She sighed deeply, her voice softening again. "She was tortured by her own power to love."
"How can that be? How can you be tortured by love?"
"Who she loved was not her own," she said. "What agony it was for her to look upon what should have been her own and mourn the death of a child never born. I stood by and watched her cry inside herself whenever she smiled or hugged Wade or kissed his cheeks."
"You mean Wade was not her son?"
She shook her head.
"He's Mr. Emerson's son, but it wasn't his wife who gave birth to him in this house. I delivered him myself," she said.
"Where is his real mother?"
"In her own hell, I imagine. I don't know where she is. She was given money and sent away. She was a helpless young girl, not much older than you are. The first Mrs. Emerson did everything to have people believe the baby was her own, isolating herself from society, fabricating a pregnancy she wished so hard was true."
"Why did she do it?"
"She was that devoted to Mr. Emerson, and her heart wouldn't let her cast a child into the wind. Only she and I and Mr. Emerson knew the truth, and now it is only he and I."
"Wade never was told?"
"Never. There's no reason to tell him now," she said. "Mr. Emerson came to believe that he, himself, had been the cause of evil being brought into the house, his wife's death and then his son's and his daughter-in-law's failure to give him the grandchild he believes in his heart will somehow redeem him. From time to time, in one of his drunken states, he'd confide as much to me. I don't disagree, nor do I comfort him in any way."
"So he keeps you here because he's afraid you'll tell what you know, and because he thinks you can protect him with your candles and herbs and powers?"
"I can't protect him against himself," she said. "He's really a very lonely man. So is young Mr. Emerson, and especially so is Ami Emerson."
"We're all orphans in one way or another, aren't we?" I thought aloud.
She just smiled softly and nodded.
"What will happen when they do find out I'm in this room?"
"They won't," she said. "Rest. Let the medicine help you. I'll bring down clothes for you, and things you'll need."
She stood up.
"Then what?" I asked.
"Then you should go home," she said, as if it was the simplest and clearest answer of all. "Surely you know that," she said, and quietly left the room.
I fell asleep again, but when I woke this time, I felt stronger and my mind was clearer. Like Mama's wonder cures, Mrs. Cukor's had done what it was intended to do. I saw a suitcase on the floor to the right of the door and a pair of jeans, a warm blouse and sweater, a pair of shoes, socks, and panties neatly laid out on the small settee.
I sat up slowly and then slipped my feet into the pair of slippers that had been left beside the bed. I was still in my nightgown. Never having been down this side of the house, I didn't know where the bathroom was exactly. I opened the door carefully, making as little noise as I could, and listened first. The house was very quiet, so I stepped out and saw that the bathroom was just down the narrow hallway on the right.
The cold water felt good on my face. I couldn't believe how droopy my eyes were, however. My hair was a mess. It looked like mice had been trampling through it all night. When I came out of the bathroom, I con-fronted Mrs. McAlister, who was just stepping out of her room. I froze. She looked at me, but then jerked her head in that mechanical way and continued down the hallway as though I wasn't there.
Mrs. Cukor didn't return to her room until after I had dressed.
"You'll need this," she said, and handed me an envelope.
I opened it and looked at a stack of twentydollar bills.
"Where did this come from?" I asked her.
"Never mind that. You'll need it. There's a taxicab coming in a few minutes. It will take you into the city to the bus depot. You don't want to touch that man's car again," she added, before I could even mention the possibility.
"Thank you for helping me," I said.