The Visitor(34)
I wasn’t quite as amused at the prospect of selling skin casings as he apparently was. “How does one go about preserving a caul anyway?”
“In the old days, the midwife rubbed a sheet of paper across the baby’s head and face, pressing the membrane onto the parchment. Of course, given what you’ve told me of your birth, I doubt your grandmother had sufficient time even if she’d been so inclined. The veil would have been removed quickly in order to start resuscitation. I’m surprised you don’t have scars from the attachment points.”
I touched a finger to my hairline. “Maybe they’re just hidden.” Like so many things in my life.
“That’s certainly possible. However, you’ve always been a keen observer so I can’t imagine they would have escaped your notice. Nor do I think I’m telling you anything you don’t already know.”
“Actually, I don’t know that much about cauls. I only found out last fall about my birth and I’ve been busy with Oak Grove ever since.”
“I see. Well, apart from the membrane itself having magical properties, caulbearers are believed by some to be spiritual guides and healers, as well as seers.” His gaze on me deepened. “Are any of these attributes at all familiar to you?”
“Are you asking if I have ESP or the ability to heal? No. But ever since I found out about my birth I’ve had this odd sense of...” Again my gaze strayed to the garden doorway. I saw nothing this time but the brilliant flicker of sunlight through the live oaks.
“Go on.”
“Destiny,” I finished reluctantly. “As if my course has already been charted.”
“What do you think your destiny is?”
“I don’t know.” I thought of all those ghost voices in my head at the hospital, all those grasping hands in my dreams. “I’m afraid to know. It’s as if I’ve been waiting for something my whole life. Or something has been waiting for me. But I never realized it until now. Maybe because I was so sheltered and protected. Looking back, I’m convinced that every decision, every milestone, even my every thought and dream has led me down a predetermined pathway.” I paused, grappling with a concept I didn’t fully understand. “It started with my birth, I think. I was brought back from the other side for a reason. I believe I was chosen.”
The word hung in the air, suspended on a stray gust that blew into the office, ruffling the papers on Dr. Shaw’s desk.
“A loaded word,” he said softly. “Chosen for what?”
“I’ve no idea.” I rubbed my arms, trying to restore circulation to the frigid veins. “I was born dead to a dead mother. That has to mean something. I’ve been told I have power because I was born on the other side of the veil.”
“What kind of power?”
“I don’t know.”
He looked at me in such a way that I felt almost breathless with anticipation. Or was it dread?
“What is it, Dr. Shaw?”
He hesitated, his thumb tapping an idle rhythm against the surface of his desk. “Tell me, Amelia, did you have imaginary playmates when you were a child? Did you see things others couldn’t? Visions...apparitions...”
“You mean ghosts?” I asked.
“Yes, ghosts. As I said earlier, you can tell me as much or as little as you want, but I’ve always known there was something special about you. You have the inner radiance of someone attuned to the invisible world around us, and you seem to attract more than your share of unusual phenomena.”
“Which you’ve always been able to explain away,” I reminded him. “You’re the one person who can help make sense of everything that’s happened to me.”
“And there may well be an explanation for what you’re experiencing now. I don’t discount any possibility. You said you feel as if you’ve been waiting for something all your life. That you’ve been chosen.”
I drew a breath and nodded.
“In some cultures, people believe children who see visions and apparitions grow up to become death walkers.”
“But I never said—” I stopped short as another chill shot through me. “Death walkers?”
“You’re not familiar with the term? It isn’t as dire as it sounds, although I suppose it depends on one’s perspective. Death walkers are those rare individuals who have the ability to help souls pass from this world to the next. They serve a unique and powerful purpose in the circle of life. Perhaps your unusual birth has bestowed upon you this gift.”
I remained silent, my stomach in knots as I resisted the inclination to press my hands to my ears, once more blocking out what I didn’t want to hear. What I couldn’t bear to comprehend.
“Think of it as a vocation similar to your grandmother Tilly’s,” he said. “She was a midwife, yes? Only you aren’t meant to help souls enter this world. Your job is to help them leave.”
“That’s a very frightening prospect,” I said on a ragged whisper.
“To the contrary,” he said kindly. “Some would consider it a high and noble calling. It’s what the shamans refer to as a midwife to the dead.”
Twenty
After I left the Institute, I parked downtown and walked over to the Unitarian Churchyard, one of my favorite cemeteries in Charleston. A glimpse through the rear gate might lead a first-time caller to conclude the graveyard was abandoned or badly neglected, but the paths were meticulously kept, allowing visitors to wander at will through the deliberately overgrown shrubbery and wildflowers.