The Invited(101)

Let’s see, I found my mom’s necklace, so now I think she didn’t run off with a guy at all and that maybe something else happened, maybe something bad; I found the same image chalked on the floor of this creepy old hotel where my mom maybe used to go have séances with this totally weird dude who thinks he’s a cowboy; oh, and I found out I can communicate with a dead lady, except sometimes she messes with me and shows me a rusty old ax head instead of treasure.

“I’ve found stuff. Not the actual treasure, but other things,” Olive said. “Actually, I brought you a present.” She went and got her backpack, unzipped it, and pulled out the rusty old ax head. “I found this the night before last. It was over at the other end of the bog, near where Hattie’s house used to be. I’ve found lots of stuff over there—a few old coins, a cast-iron pot, nails and hinges, and a horseshoe. But this ax head is way cool, isn’t it?”

She got an image from one of her recent nightmares: hacking at her mother with an ax.

Please take it, she thought now, feeling queasy. I never want to see this thing again.

Helen reached out, took the rusted metal ax head. “It sure is.”

“I bet it was hers,” Olive said. “I bet it was Hattie’s.”

“You could be right,” Helen said, looking it over. “I’m no expert on ax heads, but it certainly looks very old.”

    “So old the wooden handle rotted away. It’s a hewing ax. You can tell because of the wide blade on the head. I looked it up,” she said, and Helen smiled at her.

“I bet Hattie used it to shape the logs when she built her little house,” Olive said.

Helen nodded.

“I want you to have it. I thought maybe you could clean it up, sharpen it, get a new handle. You’ll have a nice ax for splitting kindling and stuff. Maybe you can even use it to help you build your house. Shape a piece of lumber or something. Like Hattie did.”

“Are you sure?” Helen said.

“Absolutely,” Olive said.

Helen leaned over and hugged her. “Thank you, sweetie,” she said. “It’s an amazing gift.”

And being there, held tight in Helen’s arms for two seconds, gave Olive a sudden jolt of happiness, of comfort.

“You okay?” Helen asked, and Olive realized she was close to crying.

“Fine. Totally.” But she wasn’t fine. Anything but. “Just thinking about Hattie.”

“What about her?”

“How happy she’d be to know that someone had her old ax and was going to fix it up and use it again. It’s almost like…I know it might sound weird, but it’s like bringing a little piece of her back to life in some way. Does that make sense?”

Helen nodded. “Yes. It makes perfect sense. And I agree completely.”





CHAPTER 35



Helen





SEPTEMBER 12, 2015

Helen soaked the ax head in vinegar overnight to loosen the rust, then went to work in the morning, cleaning it with a wire brush and sandpaper.

She and Nate had decided to take the weekend off from building.

“On Monday, we’ll get back on track and finish up the house,” Nate said, all businesslike, barely making eye contact with her. “We can polyurethane the floors, get the walls and trim primed. I’ll call the building supply place and order the roof shingles first thing.”

“Okay,” she’d agreed.

“Cold weather’s coming,” Nate reminded her. “We don’t want to be in that trailer when the first snow hits. And we don’t want to have to move in here when it’s still a construction zone.”

“Agreed,” Helen said.

Nate went off into the woods with his camera and field guides. She drove to the hardware store and bought a handle for the ax head, a special file, and a round hockey-puck-like stone to sharpen it.

Helen spent the day in the yard, working on her ax—removing the rust, sharpening it, and rehanging it by following instructions she’d found online. It was satisfying work, and by late afternoon, she had a beautiful ax. An ax with history. Hattie’s ax.



* * *



. . .

Helen was sitting on the front steps of the house, sipping a bottle of beer and admiring her handiwork, when Nate came up the path from the bog.

As he got closer, she could see he was wet and filthy, his clothing muddy and torn in places. His hair, badly in need of a trim, stuck up at odd angles.

    Who looks like the crazy one now? Helen thought, hating herself for thinking it.

“What’s that?” he asked, staring at the ax.

“It’s a hewing ax,” she said, holding it out so he could see better.

“Where’d it come from?” he asked.

“Olive found an old ax head somewhere out in the woods and gave it to me.” She was careful not to mention Hattie or her house, or the possibility that the ax had once been hers. “She knows I like old things. I spent the day fixing it up—it’s good as new!”

He nodded, then reached to take the camera off from around his neck. “Great. You need to see this,” he said.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I got it,” he said with satisfaction.