OoOoOoO

"They are bigots, the lot of them."

"Mother…" I sigh, delicately taking out the pins that hold my hair. This is a conversation I am not in the mood for. The sky is dark, the air is cold, and Luther Hayes has walked out of my life over rumors – stupid, vile rumors.

"They are, Alice." Mother tucks a yawning Cynthia into bed across the small room. "Every one of them who treats you differently, negatively, as if you aren't the wonderful girl I know you to be…" She sighs then, too, drops her head and mutters, "I have grown tired of pretending otherwise."

I am confused by her words, but she quickly kisses Cynthia's forehead, then comes to kiss mine, and then she bids us goodnight and heads off to her own room.

OoOoOoO

During the month that follows, the subject of Luther Hayes is never brought up again. In fact, I keep to myself, in town, in the orchard, in the house. I try not to make eye contact with anybody, and if I do it is brief. I smile only out of sheer politeness, unless I am home with only Mother and Cynthia; Father doesn't really talk to me anymore, not like he used to, so I don't talk to him.

It's strange, because he doesn't really talk to Mother, either. There's a disconcerting tension in the air between them that I do not only sense, but I see. And I cannot figure out its source.

OoOoOoO

It's the last week of August. The humidity is low due to the rainstorm we had over the weekend, but it remains uncomfortably warm for most. I spent most of the month inside, cleaning or sewing, using any scraps and material I could find to create full outfits for Mother, Cynthia, and myself. I've given up on going into town, unless Mother needs the help; she is rather capable without me, however, so I stay home. Someone needs to watch Cynthia after all, as Miss Sarah is gone and has yet to be properly replaced. I suppose word about the odd Alice Brandon has circulated farther than just our town.

"Alice! Alice, look what I found in the woods just beyond the orchard!" Cynthia sprints into our room at top speed, nearly running into me. I take a break from folding our freshly clean laundry into our trunks to see what she has. She carries three long green stems, blue-violet irises blossomed at the tips. "They are very pretty, aren't they?"

They are, so I nod.

"Except," I start with a smirk, "I distinctly remember Mother telling you not to go into the woods behind the orchard."

Cynthia's bright smile dims only slightly. She hums a bit, unsure of how to respond properly. I only laugh, which she visibly relaxes at, knowing I won't give her away. I tell her we'll put the flowers in a vase filled with water, and also that she really should listen to Mother from now on.

I know she won't. Not always. But I accept her consent as a guarantee anyway.

"Alice, Cynthia, I'm going into town for some much needed groceries," Mother announces from downstairs. "Mind the bugs while I'm out. If I get back and house is full of mosquitos, you are both moving to the shed."

Cynthia giggles at the threat she knows isn't a serious one. I laugh, too, before opening my mouth to deliver a playful, sarcastic response.

That's when I am suddenly no longer in my room.

The wooden floorboards transform into a mucky brown earth and the ceiling disappears, showing instead a blue sky in its place. My trunk no longer stands in front of me, but a path – a dirt path, surrounded by tall trees and flickering insects thriving in the humidity of the Mississippi air. I know it's Mississippi, because the trail is familiar. It is one I've taken before.

It is the trail into town.

Mother is walking down it now…but she is not alone. Somehow I know she is not alone.

Then I see him. There is a man wearing a dark suit with a matching hat that throws a shadow across his face. I realize he's a threat the moment it's already too late. He ambushes her when she walks by, pulling out a knife from his pocket. Mother's throat is slit, her body hitting the ground. I scream.

The laundry drops to the floor. Cynthia and her flowers are left forgotten in the room. I dart down the stairs, skipping every other step. Mother hasn't left yet; she heard me scream and is coming to check on me when I meet her at the foot of the stairs. I run straight into her, wrapping my arms around her like she can't ever leave our home if she is embraced by them. The story of my vision is out of my mouth before she has time to ask what is wrong. I cry when I am done telling her what I have seen.

"Don't leave. Please, Mother, you have to believe me," I plea, desperate for her not to go, not to turn out like Phillip. I could not survive another tragedy. And this would be so much worse, I think.

There was a time, years ago, when I felt betrayed by my mother and accused her actions wrongfully. The first days when talk of "that uncanny child of the Brandons" flowed uncaringly out of people's mouths, when kids no longer wanted to be my friend, when doctors refused to treat me, when my parent's customers disappeared… My mother was the one to counsel me to keep quiet about my premonitions. She said they weren't important, that it was unnecessary to foresee things that may or may not happen. If it was going to rain that day, though the sun shined in the morning and somebody didn't think to pack their slicker, then so be it, it was not my business.

My heart nearly broke at her words, at the time. I had only ever felt the need to help people. I saw things they could not, so why should I not give them guidance when I could? My mother's insistence that I keep quiet hurt me, and I shunned her love for weeks when I was old enough to think more on it – a sort of late rebellion for my ten-year-old self.

However, I was young and naïve. I did not understand her intentions as clearly as I do now.

Mother only wanted to protect me, for I was not old enough to protect myself. Or to feed myself. She had me and Cynthia to feed and care for – if customers were disappearing because of me, she had to do something to stop it, no matter what. I understand that now.

Yet, even during my adolescence, despite the precautions she took that I condemned unfair to me, Mother treated me no differently than she does today, than she ever did. She adored me, and I came to realize that, and the truth. And when my positive spirit starts getting worn out, it is my mother who replenishes my optimism. Even through this year of harrowing twists in my life, she is keeping me from not falling apart completely. I owe everything to her.

Out of anyone in this world, I cannot lose my mother.

"Shh… There, there, flower." Mother gently pats my head, which lies against her shoulder. "You must breathe and focus – panicking is never a good option when lives are at stake."

I sniff, then lift my head. Mother looks thoughtful, albeit troubled. Grateful and relieved that she believes me, that we don't have to fight over this, I take in her words as wise advice.

"I'm sorry. You're right." I let her free. She walks to the front door, and for a second I worry she's going to leave anyway, despite what I just told her. However, instead of leaving, she locks it and secures the chain.

"Close tightly all the windows – we'll pin blankets and towels over them as night falls. Alice, perhaps if I take a different route?" She pauses, rethinking; she and I both know that road is the only way to get to town on foot, and right now her car is one wheel short of driving. "How about tomorrow, then? Is tomorrow safe, do you wonder?"

I blink at her. Is she asking me to peer into the future, on purpose?

"Momma?" Cynthia peeks delicately out the front window; she's already closed it, quick to follow our mother's instructions. I didn't even realize she'd followed me out of our room. "Momma," she says again, still peering outside, "why is there a man out there?"

My stomach drops.

Mother and I run to Cynthia at the same moment, pulling her back; no one is more protected in this household than Cynthia, I think. Looking out the window, I see nothing but the drive and the entrance into the trees where I know a man is waiting for his victim.

"I'm sorry. I didn't see anybody," Cynthia whispers, eyes wide. She was only asking about my vision.

Mother relaxes her grip on Cynthia. She answers, "I have not a clue in the world why someone is out there. We are the only property close to these woods. Now, close the rest of the windows, quickly."

I race Cynthia to the kitchen, where I get the window and she gets the door. Not feeling safe enough with the windows uncovered even in daylight, I pin the sink towel on the wall so it hangs over the glass (we don't own curtains). After the three bedrooms upstairs have their windows closed off, I join Cynthia on the sofa in the Sitting room. Mother is there, standing in front of the fire place, loading Father's pistol, which seems to frighten my sister more. I wrap my arms around her. She leans into my chest and hugs me, eager for some sort of comfort.

OoOoOoO

Comfort does not come easy.

It doesn't come at all, really.

Cynthia and I sleep in Mother's room that night, and throughout the next day Mother constantly questions if I have seen anything of the dangerous man. I tell her I don't, but I can sense that it's still dangerous, that he is still out there, waiting. She listens to me.

There is no reason I can think why a man dressed in a nice suit would want to murder my mother, let alone wait specifically for her. At first, I believed he was a mad man and Mother would have merely been in the wrong place at the very wrong time. But I still got the feeling he was out there, patient, waiting. And then I saw him again. It was a blur of a vision, but he was there, and I realized he is not only waiting – he is searching.

It doesn't make sense. Not to me; not to Mother. She doesn't have enemies.

We keep locked in the house, though. We stay inside for another night and the following day. I want to be cautious. Very cautious. And I thank God every chance I get that Mother is taking me seriously, because it is the only thing keeping me from tears.

As the sun sets on the third night, Cynthia's stomach rumbles with hunger. She doesn't complain when Mother hands her a peach. We had been running out of food the day Mother planned to go into town; now we are out. The three of us satiate our appetites with fruit from the orchard. We don't go out for anything else. Father will be home tomorrow (afternoon or evening). We plan to hold off until then.

To pass the time less fearfully, Mother tells stories with bright characters and happy endings. I enjoy them as much as Cynthia. There's something about beautiful princesses overcoming whatever bad things happen in their life, finding a handsome prince or warrior or soldier that treats them so nicely, fighting for a future they deserve and winning it brilliantly. I start to wish I can be as effortlessly indestructible as the heroines in the stories seem to be.

As Mother begins the climax of her latest tale, we hear a loud noise outside, like a bang. Everything goes silent for a moment.

There's another bang, and all at once, Mother and I are standing up, too quick for our feet to keep up with, and stumbling to the window. We each pull back a side of the blanket that covers the glass.

The moonlight casts shadows across the land. There is a distinct shadow by the shed. A shadow in the shape of a man.

His head turns, and although I don't know if he can see us through the darkness, I know he is facing us.

Then he starts to move, headed toward the house.

"Mother!" I cry, jumping back, my stomach fluttering painfully, sending ripples of anxiety through my entire body.

Mother is flinging Cynthia into her arms while blowing out the two candles we have lit for light. She orders me upstairs and I don't hesitate. Mother is right behind me, Cynthia clinging to her. She pries Cynthia off her in the hallway and ushers us both into our room, demands we stay calm and focused and that I am to look after my sister at all costs, and that we are to hide under Cynthia's bed. Mother hovers by the door, pistol suddenly in her hand.

All we have now to do is wait.

Seconds go by and nothing happens. I start to count, in my head, the passing time. I am to seventy-nine seconds when the porch creaks loudly and the front door rattles.

Holding her free hand out, Mother backs Cynthia and me deeper into our room, whispering to us to get under Cynthia's bed. My sister immediately complies, but I hesitate.

A bold click resonates through the still house – the sound of the door unlocking. The intruder has no problem with the chain, and suddenly he's inside.

He's inside!

Mother edges little by little out the door, just enough to see and aim well. All I can wonder, is when did Mother become so brave? She's not even shaking, like I am.

There is no sound for a moment. The whole world is quiet, except the pounding of my pulse in my ears; it seems too loud to me, like the shadow man downstairs can hear it and locate my family accordingly. But I know it can't logically be a guide for him, that nobody else can hear it, so I ignore it and hold my breath.

I feel the hem of my dress being tugged, and I know it is Cynthia begging me to get under the bed with her. But I can't move, can't leave our mother to defend us alone. And I know that, if Mother were to lose to this intruder, Cynthia would not be quiet enough for hiding to matter anyway.

We listen as the man moves. Adrenaline shoots through my veins with each floorboard that utters a groan. The intruder halts. By the noise, I can picture his hands moving around Mother's writing table close to the door, searching for something – a lamp? – a weapon?

So abruptly that it makes me jump, the man's voice rings through the still house with startling sound.

And familiarity.

"Helen? Girls?" he calls.

"Father!" I gasp in unison with my mother's relieved, "Oh, sweet Jesus!"

"Up here, Henry," Mother calls, as she jogs to the stairs, and Cynthia and I scramble after her, eager for the security our father brings us.

A lantern fades on.

"Papa!" Cynthia flings herself at him before his eyes have the adequate amount of time to adjust to the light; when they do adjust, they go wide.

"What in the—"

We are too happy to have him home to care what he sees when he looks around the room.

"Oh, Henry, you have no idea the nightmare we have been living here." Mother hurriedly continues to fill him in on the details, as Cynthia and I cling to him; he gets irritated with our tugging on him and shoos us off.

As Father listens, his eyes narrow, very slightly, and then shift to me, and I cannot help the feeling his look brings, as if there is an underlying meaning in them, a message, something significant. It makes me feel I am the accused, though I have done nothing.

When Mother finishes, Father holds his palms up, steps away from Cynthia and I, and turns slowly, surveying the current state of our home. It's a mess, to be quite honest – there is dust on the mantle and dishes in the sink and the air is stale from no fresh air in days. The empty cupboards in the kitchen seem to be the final straw for Father's patience. He repeats our story, deliberately skeptical; so it surprises me that when Mother insists he go search the surrounding forest tomorrow he says he will go now. We watch wide-eyed as Father grabs a lantern and heads out. We watch the lantern float through the trees, coming and going, as Father bravely searches.

When he gets back, he's laughing at us. It is not amused laughter; it is incredulous, frustrated laughter, on the hint of mocking.

"There is nobody in those woods, Helen," he says. "There never has been, I can guarantee it. You've kept you and the girls locked away like prisoners over a silly fantasy." He gets louder. "After traveling for days, working hard so I am able to get home early, I come home to no hot meal, a dirty, stuffy house, and a wife and children who need a good washing up themselves. This is not what I want to come home to, Helen!"

"I am sorry for the trouble, Henry. Alice was sure—"

Father does not let Mother finish; he turns to me instead, still loud. "Alice, your goddamn stories need to stop! Do you hear me?"

I don't meet his dark eyes.

"Do you hear me, Alice?"

"Yes, Father."

"This is the last time I ever want to hear about them. Put away your childish behavior, because you continue to cause problem after problem. I expected better from you."

I bite my tongue, hold back tears, not bothering with a response, knowing he doesn't appreciate being talked back to.

"Go to your room, Alice," Father says after a moment. "Go to your room and think about the grief you put your mother and sister through."

I sulk, but head upstairs without argument. Surprising even to me, I don't feel like arguing. Part of me is so relieved that the threat is over for now that I am able to ignore any urge in me to explain to Father that I am not inclined to believe that that man was never out there or that he won't be back.

Cynthia comes in moments later. Exhaustion has embraced her. She climbs into her bed. I make myself useful and tuck her in tight, wishing her sweet dreams. She grins, saying she always has good dreams when everyone is home – me, Mother, Father.

Although drained of energy as I feel I am, sleep does not come instantly. Every time I close my eyes, that dark man is there, waiting. So I stare at the ceiling until my eyes burn, and my lids shut just long enough to sedate the fire before opening again, ridding my mind of the image I dread seeing.

"Alice, sweetie, are you awake?" Mother's whisper floats in from the doorway. I sit up tiredly. "I know you probably want some decent sleep after the last couple days, but I came to talk to you."

I can only see her shadow. Her head turns toward Cynthia, checking if the little one is awake. She isn't.

"In the middle of the night?" I whisper back.

"Call me crazy, but I was worried about you."

"Me?"

"Of course! Now, Alice, you will be honest with me, won't you?"

Mother pulls the pin out of the wall above the window and catches the blanket that covered it. Moonlight shines through, and I can see her more clearly.

Her words put me on edge.

"I am always honest with you…" I say.

She smiles thoughtfully as she sits on the edge of my mattress. "You feel things strongly, yes? And sometimes, you see things."

By 'things' I know she means the future. I nod.

"And these things, they… they come true, more often than not, correct? So, why do you think you see these things? Is your imagination, Alice?"

"No!" I whisper desperately. "No, Mother, I see them. I know them. And I can't explain it, because I don't understand it. I just do!"

"Shh, shh," she hushes me, calms me. "I know, Alice. I know. I also know it has been years since you were last troubled by these things you feel. I am only concerned there is something you are not telling me because you fear of my reaction. If there is anything you want to tell me, Alice, I will listen, and I will love you no less."

A breath I didn't know I was holding is let out. I expected a stern voice and counseling on how to be good and instead Mother surprises me by giving me the option to be myself with no consequences. Suddenly, I fling myself at her, hugging her, burying my face into her neck, and I say, "Thank you."

She laughs lightly, evidently confused. "Whatever for, my flower?"

"For believing me. For trusting me. For staying. I did not ask to be like this and everybody is so different about it and… I know I act strong, but I don't know how I would cope without you."

"Alice, you have never given a thought to the negative things people have said about you over the years your entire life – do not let Bert and Louisa or Mary Beth or that boy thwart your sunshine; and you have a lot of sunshine."

I want to smile, but I don't.

"I just…" I start, and then stop, unsure. Since we're being honest, I think, I might as well ask the question that's been on my mind for months, if not years. Because everything about me has always been questioned as dark and lately I've been starting to believe it.

"What plagues you, dear?" Mother gently asks.

"Why… Why do I see these things? Is it…the Devil?"

Mother surprises me by laughing. "I have never heard of anybody possessed by the Devil going out of their way to save others' lives and protect their wellbeing. Have you?"

After a moment, I laugh, too. That does sound rather ridiculous.

Mother continues, "The way people insist that everything must be negative in this world… It drives me mad! You are a gifted child. The Devil has not possessed you; but the Lord. He has a plan for you. One day, Mary Alice – you'll see – you will be a part of something magnificent. People will respect you, be grateful to have you, love you."

It all sounds awfully nice, but… "Still, how can you know for sure?"

"My dear, I do not have to have your gift to know your future." Looking down at me, her smile widens. "And let me not forget the number of parties you will be invited to, no doubt, hmm?"

I stare at the woman in front of me, who I undeniably resemble – I can be her exact image in twenty or so years – and as I see her smiling determinedly at me, confident in her predicting words about the gift that has only led me from trouble to more trouble… I decide, once and for all, to believe her. A mother is always right, they say. And my mother knows me best. Sometimes even better than I think I know myself. But now, I think, she's helped me see:

I am no devil.

I am no demon.

And I will not stop being me just because I am different. I do good things for people, and if they do not want to accept my help at least I can rest easy knowing I tried.

I smile.

"Parties?" I repeat, growing excitement obvious in the way I ask. Mother winks, and I figure: Why stop at parties? "Will I find true love, too? Like in the stories?" I feel like I am Cynthia's age asking, but I can't help myself all the same.

Mother claps her hands against her lap. "Oh, yes! I can even picture exactly how he will be. He will be perfect for you: intelligent, strong, dependable, able to keep up with you while still being calm – the rain to your sunshine. That's the only way to make rainbows, by the way, and it keeps you grounded, because I know how you get sometimes." I laugh. "And of course he must be romantic; gentle, but firm; entertaining, but mature; trustworthy… Yes, he must be honest with you." A look crosses her face that I can only describe as wistful, though I can't place the origin of it.

When she doesn't go on, I add, "And he'll be so, so handsome!"

Mother grins again, focusing back on me. "Naturally. Let's see… A nice sculpted frame, smooth, chiseled jaw, deep-set eyes, full lips, dark hair—"

I shake my head. "Light hair."

She raises an eyebrow at me. I can only think about Luther Hayes and the way he sweeps his fingers through his dark brown hair. It makes me sick. Light hair is undeniably the better preference here, and I tell her so.

"All right, light hair. And…" Mother waits for me to finish the product of our imagination. I have to think a moment, wanting to get it just right.

"A gorgeous smile," I decide. "I will be making him smile a lot, you see, so it only seems fair."

Mother whisper-laughs.

"I believe that you will," she says, and we giggle together, the sound of music: light, sweet, in harmony, beautiful to the ears. We stay lying on my bed for the next hour, talking and laughing, enjoying the other's company, able to ignore our exhaustion and our worries, and it makes me hopeful. Mother has that effect on me, which brings on a sense of security.

No matter what happens to me in my life, I will always be safe with my mother.

OoOoOoO