woke with arms around me.I
The first swimming thought that bobbed to the surface of my mind was that I could smell something. A wild scent that reminded me of summer, like fresh wood and new grass and the sweet fragrance of blooming flowers on the farm.
I breathed it in, tasting it on the back of my tongue, and the weight of an embrace gently drew me closer. In the haze of my thoughts, I could feel the warmth of someone behind me, the line of a body pressed to mine. The faint echo of a touch moved over the back of my hand, slipping between my fingers. The tingle of it traveled over my skin, along my temple, down the center of my spine. And when I heard the sound, it was just a whisper, but it was so close to my ear that I could feel breath on my cheek.
“June.”
I gasped, choking as I sat up. I threw off the quilts, and the room took shape around me in the first moments of sunlight before I stumbled out of the bed, pressing myself to the wall.
Before me, the bed was empty—a pile of quilts and tangled sheets.
My fingers went to my cheek, and I rubbed the place I’d felt that warmth. My ear still tingled with the sound. It was so
close. So real.
I paced back to the bed, slipping my hands beneath the sheets and frantically searching for the heat I’d felt. But it was cold on the other side of the bed. I was alone.
I stood there, staring into space until the churn in my stomach made me swallow hard. My feet clumsily found their way to the corner of the room, and I pressed myself into it. My skin was burning, and it occurred to me all at once that I might be having a panic attack. I went still, pinning my eyes to a small tear in the wallpaper. I had to breathe. I had to slow down my heart rate.
My hand reached out, steadying me against the window’s ledge as I sank down, and I pulled my knees into my chest, trying to take deep, even breaths. I pushed that feeling away until my surroundings became reassuringly familiar. I was home. In our house. I was safe.
One, two, three.
I counted my breaths in a repeating sequence until my trembling slowed. The fever that had been under my skin was fading, replaced by a brittle cold.
“It’s not real,” I whispered on an exhale, forcing myself to count again.
But in that moment, it had been. And it wasn’t the first time I’d heard that voice, either.
The deep tone was something I could pick out now, the U in my name distinct and bent in a peculiar way. I’d first heard it at the farm the day the episodes began, calling out my name again and again. Now, almost a year later, I knew it the way I knew the sounds of this house or the rush of the river. That voice was an echo across the pages of my notebook.
I’d had dreams that tiptoed along the edge of reality before.
Ones that pushed me from sleep with tears streaming down my
temples or a scream trapped in my throat. In those dreams, it was as if my body and mind had bled into another world, only to surface too hard and too fast in reality. But this wasn’t like that. This…this was like someone had come through that barrier from the other side. Like those arms around me had reached through my mind, into my bedroom.
The sun had risen by the time I came downstairs, my hair pulled into a half-hearted bun at the nape of my neck. Birdie’s overnight bag was already sitting at the bottom of the steps, and I was relieved to see it. After what happened yesterday, I was almost sure that she would cancel her trip to Charlotte.
She was sitting in her usual seat at the table, a cup of coffee steaming beside the Jasper Chronicle. The headline announced the official schedule of the Midsummer Faire, the town’s largest and oldest event, which took place on the summer solstice. Local makers and craftspeople set up on Main Street to showcase their goods, and people came from neighboring towns for the music and dancing.
Birdie pretended not to watch me from the top of her gaze as she smeared cream cheese onto the toasted bagel in her hand.
“Morning.” I kept my back to her, taking the half-full pot of coffee and pouring it into a mug. The little sugar spoon clinked against the ceramic as I dumped two spoonfuls into the coffee and stirred.
“Morning, honey.” The newspaper crinkled as she turned the page.
I clutched the mug to my chest, leaning one hip into the counter as I faced her. It was our usual rhythm, except that a week ago, Gran would be sitting beside her. I couldn’t help but notice that Birdie’s plate and newspaper were set squarely to one side of the table, as if she’d subconsciously left room for Gran’s breakfast.
She tore the bagel in two. “When are you going to tell me what’s goin’ on in that head of yours?”
“Nothing’s going on.” I brought the mug to my lips again, trying to hide the nervous twitch of my mouth.
I was still thinking about the feeling of that body pressed to mine. I’d known for most of my life that certain things weren’t in the cards for me. The kind of relaxed, lived-in love where you woke up together in the morning was one of them. I’d been clear on that. With Gran, Birdie, and Mason. There were times when I’d sensed the slightest hint of sympathy worming its way into them. Sometimes, I’d catch Gran and Birdie giving each other a silent look in those conversations. But I’d never let any of them feel sorry for me, and I’d refused to feel sorry for myself.
The faint fissure in the ice of my resolve found me in the rarest of moments. The delicate, absent-minded touch of a woman’s hand on her pregnant belly. A newborn cradled in someone’s arms at the grocery. It would hit me like a train.
Because there was only one thing I’d ever kept from them. It was a buried thing inside of me, so deep I could almost always pretend it wasn’t there.
It was the truth I couldn’t even admit to myself—that I did want it. All of it.
At nine or ten years old, I was just beginning to understand that one day, I’d be sick the way my mother had been. I was old enough to realize that she hadn’t just disappeared. She’d left me.
I tried not to think too much about the part of Susanna that had been broken enough for her to do what she did. I couldn’t imagine it, just walking away from your child and never looking back. The question nagged at me, like a finger picking the same string on an out-of-tune guitar over and over until it just became one head-splitting sound. I knew she was sick, but
I wanted to believe that there were pieces of us that couldn’t be touched by that shadow—the pieces that made us human.
The sharp, deafening ring of the telephone made me jump, sending my coffee cup forward. The liquid sloshed over the lip, spilling over my hand.
Birdie started to stand but I waved her off, flicking the coffee from my fingers into the sink.
“It’s okay. I’ve got it.”
I crossed the linoleum floor, wincing when it rang again, and my shoulders drew up protectively around my ears. The old phone’s volume had been turned up for Gran when she started refusing to wear her hearing aids, and it sounded like a fistful of quarters shaken in an old coffee can.
The receiver was cold against my hot face as I answered.
“Hello?”
A man’s voice crackled on the other end, and I adjusted the twisted cord, trying to make it clear.
“Hello?” I said again.
Behind me, Birdie was muttering. “Got to get that damn thing replaced.”
“Ah, hi there. June?” The voice finally came through. “It’s Dr. Jennings.”
I stilled, slowly turning so that Birdie couldn’t see my face.
“Oh. Hi.”
“Sorry to call so early, but I tried your cell yesterday and there was no answer.”
“No problem. What can I do for you?”
There was the sound of paper shuffling, followed by a breath exhaled, as if he was getting situated at his desk with
the phone pinned between his shoulder and his jaw. “Just wanted to confirm your appointment for this afternoon.”
Dr. Jennings’s voice faded to the back of my mind, replaced by the hum of the refrigerator and the sound of a fly tapping the window in an attempted escape. I stared at a black knot on the pinewood floor between my feet. I’d forgotten about the appointment.
“June?”
“Yeah,” I said, wrapping the phone cord around my hand.
“Sure, I’ll be there.”
“Great. I’ll see you then.”
“Thanks.”
“Bye-bye now.”
The line clicked, going dead, and I hung up the phone, plastering a look of calm on my face before I went back to the sink.
“Who was that?” Birdie spoke the words around a mouthful of bagel.
“Just Mason checking to see if I’m coming out today.”
She raised a skeptical brow in my direction as she took another bite. I’d managed to keep her from finding out about my episodes, but eventually, she was going to put it together.
I’d kept the secret not because I didn’t trust her. It was because the moment I told her I was sick, things would change. For her and for me. The further I drifted, the more alone she would be.
She changed the subject. “Ida’s goin’ to be the death of me with this Midsummer Faire business. You sure you’re up for it?”
I nodded. It wasn’t the first time Birdie and I had run the show together. The flower farm always donated the excess late spring harvest to decorate at the event, and this year, Ida was
the chair. She had Melody working around the clock on the plans.
“First one without Gran,” I thought aloud.
A smile stretched up one side of Birdie’s face. “Yeah, I was thinkin’ that this mornin’.”
My thoughts pulled back to that envelope and the photograph that was tucked inside. I’d considered telling Birdie about it last night as we sat at that same table with Ida’s casserole between us. I hadn’t been able to bring myself to do it, but it was still eating at me, poking at the edges of my mind.
“Do you know if Gran knew Nathaniel Rutherford?” The question formed on my lips before I’d even really thought about it.
Something stiffened in Birdie’s posture, just slightly. Almost too subtle to notice. “What?”
“Nathaniel Rutherford. The minister over at the church who —”
“I know who he is, June.” Was there an edge to her voice? I couldn’t quite tell. “But I was just a little thing when that happened.”
“Right. But Gran was older. She might have actually known him.”
“She didn’t exactly mix with the church folk. You know that.”
“But did she ever talk about it?” I tried again.
“No one really liked to talk about it. Not then and not now.”
“I just mean, I grew up hearing that story and seeing his picture in the cafe, but I don’t remember Gran ever mentioning it. It’s strange.”
Birdie frowned. “Not all that strange, if you think about it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, that was a difficult time for this town. A lot of suspicion, a lot of accusations thrown around. Tragedy will do that, I guess.” She got to her feet, a little clumsily. “Should probably get on the road.”
I watched her carefully as she dried her hands on the towel hanging from the oven. The drive to Charlotte was only a couple of hours, and she’d already missed the traffic.
Somehow, I’d hit a nerve.
“You taking off already?” I asked.
“Might as well. Can you stop in at the shop on your way to the farm and check on Melody? She’s got a big order today.”
“Sure.” The answer sounded like a question. I was still trying to read that look on her face. I had the distinct feeling the question had upset her, though I couldn’t think why.
When she finally turned to face me, she looked a little like herself again. She crossed the kitchen in three steps, planting a firm kiss on my cheek. “See you tomorrow.”
I forced a smile, propping myself up against the wall as she disappeared up the hallway. When I heard the keys jingle in her hand, I called over my shoulder, “Drive safe!”
“Yes, Mother!” The door closed, and a few seconds later, Birdie’s car was backing down the driveway.
It wasn’t like her to dance around things. She’d always been the one who got to the point and didn’t sugarcoat the truth. She was the first to be honest with me about my mother, about the Farrow curse and the grim future that was coming for me.
She’d never tried to shield me from any of it, like Gran had.
But bringing up Nathaniel Rutherford had rattled her. Why?
My eyes fell to the newspaper on the table, my mind still turning with the question, until my curiosity got the better of
me. I rounded the corner to the sitting room, taking the laptop from the desk that sat in front of the picture window. The room hadn’t changed a single bit in my lifetime, down to the knickknacks on the fireplace mantel and the blue velvet tufted sofa that looked older than Birdie.
I sank down into it and pulled open the laptop, hitting a key.
It whirred to life, illuminating the inbox of the farm’s email account. I opened a new tab in the browser, fingers hovering tentatively over the keys before I finally started typing in the search field.
Nathaniel Rutherford Jasper, North Carolina
Dozens of search results pulled up, and I scrolled, my eyes skipping over them until I saw one from the State Archives of North Carolina. The link took me to another search results page, where a number of headlines from old newspapers were listed with Nathaniel’s name highlighted in the description.
The earliest ones looked to be no more than small-town news coverage, but in 1950, the headlines took a turn.
BODY FOUND IN ADELINE RIVER
MINISTER SLAIN
SHERIFF ASKS FOR WITNESSES TO COME FORWARD
JASPER REMEMBERS NATHANIEL RUTHERFORD
ONE YEAR LATER: STILL NO ANSWERS
I clicked on the first one, and a high-resolution scan of the Jasper Chronicle filled the screen. The front of the paper was different from the one that sat on the kitchen table. The font had changed over time, and so had the layout of the columns.
Thursday morning, the Merrill County Sheriff’s Department responded to the call of Edgar Owens, who was fishing on the north fork of the Adeline River, just upstream from Longview Falls, when he discovered a body washed up on the bank. The man was identified as sixty-three-year-old Nathaniel Rutherford, longtime minister at the First Presbyterian Church in Jasper.
Longview Falls was the region’s tallest waterfall, where the Adeline River branched. It was a hiker’s destination and the site of numerous accidents over the years. There’d even been a few people who’d jumped to their deaths.
The next article was longer.
The sheriff’s department has confirmed that the death of Nathaniel Rutherford is being treated as suspicious. Upon examination, the body was found to have a fatal head wound and multiple lacerations on the arms and neck consistent with a struggle. This would mark the first known murder in the quiet town of Jasper, and the sheriff has vowed to find the perpetrator.
The last known location of the minister was at the Midsummer Faire.
Rutherford was expected at Frank Crawley’s barn afterward for a weekly card game with a group of men from the church. According to Crawley, Nathaniel never arrived. Those who were present at the game are undergoing questioning, but the sheriff has been clear they are not currently suspects.
To his estimation, Dr. Francis Pullman puts Rutherford’s time of death at approximately 8 P.M., an hour after he was last seen.
I clicked on the next link.
The sheriff’s department is asking for anyone with information about Nathaniel Rutherford’s whereabouts on the night of June 21 to come forward.
No detail is too small. Anyone who saw anything unusual can call the sheriff’s department at 431-2200.
The headline of the last article was printed above a photograph of a man.
ONE YEAR LATER: STILL NO ANSWERS
Nathaniel was standing on the front steps of the church with a hat in his hands. I had to look at him closely to find the similarities between him and the man in the photo Gran sent.
The edition date was 1951, exactly forty years after the date written on the back of the photograph.
But there was no mention of his wife’s actual name in the articles, and the only pictures were of Nathaniel alone.
I leaned to one side and slid the photo from the back pocket of my jeans, that itch of curiosity growing more insistent. My leg was anxiously bouncing now, making the laptop shake as
my eyes lifted to the kitchen. When I was looking into my mother’s disappearance, Ida had helped me request copies of old editions of the Jasper Chronicle. She’d also been the one to pull the records at the courthouse for me.
I let the laptop slide onto the sofa and stood, my feet taking me back to the kitchen, where the soft sound of wind chimes drifted through the open window. Ida’s cellphone number was still scratched on the long list pinned to the side of the fridge, but I had it memorized. I dialed and a chipper voice on the other end answered on the third ring.
“June? Everything okay?”
“Hey, Ida. Yeah, everything’s fine.”
“Oh.” She paused. “Well, good. What can I do for you?”
“I wanted to see if you’d be able to find something for me in the county records.”
“Okay. What is it?”
I stared at the numbers on the phone’s dial pad, where Gran’s fingers had pushed the buttons so many times that they were shiny and smooth. “It’s a marriage license, actually.”
“For whom?” I could hear her plucking a pencil from the old decorated soup can on her desk.
I clenched my teeth, changing my mind twice before I forced myself to say it.
“Last name Rutherford. First name…Nathaniel.”
She fell quiet.
“Would have been sometime around 1911,” I added, filling the awkward silence.
“Why on earth would you need that?” She laughed, but it was taut.
I smiled, even though she couldn’t see it, hoping it would somehow bleed into my voice. “Just doing some historical research.”
“All right.” The wheels of her chair squeaked before I heard her nails on the keyboard. “Easy enough, I guess.”
I could imagine her there behind the high counter, chin tipped up so she could read the computer screen through the bifocal area of her glasses.
“Now, let’s see here.” Her voice trailed off as she kept typing. “Got it. What exactly are you looking for?”
“The name of the woman he married.”
The murmur of her reading under her breath was barely audible over the phone, and the damaged cord crackled again, making me wince. She made a sound that was followed by another silence.
“Sorry, Ida. I didn’t hear you.”
“I just—well, this is odd, isn’t it?” Another nervous laugh escaped her.
“What is?”
“It says right here…” She began to read. “ ‘Having applied for a license for the marriage of Nathaniel Rutherford, of Jasper’ ”—she took a breath—“ ‘age twenty-five years, to resident of Jasper—’ ”
The phone cut out again and I pinched my fingers to the cord, holding it in place.
“To Susanna. It says Susanna Farrow.”
My fingers slipped from the cord, finding the locket around my neck. I was sure the moment it left her mouth that I’d heard her wrong. That the voice in my mind whispering my mother’s name was just too loud. It was drowning everything else out.
“I’m—I’m sorry?” I stammered.
“That’s what it says, honey. I’m lookin’ at it right now.” She continued, “ ‘…united in matrimony Nathaniel Rutherford and Susanna Farrow the parties likened above, on the ninth day of September 1911 at First Presbyterian Church in Jasper.’ ”
I stared at the wall, a numb sensation bleeding through me.
“I didn’t know you all were related to that family.”
“We aren’t,” I said, the words made of air.
“Well, this woman was a Farrow. Doubt that’s a coincidence in a town this small. Your own mother must have been named after her.”
I blinked, fitting her words to the fragments of thought that were struggling to come together. Of course. That would explain it. Maybe someone up the line in the family had married Nathaniel Rutherford. But I didn’t remember Gran ever talking about another Susanna Farrow, and there was no gravestone in the cemetery for one. She’d always been so serious about making sure I knew the family’s history.
Except for when it came to Susanna, I realized.
I swallowed. “Can you find her birth record? Something that has her parents’ names or…?”
“Let’s see.” Ida typed away for a few long seconds before she clicked her tongue. “I don’t see anything for that name.
The only one pulling up for a Susanna Farrow is for your mother back in 1966. But you already have all that.”
I did. Thanks to Ida, I had a copy of every scrap of paper on my mother that could be found in the courthouse.
“Not unusual for that time, though.” She thought aloud.
“That far back, women birthed babies at home all the time and there wasn’t much reason to record the birth with the county.”
I leaned into the counter, thinking.
“You could try the church,” she said.
“The church?”
“It’s been here longer than the courthouse, and they kept detailed records on births, marriages, and deaths. It’s worth a try if this woman was married to the minister.”
When I said nothing, she spoke again. “Want me to call over there?”
“No, that’s all right. Thanks, Ida.”
“No problem, honey.”
I hung up the phone, one hand still gripped on the receiver as I bit down hard on my thumbnail. In the span of a few moments, that compulsive need I’d had to understand the photograph had turned into a slithering thing. As if the second Ida said my mother’s name, she’d uttered the words of a forbidden spell. The name carried a hallowed kind of resonance. One that had captured the town’s imagination for years and given birth to a hundred stories. So had Nathaniel’s.
My eyes went to the window. I could still hear it—that high- pitched tinkle of the wind chimes—and it struck me that I didn’t know where they were coming from. The only ones we’d had hanging in the garden had been blown down in a storm more than a year ago. They were still sitting on the potting bench outside, waiting for a new string.
The sound grew louder. More painful. My chest rose and fell as I made my way to the front door, pulling it open. The screen slammed and I went out onto the porch, searching the rafters, where a turtle dove peered over the edge of a nest.
The wind chimes weren’t there.
I pressed my hands over my ears when the ringing gave way to a sharp pain in my head. But the chimes didn’t stop. They
didn’t dim. The ringing rose, the notes fusing together until it was one long, earsplitting scream in my mind.
And then, all of a sudden, like the wind snuffing a candle’s flame, it stopped.
