“Why don’t you tell her about your life since then?” Zee suggested without missing a beat. “The good things. Catch her up.” She made some notes on Rose’s chart. “I’ll be back to see you tomorrow, Rose.” She reached into her jacket and handed Callie her card. “I’m at Yellow Dog Shelter three mornings a week and the tearoom most afternoons. If you have any questions or concerns about Rose’s care, you can call me anytime.”
“Thank you,” Callie said and followed Zee to the door. She watched the doctor stop to consult with the nurses and then walk toward the stairway. Callie took a deep breath and then pulled the guest chair closer to Rose’s bed. Talk to her. As a general rule, Callie was a listener. Except when she was working, she wasn’t comfortable with the sound of her own voice. She’d learned to hold back, to assess people’s attitudes about her before talking with them. But this was Rose, and Dr. Finch said it might help. Wasn’t that why she’d come?
She sat and faced Rose. “The nuns told me you were dead. That all of you were killed that night.” Oh God, was that really the first thing that came out of my mouth? “I’m sorry. I mean…I just said that in case you’re wondering why I never tried to contact you.” She took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly before she spoke again. “The nuns sent me away from Salem. Until now, I’ve never been back.”
Rose didn’t move. She didn’t blink. Her bloodshot blue eyes stared straight ahead.
“The morning after…what happened…” Callie didn’t want to say “the murders.” Not if Rose could hear her. “I was so scared. The nuns from St. James’s found me—and they sent me to a group home in western Mass. I told them over and over that you saved me. Did you know that? I told the police, too.” Nothing too disturbing. How could she tell her life story and not include anything disturbing? She paused, then started again. “The nuns have been good to me. They got me the job I have now at a nursing home. They convinced me to go to college. You always told me I had to go to college. Remember? I went to U Mass. I started as a music major. Remember you telling me I was musical? You always used to tell me that when I was little. Then I switched to music therapy and then went on to grad school for an MA.”
As she told her story, Callie realized how randomly she had fallen into her own life. There were causes and effects, certainly, and there were decisions. But sitting in this hospital room, she was reminded that the only thing you could be certain of in this world was change. Yesterday Rose was dead. Then Rose was alive. Now Rose was alive, but in a vegetative state.
Callie watched her stare blankly at the ceiling.
For the longest time, she had believed it was All Hallows’ Eve that killed her mother and the others. The nuns said it was the one night each year when evil prevailed without God’s intervention. They also said that bestowing a blessing without a priest—as Rose had done—was a terrible transgression. And even worse was the fact that the women had called themselves Goddesses. That was simply intolerable to God, the nuns said. It was why he looked the other way, allowing them all to receive just punishment for their arrogance.
Callie slammed on the mental brakes. Can’t I think of anything that isn’t morbid? She was tempted to start lying, to weave a story threaded with friends and joy, but she refrained; banshees and talking trees aside, the Rose that Callie remembered always wanted the facts and had taught Callie never to settle for less than what was true. Even so, after all that had happened, she’d never thought to challenge what the nuns had told her about the night of the murders.
Callie left the room and made a call on her cell, leaving a message at the nursing home, saying she wouldn’t be back until further notice, then leaving another message for her private patients on her voice mail, referring them to another therapist she knew from school. She had money saved and could afford to take time off. She’d start visiting Rose daily if it could make a difference. Callie was glad she hadn’t reached anyone directly—she didn’t want to speak to any of the nuns now. God knows what she might have said. Callie had a reputation for saying things she shouldn’t. She’d learned in therapy this was a defensive measure against the fear she’d experienced growing up. She had been working to change it. So far, she hadn’t had much success.
Though it probably wasn’t necessary, Callie left another message at the apartment in Amherst that she’d been sharing with a changing cast of grad students for the last few years, letting them know she’d be away for a bit. She didn’t know any of them well. Though she rented a bedroom there, Callie often didn’t come home at night. She’d had a number of boyfriends, but all of those relationships were short-lived, disposable. No one would call out the National Guard if she went missing for a day or two.
She went back into Rose’s room, sat down, and continued her story, trying with everything she had to keep it positive.
“Remember when we used to sing that song, Rose?” Callie began a Gaelic tune that Rose had taught her. A lullaby from Rose’s Irish grandmother that she’d sung to Callie each night when she went to sleep.
The nurses’ shift changed, and an aide came in to adjust Rose’s position in the bed. “I’m glad to see someone’s visiting her,” the aide said. “I’m sure it’s helping.”
“I hope so,” Callie said.
The aide stopped what she was doing. She was staring at Callie. “I know you.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Could have sworn…”
Callie stared back, as silent as Rose, hoping the woman’s conviction would fade before she could place Callie.
She’d been to the Salem library many times with Rose. It was one of their favorite spots to spend an afternoon. The front steps had been too steep for Callie then. She remembered Rose slowing her normally rapid pace, smiling as Callie cautiously giant-stepped her way to the top, Rose holding the heavy wooden door for her to enter. Today, Callie adopted Rose’s usual pace, taking the stairs easily and opening the door herself. Though the faces were different, the old brick building had changed little since she was a child. The librarian looked up when she saw Callie enter, then went back to her computer. Callie picked up the day’s copy of The Salem Journal as she passed the desk.
The library smelled of books and radiators, the same musty smell she’d once loved. She looked ahead toward the children’s wing and was seized with an urge to enter, to sit in one of the old overstuffed chairs she had once shared with Rose and look through the illustrated pages of Treasure Island or the first book of poetry Rose had read to her: A Child’s Garden of Verses. She remembered one of her favorites:
All night long and every night,
When my mama puts out the light,
I see the people marching by,
As plain as day, before my eye.
She couldn’t remember the rest of the poem or its title. She wanted to go into the children’s room and look it up. Instead, she approached the research desk. A middle-aged man in a bow tie and starched shirt looked up. “May I help you with something?”
“Where would I find archived copies of this paper?” She held up The Salem Journal.