Heathcliff doesn’t look at me again the whole rest of the time he’s there—a kindness, I think. He’s respecting my decision. But that doesn’t stop me fromwantinghim to look. That doesn’t stop me from feeling him there across the room, from regretting every second I’m not back in that bathroom with him, dragging my nails across his strong shoulders.
Heathcliff leaves when Edgar and I are halfway through our meal. With his absence, the restaurant is gutted—no longer a place of cozy warmth, vibrant light, and entrancing smells. It’s hollow now—dull carpet, bland food, and the vacant eyes of uninteresting people.
“Enough about me.” Edgar’s smile blooms again, but his eyes don’t have the same purity and sincerity; they’re sharper now. “Let’s talk about you! My dad mentioned you’ve had some health struggles?”
Shit. Now I have to perpetuate the lie, talk about the conditions I supposedly have but know very little about. “Um, yeah. Walking seizures. They’re also called focal awareness seizures. And I’m bipolar.” I know I’m being insensitive to people who live with epilepsy and bipolar disorder by attaching the terms to myself just to cover my ass, but I don’t know what else to do, short of blurting out that I’m a banshee who gets uncontrollable fits of grief and has to wander the woods for hours until it stops.
“Is that what happened at church the other day?” Edgar’s aquagaze bores into mine. “Isn’t it better to stay around other people if you’re going to have a seizure? So they can put something under your head and stuff? Keep you from hurting yourself?”
Yes, Edgar, that would make more sense. “My condition is…unusual. I don’t really like talking about it.”
“Sure, I understand.” His hand slides across the table, covers mine. “But do you talk toanyoneabout it? Maybe it would help to share the burden with someone. I’ve been told I’m an excellent listener.”
Something in his eyes—a keenness, an awareness—
I pull my hand away. “Did Pastor Linton ask you to talk to me about this?”
The answer flickers in his eyes—he’s not a good enough liar to hide it, and he has the grace to know that.
Pastor Linton got a pretty strong hint about me from Daisy and her group this afternoon, and I’m guessing whatever Dad said didn’t satisfy him. Edgar and his dad had time to talk about it between then and now. I’ll bet they decided to turn a simple dinner date into an investigation of my possible supernatural status.
“Dad is concerned about you,” Edgar says.
“So he asked you to pry into my life.”
“It’s not like that, Cathy. I’m here to help. Anything you need, seriously. A listening ear, a ride to your doctor’s office. I could even offer you a counseling session. Maybe I can help you find ways to cope, some verses to memorize…”
Is he for real? Acting in the role of counselor or therapist would be totally out of line after he’s shown a romantic interest in me. And memorizingBible versesas a palliative for the serious conditions I’ve mentioned? Really?
This was a mistake.
“I have to go.” I grab my purse and scoot out of the booth. “Thanks for dinner.”
“Cathy.” He jumps up too and clutches my arm. “Cathy, can we just talk about this?”
When his fingers tighten, I jerk away, recoiling with a sharp panic that sends my butt crashing into the table behind me. Silverware rattles, and everyone in the vicinity looks up from their meals.
Edgar pulls his hand back, a shocked look on his face.
Hitching my purse strap higher on my shoulder, I walk out of the restaurant into the night. It’s cold, but a few insects still sing among the black trees.
I shouldn’t have panicked like that. Edgar isn’t Dad. He wasn’t going to hurt me. Still, I can’t bear the thought of sitting with him a second longer or letting him drive me home. Not that he’s running after me to offer.
I march across the parking lot toward the street. Why did I wear shorts in October, at night? I guess I could call an Uber or something, but that’s money I can’t spare. I’ll walk home. It’ll take maybe an hour, but I’ll get there.
I should have stayed in the restaurant booth and gently redirected Edgar to a safer topic of conversation. By flying off the handle, I just confirmed any suspicions he and his father might have that I’m hiding something.
Heathcliff was wrong about the folks at Wicklow Chapel, though. Even if they discovered what I am, they wouldn’t kill me. Kick me and Dad out of the church, maybe. Shun us. Nothing more drastic than that.
They aren’t murderers. Of course they’re not. I’ve known them all my life. This is modern-day America. No witch hunts, no burningthe devil’s children at the stake, no burying me in the earth like the demon. I’m safe. Everything is fine.
If only I could be sure. If only I could have listened in on Pastor Linton’s conversation with Edgar. I desperately want to know what they know or what they suspect. I can’t shake the memory of what Heathcliff told me—that the people of this town kill supernaturals. That can’t be true, or they would have killed the four visitors at Aunt Nellie’s. Of course that was a public place, too many witnesses…
I have to stop thinking like this. I’ll drive myself insane.
I’m walking quickly just to stay warm, trudging along the edge of the narrow, lightless road. My boots scuff the grass, and chilly air whispers around my legs. The row of trees ends abruptly, revealing a wide, grassy meadow, a dark sea that stretches over low, swelling hills before yielding to forest again.
The primal side of me, the banshee side, loves fields like this almost as much as she loves forests. The urge to run through that meadow hammers against my bones. I wouldn’t be roaming in grief this time but in freedom. In some ancient era, an ancestor of mine walked the broad moors with windblown hair, arms lifted to billowing gray skies, laughing in the face of an oncoming storm. I am myself, but I am her, too.
