Chapter Forty-Four
The next morning when Wade woke up, Helen pretended to be asleep next to him. She kept her eyes closed as she felt his weight
leave the mattress, and she lay still as she listened to the screech of the dresser drawer, then the ruffle of cloth against
his bare skin as he pulled on his pants, then his shirt, then his socks.
She stayed in bed until she heard his truck pull away. She didn’t want to face either of them. Wade was not a good husband,
but Isaac was not a good man. She wasn’t deluding herself into thinking she was a good woman, but at least she could recognize
now that things were broken beyond repair.
She sat up slowly in bed and thought of all the women trapped in past centuries who’d been thrown into asylums for daring
to lose their mind to grief or hopelessness or anger, or even desire. This was her asylum here, and she needed to get out.
As she crossed the bedroom, her body felt unmoored, as if it didn’t belong to her anymore. Her arms heavy, her legs twisted,
her head floating. Her stomach was hollow, and she realized suddenly she was very hungry. She’d barely eaten anything in the
last couple of days.
First, food. Then, escape plans.
Helen walked toward the front of the house, feeling as though the hallway had never been so long and narrow, the walls had
never pressed in on her so much. As she rounded the corner into the kitchen, something dark flew through the air, practically
hitting her in the head. She ducked just in time and the object thudded against the wall.
A raven lay there on the floor, its body at a broken angle. Her mouth dropped open. The raven gave one last twitch before
it went lifeless. She thought of two nights ago in the clearing with the wolves. Just before she had heard the word run, there had been a flash of black, the sound of wings. Of course, it had been a raven with her then too.
She went to the sink to get the stained hand towel. Another bird to bury. The birds were circling her now too.
But when Helen turned back, the dead bird was gone and in its place was her Poe book, lying open to the poem “The Raven.”
She stared at it, a hidden door in her brain cracking open.
Helen brought the book to the table and sat down with it. She read the poem slowly, carefully, pausing to reread one particular
line:
“And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming . . .”
Helen looked up from the book. It all made terrible sense now.
“Holy shit.”
Still in her wrinkled silk nightgown, Helen carried a piece of wood toward the house. She was freezing, her bare legs exposed
to the October morning, but she couldn’t find any reason to get dressed either. Now that she’d put the pieces together, her
decision to escape seemed pointless.
After she got a small fire going in the kitchen’s wood stove, she lay down on the floor in front of it. This was how she would
fade away. She didn’t need a gas oven like Sylvia Plath. She just needed to wait for the dark and the ravens and the wolves
to come for her.
She was unaware of how much time had passed before she heard a soft rapping on the front door. She sat up, resigned to it. Now comes the fall, she thought. It would be a final plunge into whatever this was.
She stood, despondent in her movements. When she opened the front door, she found Agnes standing on the porch in her hiking
clothes and gear, stone-faced. The girl’s normal smile and enthusiastic energy were missing.
“Oh, it’s you,” Helen said, puzzled.
“Are they here?” Agnes whispered.
Helen just looked at her.
“Your husband and his brother,” Agnes said.
“No.”
Agnes entered and nervously glanced around the room as if she were taking stock of what was in it.
“Have you ever met my husband?”
Agnes gave Helen a confused expression. “No, you know I haven’t.”
“I didn’t think so. Why is that?”
“Bad timing, I guess.”
Helen pulled out a chair and gestured. “Have a seat.”
Agnes hesitated. “Where are they?”
“Gone for the day.”
That answer seemed to satisfy Agnes, and she sat down. Helen took the chair across from her.
Agnes said, “I looked up what you asked me to.”
“Me first,” Helen said. “Are you familiar with Edgar Allan Poe’s ‘The Raven’?”
“Um . . . no?”
The Poe book was still on the table, open to the poem. Helen pushed the book in front of Agnes, and the younger woman looked
down at it, her nose scrunching.
“I don’t have time to read this,” Agnes said. “I did what you asked. I need to show you.” She reached into her hiking waist
pack. She pulled out a manila envelope that was folded in half.
Helen ignored her. “The narrator in the poem, he’s losing his mind because he lost his true love, and he thinks—or he hopes—that she’s calling to him one night, but the unexpected visitor, it turns out to be a raven.
But is the raven real? Or is the man going crazy because he’s so consumed with grief that he’s actually talking to no one at all?
” Helen took a deep breath. “Do you understand what I’m saying? ”
“Not really.”
“I’m imagining things that aren’t here. Isaac. He’s not real.”
Agnes leaned forward, nodding. “You mean you agree with Wade now? You think he’s a ghost too?”
“No, I mean he’s a figment of my imagination.”
Agnes’s brow furrowed. “But what about your husband? He sees Isaac too.”
“My husband?” Helen shook her head and looked away. “He’s probably not real either. Maybe I live here alone.”
“What? Helen.”
Helen lowered her head. Her eyes felt heavy.
“You don’t live here alone.” Agnes motioned to the hooks by the door. “There’s a man’s hat there. I’ve seen men’s boots and
jackets and things. You don’t live alone.”
Helen lifted her head, even more distressed now. “I mean, are you even real?”
“Helen, come on.” Agnes smiled at first, but her smile fell away as Helen continued talking.
“It would make sense, wouldn’t it? Of course I would give myself a friend who’s a young woman, someone with her life ahead
of her, someone who could remind me what it was like when I was full of so many possibilities myself.” Helen laughed, but
there was no humor in it.
“Okay, you’re scaring me now,” Agnes said quietly.
“No, it’s actually very poetic,” Helen said. “People love to say Edgar Allan Poe was crazy. And some people think Emily Dickinson
eventually lost her mind too. All our heroes either got tired or went insane. Did you know that?”
Agnes didn’t answer at first, but as Helen stared at her, waiting patiently, Agnes finally said, “No, I didn’t know that.”
“How could you not know that?”
“I don’t even know who Emily Dickinson is.” Agnes held up the manila envelope. “Listen, Helen—”
“You don’t know who Emily Dickinson is?” Helen sat back in her seat. In a strange way, that too made perfect sense. “Ah, so I created a friend for myself who’s
very unlike me so I could educate her in things that I’m interested in. Emily Dickinson was a famous poet of the 1800s.”
Agnes placed the envelope on the table. “I didn’t do great in English class, but I don’t think they covered poetry anyway.”
“There are many things I could tell you about Emily Dickinson, but I think something worth sharing right now is that in her
later years, she went into isolation, and supposedly she spoke to visitors through a closed door. She wouldn’t even see them
face-to-face.”
“Okay.”
Helen stood up from the table. “I think you should go.”
“Helen, we haven’t even talked yet. Please, just sit,” Agnes pleaded. “Let’s just talk, okay?”
“I like you, Agnes.” Helen smiled at her. What a sweet friend she’d invented. “But I’m done with this.”
“Done with what?”
“This!” Helen opened her arms as if to indicate the whole world.
“I understand. I’m fed up with all kinds of shit too. But can you listen for a minute?”
“No, I can’t,” Helen said firmly. Her patience was fading.
“But you need to see this.” Agnes tapped the manila envelope resting on the table.
“Don’t,” Helen warned her. “I said I’m done.”
“Did something happen?” Wide-eyed, Agnes stared up at Helen. “Why are you suddenly like this? What happened since I was here
last?”
“Please leave.”
Agnes stood then, but she didn’t move toward the door. Instead, she took a cautious step toward Helen and reached out as if
to touch her arm, but Helen rocked back on her heels and slapped Agnes’s hand away.
“No, I want you to go!”
“If we could just talk—”
“We don’t need to talk. I’m tired of talking. I’m tired of all of this. Go away!”
Helen squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her fingers over them. She stayed like that for several long beats, and when she
reopened her eyes, she found Agnes was still standing there, wearing a desperate expression.
Helen stared back at her, unblinking, and then she said, “Get. Out. Of. My. House.”
In a hesitant voice, Agnes said, “Okay, I’m sorry. I’ll put this here for you to look at later.” She indicated the envelope
on the table.
“Just go!” Helen shouted as she pressed her hands over her face.
“You really need to look at what’s in the envelope. Helen, did you hear me?”
“I heard you! Now go!”
“Are you sure? I’m worried about you. You’re freaking me out . . .”
“I don’t care! Just leave!” Helen dug her fists into her eyes. “Just go, go, go, go away . . . please.”
With her eyes still squeezed shut, Helen moved her hands to her ears. She didn’t want to see or hear anything more from her
phantom friend, so she didn’t know that Agnes started to cry as she backed away toward the front door. Nor did she know that
when Agnes reached it, she opened it but made no move to leave.
Agnes tried one more time, spoke loudly enough to be sure she’d be heard. “Helen?”
“Just leave me alone!” Helen shouted.
Agnes stumbled back and exited the house, leaving the door ajar.
“Go!!!!!!!”
As Helen shouted the word, a powerful gust of wind kicked up, the kind of wind that shouldn’t be inside a house, mighty and
mystical and magical. The wind slammed the door shut, and it carried the manila envelope off the kitchen table and under the
side table. Helen’s eyes were still shut, so she didn’t see the envelope disappear from sight, but she heard the door slam,
and it made her flinch.
At last, she uncovered her ears and opened her eyes to find herself alone in the kitchen.
Alone, as she suspected she’d been this entire time.
She collapsed into the kitchen chair, exhausted.