Tristan was determined to find out more about her mother, and as her mind fell to dreams that night, her mother’s face was the last thing she saw.
An unsettled state of slumber took over Tristan's mind as the storm raged on outside. A restful night would not be in the cards for Tristan. The torrential downpour helped lull Tristan's weary mind to sleep, but the violent cracks of thunder and jolts of lightning over the house and throughout the valley beyond caused her to stir in her comfortable bed. One particularly brutal lightning strike lit up the dark sky and crashed down into a tree in nearby Cavegat forest. At the sound, Tristan's eyes shot wide open. Shivering in the dark, her picture window was pushed open, causing the wind and rain to swell the curtains on her window and bed.
Rising from her alcove bed, she shuddered as she reached for the window, as a chill ravaged the base of her spine. Still drowsy from her restless slumber, Tristan rubbed her eyes as she turned to go back to bed, but something stopped her dead in her tracks. A reflection in the window. A figure was standing in the dark behind her. Startled awake, Tristan glared at the reflection in fear. From the corner of Tristan's tiny chamber, the figure emerged from darkness.
Tristan could hear the deep rattle of breathing from behind her, causing her hair to stand on edge. Every nerve was alive, every cell on edge. She was a live wire of anxiety. Slowly, the figure began to step out of the darkness. Tristan could not discern whether or not the figure was man or a woman, only that it was coming closer. Tristan could not move; her state of shock would not allow it. Panic rose from her stomach and threatened to animate as a scream. Before her mouth could open, the figure was there, staring strangely at the back of Tristan's head. She stared into the reflection, trying to catch a glimpse of a face, desperate to identify her midnight caller, but its identity remained cloaked under a dark hood. Tristan could feel the figure's stare. It was powerful, as if it was penetrating her mind, as cool breath brushed the nape of her neck. Slowly, a hand brushed the hair from Tristan's shoulder, allowing her tresses to fall down her back. The hand now rested on her shoulder growing stronger into a tight grip. It took every ounce of strength in Tristan's body not to scream. The figure spoke in a hoarse voice that she immediately recognized.
"It is time."
Under the pale glow of the moon, Tristan believed that she had met her end.
Chapter Six
Elkhart, PA
December 24, 1981
Evening
Bitter winter stretched its wings across the valley and rapped its claws against the beveled glass window. The trees trembled in the banshee screams of the howling wind, barren branches breaking under the weight of the heavy snow. The old house shivered in protest as the storm outside intensified. The warmth shining outward from the dining room window stood out in stark contrast to the severe winter night. As the storm churned outside, the temperament indoors was distinctly warmer.
A burgundy tablecloth billowed in the air before failing gracefully to the oak table below. Tiny hands gently, swiftly placed heavy dinner plates and glasses for ten. With difficulty, two wooden high chairs were carried one at a time and placed carefully near the dining room table. On each wooden tray she placed a small plastic dinner plate, each decorated colorfully with pictures of a blue puppy and a red cat playing jovially in a meadow. Next to each plate, Catherine placed bright blue training cups with milk for the babies to sip from. From behind Catherine, an elderly man with a sour wrinkled face observed her from the doorway.
Exhausted, Catherine sunk into a dining room chair, allowing herself a moment of rest. She glared at the old man.
“I really don’t see why you are here. It is Christmas Eve,” said Catherine coolly. The old man responded in a friendly voice.
“Well I’ve come to check in on you and bring by this basket for the family to enjoy,” Lapidus said as he pointed to the hearty fruit basket that sat on the credenza next to Catherine’s perfectly polished silver punch bowl. Catherine rose to her swollen feet and rushed into the kitchen, brushing past the old man.
“Dr. Lapidus, I appreciate the kind sentiment, but I am truly rather busy. Does your presence here have anything to do with a particular client of yours?”
Dr. Lapidus looked embarrassed.
“He did call me, and frankly, I am concerned.”
Feeling heat rush to her face, Catherine diverted her attention to the dinner she was preparing. She rushed into the pantry and grabbed a purple apron that was secured by a nail in the wall. She struggled to tie it around her burgeoning waist, the seams on the apron begging for mercy. One by one, she removed the bowls and trays of piping hot food from the kitchen counter and carried them cautiously into the dining room. Fresh ham, roasted potatoes, string beans, fresh bread, steamed cauliflower, the selection was seemingly endless.