Stella nodded, sniffled and wiped her nose as she headed for the stairs. Calliope remained where she was, kneeling on the hardwood floor, hands clenched so tight her nails nearly punctured her palms.
“You were right. This is getting too hard for Stella.” Her whisper was loud enough for Hildy to hear. She couldn’t continue to put Stella through this, not when Emmaline was only going to become worse. Getting her hopes up that this time would be different, only to break her heart and have to put it back together again. Calliope sank back on her heels and looked up at her friend.
“I know.” Hildy held out her hand and helped her up. “It’s what I was trying to tell you before. Emmaline’s beyond you both now. You can’t wish her well, Calliope. Your insights and gifts have their limits.”
“That’s not what Gran used to say.” Calliope looked down the hall to the door to her mother’s room. “She told me I could do anything I set my mind to.”
“If that were the case, you’d have been able to cure your mother years ago. And it’s not just what this is doing to Stella. It’s hurting you, too.”
“I made a promise.” To her Gran. To Emmaline. To herself.
“What good is a promise if it does irreparable harm? Do you want to see her?”
“I don’t want to.” Calliope straightened her shoulders. “But I think I need to.” She took a hesitant step toward the door.
“I’ll be right behind you.”
“I know.” Calliope clenched her fist again before she placed her hand on the knob. Calming herself, tamping down the anger and pain to where she couldn’t find it, she knocked softly and winced at the innocent, innocuous “come in.”
Calliope pushed open the door and stepped inside. The room was cool from the open window and the breeze billowed against the curtains. Emmaline Jones sat in her mother’s Boston rocker, eyes closed, face lifted to the sun. She clutched her fingers around the pendant she always wore—an owl with wide, wise eyes.
“Ma—” Calliope cleared her throat as Hildy touched her arm. “Emmaline,” she corrected herself.
“Yes?” Emmaline turned her porcelain face and smiled up at her daughter. Her mother had always reminded Calliope of a china doll, fragile and elegantly presented, with soft red curls framing her round face. Her flowing flowered dress with a lace collar gave her an old-fashioned appearance, as if she didn’t belong in this time. There was no trace of the disease that had stolen her away, nothing in her amethyst eyes other than stillness. “Hello. Do I know you?”
“We’re friends.” Calliope walked over slowly and when she reached the chair, she dropped down beside Emmaline. Tears blurred her vision, but beyond her mother, outside the window, she saw Xander stoop to talk to Stella, and motioned for her to help him with what was left of the shed.
Calliope’s heart swelled at the sound of Stella’s laughter. It was a balm of sorts against the bruising she and Stella had been taking for these past years.
“What is your name?” Emmaline asked. “Friends have names.”
“Callie.” Calliope purposely chose the nickname her mother had used when she was a child. “I just came to see how you were doing. And to tell you I won’t be by to see you as often.”
“Have you been here before?” Emmaline blinked. “Have we known each other long?”
“I brought Stella to see you. Do you remember Stella?”
If Calliope had any doubts as to her mother’s deteriorating state, they vanished under the shadow that crossed Emmaline’s face. “She’s a trickster. A liar.” Emmaline lurched forward, pointing toward the window and Stella beyond.
“No! That’s not right, she’s—” The sharpness in Calliope’s voice startled even her. A glance outside told her Xander had heard her, but before Stella could look up at the window, he distracted her by pointing to a nearby shrub. Calliope stood up and pulled the window shut. “No, Mama. Enough. Enough, please.” She kneeled in front of her mother, just as she had in front of Stella, and caught her mother’s face in her hands.