Thea Harrison: Rising Darkness

No matter what Mary said, the older woman wouldn’t be moved. After a few minutes she gave up. Gretchen saw her to the front door and pressed a card into her hand. “Call me,” she said.

Mary smiled at her. “Thank you.”

Gretchen gripped her hand. “You have blood on your hands.”

Ice slithered down Mary’s spine. “Excuse me?”

“You have blood on your hands. A lot of it. And I don’t know why the color red is so important to you, but it is. I didn’t want to say it earlier, because you were nervous enough, and I didn’t want to frighten you.” Gretchen looked at her searchingly. “Yesterday the blood was all down your front. Are you an EMT?”

“I’m a doctor,” she whispered. “I work in an ER.”

“Someone died yesterday.”

“Yes.” Her lips felt numb.

“I thought I felt someone hovering around you. Maybe even a couple of someones. I’m sure she’s grateful for everything you tried to do for her.” Gretchen smiled and squeezed her hand. “You’re a good healer. A lot of people are thankful for what you do.”

The conga drums were back, playing an encore in Mary’s chest. Boy howdy. No more caffeine for her today. And this conversation had turned far too Ghost Whisperer for her. She swallowed, pulled her hand away and forced herself to say, “Thank you.”

After she walked to her car, she stood for a few moments, looking around and breathing hard. Okay, that last bit rattled her. Why was she so upset? She was a fool. For entertainment purposes only, remember? How could she have allowed herself to hope for something else—from a psychic consultant, of all people? She was tired, that’s all. She was strung out from feeling this pressure building up inside of her, and if she didn’t work hard to avoid it, she was going to . . .

What was she going to do? Explode? Crash?

Her mind felt frozen, her thoughts running thick and sluggish, and yet inexorable, like mud in a landslide. What was BabyMama Two’s name? The girl was scheduled for an autopsy today. That shouldn’t be the only thing you remember about a person.

Pain filled Mary’s chest. A thin keen came from the back of her throat as a feverish heat flashed through her body. She pressed a hand to her sternum.

It was an actual, physical pain. It felt like someone who was shattered with grief, like someone who was so far beyond the end of her rope she didn’t know where the end was, like someone who was at the mercy of a convulsing sob.

Sweating, taking short, shallow breaths, she blew out through her mouth until the tight band around her lungs had loosened and she could draw in a deep gulp of air. The wind burst against her cheeks with a frantic urgency.

Is this what a psychotic break felt like? Her thoughts turned to Justin again. She knew that if she called him, he would reschedule the appointment with Tony. If she asked him, he would even come to pick her up. He would be angry and worried, and he would pull more strings, and she could continue down the rational path of Western medicine in the hope of discovering what sanity felt like.

With jerky, graceless movements, she unlocked her car and climbed into the driver’s seat, rolling her window down as far as it would go. After resting for about fifteen minutes she felt calmer, and her body had cooled. Starting the car, she drove with care through downtown South Bend and turned north onto Eddy Street.

Ten minutes later she pulled onto the Notre Dame campus and drove past spacious green lawns. The white domes of the sporting facilities, the jutting silhouette of the library, the glimpse of the golden dome in the distance, all the familiar landmarks soothed her. After some confusion, she managed to locate the small visitor’s parking lot on the northeast edge of the main campus.

As she walked through the grounds, she let the sights and sounds of normal university life wash over her, drifting through the memories of her time as a student. It hadn’t been that long ago, but she still felt completely disconnected from the younger woman she had been.

As a college student, she had been more carefree, although she hadn’t realized it at the time. Her dreams had been nothing more than a cipher to be figured out with time, therapy and conviction. Then they wouldn’t trouble her anymore. She pulled her face into a wry twist. Where had all her stamina gone?

Eventually she reached a familiar incline, and she walked through a grove of trees to reach the Notre Dame Grotto, located by a small picturesque lake.

Built over a hundred years ago, the Notre Dame Grotto was an exact replica of the Grotto of Massabielle near Lourdes in France, only the Grotto at the university had been built a fraction of the original’s size.

The shrine was dedicated to Mary, Mother of God. As she approached the entrance to the man-made cave, Mary glanced up at the statue of the Virgin Mary, which was located in an overhead niche.

Mary, Queen of Heaven. This month—May—was Mary’s month, she remembered, as she wandered over to the glowing candles. A couple stood nearby, talking together in quiet voices. They nodded at her and smiled as they walked out, leaving her alone in the Grotto.

She was grateful for the solitude but wary as to how long it would last. The Grotto was a popular place. She stood for a while looking at the lit candles, letting herself drift into thoughtlessness. Occasionally the restless wind gusted in and caused the candles to flicker, but no one came to disturb her solitude.

Finally she roused herself to do what she came to do.

Hail Mary, Mother of God. . . . she said mentally and smiled. This is Mary Katherine Byrne, praying to you for the first time in what seems like forever. I haven’t said the rosary since I was a child. I don’t remember how it all goes. I do have a good Irish Catholic name, though, and my parents saw me baptized and at least halfway raised. But then they died, and my aunt didn’t care for praying. Do you forgive such things? Do they even cross your awareness?

She found an unlit candle and a taper, and she lit the candle with care. Strangely, though the breeze still gusted around her head and shoulders, the candles had stopped flickering. The tiny flames stood pure and straight.

Queen of Heaven, she thought as she watched her candle. Do you watch over your namesakes? Or are you only concerned with matters that involve your Son?

I NEED HELP!

The mental outcry burst out of her with such force, she staggered. Heat flooded her again. She felt as though her clothes might burst into flame.

Gasping, she tore off her jacket. The breeze had come back to circle her in a whirlwind. She flung out a hand to catch her balance and knocked over candles. The back of her hand felt seared.

What had Gretchen said?

Gretchen had said . . . had said . . .

We could dream of our past lives and we could dream of our futures, other worlds and other realities. We can travel in our dreams and speak to people we know who are alive, or those who are dead. . . .

And that was important, it was a message, it was something she needed to hear, but that wasn’t IT . That wasn’t what she needed to remember.

Gretchen had said . . .

Mary said aloud, her hoarse voice an experiment of air and vibration, “My dreams are real.”

As she said it, the intolerable internal pressure that had been building up over the last month, over her entire life, burst. Something tore and she didn’t know what it was, whether it had been inside her or around her.

Something tore away.

The breeze that had turned into a whirlwind now became a maelstrom, and her mind was filled with howling.

Her sight glazed with light. The world tilted, and she fell. She curled into a fetal position to protect herself from the storm, wrapping her arms around her head. She lost track of time. She might have lain forever on cold stone, an effigy, and all her life had been a dream.