I explained the situation to him as calmly as I was able. Told him about the note, the crucial clue in Gertie’s pocket. Surely he would see reason.
“Put the shovel down, Sara,” Lucius said, moving toward me.
“We need to dig her up,” I repeated.
“We’re not going to do that, Sara.” He was closer now. I knew he intended to stop me. So I did the only thing I could think of—I raised the shovel and I swung.
Lucius jumped back; the shovel just grazed his coat. Martin was on me, wrenching the tool from my hands.
It took both men to carry me inside.
“We need to see what’s in her pocket!” I cried. “Do you not care that our girl was murdered?”
Lucius ripped up a sheet and tied my arms and legs to the bedposts. Restrained me like a madwoman. And Martin allowed it, assisted him.
Lucius says I am suffering from acute melancholia. He explained that Gertie’s death was too much for me to bear and that it has caused me to lose touch with reality. He said that in this state I am a danger to myself and others. I bit my tongue until it bled, knowing that if I argued it would be a further sign of my supposed madness.
“And these ideas that Gertie is visiting, leaving notes for her?”
Martin asked, running his hands through his hair.
“Hallucinations. The sick part of her mind compelled her to write the notes almost as if to convince herself. What she needs is rest. Quiet. And she mustn’t get any encouragement that these fantasies are real. Frankly, Martin, I think the best place for her at this point would be the state hospital.”
Martin pulled Lucius into the hall, spoke in frantic tones. “Please,” I heard him say. “A little while longer. She may still come back to us. She may still get well.”
Lucius agreed, but only on the condition that I stay under his watchful eye. Now he comes often to check on me and to give me shots that make me want to sleep all day. Martin comes and spoon-feeds me soup and applesauce.
“You’ll get well, Sara. You’ve got to get well. You rest now.”
It’s all I can do to fight to stay awake. But I know I must. I know that if I sleep I might miss my Gertie if she chooses to return.
Today is the seventh day since her awakening. There are only hours left before she disappears forever. Please, please, I wish and beg, let her return to me!
“How are you feeling?” Lucius asks when he comes up to see me.
“Better,” I tell him. “Much better.” Then I close my eyes and drift away.
This afternoon, he untied me from the bed. “You be a good girl, now,” he said, “and we won’t have to put these back on.”
I am expected to stay confined to my room. I am not allowed to have company. Amelia has come visiting, but Martin won’t let her upstairs. Lucius says that it would be too much excitement. Martinwarns that if I don’t show improvement, if I continue to insist that these visitations are real, I will be sent to the State Hospital for the Insane.
“There will be no more talk of messages from the dead. Or of Gertie having been murdered,” Martin says.
I nod like a good, obedient wife. Puppet-on-a-string wife.
“And no more writing in that diary,” Martin said. “Give it to me.” So I handed him my book and my pen. Luckily, I had foreseen this and was holding an out-of-date diary, full of the trivial details of my life before: entries about baking a pound cake, attending a church supper. Martin did not even think to look through it, and tossed it into the fire before my eyes. I made a show of being upset, and Martin, he looked quite pleased with himself for performing this heroic act to help save his mad wife. But there was something frantic about it at the same time. These last few days, there is something in Martin I’ve never seen before—this sense of desperation. Of panic. I sense that he is trying so hard, with such determination, not to save me, but to keep me from the truth.
What is it that he does not wish me to know?
Is this delusional thinking, as Martin and Lucius would have me believe, or am I the only one who sees things clearly?
The papers and journals containing all my notes and diary entries since the time of Gertie’s death have been safely hidden away. I have a distinct advantage over Martin: I grew up in this house. As a child, I discovered and created dozens of hiding places by loosening bricks and floorboards, making secret compartments behind the walls. There are some hiding places that I am convinced no one could ever find. I have craftily hidden all my writing, scattering it among several hidden niches—that way, if he chances upon one, he won’t get everything. And now I only write when he is out in the fields, one eye on Martin through the window, one on my diary.
An amazing thing has happened! Just now, this evening, I was pretending to be fast asleep when Martin popped his head in. Afterward I heard him shuffle down the stairs, get his coat, and go out the front door. It was just getting dark—the bedroom full of longshadows; the bed, dresser, and table barely discernible. I imagined he’d gone to feed the animals and shut them in for the night.
I heard a scraping, scuttling sound from the closet. I turned, held my breath, waiting.
Could it be true? Was my beloved girl back?
