Chapter 6: Chapter 6: Dinner & Ghosts of the Past
Scarlett's voice trembled as she talked, her fingers wrapped around the spoon hard. She felt her mother's eyes, stern and watchful. Yet Scarlett could not put herself back in order. What did Clara know? What secrets hid here, in this little town, here in her mother's words, in the old buildings and the cobblestones? It seemed everything was coming unraveled, each thread pulling with greater force at each question.
Under the warm light of day through the windows, it seemed peaceful enough on her face, yet Clara felt an uneasiness as if portions of the world she'd just settled were things her mother didn't need anyone speaking on.
Just be careful, okay? Clara repeated softly now, almost whispering. This place has a way of revealing itself slowly, layer by layer, till you are not sure if you can stop digging.
Scarlett felt the weight of the words settles over her like a stone. She no longer wanted to eat. "What does that mean, Mom?"
She studied her for a long time, pressing her lips together in a thin line, seeming to decide whether she'd say more or less. She leaned forward upon her hands, furrowing her brow Secrets as profound as they are simple; the kind that, when embraced, can wrap around the heart like a shawl, pulling you into their chill silence. You'll hear things that make you question, things that set free ghosts from the wind. Some of those ghosts just might belong to Hawthorne.".
Scarlett's breath caught. It sounded like a shadow's whisper, a string pulling at every corner of her mind. Her father. A man who'd been so mysterious to her for so long, just beyond her grasp. The man who had walked out on their family years ago seemed still to be hiding behind all the questions unanswered that Scarlett carried with her.
"I don't understand," she said finally. Her hands were now shaking a little, although she tried to steady them by gripping the edge of the counter.
She hesitated again and her face thoughtful. Her eyes were towards the window. The last of the sunset colors softened the view over the backyard. She seemed divided as though trying to determine whether silence was preferable or the weight of truth too heavy to bear without speaking. She spoke again but in a very soft voice.
"There are stories here, Scarlett. Stories about families, about people, about choices made long ago that come back to visit in ways you might not understand. And some of those stories have a way of clinging to people for generations. Hawthorne isn't just a name here. It's a thread woven into the very bones of this place."
Scarlett's head spun. She felt her fingers tightening at her hand as if that would stop the words from getting out. "I already started hearing some whispers," she admitted, shaking a little. "Rebecca said something today. She said some mysteries should be left untouched."
Clara's face set at this, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Rebecca said that?" she asked, her voice sharper now. There was no judgment in her tone, only a note of urgency, a sudden pressure that made Scarlett's chest tighten further.
"Yes," said Scarlett. "I didn't hear that. But you speak to me now in the same way. What ails this place, Mother? What am I to guard myself against?"
Clara's face was grave now. She sighed, and buried her head in her bosom, seeking words.
Some things ought to come out slow, Scarlett. Some things ain't nothing you can dig up without getting hurt.
Scarlett could hear what was not said beneath her mother's words, the subtext that made the air between them heavier. She could feel the uncertainty pooling in her stomach, the sharp pain of not knowing how far back these shadows went, or how much of her own story was entangled with these secrets.
Clara looked at her daughter for what felt like a century, her eyes fixed unflinchingly."You can't always control the past, Scarlett," she finally said. But you can learn from it. The best thing you can do is listen, watch, and try to understand. If you push too hard, you may lose your footing, but if you completely ignore the whispers, you will never find the truths you seek.
Scarlett looked at her mother, trying to decipher the words. They sounded vague and unfinished, like a jigsaw puzzle with a piece or two just beyond her grasp. She had been looking for answers, but instead, she got more questions. Her mother's words were walls being built up, not doors opening wide. But Scarlett knew she could not push too hard, not now.
"Fine, but," she sighed, breath barely audible, focusing intently on trying to still her breathing. She pushed her hands firmly into shaking steady. "Okay."
Clara provided her with the smallest, most reluctant of smiles. They cleaned up whatever was left to be eaten and, with wipers, wiped out the kitchen countertops in stillness that was filled in with dripping water and clinking dishes. Scarlett couldn't avoid a feeling that there had been far more to it all than what her mom had mentioned, the truths resting deep into the crevices of the history and those old house walls. It just so happened that they weren't seen yet, at any rate.
The rest of the night was silent because the reality of what Scarlett and Ashley were talking over finally began slowly to sink into the bones. She tried to turn to less complicated thoughts-that is, to her book, to her reading by the fire. Her mind would not let that; she lost herself in what had befallen Hawthorne and by whom such warnings came across. Was something ominously lurking within those shadows around Hawthorne? And what has Scarlett's father been hiding? What stories had become so entangled with the past that they would haunt her for life?
At night she fell asleep and half-formed possibilities formed in her mind like a spider web. Every thread of them was just a question, just another whisper, another clue. The night was restless. The air inside the room was cool. The bed was no more and less comfortable than it used to be when she was still young. Outside, the wind whirred by in the trees, and each one came as a breeze of some secret.
She wouldn't let it rest in her head. She couldn't sleep.
The next morning dawned when the pale light crept into the room through the drawn curtains. Scarlett's mind was all in knots as cryptic warnings from her mother and Rebecca enveloped her, wrapping the entire fog around her. She felt she could not just live it out; she couldn't uncover too much at once, though. It was almost as if the town itself were alive with whispers, and they were all reaching for her. She could all but hear them in the rustling trees, in the distant sound of footsteps, in the creak of old wood of the ancient house.
Perhaps listening was the way to learn answers-to, and to pay attention.
Standing and brushing her hair in front of the mirror, Scarlett decided she would do things her way. She would listen to the whispers, speak to the people of Hawthorne, and see where the threads would lead her. There were secrets in this town, and perhaps it was time she tried to understand them.
But as she looked in the mirror, hair all wild, eyes all unstable, the question was: Would they come too late? And then, if they did, how would she find the fortitude to confront them?
The fingers of Clara lay along the edge of the counter. After a small pause, then her voice came again.
"Such remembrance in this town don't remain underground,"
she whispered low. "You can bury it under and try to pretend Scarlett, but as to forget only takes one so long."
Scarlett gulped down words that seemed to have sunk within her like stones.
"Are you talking about my father?" she asked, her voice hard and sharp now, something she knew her mother would understand was weighted with all of its meaning.
Clara was silent. She shifted her shoulders, and for a moment Scarlett thought she wouldn't answer. Finally, her mother said:
"I think you'll learn what you have to learn in your own time, dear," she said, her voice floating up at her from a far place. "You don't need to hurry. Listen to your heart. Hawthorne has a way of letting you see what you need to when you are ready."
Scarlett didn't know if it was to calm her or freak her out even more. She tried to keep her focus on the words as she was cleaning the table with them yet the words stuck in her head.
That night, lying in her childhood bedroom with faded curtains and creaking floors, Scarlett found herself staring at the ceiling, the shadows of the misty trees swaying against the windowpane. Words her mother said seemed cryptic, much like Eliot's and Rebecca's.
There was a thread running through these words, through her return, through her questions about her father and this town. Ghosts of the past. Promises broken. Secrets buried.
Her father.
She remembered the photos on the mantelpiece the times he had skipped family gatherings, and his voice inside her head. Her mother barely mentioned him. There was always a weight that no one seemed to want to mention with him gone, an empty space that was almost unmissed.
Scarlett knew tonight would not be peaceful. The answers wouldn't come easily. Yet she could not stop herself from looking for it. All words, all talks, and all hints she got from them were urging her toward herself.
The mist danced within the shadows outside.
Tomorrow, Scarlett was to face them.
Tomorrow, she would face more questions.
At least, though, she wasn't alone.