The Spirit of Grace Page 5

  And dreamt.

  I dreamt I was in an old house. Outside a big picture window was the stunning view of Alcatraz and the Golden Gate Bridge. In a dreamy fog, I surveyed the room, taking in the hardwood floors which were covered with plush carpets woven in rich jewel tones. Above me, the high ceiling was pristine white, with honey-colored oak beams. An old woman lay on a hospital bed, positioned in the middle of the room, her breath weak and raspy as though she were near death. Mrs. Kensington and I sat on chairs near her. In the slow motion and timeless way of dreams, I reached out and took the old woman’s claw-like hand in my own.

  “Aunt Joyce,” Mrs. Kensington said. She had tears in her eyes as she gazed upon the old woman.

  I closed my eyes and willed myself to wake up, but the dream wouldn’t let me go. When I opened my eyes, I was still in the same room, but now Mrs. Kensington was gone, and I was alone with the old woman in the hospital bed. The room began to fill with mist. When the mist turned into acrid smoke, the woman lifted her head and spoke in a raspy voice. “I am dead. Save yourself.”

  Then the hospital bed and the woman in it disappeared. I was alone in the room. The smoke made it difficult to breathe. Just as I stood up, the chair I had been sitting on burst into hot licking flames, which started to spread around me. Through the thick smoke, I saw that curtains now covered the big window. I hurried over to it and, as I reached out my hands to push the curtains aside, they too burst into flame.

  The dry heat caught in my throat. My eyelashes singed, and the smell of them burning made my stomach roil. I recoiled and retreated back to the center of the room. I circled, willing myself to wake up. On the opposite wall, two big wooden double-doors were as far away from me as they could be.

  I covered my face with my hands, took the deepest breath I could, and ran toward the doors. My hand grasped the brass handle. The heat of the metal seared my flesh. I didn’t care. I pulled with all my might, trying to turn the burning metal handle. It didn’t budge. The smell of my scorched skin made me want to vomit, but my will to live overrode everything else. The time for pain would come later. The smoke had become dense now--too dense for my lungs. I could no longer see the walls, the curtains, or the door. I tried to hold my breath, until, desperate for life-giving oxygen, I gasped and gulped and inhaled the noxious smoke. And died. Just as my spirit left my body, I woke up.

  ***

  I sat up in bed, gasping and choking. I gulped, but couldn’t take enough oxygen into my lungs. My nose ran and my eyes watered. My father and Grace burst through the door.

  “Get her some water.” He shut the window and drew the curtains before he flipped on the lamp and sat down in the chair next to my bed.

  Grace did as my father instructed. By the time she came back into the room carrying the glass of water, my breathing had returned to normal.

  When I reached out to take the glass from her, she gasped. My god, what’s happened to her hand?”

  Anca came in the room just then. She stood in the doorway behind my father and Grace. I opened my clenched fist and revealed what had caused the shock and horrific expression on my stepmother’s face. On my palm, a vivid red welt in the shape of the door handle had singed my flesh. Seeing the wound brought home the pain of it. I winced.

  “Call the ambulance,” Graced barked at Anca.

  “No,” Anca said. She looked at my father. “Word of this will spread around town so quickly. She’s just come home. I--”

  “All right, enough,” my father said. “Just leave it for now.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Grace said to my father. “You’re going to protect her?”

  For a minute it seemed as though my father’s young wife was going to faint. He let go of my hand and went over to her. She grabbed onto him.

  “I don’t know if I can handle this,” she said, her voice rising in pitch and timbre, well on the way to hysteria.

  My father put his arm around his wife’s trembling shoulders. He ran his free hand through his hair, causing it to stand straight up. He had no slippers, just an old pair of mismatched socks that had been darned so many times they could no longer be worn under shoes. For a quick second I pitied him. Grace leaned into him, burying her face into his chest. He put both arms around her, but the look on his face was devoid of emotion.

  “Do you need a doctor?” He asked me in a gentle voice.

  I shook my head. “Let Anca fix it.” My voice sounded scratchy and weak.

  “How in the world did you burn your hand like that?” He still had his arms around his wife, who sobbed into his chest.

  “You won’t believe me,” I said.

  “Tell me anyway,” my dad said.

  “I had a dream,” I said. I told him about the burning room, the curtains catching on fire, and my attempt to escape through the door, how the handle had burned my flesh. “There was a woman that I met at The Laurels in the room with me, Mrs. Kensington.” I didn’t tell my father that Mrs. Kensington had been on the beach yesterday, or that I now suspected her of being a newspaper reporter. “There was also an older woman, whom I’ve never seen before. She lay in a hospital bed. I think her name was Joyce--”

  Grace cried out. She looked at me, her eyes wild with fear. Whatever blood she had left seemed to drain out of her face, leaving her pale as a ghost. My father supported her, as he turned her toward the door and out of my room, holding her close to him.

  “I’m sorry,” I called after them, “but I’m telling the truth.”

  “Come on,” my father said to Grace. “Let’s get you back in bed.” They left the room together. Grace continued to sob as my father led her down the hall. He murmured sweet words to her, cajoling her as if she were a child until the bedroom door shut behind them.

  Soon Anca returned with the first aid kit she kept in the kitchen. She cleaned the burn on my palm, covered it with cream. Over that, she wrapped a gauze bandage. “We will watch for infection,” she said. “I think it will be all right.”

  “I didn’t do this.”

  “I know, dear. I know. Sarah, we need to talk about this. It’s time that we addressed what you are able to do.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” I said.

  “You do know what I mean, Sarah. You dream, and you bring something from your dream with you when you wake up.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it. Talking about it makes it worse. I’ve just gotten free of The Laurels. Please don’t give them a reason to send me back there, Anca. I’m begging you, let it go.”

  “You cannot ignore this forever, Sarah Jane. You have a gift--”

  “A gift? My god, don’t tell me that this is a gift.” I waved my bandaged hand in front of her face. “Everyone in this house thinks I’m crazy, that I should be locked up and kept away. I don’t know what happened tonight. I dreamt of a fire. I woke up with a burn on my hand. I don’t know what it means, and I don’t care. I don’t want to speak of it. Now, please, don’t bring it up again.” I turned out the light by the side of my bed.

  Anca stayed seated on my bed. She didn’t speak, didn’t force the issue, her silence showing me I had hurt her with my harsh words. After a few minutes, she got up and went downstairs. I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned. My hand throbbed, reminding me of the precarious position I was in. I got out of bed, but rather than turning on the bedside lamp, I opened the black-out curtains and the window and looked out at the dazzling full moon.

  Black-out be damned. If the Japanese submarines which cruised the shores of California, Washington, and Oregon wanted to fire their guns on us tonight, the light of the moon would show them the way. I stood near my window for a long time, staring out into the moonlit night. The sea air soothed away my pain and anguish, as it always did. I filled my lungs with it, but the burn on my palm still throbbed. I took the pain remedy that Anca had left for me, swallowing the pills with the glass of water that sat by the side of my bed.

  I was ready to close the window and settle in for the night,
when the front door opened beneath my bedroom. Using my good hand, I positioned the chair so I could stand on it and see down into the drive below me. There, in the moonlit night, someone--I couldn’t tell who it was, as they had on a black cap and a long dark coat--left Bennett House and hurried toward the main road that led to town. Who in the world was it? Where were they going? Part of me wanted to go after them, but I knew better than to head outside alone after taking pain pills. For once in my life, better judgment prevailed.

  Chapter 4

  I fell asleep with my window open and woke up shivering from the cold air coming in from the sea. The flimsy chenille bedspread Anca had given me did little to dispel the chill. I would need the heavy blankets soon. The smell of apple turnovers baking in the Aga wafted up the stairs and made my stomach growl. I got out of bed and slipped into the dressing gown that hung on the back of my bathroom door. I belted the robe as best I could with one free hand, thinking of the steaming coffee and delicious pastry that awaited me in the kitchen.

  On the floor lay a note from my father. He must have slipped it underneath on his way out this morning.

  Sarah,

  I had news that Zeke will be coming home this morning. I thought you would want to know. I am off to San Francisco for a morning meeting. Should be back after lunch. I left a copy of my book on the desk, in case you want to read it. (I hope you do.)

  Feel better, daughter. Let’s make a point to spend some time together soon, maybe a good hike and a picnic? I’m glad you’re home.

  J

  Anca wasn’t in the kitchen baking this morning. I was surprised to see Grace doing the honors. Today she wore a red dress covered with tiny white flowers, with a fitted waist and a flared skirt. She had donned a matching gingham apron to protect her clothes from the flour and sugar and apples that now lay in piles on the chopping block in the center of the room. Her hair was pinned up in a bun, but rather than making her look like a frumpy matron, the classic hairstyle accentuated the exquisite line of her cheekbones. I looked down at my comfortable but tattered ensemble and regretted not dressing before coming downstairs.

  “What a surprise,” I said, trying to smile.

  “Good morning,” she said, pouring me a cup of coffee.

  She made a point to ignore my bandaged hand. She avoided looking at it altogether and didn’t bother to ask how I was feeling.

  “In case you’re wondering, Zeke got home this morning around 5:30. I only know because I couldn’t sleep, so I got up early and heard the commotion when they dropped him off.”

  Zeke chose this moment to join us.

  Grace stopped talking. She held the coffee pot in mid-air, her mouth dropping open in a surprised “O.”

  She and I spoke at the same time.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “What did they do to you?” Grace asked at the same time. “Jack told me they roughed you up, but I had no idea how badly.”

  Zeke’s left eye was swollen into a red slit, surrounded by the inchoate blue of the bruise that would come. A nasty cut ran across his cheek, which had been covered with iodine and stitched closed. His bottom lip was split down the middle. He had somehow managed to shower, shave, and dress in a button-up shirt, a tie, and well-pressed trousers.

  “How about some orange juice?” I asked. “Can you drink fluids, do you think? We may have a straw somewhere. Or do you want coffee--” I talked too much, desperate to fill the silence before it became uncomfortable.

  “Orange juice, please,” Zeke said to me. “What happened to your hand?”

  “It’s a long story,” I said, praying that he would have the grace not to push.

  “You can tell me some other time,” he said. “As for this,” he indicated his damaged face, “I’d rather not speak of it. Not today anyway.”

  “I understand,” I said.

  “Sarah was quite worried about you last night,” Grace said. She opened the oven and looked in at her pies. “Would you like some breakfast? Anca is busy with the garden, so I can make eggs.”

  “No thanks.” I didn’t feel like eating. The bruises on Zeke’s face, evidence of the brutality he had suffered, had taken away my appetite.

  “I was actually talking to Zeke.”

  “Stay and have some breakfast,” Zeke said. “Even if you don’t want to eat, you can keep me company.”

  I had already stood up, embarrassed at my unkempt appearance.

  “Sit with me.”

  How could I deny him? “I should probably go and dress first,” I said.

  “You’re fine.” He smiled while he spoke, that smile of his that put me at ease last night. It worked against me this morning.

  Grace looked at Zeke as if to say, You’re kidding, right? “So how do you like your eggs?” Her tone had become brusque.

  “Scrambled, please,” he said.

  “Do you want some toast, too? I’ll make you some,” I said.

  Grace didn’t speak as she made the eggs. I bustled around making toast, trying to stay out of her way. When the eggs were finished, Grace scooped them onto a plate. She carried them over to the table and set them down in front of Zeke. Without speaking, she took the pies out of the oven, set them on the rack to cool, and left the kitchen without a word. I set the toast in the rack and carried it, along with the butter and some blueberry jam, to the table. Zeke buttered two slices and handed them to me.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  He put his fork down and patted his mouth with his napkin, avoiding the cut on his lip. “Are you going to be okay?”

  “I think so. Are you?” I smiled.

  “I think so,” he said. “Sarah, about last night--”

  “You don’t have to tell me. I understand some things are best left private.”

  “You need to know that I would never do anything to betray my country. You believe me, don’t you?”

  “I do.”

  “Well, if you want to talk, I’m a good listener.” His eyes glanced at my bandage, before they met mine. “It’ll be okay, Sarah.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  Zeke reached across the table, placed his hand on my forearm. The heat of him seared through my clothing.

  “You have quite an appetite.” I pulled away from him. When I broke our physical connection, my reason came back.

  “I’m recovering from a breakdown. It took a long time for me to get my appetite back. Now I can’t seem to get enough to eat. It’s a long tale of woe, Sarah.” He nodded at my bandaged hand. “Maybe in time we can share our battle stories. I am sure yours is more interesting than mine.” He smiled as he stood up and carried his plate and cup to the sink. “What are you going to do today?”

  “I’m going to deal with my grandmother.” I set my coffee cup in the sink next to his. “After that, I’m going to try to do some home repair.”

  “I sense complications with your grandmother,” he said.

  He added detergent to the water that ran into the sink, grabbed the dish cloth, and got busy with the washing and rinsing of our dishes. As he set them on the draining board, I made a feeble attempt at drying, another difficult task with one hand. Zeke took the towel from me and dried the dishes. I put them away as he dried. We worked together, moving around each other with ease, as if we had shared these domestic tasks for years.

  “My grandmother and I have a tumultuous relationship. She seems to think that I am a child in need of constant supervision.”

  “I think she feels that way about all of us. She’s an imperious lady.” Zeke held up the coffee cups. I pointed to the cupboard where they belonged.

  “They all think I murdered Jessica,” I said, putting into words what he already knew.

  Zeke stood at the sink with his back toward me as he washed and dried the dishes. When I mentioned Jessica’s murder, he set the dish cloth down and faced me. We stood very close, our eyes locked. My heartbeat quickened and my cheeks grew hot. Not the hot red that came from humiliation. No, this time
my cheeks were flushed with pleasure. My eyes focused on those wonderful lips of his, which were so near my own.

  “I don’t think you did anything to your mother, Sarah,” he said.

  He took my good hand in his. The heat of it made my heart pound.

  “How do you know?” I asked.

  “I know,” he said with finality. “I can just feel it, here.” He took my hand and placed it over his heart, which beat slow and steady in his chest. “Now I need to get to work.” He let go of my hand, stepped away from me, and hung the dishtowel on its hook. “See you later.”

  And he was gone.

  ***

  Half an hour later, I stepped out into the crisp air. In the corner of the garden, Anca raked the fallen leaves into piles. Someone had retrieved my red Elgin Robin from the stable and leaned it against the porch. I put the bundle of goods for the Allied Families Charity in the carrying basket between the handle bars and headed to Gran’s, paying careful attention to the potholes in the road.

  Gran’s cottage had no view of the ocean. Instead, her windows provided a view to her remarkable rose garden. I walked up the short flight of stairs to the porch, with its inviting wicker furniture and potted plants, and knocked on the door.

  “Come in,” she called out.

  I entered--Gran hadn’t taken to locking her own front door--and found her in her living room, standing at the antique secretary and speaking on the phone. Gran’s living room was furnished with cast-offs from Bennett House. An old secretary that needed refinishing held Gran’s books and her telephone. A chintz chair, similar to the one that Anca had brought to my room, sat before the fireplace.

  On the floor next to it lay a pile of mending and a sewing basket. A copy of The Arms of the Enemy lay open on the coffee table. An antique horsehair sofa completed the furnishings. The floors were of bleached pine, the walls painted stark white. The floor-to-ceiling bay windows were designed to allow maximum light. The result was an open room, cheerful and timeless.