The Medium of Memory | ONC2020

10. The Confrontation

Charlotte had hidden the truth from me. She had used me for her own ends.

I stood gazing out the window, though little was visible beyond the darkened pillars of the porch.

I finally turned and settled myself on the settee, a lamp burning low nearby, intending to peruse some more of the books from the bookcase that was at arm's length. I was fighting a rising anger—anger at being lied to, at being brought here, at being used for my abilities ... and at my own weakness for allowing myself to care so strongly.

As I settled back, my eyes casually scanned the room. And halted. There, some distance across from me, in the well-worn armchair near the fire, was Clara. Her head was bent down, her eyes fixed upon some needlework. Though the firelight lit her face with harsh contours, I could tell that she was much younger than I'd last seen her, like she was the first day I saw her fighting with her mother in front of the house.

Was she a ghost or only a memory? Were they so very different? I wanted to speak to her, but it chilled me to think that she might speak back.

I watched her silently for several minutes. At one point she looked up, straight at me it seemed, but her face registered nothing and she turned back to her detailed work.

Faintly, I heard the sound of a baby crying. She heard it too, for her head snapped up. It cried again. She had begun to set down her needlework on the arm of the chair, when her mother peeked in from the adjoining piano room.

"He's crying," she said. "Did you leave him upstairs alone?"

Clara rose from her chair. "He was asleep."

"I told you, it's not safe to leave them at that age. You need to be with that child at all times."

Clara didn't reply, but hurried toward the main stairs. I grabbed a candle and followed her.

When I got upstairs, Clara was gone. I peered into the bedrooms. The barest moonlight shone in through the windows. No Clara, no baby, no sound.

I stood in the doorway of the empty room at the end of the hall. Closing my eyes, I saw it as it might have looked. A bed with a pale blue covering, a nightstand with a lamp and a book lying upon it. I pictured the young Charlotte, huddled on the floor with the bracelet in her hands, moonlight from the window glinting off it.

I no longer knew what were memories from the house and what was my own fanciful imagination. The line between them had become blurred so gradually that I hadn't realized it had happened. Was this what it was like as Clara went mad?

"No, Mama, please don't!"

Clara, wearing a yellow nightdress, sobbed from near the doorway, so close to me I felt I could reach out and touch her, but I didn't dare.

Early morning sunlight now streamed through the window.

"This has gone on long enough, Clara! Neither of them are coming back, your sister or the baby."

Her mother ripped bedclothes off the mattress and threw them into a trunk. "I've sold the furniture to Mr. G---. Lord knows we can use the extra money. He'll be here with his sons to pick it up later this morning."

"But it's all we have left of her. Don't you miss Charlotte?" Clara was nearly hysterical.

Her mother turned to her fiercely. "Whether right or wrong, I sent your sister away. And after your... troubles... we couldn't very well have her come back. She hates us now... and she's better off without us." I thought their mother looked sad, but I really couldn't tell for sure.