Mercy (11 page)

M
y father did not believe it. He would not. But the rumors gathered strength slowly. No other family in our town had been touched by this illness. Only the Browns were sickening and dying, one by one.

There must be a reason.

It's not right. It's not natural.

Each glance of doubt, each worried frown, each whisper—“Have you heard? Do you think? Might it be?”—was, by itself, no more weighty than a snowflake, frail enough to be dissolved by a warm breath. But they gathered, swirling about, until my poor father stood bewildered in the midst of a blizzard, unable to shield himself, unable to hide.

“There are more things in heaven and earth,” the minister told him. They sat in the parlor. The rag rug under my father's boots was gray and brown and a faded red. One strand was raveling loose. I'd meant to catch the ragged end, stitch it back in. I'd meant to.

My father sat silent, looking down at the twist of old rag spilling loose onto the painted boards of the floor.

“People are frightened,” the minister said. “This is an honest, God-fearing town. They do not understand why God's hand should be so heavy on—on us.” He had nearly said “on you.”

“God's hand?” My father lifted his head slowly, as if its weight were nearly too much for him. “They dare complain of God's hand? To me? When this plague has taken all my family one by one? Only Patience has survived it. My wife, my daughters, and now—” It's terrible to see a man sob, to see grief overtake rage. His hands were wide in the air, his fingers spread, as if he searched for something to seize and tear limb from limb. “My son!” The words sounded like something croaked by a raven, not shaped by a human tongue.

“My friend.” The minister leaned forward. “My old friend. I know. No one has suffered as you have. But that is why I've come to you.
Something
has brought this on us. George.” He closed his eyes tightly for the space of a heartbeat. “If prayer cannot deliver us—and, believe me, I have prayed—and if the doctor has no answers, should we not seek elsewhere?”

My father shook his head, but not so much in objection as in bafflement. The snowflakes were around him in a cloud now, stinging and choking, blinding his eyes. “Mercy was a good child. She loved her brother.”

“God forbid I should deny it!” His voice was eager, earnest. “But Mercy is gone from us. Her soul is in its true home. But could there be . . .” His voice dropped to a whisper, as if he were ashamed to be overheard. “Could there be . . . something remaining? Some . . . life that is not of the soul, that keeps her heart still beating in the crypt? George, I hate to think it. I hate to imagine such a thing. But Edwin did not sicken before you laid Mercy to rest. You know this is true. If there is a chance, if there is the slightest possibility that anything we can do might stop this—my friend, can we hold back? For Edwin's sake? The boy weakens daily. If he may yet have a chance at life . . .”

My father heaved himself to his feet. He looked as if he would overturn the tables and chairs, rip the pictures and embroidered samplers from the walls, smash vases and windows into fragments.

“I cannot be there,” was all he said. “I cannot watch. My daughter—”

“No, no, my friend.” The minister seized my father's hands in his. “You must do nothing. We need only your permission. We shall manage it all.”

My father did not come to the graveyard. He pulled the curtains shut in Edwin's room.

The ashes of my heart were ground to powder. My sister, Patience, stirred them into sweet wine. No one told Edwin what was in it. By then he was too weak to hold the spoon.

It was not enough to save him.

T
he house was silent when Haley finally brought Sunny back home. Eddie was, she supposed, asleep. Elaine and her dad must be upstairs. They were probably avoiding her. Since “talking to her” hadn't worked.

Haley snapped the leash off Sunny, and the dog went barreling up the stairs, hoping to find someone new to pet her.

Oh, fine. Traitor of a dog. Couldn't even keep Haley company after Haley had saved her from being dog pancake on the road.

Haley didn't feel like going upstairs to her room. It would just give her dad, or even worse, Elaine, an excuse to “talk” to her again. She flopped down on the couch, hugging her arms tight. Only one lamp was on, across the room, but Haley didn't bother to get up and turn any more lights on.

She'd gotten cold through, sitting for so long on that curb. Now, with her coat off, she could still feel that damp iciness on her skin. It was like having a wet sheet draped over her.

Everything was so quiet. Where were the usual sounds—the refrigerator humming, the furnace grumbling, floorboards
creaking underfoot? She couldn't even hear anyone walking around upstairs.

But there was
one
sound. So soft it just teased at the edge of her hearing. Sort of like sitting next to someone who had an iPod turned up too loud. You couldn't hear it properly, but it wouldn't go away, either.

This was just a slow, steady rhythm. Like a drum being hit by a stick wrapped in cotton wool. A light stroke, then a heavier one.

Da-DUM
.

Da-DUM
.

Haley glanced up to see if someone was walking down the stairs. No one was.

Da-DUM
.

Haley looked out the window, but the street outside was empty. No cars or trucks going by.

Old New England houses made a lot of noise, especially as the weather got cold. Haley wriggled herself deeper into the cushions. She could hear the denim of her jeans rub against the soft fabric of the couch.

Da-DUM
.

She could hear her breath in her nose. She could hear her own heartbeat.

That's what the quietly nagging noise sounded like. A heartbeat.

No, she wasn't going to think about that.

About Mercy, cold in her crypt, her heart still living, still beating.

No.
No
. That hadn't happened.

Mercy's dead heart, full and glistening with fresh red blood.

No way.

Red blood, like those stains on the glove. Like the stains on Haley's hands.

Absolutely not. Haley was just going to stop, stop,
stop
thinking like this—

(I'll still be dying.)

Haley put her hands over her ears. But she could still hear the sound, as if the heartbeat was her own now, coming from inside of her—

“Haley? What's wrong?”

Haley jerked her hands away from her ears and stared up at her father, standing beside the couch.

The sound was gone. Just like that. In the basement, the furnace was clunking and groaning into life.

“Okay, stupid question.” Her dad sat down heavily near Haley's feet. He stared down at his hands, rough and strong, with clay permanently embedded under the fingernails and in the creases around the knuckles.

“I love Jake too, you know, Haley,” he said quietly. “He's my nephew. When his mom died, I—”

Haley could still feel her own heart thumping frantically inside her chest. If she opened her mouth to speak, she was afraid her voice would shake. And then she'd have to tell her dad she'd been scared of—nothing.

But she had to say something. Her dad was looking hard across the room, not blinking. She knew that trick. He was trying not to cry.

“I know,” she managed to get out. Her voice sounded hoarse, as if she were getting sick. “I know, Dad.”

And he seemed satisfied with that. He nodded. They sat quietly for a moment, until he spoke again.

“Why don't you get upstairs to bed? It's getting late.”

Haley wished she could do it: run upstairs with her dad and let him tuck her in, just like when she was little. But that would mean she really was scared. Chased out of her own living room by a spooky noise. No, she couldn't be that dumb.

“Yeah, soon,” she said. Her voice sounded more normal this time. “I will.”

Her dad patted her feet before heading back up the stairs.

Haley got up and switched on the TV. She needed some noise, something to keep her company. A game show. Perfect. The laughter that spilled out of the set was bright and loud and artificial and not in the least bit spooky. She'd watch this to the end, and then she'd go to bed. That was a perfectly sane, normal, un-frightened thing to do.

She picked her favorite contestant, a woman with slinky black hair who waved frantically at the audience and batted fake black eyelashes at the host. Haley was rooting for her to win a trip to Belize when her eyelids began to get heavy. She blinked, and blinked again, squinting at the colors on the screen through her eyelashes.

Then something cold and wet nudged her arm. A faint whine sounded in her ear. She put out a hand and encountered soft, warm fur.

Scratching Sunny's ears, she tried to orient herself. Why was she so cold? Where was her quilt? She reached down to pull the blankets up to her chin and instead of the soft flannel of her bedspread she felt the slightly scratchy wool of the afghan that usually hung over the back of the couch.

Right, the couch. She'd been watching TV. She must have fallen asleep. Someone had turned the TV off and spread the afghan over her. Someone had switched the lamp off, too. The only light in the room came from the street outside.

Sunny worked her head under Haley's arm, begging for more attention, and Haley sat up, pulling her feet in, leaning back against the arm of the couch.

What time was it? It must be late. The furnace was off, and the house was freezing. Haley half expected to see her breath in the air. She tugged the afghan around her. It made the back of
her neck itch. One of Dad's artsy friends had woven it, and it looked great, all deep reds and smoky blues, but it wasn't exactly cozy.

The living room loomed spookily around her, the familiar furniture gone dim and shadowy and somehow bigger. The white light from the window lay across the floor, the bookshelves, the table against the wall, cold and faint as a film of ice. Haley knew she should get up, run upstairs, dive into bed. The thought of flannel sheets and a fleece blanket was luxurious.

But she was reluctant to put her feet on the floor. It felt . . . dangerous. Like it wasn't a good idea to leave her back exposed. Like if she stayed where she was, quiet and unmoving, nothing would notice her. It was the way she'd felt as a kid, huddled under the covers, trying not to stir or breathe. Nothing that lurked in the dark could get you if you stayed perfectly still.

Stupid. She wasn't a little kid anymore. She'd just stand up and walk calmly and quietly up the stairs to her room.

Any minute now.

She would.

Really.

Haley heard a car engine rumble outside. It turned a corner and for a moment glaring light swung through the dark room. Then the car was moving on, red taillights vanishing down the street, leaving Haley blinking and groping for the switch on the lamp beside the couch.

Had she really seen something? She couldn't have. Her cold fingers found the little piece of plastic, twisted it, and warm light filled the room. All the furniture sprang into existence, the shapes and colors and sizes once more familiar, but Haley hardly noticed. She jumped off the couch, the afghan trailing behind her like a cape, and knelt in front of the TV.

Her father liked to watch basketball. The set was a big one, the screen wide and flat and black, filmed over by a layer of dust.

In the dust were faint lines, as if traced by a very light finger. Small curves and loops and circles and vertical strokes. Together they made words.

Patience. Beware
.