The Possession (22 page)

“It’s so unfair,” Emma murmured against Jake’s shoulder.

“Why didn’t we do anything?” Mickey demanded.

“Like what?” Roselea asked from beneath his chin. “Claim a white child?”

“She wasn’t just white,” Zach said.

“But the mother rules,” I pointed out. “Vincent was already dead. Lydia was born into a white household.”

“His brother knew,” Gary offered. “I’d speak up for my brother.” And he stroked Chantal’s hair.

“But the town was already against them,” Jake pointed out.

“Yeah,” Chantal added, “They could have decided to brand Lydia as the brother’s child. A bastard.”

“We’re forgetting one thing,” I declared. “Dorothea was alive and well when Lydia was born. According to the journal, she succumbed to influenza just before Lydia’s fifth birthday. There would have been no question of paternity. But once Dorothea died, the sister was left to do what she saw as best for her niece.”

“Do you think she at least discussed it with the uncle? I mean, you said he’d told Dorothea he’d do whatever she wanted so the baby would know her dad’s people,” Roselea interjected.

“Maybe the Tribe didn’t like it, either,” Mickey said.

Nods all around cemented our consensus this was possible.

I placed the journal into the canvas bag, out of harm’s way, and we returned to our mission of bringing Vincent home.

*    *    *

A record crowd arrived for the lighthouse tour on opening day. We had scrounged through the attic and around town until we’d found costumes for our additional guides. Mickey and Roselea wore their regalia, or at least the pieces that didn’t include modern additions, while Jake, Emma, Chantal, and Gary transformed themselves into colonials.

Mrs. Rice, at first horrified by the destruction of the cemetery wall, eventually came around when she realized we had basically restored it to its original design. She did make note to bring in experts in stone wall construction, however, to ensure the wall would last at least another two centuries.

I think she also made note not to let Zach and I borrow any more books that contained ‘blueprints’.

Eddie and Jay had given the obligatory Adult Lecture when they came home to the lighthouse that night to discover a backyard full of filthy teens engaged in ‘waterhose football’ and yammering about walls and ghosts and a Velvet Journal.

Funny thing is, we all seemed to listen to it. Like we suddenly realized we stood on the edge and would be that adult some day.

Aunt’s opening speech was reaching its conclusion.

“. . . and the way was not always smooth. But I believe we can make it happen if we stay focused on what works for the good of the town and all its people. We need to realize that when the town thrives, we thrive. Many cultures, one community. We should all be in this together because we all depend on the town and the sea.”

The volume of applause should have clued us that Aunt had a future in public life. She turned to Jay and they shared a smile, and I knew they could help bring both sides together for discussion.

We separated, everyone to their station for the start of the tour.

Aunt spoke of the lighthouse, the endless hours of polish and worry, long sleepless nights of keeping watch over light and fog bell, land and sea. And the satisfaction of seeing seamen safely arrived at port. A satisfaction born in the bones and craving fulfillment.

Mr. Philbrook spoke of the land, of blending beauty with durability, of fitting into the landscape and capturing the essence of what makes our town our town, our piece of the earth special.

We kids broke into a mixed group and spoke of expectations. Those in days past, and our hopes for the future. Appreciation for the knowledge imparted on us about the lighthouse and the sea, and expectation that that knowledge in future encompass the views of all.

Zach and I also started a quiz feud among the elementary school kids about spider lamps versus Argands versus Fresnels.

We wrapped up the presentation by inviting everyone to the cemetery for the blessing.

Many departed but many stayed, determined to be part of it and curious to see a ‘home’ burial ground.

As we approached the cemetery from the lighthouse, we sighted a group of people approaching from the boundaries of The Barrens. Zach’s people, in a mix of traditional and modern dress.

Both parties met at the gate and Reverend Dave moved forward from their midst, cowl in place and black prayer book in hand.

“I believe we were denied permission to bless the first time,” he addressed Eddie and Jay. Reverend Dave then set his sights on Zach and I, and motioned us forward, no room to deny. Kiju Philbrook stepped out from behind his back and smiled encouragement.

We followed them into the cemetery, uncertain. Zach reached for my hand, and this time he didn’t change his mind. I gave his fingers a light squeeze. We could do this.

The prayer complete, the priest sprinkled holy water over the ground, newly encompassed by the cemetery wall. A breeze sprang up and Vincent appeared, followed quickly by Dorothea then Sarah. The ghostly family vibrated in the dusk, a slight shimmer grown brighter as each member emerged.

The crowd didn’t seem to see them, but surely their presence was felt. Feet shuffled uncomfortably and people huddled nearer to each other. The gate bell
ting’d
lightly and all heads turned.

The gate remained closed, but the bell swayed. I darted a look to Zach and knew he saw her, too.

A young woman stood just inside the cemetery’s boundary. She had Vincent’s features and the jet of his hair but her eyes . . . her eyes were Ro’s.

Lydia. The breeze gusted into a sudden wind as the girl joined her family. Several people backed away from the plot, looking around nervously. A murmur rippled through the crowd.

Suddenly, the gate rattled, a fierce shake as though it would fly right from its hinges. The bell remained silent.

This did not go unnoticed by the crowd. One woman started to cry. Another started to pray.

Almost as one Zach and his dad reached into the pouches at their waists and brought forth a pinch of tobacco. They scattered it over the new area, a prayer on their lips that the Micmac in the crowd soon joined. Several spoke the words in English: The Our Father.

The ghostly family vibrated into completeness and shattered with a brilliant burst.

The cemetery gate squeaked open and the breeze died. Our friends, mixed in among the crowd, began to clap. The gathering as a whole seemed to let out a collective breath and burst into applause.

Eddie called for everyone’s attention. “There will be music and food on the lighthouse lawn. You are all welcome to join us.”

Mickey had arranged for a few cousins to set off fireworks, which quickly turned the crowds’ mindset to celebration. We congratulated him on the way back to the lighthouse party.

Music bounced between modern and historic, English and Indian. Food ranged the same.

A slow song started and Zach approached.

“Want to dance?”

I nodded, but as we joined the others on the dance floor, I said, “My face is up here.”

He pulled me close and, hip to hip, we swayed to the music. He placed his mouth to my ear. “Don’t worry,” he whispered, “I know exactly where all your parts are.”

Which would explain his fascination with my old world cleavage. Cherry red was too bright a color to be ignored. He leaned back, noting it on my face. His eyes dipped down again before he grinned.

How would I make it through the year without him?

I threw my arms around his neck, disregarding historical protocol on dancing, and held him close.

When the song ended, we grabbed water bottles from the cooler and headed toward the lighthouse fence. The rest of the gang gathered around us and we set various poses in the moonlight.

The sea was calm, the shushing of wave on rock reassuring while the clack of stones in the surf reminded us it could change at any moment. We exchanged glances and smiles.

It had been a good day. A good weekend. When all was considered, an excellent summer. Like the wind, the weather and the waves, we would change. Shift and grow. Learn and discover. We would go our separate ways and come back again.

We would find our way.

But tonight . . .

Tonight, we would just be.

My bags were packed and loaded into Aunt’s car. She had thankfully decided to bring Rowdy for a bathroom walk before we departed, leaving Zach and I alone to say goodbye.

“Senior year is so busy. You won’t even have time to think.”

“Don’t, Zach.” I shook my head. “All the busy in the world won’t matter. I’ll still miss you terribly.”

We stood apart, afraid, I think, to touch each other. My heart empty and full at the same time, I voiced my biggest fear.

“You’re going to college. So far ahead of me. You’re on the way into your future. You’ll meet girls . . . women. You won’t need to come back to me.” I wiped my eyes, angry at myself for showing my weakness. “You won’t want to.”

He reached for me, but I backed away. He pursued until he held me in his arms. I melted, for a moment unable to fight him, but then I strengthened my resolve and pushed away.

“Daph, don’t leave mad.”

“I’m not.” I slapped his hands away.

“Daph . . .”

I held him off. The longer I looked at him, though, the faster I crumbled. My mouth turned down, lips trembling as I blinked back tears.

“Why are you doing this?” he demanded, brushing away those tears. “You have this whole thing worked out in your head and it’s not even true.”

“It’s not?”

“No.” He kissed my forehead. The tip of my nose. He lifted my chin and placed his mouth on mine, his tongue warm and familiar.

He broke the kiss and nibbled my ear before whispering into it, “I was accepted at URI. They’re the best Fishery & Wildlife university in the country.”

My tears dried instantly and I blinked, dazed.

Zach nodded, affirmation that I’d heard right. “Yup. University of Rhode Island. I’ll be going to school in your backyard.”

I shook my head, certain that couldn’t be right. Zach laughed.

“Eddie already said she’d bring Dad down Thanksgiving weekend and we could spend it with your family.”

Zach and the sisters? Not sure I was ready for that. I smiled in spite of myself.

“Will you really be in Rhode Island?”

“Yup.”

“Will you really want to see me?”

His hands slid down my arms to my waist, then over my hips, pressing me to him.

“I mean as in ‘go out’.”

Zach laughed, the sound as warm as the mid-August sun.

“You’re my girl, aren’t you?”

Our lips met again.

The future called.

J.D. Spikes is a spinner of tales—spooky stories about guys and girls and things that go bump in the night.
Lifelong research and experience with the paranormal infuse her stories with spirit while her belief in love fills them with heart.

A paranormal investigator when the need arises, she aspires to advance the field both spiritually and scientifically. When not writing or researching, you can find her cooking, gardening, horseback riding, or forever getting lost in secondhand shops. The mother of two grown sons, she lives in Rhode Island, the Ocean State, with her very own hero-husband, Tim, and two crazy cats. She is the proud recipient of the Jo Ann Ferguson Service Award for selfless assistance and dedication to fellow writers and the craft.