American Bruja: The Los Angeles Cauldron

Chapter 23. Dr. Betty Morton

Monday, August 8, 2011, 9:00 a.m., Los Angeles

My head's pounding with anger over last night's debacle. Amber and her friends have no clue about the danger. They're playing with fire.

Taking a deep breath, I force myself to focus on the present. Robert is dressed and sitting on the edge of the hospital bed as we wait for the wheelchair to take him downstairs. I remove his cloak and hat from the closet and brush off the dirt. The smell of decay wafts from a shower of dusty debris.

A Filipino nurse enters the room pushing a wheelchair. She engages the lock and motions me to Rob's right. I follow her lead and hook my elbow under his armpit. My heart hurts to find his once-muscular arms thin and spongy. He groans as we help him into the chair.

Memories intrude as I place his cloak and black hat in his lap. Rob as a young man, ruggedly handsome, with fluffy blond hair. My vision blurs with tears as I touch the parchment skin of his hands. "Let's get you home."

I leave him with the nurse so I can bring my car around to the hospital entrance. Exiting the antiseptic, air-conditioned building for the parking lot is like entering a forge. The heat settles in a heavy blanket during my walk across the asphalt. Retrieving my key, I press the remote to start the Mercedes's AC. I'm hit with steamy air as I slide into the driver's seat. Sweat drips down my arms.

Grabbing a tissue, I wipe the sweat and sigh. The skin on my arms is as crepe papery as Rob's. Had Lucy Carpenter aged, would she be a wrinkly old woman? Lucy was the quintessential California blonde, toned and tan. For Robert, she's ageless, forever frozen at age 18.

My gut tightens. In our older years my beloved and I settled into a lovely partnership. Lucy's reappearance is a bomb dropping on our relationship.

Guruji would tell me to stop clinging, to release my attachments. Change is inevitable. She's right, but despair sucks me into an emotional soup. I should help Lucy move on, but I'd like to spellbind her to an oak and be done with her.

Shit on a shingle! I didn't finish the ritual last night. I should have trapped Susan Atkins inside the oak. By the Goddess, I need to get back to the grotto before some unsuspecting hiker happens upon that nasty old ghost.

Abandoning my peace brings twitchy discomfort. With a scream, I pound my fists on the dashboard.

By the time I reach the hospital entrance, a steady stream of cool air flows through the car. My fingers tap the steering wheel as I drive. The double glass doors open and the nurse emerges, pushing Rob in the wheelchair. She rolls him to my car and opens the front passenger door. With effort, he scoots from the wheelchair and into the front seat.

As he pulls the door closed, I unload in a stream of consciousness. Rob listens silently as I recount the events of last night. He shows no emotion over Susan Atkin's return or Manson's minions threatening the youths. One eyebrow lifts when I tell him about Marisol Garcia's transformation into her grandmother, Graciela Hernandez. I end the tale with, "She wants to speak with you."

Rob's left hand shoots out and he grabs my right arm. With a jerk, we're forced to the side of the road.

I park the car and shift in the seat to face my beloved. "Those kids are so sure they're right, yet they don't know anything about demonic possession!"

Robert takes my hands and pulls them to his lips for a gentle kiss. "Betty, think. Does Graciela meet any of the demonic criteria?"

Heat rushes to my face with the realization he's right. Demons are forged over hundreds of years. They're ghosts who cling to their earthly form out of anger and spite. With every passing year, the memories of who they were, what they cared about, and who they loved disappears. After a few hundred years all that's left is despair and rage.