“What are you drinking?”
“It’s called Difficult-Tea,” Towner said.
“It was named for Towner when she was a teenager,” Zee explained, grinning.
“Very appropriately, I might add,” Towner said. “It’s a blend my grandmother, Eva, used to make: black tea with cayenne and cinnamon, and just a hint of cilantro.”
“Sounds terrible,” Callie couldn’t help saying as she collapsed into a chair. Her hands were shaky. She placed both of them palms down on the cool table in front of her.
Towner laughed. “It was meant to be.”
“I think it’s pretty good,” Zee said. “But people either love it or hate it.”
“How about something herbal? To calm your nerves,” Towner suggested, already heading over to the pantry, where the canisters of tea were stored.
“Am I that obvious?”
“You just came from the hospital?” Zee asked.
“I did.” Callie picked up a spoon and turned it over in her hands, looking at it instead of Zee. “Nothing’s working.” She sighed. “And someone has been going through Rose’s things. I found her Book of Trees on the windowsill. It wasn’t you, was it?” She put down the spoon and looked at Zee.
“It wasn’t me,” Zee said. “But I’ll certainly speak to the nursing staff about it.”
“I spoke to the nurse at the desk,” Callie said. “I’m afraid I annoyed the hell out of her.”
“Was anything missing?” Towner asked.
“I don’t know,” Callie said. “I put the book away and I locked the cabinet.” Callie showed her the key she had pocketed.
“Good idea.”
Towner came back to the table with another teapot, smaller this time and covered with painted roses. “Let it steep for a minute,” she said, setting it down in front of Callie.
Callie put her hands around the teapot to warm them.
Zee looked at Towner and then back at Callie, passing the plate of scones that had been on the other side of the table. Callie waved them away.
“Not hungry for sweets? That’s never a good sign,” Towner said.
“I’m frustrated. I don’t see any improvement, and I don’t know what to do.”
“There’s nothing to be done, besides what you’re already doing,” Zee said. “The idea is to bring her back, to form a connection of some kind. And you are doing that—you are talking to her every day. You won’t really know it’s working until she wakes up.”
“That’s the problem. I don’t think she’s hearing me.”
“What makes you say that?” Zee asked.
Callie shrugged. Something kept her from revealing the darkness she’d felt inside Rose during her meditation. “I’m a music therapist. I’m supposed to be a healer,” she said instead.
“Supposed to be? You sound doubtful,” Towner said.
I’ve always been doubtful about my healing abilities, Callie thought. Despite many positive results, her embrace of New Age methods was undercut by a small seed of doubt instilled by the nuns she’d grown up among. They had hired her to work with their patients at the nursing home, and even though in her worst moments she worried it may have been only because they felt bad for her, she knew it meant they had a base level of confidence in her abilities, at least some of them did. Even they’d had to acknowledge there were healers in the Bible; Jesus himself was the best example. But Callie’s “gifts” were always spoken of as if the word were in quotes, as if they had a dark origin and might end up doing more harm than good. This doubt was the reason she never moved beyond the nursing home and a few private clients. People at the end of life were safe. She could usually help them, and if she couldn’t…Well, then at least she could ease their way.
Towner was still looking at her, waiting for comment.
“Being a healer is an odd thing to announce, especially in front of Rose’s real doctor.”
Zee looked at her curiously. “It hasn’t been long enough to know whether or not you’re helping.” She stood and began to gather her belongings. “I’ve got to get out to Yellow Dog. I missed them this morning,” she said, looking at her watch. “Just keep doing what you’re doing.”
“The other time Rose was in this state, she was this way for a year,” Towner said.
“I know. I’m already out of stories,” Callie admitted. “I can’t possibly do this for a year.”
“No one expects you to,” Zee said.
Towner lifted the lid of the teapot and checked the brew, then poured a cup.
There was a long pause as Callie sipped. “Thanks,” she said. Then, looking toward the pantry, she asked, “Towner?”
“Yes?”
“May I borrow that salad bowl of yours?” Sound itself didn’t seem to have any impact on Rose, but vibration pulled in another sense entirely. It could be felt. It was worth a shot.
“You mean the singing bowl?” Towner asked. “Would you like the rubber spatula, too?”
“Yes, please.”
Zee looked confused. “Are you planning to cook something up for Rose?”
“With your permission.”
In the community that made up Salem, nineteen people were executed, as well as two dogs. Samuel Sewall, a judge for the Court of Oyer and Terminer, was known to have kept a diary for forty years. The diary is blank for the summer of 1692. One popular conclusion among researchers has been that Sewall’s omission was due to “willful amnesia brought about by the collective guilt from which the entire city of Salem still suffers.”
—ROSE WHELAN, The Witches of Salem
Callie was unfazed by the looks on the faces of the nurses at the psych ward desk when she passed by carrying the bowl and spatula. The officer guarding Rose’s room looked up at her suspiciously. “What are you planning to do with that?”
The nurses had not passed him the word. “I’m going to make some music,” she said. “I have permission.”
He looked doubtful but let her pass.