Help for the Haunted(100)

In the distance, we heard a car motoring along the main road. All of us, except Abigail, looked to see a red convertible with flashy hubcaps moving closer. At the sight of Lynch’s grimy van pulled to the side, emergency flashers blinking away, the driver slowed to get a glimpse of us there before speeding off.

When the convertible was gone, I made up my mind to put an end to this situation before things went any further. “Sorry for your troubles, sir,” I began. “We really are. But you will have to come up with another plan. You can’t leave your daughter here.”

Considering how unusual that sort of bluntness was coming from me, it sounded pretty convincing—that’s what I thought anyway, before Lynch fixed his gaze on me with such intensity, it was as though he was realizing for the first time that my mother had family who might interfere with his needs. A smile—so slight, so awkward, I was not quite certain that’s even what it was at first—formed on his thin lips. I had the feeling he might start laughing at the things I’d said.

“Sylvie,” my mother said. “It’s okay.”

“But—”

She reached over, put a hand on my arm, and squeezed, while keeping her gaze on Albert Lynch. “I can try to help your girl,” she told him. “But I must inform you that I’ve not been feeling my best the last month. And these things—well, they take focus. They take energy from me. Still, I can try.”

That not-quite-a-smile turned into something more full-fledged when Lynch heard what my mother was saying. After another rush of thank you’s, he turned toward the van and wasted no time gathering up rumpled clothes, a toothbrush, a hairbrush, sneakers, books. I stood watching, having a hard time imagining his daughter brushing her teeth or hair or wearing sneakers, never mind reading.

When Lynch turned to carry the pile toward us, something that had been swept up inside dropped out of the bottom. My mother and I watched it fall to the pavement and skid toward the front tire. In his excitement, Lynch must not have noticed, otherwise he wouldn’t have asked me to hold out a garbage bag so he could stuff his daughter’s things inside.

“She likes this book,” he said, showing us a copy of something called Legends of Faith. “Or she used to like it. When she was younger, I read it to her. Sometimes, I still do, in hopes that it will bring back memories of happier times.”

“Mr. Lynch?” my mother said.

“And now that she’s up and out, I should warn you that it might appear as though things are relatively fine with her. That’s how it goes. For weeks at a stretch things seem almost normal. But just when you get comfortable, that’s when—”

“Mr. Lynch?” my mother repeated.

This time, he stopped talking and looked at her. “Yes, ma’am?”

My mother did not answer. She didn’t have to; his gaze trailed hers, mine too, to where a small black pistol with a blunt silver nose lay not far from the front tire. I watched Lynch’s hands begin to tremble as he shoved the last of his daughter’s things in the bag, then he walked quickly to the van and scooped up the gun.

“Please,” he said, once it was stashed inside beneath the driver’s seat. “Don’t get the wrong idea. I’m a good Christian. A man of faith. But for a lot of complicated reasons, my daughter and me—we live our lives on the road. That means sleeping in campgrounds. Rest stops. People out there, they’re not always as nice as you. I learned that the hard way. I’ve never used this gun. Never plan to. It’s just to scare people when the situation calls for it.”

“Well, you’re scaring me plenty right now,” my mother told him. “No matter what your reasons, you shouldn’t be so careless about where you store that pistol.”

In the tone of a scolded child, he told her, “I’m sorry, ma’am. And you’re right. I won’t be so careless anymore.”

“Well, okay then. Now that that’s out of the way, why don’t we agree that you will call in a few days and we can see how things are with your daughter. How does that sound?”

“Sounds good to me. And thank you one more time. I may not look like it, but I do have access to a little money when I need it. So I can pay something in return. Or if there’s something else I can do, let me know, and I’ll find a way to give it to you.”

In response to that offer, my mother said nothing. It was not like her to discuss a fee for the things they did, that much I knew. So she just waited; I did too, watching Albert Lynch climb back into his van. He flicked off the emergency flashers, rolled down the window, and called out, “Abigail, I know you can hear me. I’m going to leave you for a bit, but I’ll be back. My hope, my prayer, is that your time here will help you get better.”

If the girl heard him, she gave no sign. She stood behind my mother’s back still, though turned around now, looking down our street riddled with those gaping foundations like a mouth full of cavities. Albert gave up waiting for any response, or maybe he never expected one. Either way, he offered us a last wave, less hesitant than any previous, before pulling away from the curb. As he vanished in the same direction as that red convertible, my mother took the bag of Abigail’s belongings from me. Without a word, we began the walk home. The slow, careful way she moved made me realize that my mother must have felt fatigue washing over her again.

In those early moments inside our house, Abigail did not seem so much a person with “something in her” as she did a houseguest, albeit an awkward one. She moved slowly around the living room, peering too closely at the clock, the cross, and the books imprisoned behind the glass of the curio hutch. She leaned in to study the grade-school portraits of Rose and me for so long, it felt as though she was touching them in some way, putting her fingerprints all over the frames.