Page 41 of Stay Buried

“You go back to bed, Margaret,” he insisted. “You need your rest.”

“I’ll come with you to see if it’s anything I can help with,” Margaret said, tying the belt of her dressing gown.

I got to the front door before they did and pulled it open.

Pearl stood there, wrapped in her wool coat, a gust of icy wind blowing in behind her.

“Dear girl! Come in!” Margaret said. “You’ll catch your death out there.”

I reached for her, pulled her inside.

Her hands were bare and icy. She was pale, white as the snowylandscape she’d come out of.

“Is it your mother?” Thomas asked, taking her hands in his.

Pearl nodded, eyes huge and frantic. “Doctor, she got up out of bed.”

“Well, that’s good, isn’t it? Perhaps she’s—”

“She attacked my father. Biting and clawing, screaming. She moved so fast, she was so strong. It was like… like she had the devil inside her.”

Margaret gasped. “Clarice? Clarice did that?”

“Where is she now?” Thomas asked matter-of-factly.

“Gone,” Pearl choked out, crying, but trying hard not to. “She’s gone. She ran out in her nightgown, feet bare. She’s out in the snow somewhere.” She was sobbing now. “My father, he went to look for her, but he’s hurt. She got one of his eyes, gouged it badly. You’ve got to come, Doctor. Please.”

“Of course,” Uncle Thomas said. “Give me a few minutes to get dressed and gather my bag and we’ll all walk back together. You try to warm up a little in the meantime.”

“I’ll make coffee and get the surgery ready in case you need it,” Margaret said. “Frances, you stay with Pearl—bring her over to the fire to warm up. I’ll go check on Emile.”

Uncle Thomas swiftly moved upstairs to dress.

I led Pearl to the coal stove in the parlor and stoked it. I took her hands in mine and rubbed them, tried to make her warm. My heart was breaking at the thought of all she had been through the last couple of days. I hated how powerless I felt, unable to give her answers or fix things.

“It’s going to be all right,” I said to Pearl, the words feeling hollow, but I needed to fill the silence. Try to say something comforting. And those silly, useless words were all I had; I regretted them immediately.

Pearl looked up at me, her eyes bloodshot. “The woman… who did this, she wasn’t my mother, Frankie. Not anymore.” She began to sob again and I pulled her close, holding her, rocking her, not caring ifmy uncle or aunt came in and saw.

“Tom!” Margaret cried from the kitchen. “Come quick!”

I released Pearl and we ran to the kitchen. Uncle Thomas hurried back down the stairs, feet bare, shirt half buttoned and untucked.

“Is it Emile?” he asked when we all got into the kitchen. All the oil lamps were lit. Aunt Margaret’s face was pale and frightened, ghostly in the flickering light.

“He’s gone,” Margaret said in disbelief.

“Gone?” Uncle Thomas was beginning to lose his composure.

He and I rushed into the sewing room, saw Emile’s torn shirt and coat, his boots on the floor. But there was no sign of the man.

The four of us searched the house. We opened every closet, looked under every bed.

“He must have gone outside,” Pearl said miserably. “Into the snow like my mother did.”

“I don’t understand,” Margaret said. “Why would he leave like that? Go out there without clothes or shoes?”

“It seems to be part of the sickness,” I offered weakly. I rubbed my temples, where a dull ache had started.