Chapters (17)
“Yes, that was her.”
“And were the fake flowers daisies, by any chance?”
“Yeah. Yeah I think they were.”
He poured coffee beans into a hand grinder and turned the handle.
“Her name was Lorna,” he said. “She lived in the house across the street for years. But she died last May.”
___
The next time I saw her it was daytime and my mother was there. I had been reading but had grown hungry. I closed my book and stood and there she was, empty-handed this time, in the nightgown still.
My mother and Blake were sitting at the table together, looking over his architectural plans.
“Look,” I said to them. They both stood and craned their necks.
“Poor—” my mother started.
“Mila. Poor Mila,” Blake said. “Apparently she’s being haunted. All I see is a street corner. Isn’t that all you see, Miriam?”
My mother looked at Blake and then back to where my ghost was standing.
“Only a street corner,” my mother said.
Blake pulled something out of his pocket. A small box. “I found something for you,” he told her. She opened the lid.
“Oh, they’re beautiful! Mila, come see.”
A pair of silver earrings. They looked heavy and old.
“I had to talk the lady at the shop into selling them to me.” He took one from the box. “Let’s see how they look on you.”
My mother blushed. “It’s been so long since I’ve worn any. I’m afraid the piercings might have closed up.”
“We’ll give it a try,” Blake said, pressing the post to her earlobe. “Almost,” he said. “Just needs a push.”
I watched my mother wince and then smile, tears shining in her eyes.
“Next one,” he said, and did it again. He wiped her blood from his hand. “Look at that, Miriam,” he said. “You’re a vision.”
And then he turned to me. “Poor Mila,” he said. “She feels left out.” He scanned the surroundings before reaching to the ground. He closed his fist around a cluster of California poppies and pulled them from the earth. He handed them to me, dirty roots and all.
“Your consolation prize,” he said.
I was in the dark again, on the farm again. Once my heart had steadied and I had caught my breath, I turned toward my cabin. For years, I’d done all I could to live a normal life, to forget the things that had happened, to leave the memories buried where they belonged—out of consciousness, obscured by neglect, unable to hurt me.
Why this now?
Here was the crunch of my shoes on the gravel, I reminded myself. Here was the lantern’s light. One step and then another and soon I would be safe.
But as I turned the lock to my cabin door, I saw something below me, lying on the straw doormat.
California poppies, bound together with a blade of grass.