Help for the Haunted(32)

His voice had changed, so it sounded more like an order than an invitation. Now I was the one who stood caught between two choices, while the wind blew and the palms made a frantic swooshing above and that man with the scratches called into the bushes, “It’s all right. Come on. It’s safe. I promise.”

“Just forget her,” Rose said.

My uncle leaned across the seat, his hairy, tattooed arm brushing Rose’s stomach as he pushed open the door. “Get in the truck,” he said again.

And then came another voice, “Sylvie!”

I whirled around to see the revolving door of the conference center still spinning even after it spit my mother from the building. She moved in my direction, one hand clutching her silver cross necklace. When she saw Rose sitting in my uncle’s truck, her face took on a stricken expression. Over the sound of the wind and the chugging engine and that man calling into the bushes, my mother raised her voice louder than I’d ever heard, “Get out of that truck! Get out of that truck now, Rose!”

“You better step on it, Uncle,” my sister said.

When my mother reached us, she must have realized that my sister had every intention of ignoring her. She looked at Howie and said, “Tell her to get out.”

He laughed. “You want me to tell her?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t you think that’s a little messed up? I haven’t seen the girl in years and she’s going to listen to me. Sounds like you have trouble controlling your own kid.”

My mother gave up reasoning with him. One last time, she tried with my sister. “Rose, I’m asking you to get out of that truck.”

Rose’s only response was to pull the door shut. My mother tugged back, but Rose hammered down the lock and cranked up the window. I watched her say something to my uncle, but it was as though there were two worlds now: one inside the truck, which we could not hear, and another outside, where that man by the bushes was still calling into the bushes.

My uncle pulled away from the curb. As their taillights disappeared out of the lot, my mother clutched her cross and asked if I knew where they were going.

“For a ride. And maybe to an arcade if they find one.”

Her eyes shut a moment, and I knew she was praying. When she opened them again, I asked how she knew that Rose and I were outside. I thought maybe she’d tell me she had one of her feelings, but instead she said that the security guard had checked the greenroom and reported back that it was empty. My mother had excused herself from the talk and left my father on the stage while she came to find us. “I can’t believe she’s gone off with him.”

I wanted to tell her how sorry I was for not living up to the promise I made to my father, but someone else spoke first.

“Excuse me,” the voice said.

My mother and I turned to see the man with the scratches. We had been so preoccupied, staring out at the parking lot, that neither of us noticed him approach. Beneath the visor of his baseball cap, I saw a long nose with flared nostrils and skinny lips. He must have wiped his hand on his face, because blood smeared across one cheek.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but—”

“This is not a good time,” my mother told him, letting go of her cross and straightening her posture. It was never her way to be rude, but this moment called for an exception. “As I’m sure you just witnessed, we are having some family difficulties.”

“I’m sorry.” The man stepped closer, and I could see that beneath the smudges of blood, his skin looked smooth and creaseless. “I really am sorry. But, please. I drove all the way here, hours and hours, to hear you and your husband speak.”

“Well, my husband is still inside speaking. If you hurry, you can hear him.”

“I know that. I was in the auditorium earlier. But I had to leave, because, well . . .”

As his voice trailed off, my mother seemed to take him in for the first time. I watched her face soften in such a way that she appeared more like her usual, serene self. “What is it?”

“It’s . . . well . . . I need your help.”

He pointed to the bushes, and my mother walked toward them. I had the sense that she did not want me to follow, so I lingered behind. The man did too. From the curb, we watched as my mother gathered the hem of her dress and crouched to the ground. Rather than call into the darkness the way he had been doing, she began humming, the same song she hummed on the drive down to Florida to shut out Rose’s bad behavior. At last, when her humming stopped, my mother held her hand into the shadows. I cringed, expecting the rustle and high-pitched snarl.

Except for the wind shaking the palm trees, things were quiet. I looked closer and saw, not far from my mother’s hand, a pair of eyes. Wet and shiny, they made me think of an animal blinking there in the dark. And then, slowly, she appeared. Not an animal. A girl. She was older than me, I could tell, though not by much. Thirteen, I guessed. Maybe fourteen. Her blond hair was matted. Her expression, empty and dazed. She placed her hand in my mother’s. Together, they stood. On the girl’s forehead, my mother made the sign of the cross over and over again, so many times it was not possible to count. When that was done at last, she placed her palms on the girl’s cheeks. Eyes closed, my mother’s lips moved in prayer. “In the name of the Father,” she said finally, “the Son, the Holy Ghost.”