The Past-Life Chronicles

16

No one speaks as Henry drives. He'd insisted, once we'd returned to Mason's car, that he knew the way back, without GPS, to Holy Trinity Memorial Garden. Now we're en route to whatever he so urgently wanted to see back that way. In the front seat beside him, I watch, listless, as the wipers dance back and forth across the windshield. Rain pounds the glass head-on and drums noisily over the roof of the car.

I look over my shoulder at Mason in the back. His blue eyes are a placid lake, reinfusing me with calm. They hold no more accusation, no jealousy...although I'm pretty sure I detected those things when he first came upon Henry and me, down by the bridge. I know he saw us embracing.

But I don't want to think about the guys right now. I try to vacate my thoughts as we sail toward the darkening storm over slick country roads. In so many ways, walking into Susan Dochy's past feels like entering a dream. And if I'm not careful, I may never wake up from it.

It feels like forever until the cemetery materializes into view. It's raining so hard, I'm sure the flat land is waterlogged again, so I'm glad we already visited the grave. My grave.

I sense a pull toward the grim white statues in the memorial garden, another invisible thread. The carvings of Jesus, Mary, and seraphim angels disappear around a corner as Henry dashes on the blinker and bears left.

He slows along a wooded back road as a grimy speed limit sign flashes thirty-five behind a sheen of rain. I angle my gaze to my stepbrother's face. He's squinting at the road behind his driving glasses. I look away, conflicted.

I study the scenery instead, feeling like I know where he's going, yet that's impossible. Even Henry doesn't know where he's going—he just knows how to get there, apparently.

A line of brown and thinning arborvitaes, either diseased or dead, blooms into view. Henry pulls up to a small, two-story house, painted blue with a wraparound porch.

"I'll be damned," he whispers, lowering his glasses down the bridge of his nose. Without explanation, he parks and unlocks the doors.

"Henry?" I grimace. "What are you doing?"

"This is my home." He removes his glasses, looking incredulous. "Was," he corrects himself. He glances up at the small, old house wistfully.

I swivel around to face Mason. "What, no objections this time? How come he gets to see his house and I didn't get to see mine?"

Mason shrugs. "He isn't my client. I'm not responsible for his actions."

I falter. "You aren't responsible for mine either, you know."

"As long as I'm your therapist, I'm responsible, Willow."

"You make it sound like you're my shrink. You're just my hypnotherapist." I immediately wince at my own words. Goddess, that sounded harsher than intended. "Mason...I'm sorry. That came out totally—"

"Are you two coming, or do you just want to sit in the car and bicker all day?" Henry poises to exit the vehicle.

Mason unbuckles but shakes his head, as if disagreeing with himself. I release my belt as well, and we dash through the rain up a ramp to the front porch. The outdoor floorboards creak beneath our shoes as we huddle near the front door, seeking dryness beneath the porch's covering.

Henry pauses, glancing at me and Mason. Then he grasps the brass knocker and raps on the door.

We wait. There's another car in the driveway, some movement inside. We know someone's home. Finally, the door bows open. I'm at once struck by the strong odors of mothballs and chicken soup.