Chapter 14
14
W hen Flora returned to work, something at Rainshadow had changed. It was clear as soon as she stepped into the barn that the horses were agitated, like they hadn’t been fed. There was a water hose left on, still running, next to the barn. It trickled into a deep, muddy pool that had wound like a black snake into one of the lavender fields. Flora turned it off, fed the horses, and decided that she had to go knock on the front door.
She rapped on the door, first a few quick taps, then stood waiting. She wasn’t looking forward to a confrontation with Sylvia, but there was something wrong, something giving her an uneasy feeling, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to work until she knew what was going on. She didn’t really believe there was anything evil here, but her conversation with Blythe had unsettled her.
She waited for a long time after knocking, but there was only silence in Rainshadow Abbey. She knocked again, harder, knowing it was pointless. Then, on an impulse, she tried the doorknob and it gave easily, invitingly. Flora opened the heavy door, and stepped inside the cold, silent house.
Flora had stayed in the house a few times when Lisa asked her to dog sit, so she was familiar with every room except, of course, the master bedroom. As she crept inside, shutting the door behind her, a few floorboards creaked. She told herself she wasn’t sneaking, she was looking for Sylvia, worried about her, doing the right thing, but no amount of reassurance made her less nervous, made her heart stop pounding.
What if something had happened and Sylvia or Ethan were hurt?
“Sylvia?” she called out, but her voice sounded quiet, girlish. She stood still. The house was tomb quiet. “Ethan?” Her voice was even smaller.
In the grand dining room the table was dressed with burned-down red candles in low-set brass candlesticks, their red wax dripping onto the golden damask tablecloth. A bowl of spoiling fruit (along with a few gnats), and a plate with nothing but unrecognizable scraps sat among a few wine glasses, some still with a few drops of wine. The room had the light scent of decay, and the air of a baroque painting, with its crystal glasses, gilded porcelain, and rotting fruit. All it needed was a skull to complete the image.
She looked in the kitchen. It was pristine. She assumed that the cooks picked up after themselves, then came in the next morning to finish up, but nothing had been cleaned here for a day or two. The living room, completely redone by Sylvia and Ethan, was dark, with rich, bourbon-brown leather furniture and heavy wine-red velvet drapes.
Sylvia certainly had a taste for the dramatic, Flora thought. If she owned Rainshadow, she would lean into the more rustic charm, would replace the velvet drapes with light cotton, the leather Chesterfield sofa with a soft, comfy down couch in a soft color like blue.
And she wouldn’t leave filth sitting out on the dining room table every night, or leave the horses hungry.
“Sylvia?” Flora called again.
For the first time, she heard a noise, a rustling, coming from an upstairs bedroom. It could be a person, but it occurred to her that it could be a rodent, or something else. She hated rats and mice, a problem in many of the houses on the rural island.
She took the stairs slowly, her heart pounding. She told herself that going inside of the house was the right thing to do, that Sylvia and Ethan might need her help, but she still felt like she was doing something wrong, or even dangerous. Blythe’s warnings were getting under her skin, so much nonsense wrapping itself around her like smoke.
Upstairs, there was a strange, earthy smell that Flora couldn’t place. It was not the stench of rot, more like the smell of a body that has been in a bed too long. Not totally unpleasant, but familiar, intimate, much too intimate. Flora was more nervous than ever, feeling like she was entering Sylvia’s inner sanctum. She couldn’t feel Ethan’s presence here. The realization that he had such a strong presence gave her an unsettled feeling, too.
“Sylvia,” Flora whispered, turning to the first bedroom, which contained only an expensive wood dresser and a regal-looking wood bed with large, dark wood spires for posts. The mattress was bare, and the room was empty, but unclean, stale and dusty. There were two other bedrooms upstairs, both with the door closed.
She tried the next one, but it was locked, then crept down the hall to the master bedroom. She put her hand on the door and let it rest for a moment. This was her last chance to turn around, walk out, and go home. She didn’t know why she was afraid of what she would find behind the door, but she could feel her heart thumping as she turned the unlocked doorknob.
Inside, the deep odor of a sleeping human body, a person who has been in bed for days, was almost like a fog. The room was dark, all of the windows had thick draped curtains, pulled shut, and the only light came from the bathroom, spilling out of an open door, where a fan was running, making the only noise in the house.
There, in the bed, was the small, vulnerable form of Sylvia. Flora took a few creeping steps closer and saw Sylvia’s gray face peeking from beneath a rumpled navy blue linen sheet. A tangled rat’s nest of dark hair looked smeared across the pillow. For a moment, Flora’s stomach turned, and she was certain the woman was dead. But, just as Flora was going to run from the room, she saw her breathe, soft and ragged.
“Sylvia,” she said, going to the woman. “Sylvia, are you alright?”
Sylvia’s eyes fluttered open and she looked around, unseeing, unmoving. Flora went to her and knelt down close to her. “I think you need help. Where’s Ethan?”
“Not here.” Sylvia’s voice was so soft.
“Should I call an ambulance?”
On the nightstand were a disorganized selection of pill bottles and a silver dish with two used syringes. The sight caused Flora to shiver. She hated needles, and could never comprehend that some people used them for recreational purposes.
“No, don’t call anyone,” said Sylvia. She struggled to sit up. “Who let you in?”
“The door was open.”
Sylvia nodded at this, like it was not especially surprising. “Can you get me some water? There are cups in the bathroom.”
Flora nodded and went into Sylvia’s personal bathroom, which felt like an additional violation, though Sylvia didn’t seem especially upset. She found a stack of little white paper cups next to the brass sink and filled one. A quick look around the bathroom revealed a black glass perfume bottle, more pills, including some loose and scattered around the sink, and yet another syringe, spent and resting on the edge of the sink.
“Here you go,” Flora said, handing Sylvia the water as she struggled to sit up.
“I just want to keep sleeping,” said Sylvia, and there was something childlike in her voice.
“You should go to the doctor,” Flora said, recoiling at the sight of Sylvia. Her lips were papery and seemed like they were crusting. The whites of her eyes were a pale yellow, and her skin had a sickly gray cast. Her breath was ragged, and she kept closing her eyes as if to keep the room from spinning, her tissue-thin eyelids so translucent Flora could see the tiny veins running through them.
Flora had never seen a dying person before, but she couldn’t believe Sylvia could live the way she was much longer.
“I can’t,” Sylvia said. “I mean, I’ve already been to the doctor. I’ll be ok, but not…” She paused, as if not knowing how to continue. She breathed out slowly. “Going to the doctor won’t help me, Flora.”
“Sylvia,” Flora said, insistent, “I don’t know what’s wrong, but I think you need?—”
“You don’t know what’s wrong, and you can assume anything you want, I don’t care.” Sylvia breathed, gathered herself. “I’m sorry. I… are the horses alright? Did you feed them and?—”
“And let them out, yes, I did. They’re fine.”
Sylvia nodded. Her eyes were still closed. She drank the last of the water and held the cup out for more. Flora refilled it and Sylvia drank. She seemed to be gaining strength. Her breathing, which had been so soft it was nearly imperceptible, was becoming ragged and intentional, like she was trying to breathe life back into herself by sheer force of will.
“What are you doing here, Flora?” she finally asked, opening her eyes. “Why are you in my bedroom?”
“I found the horses unfed and the hose running. I didn’t know if I should call the police, or just come check on you…”
“You did the right thing,” Sylvia said, leaning over and putting her head in her hands like she might be dizzy. “Thank you. I’m just really dehydrated. If you hadn’t come…” Sylvia let the words drift away into the stuffy air of the bedroom.
“Do you want more water?”
“I think if I have more I’ll throw up.”
“Ok,” Flora said. “But, Sylvia, you’re really sick. You can’t?—”
Sylvia laughed a sad, rueful laugh. “I’m the only one who can get myself out of this situation, Flora. Not a doctor. Not you. Especially not you.”
Then it clicked. The hypodermic needles, the ups and downs, the vicious mood swings all swam across Flora’s vision. Sylvia was an addict of some sort. Flora didn’t know enough about drugs to guess what it was that she was addicted to, but all the cliché signs were there. A wave of something fluttering between pity and disgust passed over Flora, and she wanted to recoil from Sylvia and flee from the room.
Sylvia was looking at Flora, and there was an inexplicable smirk on her face.
“Whatever you’re thinking,” she said, her voice throaty, “you’re wrong.”
Flora only smiled at Sylvia, pitying her.