which was so odd. They almost never did that. But this one? She wanted to be known. Eloise told the girl that she must go away. Eloise was sorry, but she couldn’t help. A few days of raging fires ensued, the carpets and the drapes again. On the final day, the girl herself, engulfed in flames, wailing.
It was quite a display, with heat and smoke and all of it. But Eloise had no choice but to ignore it. She went about her business—cleaning, grocery shopping. She even got herself some new clothes.
The girl was trying to suck her in, wanted more than Eloise could give. It wasn’t help she wanted; rage and sorrow never want help. They want an audience. There was nothing for Eloise to do, not yet. But then the fires stopped, as if the tantrum, ignored, had fizzled out. And The Burning Girl was gone again. There was more to come, Eloise was quite certain.
Meanwhile, Eloise couldn’t let go of Miriam and her family, kept thinking about them. She attended Ella’s service, which was absolutely heartbreaking. The official cause of death was SIDS. But The Whispers told Eloise a different story. And, now, Miriam was in a mental hospital. What more should Eloise have done for them?
You can only help the people who want to be helped.
Another lesson that was so hard to learn.
Let it go, the voice told her as she drove home from the church. The image of Nick sitting stoically beside his young son stayed with her.
• • •
Back at home, she dressed to go work in her garden. She needed the solace of her hands in the dirt, the smell of greenery in her nose, even the light sweat of mild exertion. But she was interrupted by a knock on her front door.
She moved through the house carefully. She didn’t answer the door unless she knew who was there. She didn’t answer the phone either. Ray was her agent, more or less. All requests went through him.
The knocking again—insistent, pushy. She knew who it was before she recognized the man she saw through the peephole. Tim Schaffer. He had been stalking Ray, inundating him with angry phone calls, insisting that he was hiding something. Ray wasn’t, not really. He’d simply dropped the case. He no longer wanted to find Stephanie Schaffer for her creepy husband.
Eloise went back to the kitchen and dialed Ray, who said he was on his way. Then she went back and opened the door for Mr. Schaffer.
The sadness came off of him in waves. Eloise had to step back, but she kept her hand on the door. She did not invite him in.
“Where is she, Ms. Montgomery?” She could see that he was driving himself mad, had a kind of wired, haunted look about him. “Where did she go? Is she alive?”
“I don’t know where she is, Tim,” said Eloise gently. “I believe she’s alive. But I have no way of being certain.”
“But you’re a psychic, right?” he said. It was a little whiny. She felt bad for him; he didn’t have any friends. “You know things. Or are you just a fraud like everyone else?”
She smiled. People were ignorant, some more than others. “I don’t know everything.”
His hands were raw and red: psoriasis. It was the disease of the perfectionist, the person who feared that unless he was perfect, he would be rejected. He had a patch of it on his face, on his arm. How much should she tell him?
She was surprised to see him tearing up.
“It’s time to let her go now, Tim,” said Eloise. She put on her gentle Agatha voice. Agatha called it her Obi-Wan Kenobi voice. “You’ve done enough.”
“Enough?” he said. His voice went shrill. He sank into the chair on her porch and put his head in his hands. “I’ve been looking for five years. Something’s happened to my wife. And I can’t help her.”
Now he was just sobbing. Eloise considered herself an evolved person, but there was something very uncomfortable about watching a grown man weep. Though she’d certainly seen it enough times, she never got used to it. She sighed and sat down in the chair beside
It was quite a display, with heat and smoke and all of it. But Eloise had no choice but to ignore it. She went about her business—cleaning, grocery shopping. She even got herself some new clothes.
The girl was trying to suck her in, wanted more than Eloise could give. It wasn’t help she wanted; rage and sorrow never want help. They want an audience. There was nothing for Eloise to do, not yet. But then the fires stopped, as if the tantrum, ignored, had fizzled out. And The Burning Girl was gone again. There was more to come, Eloise was quite certain.
Meanwhile, Eloise couldn’t let go of Miriam and her family, kept thinking about them. She attended Ella’s service, which was absolutely heartbreaking. The official cause of death was SIDS. But The Whispers told Eloise a different story. And, now, Miriam was in a mental hospital. What more should Eloise have done for them?
You can only help the people who want to be helped.
Another lesson that was so hard to learn.
Let it go, the voice told her as she drove home from the church. The image of Nick sitting stoically beside his young son stayed with her.
• • •
Back at home, she dressed to go work in her garden. She needed the solace of her hands in the dirt, the smell of greenery in her nose, even the light sweat of mild exertion. But she was interrupted by a knock on her front door.
She moved through the house carefully. She didn’t answer the door unless she knew who was there. She didn’t answer the phone either. Ray was her agent, more or less. All requests went through him.
The knocking again—insistent, pushy. She knew who it was before she recognized the man she saw through the peephole. Tim Schaffer. He had been stalking Ray, inundating him with angry phone calls, insisting that he was hiding something. Ray wasn’t, not really. He’d simply dropped the case. He no longer wanted to find Stephanie Schaffer for her creepy husband.
Eloise went back to the kitchen and dialed Ray, who said he was on his way. Then she went back and opened the door for Mr. Schaffer.
The sadness came off of him in waves. Eloise had to step back, but she kept her hand on the door. She did not invite him in.
“Where is she, Ms. Montgomery?” She could see that he was driving himself mad, had a kind of wired, haunted look about him. “Where did she go? Is she alive?”
“I don’t know where she is, Tim,” said Eloise gently. “I believe she’s alive. But I have no way of being certain.”
“But you’re a psychic, right?” he said. It was a little whiny. She felt bad for him; he didn’t have any friends. “You know things. Or are you just a fraud like everyone else?”
She smiled. People were ignorant, some more than others. “I don’t know everything.”
His hands were raw and red: psoriasis. It was the disease of the perfectionist, the person who feared that unless he was perfect, he would be rejected. He had a patch of it on his face, on his arm. How much should she tell him?
She was surprised to see him tearing up.
“It’s time to let her go now, Tim,” said Eloise. She put on her gentle Agatha voice. Agatha called it her Obi-Wan Kenobi voice. “You’ve done enough.”
“Enough?” he said. His voice went shrill. He sank into the chair on her porch and put his head in his hands. “I’ve been looking for five years. Something’s happened to my wife. And I can’t help her.”
Now he was just sobbing. Eloise considered herself an evolved person, but there was something very uncomfortable about watching a grown man weep. Though she’d certainly seen it enough times, she never got used to it. She sighed and sat down in the chair beside
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