The Speed of Mercy by Christy Conlin (good books for high schoolers txt) 📕

“That’s just a story, Mal. When you live here you know all the old stories, the weird woman by the shore, stuff like that.”

“Grace, you know what I’m saying is true, even if it sounds crazy.”

Just then there was a loudspeaker announcement in the background, a page for Grace.

“I do believe you, even though, yes, it sounds totally crazy.”

“And I am looking into Sodality. But I’m also looking into this Offing Society, this group of women who used to meet. It came from the Old World, coastal communities, island cultures.”

“Mal . . . why don’t you call Lark Collins? She can better advise you than I can. She hosts the morning news show. Have you heard it?”

“I’ve been listening to it a bit while I’m here. Do you think she knows anything?”

“She’ll be able to tell you who might. It’s just history and stories getting turned into fairy tales and myths. You have to understand how vulnerable these women are. We can’t even find them.”

“That Seraphina woman came and found me. Maybe she would know?”

Grace was quiet. She appeared to be hesitating. “Did Seraphina say anything about Stella and Dianne?”

“She was talking about keeping people safe, and danger coming. She gave me a bag of dried herbs and stuff. She was talking periwinkle. And a cottage.” Grace was silent but Mal could tell she was listening. And Mal knew deep inside that Seraphina, despite her strange clothes and loud voice proclaiming various sorts of glory and evil, wasn’t crazy at all.

Periwinkle Morning.

Lost in Time.

Now

Stella woke up on the loveseat. The toilet paper in her panties felt stiff. Her thumb was festering where the window glass had pierced it. It was red and hot, half her hand puffed up like an inflatable glove. Dianne sat in the chair across from Stella. The fire had died down and only the tiniest glow simmered in the hearth. “Not feeling too good, are you? I think you got an infection in that hand of yours. You got a fever. I felt your forehead. I’m not feeling so good myself, but I don’t have no fever.” Dianne wheezed as she went into the kitchen.

Stella had hoped a good night’s sleep would make them both feel better. She missed the centre, the structure of the days, the weeks, her walks with Dianne. Cat. They had come all the way to Periwinkle Cottage, but Stella hadn’t remembered enough. They had hidden themselves away — that’s one thing they did. Stella missed the institutional smell of the centre, what it represented. The predictability. The halls. The people. Fred and Bob. Charlotte Pacific’s visits. Yoga Mondays and Crafting Tuesdays. The paths and bench by the river. Her Queen Anne chair and her clock. Her photo on the bookshelf. This cottage was full of echoes and silhouettes, flickers, the way an empty space is a reminder of what is gone, Stella thought. The centre, for all its strangeness, was a reminder of life, the strangeness of it, the worthiness of it.

Dianne came back from the kitchen and set down a cup of steaming tea in front of Stella. “Sure you don’t recollect anything, Stellie, my girl? Remember your uncle — he always said you needed to go looking in the shells. Remember even that? He told me to tell you that and so I am, for what it’s worth. He said he thought what you needed to know was hidden back in 1980. I know, girl. I know it’s forty-some winding dark years past.”

Dianne walked to the window and peered out. Then she lumbered to the sofa, stretching and settling into raspy, slow breath.

Stella sipped the tea. It was salty and sweet, and the pungent steam tickled her nose and sinuses. She thought of Granny Scotia, of Cynthia. She rubbed her temples. Deep inside her head an ache fluttered about. It was quiet in the cottage, except for Dianne’s breathing and the sound of the surf outside.

Late-Night Visitors.

Then

Stella and her father are in the car, heading over to Granny Scotia’s. He’s going fly-fishing, alone, and then spending a few nights at the Faculty Club at the university, while Stella stays at Cedar Grove.

“Dad, you never told me what the moving company said. We’ve been here for two weeks. I just want to know.” She wants to see the photos, ones of her mother, of her with her mother.

Her father stares ahead at the road. He reaches for the knob on the radio and then stops himself. He clears his throat. “Stella, I wish you’d stop asking me. Do I remind you of a truck driver? I told you to take anything you really wanted with you when we left.”

The dull vibration deep in Stella’s head starts to pick up pace.

“Didn’t you do that?”

“Sure. I mean, I packed stuff I needed. It was hard to decide.”

“Okay, I’ll tell you the truth. I decided we didn’t need anything from our old life. I told the landlady the Salvation Army was coming to get everything. It was all donated.”

Stella bites her lip and tries not to cry. Her mind is noisy, her brain pulsing, her heart beating in her ears.

“Don’t give me a hard time about it, okay? We can get new things, Stella. It’s only stuff.”

It’s all gone. She only has what she has stored in her head. She knows why he did this — because he wants no reminders of the past. What is out of sight is out of mind. Granny is right when she says that her father stores things away in rooms in his mind. It’s how he navigates his mind, like it’s a building and he controls all the space.

It’s almost noon when she gets out of the car, slamming the door, crushing his words. He reaches over and rolls down the passenger window. “Stella —”

“Leave me alone, okay? I just want you to leave me alone.” She stamps towards the house