Verum by Courtney Cole
“It’s not a scary thing,” she assures me. “My family has been doing it for hundreds of years. My mother, her mother, her mother. And so on.”
“Only the women?” I ask, curious now. She nods.
“Only the women.”
“Why?”
Why am I asking? This is clearly all lunacy.
She doesn’t bother answering.
“Have you been feeling all right?” she asks instead. I hesitate. Did Dare tell her I’d gotten sick?
“Yes,” I finally lie. “Perfectly fine.”
“How about sleeping?” she continues. “Have you been sleeping well?”
No.
“Yes,” I lie again. “Fine. I don’t need any of your tea.”
She smiles again, her teeth ever grotesque.
“That wasn’t why I was asking. If you experience any… disturbances, do let me know.”
Disturbances?
She glances at me knowingly before she shuffles away and I wonder what exactly she knows about me, and how does she know it?
I watch her disappear down the hall and it isn’t until she’s long gone that I realize that I have chills and that goose-bumps have lifted the hair on my neck.
I rub my arms and make my way quickly to the safety of my bedroom.
No one can see me.
I’m invisible.
There’s a sheet and blood and water.
There are stones and moss and sand.
SeeMeSeeMeSeeMe.
But they don’t.
Everyone bustles around, their faces turning into blurs.
“Help!” I scream.
But no one listens.
No one cares because I’m invisible.
I don’t exist anymore.
I want to scream and howl at the sky, but it would do no good.
The night is a prison, a prison, a prison.
But the morning will kill me.
I know it.
I feel it.
I am.
I am.
I am.
I am lost.
And no one can save me.
Chapter 18
I’m restless.
So very restless.
So I get dressed in a modest outfit, something befitting of a Savage so that Eleanor can’t complain, slacks and a short-sleeved pink sweater. Afterward, I find Jones downstairs.
“Do you think you could drive me into town?” I ask him. His answer is immediate.
“Of course, miss.”
I wait out front for the car, and as we’re pulling away, down the drive, I have the oddest sensation… like I’m being watched.
The hair stands up on my neck, and I twist around to see out the rear window.
A curtain in the very top of Whitley falls closed, as though someone had been standing there.
As though someone had been watching me.
I swallow hard, and turn back around.
I’m in a car. No one can hurt me here.
That’s what I tell myself as we drive into town.
“Where to, Miss Price?” Jones ask me when we reach the outskirts.
I don’t know.
“Can you take me somewhere my mother used to go?” I ask hesitantly. Because I miss her. I want to feel close to her, even it’s just an illusion.
Jones meets my eyes in the mirror, and his are sympathetic.
“Of course,” he tells me, his gruff voice softening just a bit. “I know just the place.”
The car weaves among the streets, and eventually comes to a stop outside of a church.
With a plain brick Gothic Revival exterior, the church looms against the cloudy sky, sort of severe and imposing.
I’m hesitant as I peer out the glass.
“It’s the Church of St. Thomas of Canterbury,” Jones tells me. “Your mother used to come here frequently.”
That’s a bit hard to believe, seeing how she wasn’t catholic. I tell him so politely.
“She was catholic, miss,” he insists. “And she did used to come here. I drove her myself.”
I’ll have to take him at his word, and I open the car door, stepping outside.
“I’ll wait, miss,’ he tells me, settling into the seat. I nod, and with my shoulders back, I walk straight to the doors.
Once inside, the demeanor of the church changes, from severe gothic, to lavishly decorated, firmly in line with Catholic tradition.
It feels reverent in here, holy and serene. And even if I’m not a religious person, I enjoy it.
The statues of saints and angels hanging on the walls are gilded and full of detail, including the crucifix of Christ at the front.
His face is pained, His hands and feet are bleeding.
I look away, because even still, it’s hard for me to imagine such a sacrifice.
“Are you here for confession, child?”
A low voice comes from behind and I turn to find a priest watching me. His eyes are kind above his white collar, and it’s the first real, sincere kindness I’ve seen since I’ve been in England.
Dare is kind, but our relationship is complicated.
Eleanor is severe, Sabine is mysterious, Jones is perfunctory. They all want something from me.
This man, this priest, is kind simply to be kind.
I swallow.
“I’m not catholic,” I tell him, trying to keep my words soft in this grand place. He smiles.
“I’ll try not to hold that against you,” he confides, and he holds his hand out. I take it, and it’s warm.
“I’m Father Thomas,” he introduces himself. “And this is my parish. Welcome.”
Even his hands are kind as he grasps mine, and I find myself instantly at ease for the first time in weeks.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
“Would you like a tour?” he suggests, and I nod.
“I’d love one.”
He doesn’t ask why I’m here or what I want, he just leads me around, pointing out this artifact and that, this architecture detail or that stained glass window. He chats with me for a long time, and makes me feel like I’m the only person in the world, and that he has no place else to be.
Finally, when he’s finished, he turns to me. “Would you like to sit?”
I do.
So he sits with me, and we’re quiet for a long time.
“My mother used to come here, I’m told,” I finally confide. “And I just wanted to feel like I’m near her.”
The priest studies me. “And do you?”
My shoulders slump. “Not really.”
“I’ve been here for a long time,” he says kindly. “And I think I know your mother. Laura Savage?”
I’m surprised and he laughs.
“Child, you could be her mirror image,” he chuckles. “It wasn’t hard to figure out.”
“You knew her?” I breathe, and somehow, I do feel closer to her, simply because he was.
He nods and looks towards Mary. “Laura is a beautiful soul,” he says gently. “And I can see her in your eyes. Why didn’t she come with you today?”
“She’s gone,” I say simply. “She died recently.”
I don’t mention that I killed her with a phone call, that it’s my fault.
He blinks. “I’m so sorry. She’s with the Lord now, though. She’s at peace. Did she receive Last Rites, child?”
My breath leaves me. “I don’t know. She couldn’t have, I guess. She died in a car accident. Is that bad?”
Father Thomas rushes to reassure me. “No. In that circumstance, it is understandable. Don’t fear, child. God in His merciful love isn’t bound by sacraments. He blesses his children and forgives them, and bestows everlasting life to the faithful. Your mother was faithful.”
I don’t want to tell him that she wasn’t a practicing Catholic, that I’d never even seen her attend a mass. Although now, the fact that she’d given Finn a St. Michael’s medallion makes sense. I feel it now, chilling the skin on my chest.
“You must be v
“You were with Dare in the café the other day,” I realize. “You were upset.”
Father Thomas’ eyes widen a bit, then he masks his expression. “It was nothing,” he assures me. “We were just chatting over coffee. Nothing to be alarmed about.”
But his eyes tell a different story.
The priest is lying, but why?
I pull away my hand and he notices.
“What is wrong, child?”
His demeanor is still soft, still gentle, still inviting, but I’ve been surrounded by secrets for so long that I can’t accept that from a man of God. I tell him that.
He’s pensive as he studies me.
“I understand, Calla. But you have to understand, too, that I’m told things in confidence. I have given my word, to God and to the members of my parish, that I won’t break those confidences.”
He’s so kind, and his eyes are warm.
“I see you pray to St. Michael.”
I hadn’t even noticed that I’d pulled the medallion out of my shirt and have been turning it over in my hands.
“My mother gave it to my brother. He died, too. It was supposed to protect him….”
Father Thomas nods. “St. Michael will protect you, Calla. You just have to trust.”
Trust.
That’s actually a bit laughable in my current circumstances.
“Let’s pray together, shall we?” he suggests, and I don’t argue because it can’t hurt.
Our voices are soft and uniform as they meld together in the sunlight,
In front of Christ on the Crucifix,
and the two Marys.
St. Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our defense against the wickedness and snares of the Devil. May God rebuke him, we humbly pray, and do thou, O Prince of the heavenly hosts, by the power of God, thrust into hell Satan, and all the evil spirits, who prowl about the world seeking the ruin of souls. Amen.
“Do you believe in evil?” I whisper when we’re finished, and for some reason, my goose-bumps are back. I feel someone watching me, but when I open my eyes, Christ Himself stares at me. From his perch on the wall, his eyes are soft and forgiving while the blood drips from his feet.
“Of course,” the priest nods. “There is good in the world, and there is evil. They balance each other out, Calla.”
Do they?
“Because energy can’t be destroyed?” I whisper. Because it goes from thing to thing to thing?’
The priest shakes his head. “I don’t know about energy. I only know that there is good and evil. And we must find our own balance in it. You will find yours.”
Will I?”
I thank him and stand up and he blesses me.
“Come back to see me,” he instructs. “I’ve enjoyed our chat. If you’re not catholic, I can’t hear your confession, but I am a good listener.”
He is. I have to agree.
I make my way out of the church, out of the pristine glistening silence, and when I step into the sun, I know I’m being watched.
Every hair on my head feels it, and prickles.
I turn, and the strange man is standing on the edge of the yard, just outside of the fence. He’s watching me, his hands in his pockets, but I still can’t see his face. His hood is pulled up yet again.
With my breath in my throat, I hurry down the sidewalk to the car, practically diving inside and slamming the door behind me.
“Has that guy been standing there long?” I ask Jones breathlessly.
“What guy, miss?” he asks in confusion, hurrying to look out the window.
I look too, only to find that he’s gone.
Chapter 19
Dare’s hand closes over mine at dinner-time, as I’m reaching for the dining room door.
“Would you care for a walk?” he asks, his voice so low and rich.
I nod.
Because, God, I would.
Dare’s hand is on the small of my back as he guides me to the veranda. We stop here, where the wisteria and plumeria grows, where I breathe it in and we stand staring at the stars.
“Do you remember Andromeda?” he asks, and I do remember that night back home. I remember sitting on the beach and his lecture about undying love, but now, it seems so relevant.
“I do,” I tell him, and I lean into him, feeling his warmth and his strength. “And I believe you. Love is undying.”
Finn.
My mom.
Undying.
He stares down at me, and then runs his fingers along my cheek. “Calla, you’re so loved. You just don’t know it right now. Please don’t push me away.”
I close my eyes, because the reasons that I was distancing myself somehow don’t seem important anymore. But still.
Because secrets are the same thing as lies.
And I can’t overlook his secrets.
“I know you think my mind is fragile,” I tell him. “And I think you might be right.”
He protests, but I shake my head. “No, I know you do. And that’s fine. Because I still talk to Finn, Dare. I still pretend he’s with me. A sane person wouldn’t do that.”
Dare swallows and holds my hand, and doesn’t hesitate.
“They would if it helps,” he tells me firmly. “You suffered a great loss, Calla. More than the average person could understand. If it helps you to pretend that Finn is here, then do it. As long as you know you’re pretending.”
I nod, because I do know, most of the time, at least where Finn is concerned.
But there’s something else….something I won’t mention.
The strange man in the hoodie.
Because I don’t want to know if he’s real.
“It’s not fair to expect you to be with me when I’m in such an unbalanced state,” I murmur, and everything in me wants him to argue, to protest, to pull me close.
But to my surprise, he doesn’t.
He just nods. “I don’t want to rush you,” he says quietly. “When you’re ready, you’ll know.”
His words graze my heart, but I brush them away.
This is what I asked for.
“Are you still drawing here?” I ask, trying to change the subject.
He nods. “Of course.”
We keep walking, out of the gardens and down the path. The moon shines overhead, illuminating our steps.
“May I see your drawings?”
Dare smiles. “Of course. Would you like a new one?”
I remember posing for him.
When he drew me, painted me,
those feelings were so intimate and familiar,
I can’t say no.
I nod. “Yes.”
“I’ll go get my sketch pad,” he tells me. “Meet me in the library.”
He leaves me at the door, and I curl up in the library and wait.
I wait in a window seat, bathed in the moonlight.
With my head pressed to the glass, I stare outside, out at the stables, at the trails, at the moors.
Something moves in the dark, and I focus, peering close.
The hoodie stands out in the night, the boy inside of it stealthy.
He steps out onto the trails and stares up at me,
But still I can’t see his face.
I breathe and count,
One,
Two,
Three,
Four.
When I look again, he’s gone.
He’s not real.
Clearly.
“Are you ready?”
Dare stands behind me, his pad under his arm, a chair in his hand.
I try to settle my trembling lungs, and I nod.
“Yes.”
Because this is real.
Dare is real.
My feelings for Dare are real.
“Tuck your legs beneath you,” he whispers, moving to help me pose. His fingers are slender
I smile and he tells me to look into the distance, to look toward the stars outside.
I do, and I force myself to not look down,
Because I don’t want to see anyone standing there.
The energy between Dare and I is thick. It snaps with tension, with unspoken words. I close my eyes and feel it, gliding over my skin like his pencils on the page.
I listen to the charcoal skimming the paper,
I hear Dare’s shallow breaths as he concentrates.
Glancing at him, I watch as he shoves his hair out of his eyes with an impatient hand,
Rushing to get back to my picture.
He draws my leg,
He draws my eye,
He draws my lips.
And when he draws my lips, I get up from my seat, and I kneel in front of him.
I touch his with shaking fingers.
He closes his eyes, but then captures my hand with his own.
“Not ‘til you’re ready, Calla,” he says, his words firm. “I can’t… just not until you’re ready.”
I have to accept that because it’s fair.
I can’t waffle back and forth, I can’t play games, even if it’s with myself.
“Okay,” I whisper. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, Cal,” he tells me. “Just be ready soon. Please.”
I have to smile at that, and I examine his picture.
I look sad, haunted, almost like a ghost as I perch in the window staring at the sky.
“Do I really look like that?” I ask dubiously and a bit disappointed.
“You’re beautiful,” he tells me and he believes it.
I rest my cheek against his knee.
“Is it awful being back here? I know you don’t enjoy it.”
But he came here for me. That says something.
It might say everything.
“It’s not terrible,” he answers. “You’re here.”
I am.
I’m here.
“What happened to you here,” I ask him, bringing up a tender subject. He flinches, but looks away.
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
“But I do,” I tell him. “I worry.”
He picks up my hand and holds it. “It isn’t about me here,” he says seriously. “It’s about you.”
I don’t like that answer, but he walks me to my room, and kisses my forehead before he leaves me.