Page 127 of The Witch's Orchard
“That was Jessica,” she says.
“Why… Jesus Christ, Deena, what the hell did you do?”
She lets out a breath so heavy-sounding it seems like she’s been holding it the better part of a decade.
“I wanted children,” she says.
“Lots of people want children,” I say.
But it’s as if she doesn’t hear me. Or doesn’t want to. As if she’s been waiting all these years to unburden herself, she simply starts talking.
“I wanted them desperately. And the whole time that Hoyle woman was bringing her children in this house.”
“Mandy?” I say, feeling my way around the edges of the room for anyplace that might have some give. The place where the door had been feels like a solid wall. Completely sealed.
“What was Mandy doing here?” I ask, probing for cracks and finding nothing.
“She cleaned for me,” Deena says. “She used to come twice a week, and she’d bring Jessica and that little toddler boy with her. Then I saw she had another one on the way. Why? Why does God give babies to people who don’t evenwant them? And she certainly couldn’t takecareof them. You should’ve seen the state of Jessica. Half the time, her hair was a tangled mess. Rats nest.”
I sigh and rub my palms over my face, then realize they are still sticky with Bob’s blood.
“Finally, I got pregnant,” she says. “Finally. After so many yearsof trying. So many tears and so many tests in the trash. I was in my twelfth week when Harvey died. I hadn’t even really started to show. The night he died, I cried so hard I thought it would kill me. I thought my heart would shatter from the pain. And then… it got so much worse.”
I stop my searching and turn to look at her. Her eyes are glazed over, a million miles away.
“I delivered twins that night. On the bathroom floor. They were so tiny. Like two little perfect plums. Purple and shiny.”
Her breath catches, and I watch her struggle. On the bed, Lucy is staring at me.
“Deena—” I say.
“I buried them in the rose garden. And, three days later, I buried Harvey. And every day after that for two weeks, I would go into the library and sit in his chair and take out his gun and look at it.”
She stops herself, shakes her head.
“But I couldn’t… I wasn’t strong enough. Brave enough. Instead, one morning, I went for a walk in the forest and found myself standing on the porch of Susan McKinney’s cabin. I’d heard about her from Mandy. I thought, perhaps, she could help me somehow. Give me something that would let me sleep for good.”
I could picture the scene as Deena spoke. The beautiful grieving widow standing, hopeless, on the doorstep of a witch. No better than a beggar woman in the worst winter of her life. Willing to do anything, give anything, to make the pain stop.
“She gave me tea. Told me it would take time. That’s what she said. The same stupid, worthless platitudes as everyone else. She gave me a book. Told me that perhaps something in it would help me find peace in the thing I could not have.”
She frowns. The memory looks so bitter that, for a moment, I think Deena Drake might spit on the floor. Instead, she sniffs and keeps going.
“Did it?” I ask. “Did it help?”
“It was a book of folklore,” Deena says. “Old superstitions. But it toldof an old ritual. Making poppets to represent the ones you have lost, carrying them with you until the loss is less painful.”
“And the poppets—”
“Were applehead dolls, yes. And so I made two of them. One for each of my baby girls.”
I go back to searching the room. There’s a small closet full of blue and red dresses, some velvet, some cotton, some silk, some fine linen, all trimmed in lace. They hang above a rack of little satin slippers. Doll clothes, but woman-sized. I shiver and close the door.
I am exhausted. My whole body hurts. And now I am trapped in a room with one psychopath while another waits outside the door getting ready to do who knows what. I breathe through my nose, look around.
There is a little bathroom through a doorway. It features a toilet and pedestal sink and small shower. I wash my hands, then wash my mouth out, splash water on my face, come back into the main room.
To the left of the door, there’s an oil painting of a white rabbit. I try to take it off the wall and find that it is attached by hinges and that it hides a prize. There’s a keypad set into the wall.
