Help for the Haunted(72)

“Your childhood,” he said, fighting his nervousness. “He ne-ne-never to-to-told me . . . well . . . I mean we ta-ta-talked about his childhood. But we ne-ne-never touched on yours. Could you te-te-tell me . . . you know, about it?”

My mother sat patiently, waiting for him to get out all those words.

When he was done, Heekin managed, “Forgive me. It’s an old ha-ha-habit I’ve kicked. But it ha-ha-happens sometimes when I’m ne-ne-nervous.”

In a gentle voice, she asked, “Has it always been this way for you?”

“It s-s-started with m-m-my father. He used to b-b-b-bark at me, and so I felt uptight around him. The habit comes ba-ba-back whenever I’m uncomfortable.”

“I’m sorry,” she told him. “If you like, we can pray together about it and see what can be done.”

“Thank you. But with all d-d-due respect, I’m not really a believer in those things.”

“What things?”

“You know, prayer and d-d-demons.”

My mother was quiet, thinking over his statement. At last, she said, “What is prayer but meditation? What is a demon but a fear that lives inside us, one we cannot easily conquer on our own? If you prefer to use those words, it’s all right by me. So I make the same offer. If you like, we can meditate together on this fear you can’t control.”

Heekin’s answer surprised even himself. “Okay.”

My mother leaned forward in her chair. She took his warm hands in her cool ones, squeezing more strongly than he would have guessed she’d be able to do. He expected her to say something, but her lips stayed pressed together. She closed her eyes, and he took this as a cue that he should too. The only sound was the ticking of the clock, the birds chirping out in the yard.

At first, Heekin felt tempted to open his eyes and peek at her face, so near his, but then he realized he didn’t need to, he could see it there, in the darkness behind his lids. Her pale, papery skin. Her thin lips pursed. The silver crosses glinting in her ears. Just thinking of her so close, feeling her fingers against his, put him at ease. His mind drifted to some warm, unnamable place. He was a child hopping the checkerboard tiles of the floor in the grocery store. He was a child riding his bike outside his father’s ranch house in Augustine, Delaware. At last, he felt her hands slip from his. He did not open his eyes right away, but instead, he remained as he was, picturing her pretty face once more as she asked, “And how did that feel?”

“Peaceful,” he answered, looking at her finally.

“Good,” she told him, smiling. “The next time you sense those old fears about to take hold, I want you to remember the special feeling of peace we created here together. My hope is that it will help you to stay calm and get your words out the way you intend them to sound. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Now,” my mother said. “Should we try this interview again?”

“Yes.” Heekin felt himself breathing more easily. He felt the words come more smoothly too. “Can you tell me about your childhood?”

“I grew up on a farm in the South. My mother was a quintessential farm wife. She disciplined me with a switch and believed children should be seen and not heard.”

“And your father?”

“I loved my father,” she said in such a way that implied she had not felt the same about her mother. “He was tough too, but he treated me like I was special. Unusual as it was for a man in rural Tennessee, he knew perfect Latin and taught it to me. Not that I have much use for it these days beyond the occasional Latin spoken at Mass in the gym.”

It was then, with some prodding on Heekin’s part, that she told him the story of the birdhouses her father had built and what she’d done after he was gone.

“That must have been heartbreaking for you,” he said when she finished. “And you mentioned that he passed, but you never said how.”

In an instant, my mother’s eyes welled. Tears did not spill onto her cheeks, but they suspended on her lower lids, on the verge. Even after so many years, he could see how the question had pricked at something raw inside her, so Heekin told her to never mind. It was something no good reporter would ever say, but he didn’t care. “You don’t have to tell me, Mrs. Mason.”

“Rose,” she said, pressing her index fingers to the bottom of each eye as though to shove those tears back inside. “You can call me Rose.”

“Rose!” my father called from upstairs.

The timing caused them both to laugh. “Apparently, someone else does,” Heekin said, making a joke.

And yet, my father’s voice broke whatever spell had been working between them. “I should be going,” my mother said, standing from her chair. “I hope the things I’ve shared help with your story and impress your editor.”

“I feel certain that they will,” he told her.

At the door, Heekin worked up the courage to mention the nature preserve he first discovered when he’d been stationed at the Dover Air Force base. Despite the roar of military planes overhead that so often startled the birds, the place had been his only escape. “Even if I was too afraid to fly, it was comforting to watch those little creatures do it. And if you’re patient and still long enough, they land right in your hand. Anyway, if you like I could—”