Amanda Stevens - The Restorer

“Amelia.” Aunt Lynrose shook her head and I fell silent, staring almost fiercely out the window where the sunset over the Ashley River seemed unbearably symbolic.

“I expect to be home in a couple days,” my mother said briskly. “There’ll be tubes and drains…a lot of unpleasantness. I don’t want you to have to deal with any of that. And, of course, chemo…”

I couldn’t believe how calmly she could talk about all this. I’d always thought of my mother as fragile, but her pragmatism in the face of a devastating diagnosis astounded me. She was facing major surgery, weeks of chemo, and her main concern was that I not have to deal with tubes and drains.

Lynrose had put up a good front, but now she began to weep quietly into a linen hankie.

“Lyn, for God’s sake,” my mother scolded.

“I know, I know, steel magnolias and all that. But your hair, Etta. You’re going to lose all that beautiful hair.”

“It’s just hair,” my mother said crisply. “Perhaps it’ll come back in curly. Wouldn’t that be something after all the money I’ve spent on perms over the years?”

Holding back my own tears, I fluffed her pillows, poured her a glass of water, and then with nothing else to do, I had to ask the obvious.

“Where’s Papa?”

“He is a man, and therefore, worthless in a situation like this,” said my aunt who, so far as I knew, had never had a serious relationship with a man in her life, much less been married to one.

“He was here earlier,” my mother said. “I sent him out for some air. He never could abide closed in places.”

“Really? I didn’t know that.”

“There are a lot of things you don’t know about your father,” she said, with a hint of something in her voice that made me glance up and study her face.

“Etta, I don’t think now is the time—”

“Hush, Lyn. This is between my daughter and me. There’s a chance I may not wake up from that surgery.” She put up a hand when my aunt and I both protested. “A slim chance, but nevertheless…there’s something you need to know about Caleb…”

Lynrose pursed her lips and took out her knitting. She bowed her head over her work, but I knew she watched us through her lashes. And I could feel the tension rolling off her in waves.

“Mama, what is it?” I asked softly. Did she know about the ghosts? I wondered. Did she know about me?

She hesitated, and for the first time since I arrived, I saw a chink in her steel, a hint of the delicate, melancholy woman who had adopted me, nurtured me and loved me. But who had never really let me know her.

My aunt’s knitting needles clicked together in the silence. I wondered if she was actually making loops or merely pretending.

“Your father…”

I leaned in. I think my aunt did, too. “Yes?”

“Your father…” My mother’s eyes flickered. Her gaze went past me and I glanced over my shoulder to see Papa in the doorway. He stood there for a moment, his face weathered and weary, and then without a word he backed away and retreated into the hallway.

I whirled around to my mother. “Why won’t he come in?”

“I expect he’s giving us our time together.”

“Don’t make it sound so final,” I pleaded, thinking of Devlin and his missed goodbyes.

“I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Mama, tell me about Papa.”

She exchanged a glance with my aunt.

“Your papa is a complicated man with a complicated past,” Lynrose said. “Perhaps it’s best to just leave it at that.”

“A complicated past?” I turned back to my mother. “What does that mean?”

I could see the struggle on my mother’s face, the internal battle she waged within herself on how much she was willing to share with me. She closed her eyes and sighed. “All you really need to know is that he loves you. More than anything in this world, and that includes me.”

That wasn’t what she’d meant to say at all. I knew her well enough to figure that out.

“Mama—”

“I’m tired now. I think I’ll sleep for a while.”

“It’s for the best,” Lynrose muttered.

I didn’t want to risk upsetting my mother on the eve of her surgery, so I let the matter drop. After a while, I got up and slipped out of the room, leaving my mother and my aunt whispering together the way they once had on our front porch.

When I went out into the hallway, Papa was nowhere in sight.

My mother was dismissed from the hospital two days later, and I went home with her to Trinity to stay until she and my aunt cajoled me into returning to Charleston.

“You have a business to run and there is no reason in the world for you to put yourself in a financial bind when I have nothing except time on my hands,” Lynrose insisted and my mother backed her up.

On my last night there, Papa had left the house right after dinner, and I walked down to Rosehill to say goodbye. I inhaled the roses as I made my way along the walkway. He was at the angels waiting for their cold faces to come alive in the warm glow of the setting sun.

After the fleeting animation, he turned, his gaze going past me to the gate. I knew he was looking for the ghost. His dread was tangible as dusk drew near.

“Have you seen him again, Papa?”

“I’ve been seeing him more and more lately.”

The revelation made my blood go cold. “What does he want?”

Papa turned and the glitter of tears on his face shocked me into silence. I’d never known him to show emotion. Like me, he mostly lived inside his own head.

And then it came to me. I put a hand to my mouth. “Papa…do you think he’s come back for Mama?”

He closed his eyes and shuddered. “I wish I knew, child. I wish I knew.”

It was a long, lonely drive back home to Charleston. On the way, I checked my messages. One from Ethan Shaw, one from Temple and none from Devlin.

Ethan had invited me to a small gathering at the Charleston Institute for Parapsychology Studies on Friday to celebrate his father’s seventieth birthday.

As I let myself into the darkened house, I couldn’t help wondering if my mother would still be with us for her next birthday.

On the morning of Dr. Shaw’s party, I woke up lethargic and out of sorts. I wondered if I was coming down with something or if all that worry over my mother had taken a physical toll. A few hours of hard labor at the cemetery left me weak-kneed and shivering.

By midafternoon, I called it a day and came home to soak in a hot bath and sip tea, which did nothing to help. Grabbing bottles of vitamin C and ibuprofen from the medicine cupboard, I noticed in the back the packet of Essie’s Life Everlasting.

Good for what ails you, she’d said. According to Dr. Shaw, it was harvested from a plant in the daisy family and had the same effect as a vitamin shot. Just what the doctor ordered. I didn’t expect the herb to work miracles, but I did believe in the medicinal value of natural remedies that had been around for ages.

I brewed the leaves and carried a cup with me to bed. Propped against the headboard, I sipped tentatively. The tea had both a sweet and acrid taste. Not at all unpleasant. I finished half a cup, set it aside and slid down under the covers, where I promptly fell asleep.

When I woke up, I felt much better. Either the Life Everlasting had done its job or a long, dreamless nap was all I’d needed in the first place.

Outside, dusk had fallen and the air had cooled. I lay for a few moments, luxuriating in my newfound well-being, as I finished the now tepid tea. Then I crawled out of bed, slipped into a black dress and arrived at the Charleston Institute for Parapsychology Studies fashionably late.