The Medium of Memory | ONC2020

6. The Talk

I slept little that night, and when I did, I dreamt of the house and its incessant buzz of memories.

By the following evening, I was irritable and in no mood for a séance, but it had already been scheduled and canceling now would be most impolite. Besides, it was only a small gathering, and I did not want my own weariness to reflect poorly on Mrs. Barrowmore.

Sitting around the table, in the quiet, darkened room, turned out to be a welcome return to normal. I was in control. I knew how to play this game.

I focused on one middle-aged woman, new to our gatherings. As I spread out my consciousness, groping for the sitter's memories, I quickly became aware that something was different. Perhaps I can describe it as a heightened awareness, a depth of sense beyond expectation, such as biting into an overripe pear, but that does not really capture it.

The memories came more clearly and easily to me than usual. I didn't have to search through a haze. They were more crisp, more in focus. But I also experienced them more, as I will explain.

First there was a woman, stern-faced and haggard, seated in a chair, and holding a glass. I could smell the alcohol.

Next, I saw a girl child with curly brown hair, silent tears streaming down her face. "Please Mama," she said, pulling on the woman's hand. **

But then I quickly became the child. I felt the tears on my cheeks, felt fear of the woman, my own mother, and pity for her, too. I needed her, though, and I tugged on her arm again. Then I felt the cold sting of her slap across my face, jarring me out of the memory's grasp.

I was back in the gloom of the candlelit séance room, four pairs of eyes on me as I caught my breath.

As a rule, I keep my own memories locked away during a séance. But this time I couldn't help but think of the orphanage, the girls running and laughing down the long corridors, and of poor little Evangeline, with her brown ringlets and her pensive hazel eyes.

I knew that the sitter was the child in the memory, and I knew what she needed to hear.

"Please forgive me," I said quietly. "I'm so, so sorry." And I didn't know if I was speaking the words on behalf of the mother, or my own words to Evangeline.

I expected the woman to cry, or show some other strong emotion of relief or gratitude or surprise. Instead, she said in an icy, level tone, "Yes, you should be sorry."

------

Afterwards, when we were seated before the fire, the woman's harsh words still rang in my mind.

Mrs. B said, "Something is changing in you." It wasn't a question.

Perhaps, before I continue, a bit of history is finally in order.

 Mrs. Barrowmore was, as she once told me, twice a widow. Her husband, a kind and gentle man, had died of a heart attack after only six years of marriage. Much later, her female companion of many years had succumbed to a lengthy illness.

So, when I first met Mrs. B, she was already accustomed to living alone in her very large house and opening it to girls who needed help making their way in the world. Usually, the girls she hired moved on to find work in a shop or as a tutor. Many found husbands.

She hired me from the orphanage to be her personal secretary, but she soon began to look upon me as the daughter she'd never had. I stayed on, doing various jobs such as shopping, organizing her extensive library and even maintaining her calendar and helping with the household budget.

I think she recognized in me something of her own spirit. At the orphanage, I had a reputation as being highly willful, interested in reading about subjects not suitable for a young lady, and had not pleased my elders by frequently avowing that I would never marry a man.

As time went on I slowly began to trust Mrs. B. My ability to read people's memories became known to her, and thus in time, our business in séances came about.

I knew very well that I relied too heavily on the refuge she provided me. At first I told myself I wasn't ready to be out in the world. Now, several years later, she was the only person who knew my true self, knew about my own regrets, and personal misgivings.

I assumed she would ask next about the séance, but instead she looked into the crackling fire and asked, "So, what about Charlotte?"

I held up my teacup and watched the firelight dance across the surface. "What do you mean?"

"Oh Hattie," she sighed. Then she turned to me and spoke urgently. "I worry about you. You use your gift to bore right into people's minds, their pasts, their feelings. But you never make a real connection with anyone!"

I crossed my arms over my chest and sank back into my chair.

Sometimes, if I stayed quiet when she pestered me about something, she would give up, but she was having none of it tonight.

"You didn't harm those girls." The logs in the fire snapped, sending up a few sparks. She was talking about my "sisters" at the orphanage. Alice, Margaret, little Evangeline... and the others. "In fact, you cared for them more than anyone."

"I left them there."

There was a slight cast of anger to her voice when she said, "If you want to blame someone, blame me. I'm the one who took only you out of that place." I could tell she was looking at me, but I just kept staring into the fire. She had not brought up this subject in a long, long time.

I felt tears welling up in my eyes and willed them to stop. "They trusted me. I said I'd go back for them!"

"And you would have! Heavens, you tried!" I felt like a child being scolded. "It was too late. The fever spread like wildfire, you know that."

I stayed quiet. She tried again, "If you were still there, you likely would have died too." She had once told me that if she had been able to see the future, she would have adopted as many of them as she could, would have paid doctors to staff the orphanage, would have ... "You were one of the lucky ones, to have left before the fever hit. And I'm personally thankful for that," she finished quietly.

My words came out like I was breathing ice. "I don't want to talk about it."

"You have to learn to see it for what it was—a tragedy—so you can let it go," she said gently.

I meditated on the flickering flames straight in front of me, trying to control my emotions, but I felt and heard the rising anger in my own voice when I said again, "I don't want to talk about it."

Finally, she sighed. "You never do. That's the problem, isn't it?"