Surviving Bessie

2. Ravenspond

Bessie picks at her breakfast. Nothing appeals to her, not even her favorite blueberry pancakes; her mother is busy making a second batch of them at the stove.

“You might want to take a shower,” Art comments, wrinkling his nose, looking across the table at his older daughter. Her hair has remained uncombed for days now; food sticks to her housecoat. He glances at Leila, looking for inspiration and continues, “Your Uncle John in Ireland – do you remember I told you about them in the hospital? Well, he and his crazy wife Maureen have these twins now. And you won’t believe this part. They remind them of your Grandpa Will and Grandma Millie. Isn’t that the nuttiest thing?”

Bessie’s eyes widen. Her back snaps straight. “What?” she yells. “Grandma and Grandpa?” She doesn’t remember much from the time in the hospital but something about this tale is making her burst at the seams. “They’re back?”

WhatDelighted that he’s finally gotten a rise out of her, Art barrels on. “No, they’re not Will and Millie, of course. That’s impossible. They’re Sylvia and Padraic. They’re just … reminiscent, I guess you’d say.” He jumps up from the table and runs to the living room. “Want to see some pictures?”

Bessie sputters, “That’s totally possible. They’ve reincarnated. I saw them leave from Heaven Interportal Airport.”

Art hesitates in the doorway, photos in hand, sharing a look with Heather at the stove. “Bessie, when did you start believing in reincarnation? We never …” His voice trails off.

“You … you saw them, dear?” Her mother can’t keep the worry out of her voice. “You mean, you dreamed about them? When … when you were in the coma?”

Her daughter stares at her blank-eyed. “I don’t know how I know. I just know.”

Stunned, her father hands Bessie the snapshots. Two pink-cheeked infants smile out of a double baby buggy. One, the girl, has strawberry curls; the boy’s straight hair is dark. “May I keep these?” Bessie looks down at the next one. The babies are propped up against their smiling daddy on a rug outside in a yard. In the next one, the little boy, Padraic, in powder-blue shorts and a white T-shirt with a bowtie painted on it, and Sylvia, in a too-big-for-her floral dress, are holding hands. Two adults, all gussied up, crouch down on their knees behind them.

“Maureen says they were off to a friend’s wedding. Cute as bugs, aren’t they?” Heather gushes.

Bessie’s eyes burn into the photos. “Where do they live?”

Her mother, setting down a plate of pancakes, answers with a smile, “In a village just outside Shannon.”

Leila, absorbed in her novel until now, pipes up, adjusting her glasses. “And you’ll like this part, Bess. They live next door to the very same farm that Grandma and Grandpa used to own before they immigrated. John and Maureen bought it so they could see the old property.”

Someone knocks quietly on the screen door. A male voice asks politely, “May I come in?”

“Eric.” Art yanks the door open. A tall blonde man, immaculate in jeans and a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, enters. “Come in, sit yourself down.”

The man does as Art suggests while he makes the introductions.

“Bessie, this is Eric Pederssen, the—”

“I know who you are,” Bessie says under her breath. “You’re the lead detective when we were found in the creek bed.”

The adults look at each other before Eric answers, “Yes, I am. How are you feeling?”

“I wish I was dead.” Bessie jumps up and stumbles from the room.

“Thank you,” Eric murmurs while Heather sets down a coffee for him. He stares at the doorway where Bessie disappeared. “The Crown Prosecutor insists we have her positively identify the abductor before we can press charges.” His long fingers drum the table lightly. “I am very aware this will be traumatic for her. Let me know when you feel she is strong enough to handle it. No big rush. Let him rot in jail.”

“I … I don’t think she is emotionally able to …” Heather’s features betray her stress. “All she can talk about is Ash and Jason and how she—”

“Perhaps in a week or so,” Art jumps in, patting his wife’s hand. “We’ll sound her out and get back to you; how’s that?”

Bessie’s voice smacks the air from the doorway. “Terrance Blacksmith,” she spits out. “Or should I call him Harry Mercer? Let’s do it right away. I’m ready.”