She couldn’t do that for her mother, couldn’t even do it for their house. But at least she could do it for the birds. At least that. She caught sight of the clear red feeder, its base shaped like a flower. How could she have forgotten the hummingbirds? It was always magical to see the tiny birds hover, dip in for a taste, dart away, faster than bees. They were attracted to red; her mother planted columbine and trumpet vines for them, and she also kept their feeder full.
Standing on tiptoes, Sam removed the scarlet flower from the suction cups sticking it to the window over the kitchen sink. She went back into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Inside was a crystal pitcher filled with sugar syrup. Her mother made it fresh every week. Sam started to pour, then noticed a ridge of frosted sugar around the rim.
The syrup was a few weeks old now. Was it still okay? Maybe Sam could make some more. It had to be simple, but why had she never watched her mother do it? She was pretty sure she had to cook it, or perhaps she could just stir the sugar and water together. That was when it hit her—this was the last hummingbird syrup her mother would ever make.
Sam placed the pitcher back in the refrigerator. She closed the door and left the red flower feeder in the sink. Her heart shrank again—she felt it close up, tight and hard. She thought of the glass sliver. She grabbed it from the brass bowl and headed into the basement, making sure to close the door behind her.
Summer silent, the furnace hulked in the corner. Her dad had a workshop filled with his tools. Sam walked to the far end, toward the laundry room with the washer and dryer, some wooden dryer racks, and a wicker basket of single socks. Her mother had decorated the whitewashed concrete walls with pictures Sam had drawn in elementary school, photographs she had taken more recently.
Sam held the tiny glass shard and made one long, shallow slit on the inside of her left wrist. It didn’t go deep, but it allowed a flower of blood to bloom. A trumpet blossom, bright and red. Cutting had always given her relief, and she needed that right now—to release the pent-up tension and grief. But the first cut did nothing, so she tried again. She stared at the blood, saw the red feeder clustered with the hummingbirds her mother had so mystically called from their hiding places, and she missed her mother so much she began to scream.
Loud, loud, louder, deep in the cellar where no one could hear, screaming as if the house were falling down around her, because the person she loved most in the world had died, was gone forever, would never feed the birds again, would never hug Sam again. Screaming because the world had ended.
27
The New London soup kitchen was located in the parish house of Saint Ignatius Loyola Church at the foot of Bank Street. The Whaling City Shelter was right around the corner. Kate had had to fly to Los Angeles twice in the last week, but today was the first of four days off. The church and shelter were a five-minute walk from her loft. She’d passed them countless times, seeing clients and residents lined up around the block, waiting for a hot meal or a safe bed. Just before lunch, she headed over.
Although Beth had volunteered at both for many years, Kate had never stopped in. Sometimes when Beth was working in town, if Kate wasn’t flying, the sisters would meet at the Witchfire Teahouse on the water side of Bank Street, a place where they could drink Darjeeling and Beth could have her tarot cards read.
Kate passed it now. The storefront was painted violet, the sign dark pink with swirling black letters. Purple taffeta curtained the windows, intended by the owner to create an air of mystery for people who wanted to believe.
“An occult thrill for the suburban set,” Kate had said one snowy afternoon last winter, when they were seated inside on a shabby amber velvet love seat, the space lit by candles and Victorian lamps with fringed silk shades.
“It’s not that,” Beth said. “It’s just fun. Thessaly!” She tried to catch the owner’s eye.
“Thessaly?” Kate asked, her tone translating into, How contrived.
“It’s the name of the thousand-year-old witch in Neil Gaiman’s The Sandman. She adopted it.”
“Okay then,” Kate said. “She knows how to play the part.”
Tall and thin, too young for the long silver hair that Kate was sure was a wig, Thessaly wore a crocheted black dress, black lace-up boots, and big glasses with round black frames.
“If you don’t like it here, why don’t we meet somewhere else?” Beth asked. “You make me feel like an idiot.”
“What are you talking about?” Kate asked.
“You’re so technical, scientific. You don’t have faith; you don’t believe in anything except instruments and gauges, and I respect that. I never tell you to lighten up, to be more spiritual. But you condescend to me. I can tell you think I’m a fool.”
“I do not!”
“Yeah, you do. If I asked Thessaly to read my cards, you’d sit there with a smirk on your face just like you did when I told you her name.”
Kate stared at Beth and knew she was right. She did think the whole Witchfire vibe was bogus, that Thessaly knew how to appeal to bored women who wished they had more in their lives.
“And all your comments about the ‘suburban set.’ What was it you said last week? ‘Housewives having their fortunes told and looking for love.’”
“I wasn’t even talking about you!”
“Well, I’m a housewife.”
“Who runs an art gallery!”
“But what was the crack about looking for love?”
“I don’t know. I was kidding around.”
“You make it sound as if you think I want to have an affair. Looking for love, and truly, what’s so wrong about that?” She narrowed her eyes at Kate as if challenging her.
“Actually, I think I said, ‘Looking for love advice.’”
“No, you didn’t. You said love.”
“I don’t remember. I’m sorry,” Kate said.
“I get belittled enough at home.”
“Pete?” Kate asked. She wanted to Pete bash, to defuse the discomfort.
“Let’s not talk about it,” Beth said. Then, with a sharp gaze, “Maybe you should look for love. It might help you understand what the rest of us go through.”
When Thessaly came over, she refilled their teapot with hot water, but Beth didn’t ask her to throw the tarot. That was the last time the sisters had met here. Beth had never suggested it again, and they’d started going to Dutch’s Tavern, more Kate’s style, for red wine and burgers. Now, passing the teahouse and looking back on the odd conversation, Kate wondered if Beth had wanted to tell her about the man who had so lovingly captured her beauty and soul in that charcoal drawing. Jed.
Lunch was underway at Saint Ignatius. Two women stood behind a long counter, serving what looked like Thanksgiving dinner: turkey with gravy, mashed potatoes, and peas. But it was August in Connecticut, so there was also corn on the cob.
The clientele ranged in age from teenage to elderly. They lined up with trays, carrying their meals to long folding tables set up in two rows. The room had basketball hoops at either end, as well as five easels folded in the corner. It obviously had multiple uses, from dining room to gymnasium to art studio. Was this where Beth and Sam had worked with people on art projects? Kate looked around, scanning all the men’s faces, wondering which one was JH.