkward when there was nothing left to do but accept. Jake had asked her for answers about a woman he’d lost long ago. He’d given her a necklace, and Eloise had a dream. It was never easy to watch a big, strong man break down and cry, even though she should be used to it by now. Every time they saw each other now, Eloise and Jake, they each remembered that moment, when he cried and she held him.

She passed the yoga studio where some lithe women lingered chatting outside the door after class. Then past the hardware store and the community garden that a group of mothers had started in an empty lot owned by the city. Finally, she took the road out of town, toward Agatha’s.

It was a short drive. Agatha was outside what was now formally called The Hollows, but she was still part of the place. The old-timers knew that The Hollows was bigger than the modern town boundaries dictated. The Hollows went on and on, up into the hills. Just because some civil engineers decided to demarcate a proper line between towns didn’t make it so.

She drove along the quiet road, between the towering pines until she came to Agatha’s drive, and then she turned. She moved through the gate that stood open, took the long driveway up. When she arrived, she sat and watched the house for a minute. She had a feeling that her old friend would be out back. Why had she come? She couldn’t even say.

She didn’t bother walking up to the door but made her way around the side of the house. She had been right; Agatha was sitting out in the gazebo past the pool that used to gleam with bright blue water but was covered now. The house had gotten too big for her, a rambling old thing. But she stayed on. I can’t leave here any more than you can, she’d said once. And Eloise had bristled at this. I can leave here whenever I want, she’d thought then. But Agatha had been right about that, as she had been about so much.

“You’re here about Finley,” said Agatha as Eloise approached. “Among other things.”

“You must be psychic,” said Eloise. Agatha gave a little chortle at that.

She was smaller than she used to be, frailer. When Eloise had first known her, nearly thirty years ago now, Agatha’s power used to radiate off of her in waves. She was a big woman, always clad in tunics and scarves and flowy pants. Just her presence brought comfort; it energized. That was at the height of it, when the waiting list for her speak-to-the-dead business was three years long, when she traveled on her private jet to help law enforcement agencies, make talk show appearances, help families find their lost. The years had slowed her down. Toward the end, she saw fewer people, was able to do less, see less.

Eloise sat opposite Agatha, whose long white hair was tied back in a bun. She was dressed in white, a flowing tunic and linen pants. She fingered a strand of big black beads around her neck. From where Eloise sat, the beads looked like skulls, faces pulled taut in anger and sadness, fear, misery.

“We’re getting old,” said Agatha.

“Yes,” said Eloise.

The Whispers were usually quiet here, but today they were loud. Most people would hear the sound as just the wind in the leaves. But it was so much more, a million voices telling their stories, the full rainbow of human experience—birth and death, joy and grief, fear and love. Eloise had been listening for a long time now. Too long.

“It’s her time,” said Agatha. “She’ll take the seat of her power. Whether she wants to or not.”