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Chapter 23: Storm

             Teresa is too agitated to do any writing when she gets into her rooms behind the Manor House.  She makes a cup of hot chocolate and some toast.  Sitting at the kitchen table, she writes some notes, trying to piece together Eddie’s story with the rest of her information.  Then, upstairs, she falls asleep listening to the rain pelting her window.  And she dreams.

            At first, she is playing with her son, Marco.  They are in the apartment in New York City, and she is waltzing with him in his cheerfully decorated yellow bedroom.  Then the room around her changes.  The walls are whitewashed plaster; there is a cradle in place of the crib.  Darkness moves in; she is no longer holding Marco.  She can’t find him.  She’s out in a storm, flailing against the driving rain. She calls his name, and the wind snatches her voice away.  The wind wails and it sounds like her baby crying.  It could be her baby.  He needs her; she can’t find him.  Crying, screaming his name, Teresa wakes herself up.  But the name she screams and hears echoing in the room is “Lucas!” 

            “Oh, my God.”  Teresa is shaking, sobbing.  The window is open, swinging in the wind.  She leaps out of bed to latch it, and hurries back under the covers.  The room stays cold and damp.  Margaret is there. 

            The clock blinks a glowing red 1:56. Lightning flashes.  Teresa curls into a fetal shape and surrenders to the memory she keeps locked away.  Marco, her boy.  At one year of age, he had his father’s shiny, black curls.  His little teeth were perfect as pearls, and his laugh was such a bubbling gurgle that, no matter how tired she was, Teresa always laughed too.   She had him for two more years.  And then she lost him.  All the medical geniuses couldn’t save him.  All the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put Marco together again.  Teresa hugs her sides and lets the tears come.  It’s been so many years–how many? —over forty—and the pain is just as fresh, just as deep. 

            A coldness trails across Teresa’s cheek.  It makes her shiver.  This is the touch of a ghostly hand.  Margaret. 

            “At least your baby lived,” Teresa says.  It is after two o’clock and Teresa knows she will get no more sleep tonight.  She turns on both lamps and clicks on her laptop.  To the chill air around her, Teresa says, “Please go away.  I need to work.”