For centuries humans have believed in God, Buddha, Yahweh, and so many forms of a higher power. And yet, not one can be seen. Why do the same people who believe in those deities doubt the existence of darker spirits? I ask all of you, how can a person believe in the light but not the dark? How, when all evidence points to the basic facts of dualities? There is the light of the sun and the dark of the moon. There is the heat of summer and the cold of winter. Even a simple magnet demonstrates positive and negative energy. So when people ask for proof, I know they want stories about things my wife and I have encountered, and I can tell plenty. But first, I point out that they already have all the proof they need. Any of us here has only to observe the opposing energies of the world we live in, and it’s proven time and again: If there is good, there is bad. If you believe in one, you must accept the existence of the other.”
I opened my eyes. The house was dark, silent. My nightlight and digital clock were still dead, which meant the electricity had yet to be turned on. My pillow had fallen to the floor. I retrieved it and rolled over, staring at the wall. Those words I’d heard before coming fully awake, they had been spoken by my father. In my drowsy haze, I imagined them taking shape, drifting across the hall into my room, surrounding me in my narrow bed and filling my head. But then I remembered: my father was not home.
“There are times when people of confused faith misinterpret a psychological or medical disorder and carry out barbaric methods to rescue the sufferer. There are many such stories, but this evening I’d like to talk about a girl named Lydia Flores from a village in Mexico. When Lydia was fifteen, her mother—a widower—noticed a change in her daughter. Where she had once been affable, outgoing, she became sullen, withdrawn. Simply leaving the house became an act she resisted. According to reports, the girl’s appetite vanished; her weight loss was drastic. Nights, she spent awake in her room, thrashing in bed. Days, she slept with such stillness it disturbed her mother. As things worsened, her behavior became violent toward others and herself. She spoke of voices and the horrible things they told her to do. Now any of us might contact a psychiatrist. But Lydia’s mother lived all her life in that village, where people held antiquated beliefs about what was to be done in such a situation. Unfortunately for Lydia, her mother sought out a village priest with the same beliefs. This priest devised a plan for her treatment.”
When I opened my eyes again, morning sun shone through my window. My nightlight was still out, clock too. I lay there, surrounded by my father’s words, wondering how they had come to me. Before I could think too long, though, I remembered: Dot. I got out of bed and crossed the hall. My parents’ door was shut and locked. I slipped back into my room a moment. My mother and I had a tradition: whenever they were about to leave on their trips, she helped me pick out the clothes I’d wear to school while they were gone. I found the soft blue spring dress and simple white flats she had chosen for that day and put them on without bothering to shower.
Downstairs, the antique clock ticked in the living room. I was running twenty minutes late, long enough that the bus was likely blowing past the end of the lane at that very moment. Inside the kitchen, I found Rose hunting down a fork, the toasty smell of something heating in the gas oven filling the room. “Where is she?” I asked.
“Who?”
“Rose, you know who I mean.”
“Oh. Her. Where do you think?”
“After what you put her through, I’m hoping she’s in mom’s or dad’s bed catching up on sleep.”
Rose pulled open the oven door, reached inside. Out came two waffles, which she tossed on a paper towel before blowing on her fingers. “Don’t you mean what we put her through? After all, you were the first one to scare the crap out of her.” As she spoke, I watched her slather butter on those waffles and dump on so much syrup that it drooled through the paper towel onto the counter.
“You’re making a mess,” I told her. “Just put them on a plate.”
“Won’t fit under the door if they’re on a plate.”
“What door?”
“The bathroom door.”
“She’s still in there?”
“Go to school, Sylvie. I’m taking the day off myself. Too much to do here.”
“Rose, you have to let her out. It’s been almost twelve hours.”
“Eleven, actually. And of course I’m going to let her out. I even told her I would last night, but that’s when Miss Mary Snatch said she planned to call the police as soon as she was free. So no can do just yet. The woman’s not getting out until we broker a deal. I guess you could say we’ve got a hostage situation going on up there.”
For a long moment, I stood watching as she flattened each waffle with a fork so they’d slide more easily beneath the door. Finally, Rose looked up at me. “Sylvie, you don’t want to be a part of this. I promise she’ll be out by the time you get home. Now go on. Don’t you have to turn in your paper so you can prove how smart you are?”
My paper. She was right that I needed to turn it in soon. But it wasn’t going to happen, I told her, since I already missed the bus and had no way of getting to school.
“Just walk.”