I have to admit, Aunt Nellie’s house feels safer than Dad’s.Healthier. She barely eats anything herself because of Edgar’s fasting edict, but she lets me make my own meals from the scanty supply of food in the fridge. The sheets in the guest room are clean and soft, and there’s no fear of her drinking herself into a blind frenzy and coming after me.
But I don’t have my purse anymore. Dad claims he can’t find it, so I don’t have the debit card hidden in the purse lining. Aunt Nellie took my phone that first night, while I lay on the couch trying to cope with what had just happened.
“You young folks spend too much time in front of screens,” she said blithely. “Fear-scrolling or doom-surfing or whatever it is. A detox will do you good. You’ll get it back, don’t worry.”
A phone isn’t just entertainment, though. Phones are connection, communication. They’re a direct line to support, to awareness, to news stories and information. These days, phones are freedom, even more so than cars. Sure, I use mine mostly to watch stuff and wind down after a long day, but right now I need it so I can contact Heathcliff—or literally anyone who could help me get out of here.
Weirdly, I can remember the number Jay Gatsby gave me—Daisy’s number—because I stared at it a bunch of times since that encounter. But Heathcliff’s number is too new. I haven’t memorized it, so I can’t call him, not even from the phone at the store. Every time I get near the phone, Aunt Nellie calls me over to help her with something or picks up the phone herself to make a call. She does it casually, so I can’t be sure if it’s purposeful. There’s no landline at her house, and I know better than to ask to borrow her phone. She’d say no.
If Heathcliff did text me back, he’s going to think I’m ghosting him. But he knows where I work. If he wants to see me badly enough, he can come to Aunt Nellie’s…ifhe can borrow his brother’s truck, that is.
Part of me wants Heathcliff to make the effort to come talk to me. And when he doesn’t, I can feel myself sinking inside…sinking so low that I let it all happen. I let Aunt Nellie treat me like a wayward teenager instead of a grown-ass woman. I keep telling myselfIt could be worse.So far, Aunt Nellie’s idea of curing me is very mild. I can put up with it a bit longer. She’s protecting me from being the congregation’s scapegoat, and she’s giving me a sense of normalcy, of safety. I can give up a little agency for that…can’t I?
But after four days, I’m starting to get a little desperate, way down inside, where it doesn’t show.
When we close the store on Thursday evening and hop into Aunt Nellie’s car, I ask tentatively, “I was wondering if I could have my phone. I need to text a friend.”
“Oh, it’s all right. You’ll see your friend at church tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“Bible study. Everyone will be there. Actually, Pastor Linton has been holding Bible study there every night this week since we’re in a time of crisis, but I haven’t been able to go because I needed to keep an eye on you, honey.” She gives me a warm smile that creases the skin at the corners of her eyes.
“I’m glad to hear Pastor Linton’s feeling better.”
“Oh, sorry…I should clarify. When I say Pastor Linton, I mean young Edgar. Mark is still at home, struggling with depression, poor man. I hope he comes to Bible study tonight. Faith is the cure for all such ills.”
The hell it is, I respond inwardly, but I want my phone, so I bite back the retort. I shouldn’t have to beg for my phone. But I have this sense that if I say that aloud, if I demand it, she and I will cross a line from the pleasant coexistence of the last few days into…something else. Something very unpleasant.
“Edgar is such an amazing man, don’t you think, Cathy?” Her fingers tighten on the steering wheel. It’s dark, but a passing streetlight flashes over her face. Her eyes glint with admiration. “He’s like a modern-day apostle, a prophet, sent to help us through this crisis.”
“Yes, he’s…something special,” I mutter. “Anyway…the friend I need to call isn’t one of the folks from church.”
“Really?” Her voice is warm, soothing. “Well, given the situation, I don’t think you need to be associating with folks outside the flock, do you? You need people of faith around you right now.”
“I really need to—”
“Cathy.” The sharp tone startles me. “This isn’t up for discussion.”
I grit my teeth and stare ahead at the dark road. Trees arch over it, their limbs dripping Spanish moss. Our headlights turn the gnarled limbs briefly yellow as we drive.
“Have there been any more deaths?” I ask.
She glances sideways at me. “Shouldn’t you know that?”
“I can’t perceive deaths caused by the god.”
Her mouth twitches, like she hates the direct reference to Cernunnos and my powers. “No. There haven’t been any more deaths. Edgar, your dad, and some others have been going to Old Sheldon Church after Bible study every night to anoint the earth. Like everyone else in the church, they’re fasting. Barely sleeping. Trying to keep us safe.”
There’s accusation in her tone now—subtle but it’s definitely there. I want to address it, but I’ve got bigger concerns. “Not eating or sleeping? That’s not healthy at all. That’s why you don’t eat with me, right? You’re fasting, too?”
“Fasting is an honored practice to draw our minds away from carnal pleasure and center them on the divine,” she says.
That doesn’t sound like her at all. Sounds like the new version of Edgar.
“But you’re eating something, right?” I persist. “The folks at church—they’re still feeding their kids and everything?”
“It’s up to the parents whether the whole family fasts or not. I’m sure everyone at Wicklow Heritage loves their children and wants to do right by them.”
