Help for the Haunted(99)

“Leave me to it?” my mother said.

“Trust me. If I’m around, it will only distract while you are working on her.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Lynch. But you must be mistaken. I don’t work on people. I’m not some auto repair shop or child psychologist at a hospital where you can—”

“Good. Because I’ve tried the psychologist route already. It failed.”

When he saw the displeased expression on my mother’s face, Lynch grew quiet. He glanced down at his heavy black shoes—the sort Father Coffey wore, the sort my father wore too. Looking up again, he told my mother, “Forgive me, ma’am. Those were the wrong words to describe what you do. The last thing I want is to insult you. I love my daughter. No father has gone to the lengths I have to keep his child close. To keep her safe. But as much as it pains me, there’s no other way to say it: Abigail has something, well, she has something in her. She needs help. Your help.”

“I—”

“I saw you Mrs. Mason,” Lynch said, cutting her off. “You helped her find peace once before. Over the years, I considered seeking you out again, but I was foolish, thinking I might find some better, more permanent solution. I wasted so much time. I mentioned the shrinks. But there were healers. And preachers. Plus, so many people who claimed to be modern-day soothsayers. One con artist after another put on a big show, and in the end, they did nothing but fleece me.”

[page]In her most gentle voice, my mother told him, “I’m sorry.”

“Me too. But then, the other day, I had an appointment I’d been waiting months for. That’s the way it works with these people. They keep you waiting so you get the impression they’re in demand and it’s going to be worth it. In this case, it was three old women who call themselves the Sisters. I drove Abigail to their house at the end of a windy road on a mountain in Rangley, Maine. Nobody around for miles except me and my daughter, maybe some moose out in the woods, and those rickety old women hunched and shriveled the way you’d imagine in a fairy tale. Holy as those ladies were supposed to be, they demanded their money up front. I peeled endless twenties from the wad in my pocket and forked them over. And then they had the nerve to act bothered when I told them they needed to come to the van and see Abigail, since she would not come inside.”

“And did they?”

Lynch nodded, peeking around my mother to glimpse his daughter. The girl’s face was hidden away still, and she had resumed that dragging motion with her foot.

“What did those women do?” my mother said.

“Nothing. After the same sort of spectacle I’ve grown accustomed to—chanting and shaking their arms in the air and tossing herbs and rubbing oils on my daughter—not a single thing changed. I stood outside that van, looking off into the mountains. I might have cried if the tears hadn’t dried up inside me a long time ago. Meanwhile, the Sisters packed up their props and exited back toward their house, telling me that sometimes it takes months for their work to be effective. I’ve heard that line before, so I smiled and said nothing while watching them walk to their house. But then, as I stood there, willing myself to get back in the van and drive down the mountain, their front door opened, and I looked to see one of the Sisters coming back to me. I’d say she was the youngest, but it was hard to tell, since they were all so old; either way, there was something different about this one. I guess it was that she had more light, more compassion in her eyes. She whispered to me about—well, I’ll give you one guess who she told me about.”

My mother kept quiet, looking down at the ground. The only sound was Abigail doing that thing on the pavement with her bruised toes.

“You, Mrs. Mason. She told me about you and your husband. Only she didn’t say your names right away, so I didn’t realize. She said she had read of a certain couple and the things they’d been able to do. She suggested that this couple might be able to help my Abigail too. That’s when she pulled out a clipping from the newspaper, and I looked down to see a photo—your photo—and I read about all the things you’ve done since I last saw you.”

“I see,” my mother told him. “Listen, Mr. Lynch, I don’t want to be one more person who adds to your disappointment, so I need to be up front. As I told you on the phone, I cannot guarantee I’ll be of any help. My husband and I don’t claim to have any sort of magic powers. When it comes down to it, our only method is prayer in its most simple and basic form. It’s all I have to offer. And that said, your daughter is a minor. I can’t have you leaving her here and disappearing on us.”

“I’m not disappearing. I’ll be back. Of course, I’ll be back. But you and your husband are good people. At the very least, I know my Abigail will be safe here with you. And I can use a day, two days, three—however long it takes, to get myself together and calm my nerves before I do something I—”

When he stopped abruptly, I expected my mother to prod, but she allowed the silence to do the job. She waited—we both did—watching him look down at those heavy shoes once more. When he lifted his head and spoke next, his voice crept close to tears. “It’s been so hard. This life. You have no idea. Or maybe you do. But there are times when I’m afraid I’ll lose my patience. Afraid that, despite my good intentions and faith in our good Lord Jesus Christ and the love in my heart for my daughter, I might snap and do something I’ll regret.”