The natural cold of the earth chills the air. Something grazes the top of my head—I duck. An errant cobweb from the ceiling clings to my hair.
The dank smell of earth brings forth a faint memory of déjà vu, my mama’s promises of an ocean I’ve never seen. Down the hall, the light grows, seeping through the cracks of a slatted door. Hinges groan as I push in.
The skinny rectangular window along the ceiling streams sunlight through the broken filmy glass. It struggles to stretch across the room. A skeletal shelf cowers in a corner, tincture jars and wares stacked between its thin bones. No box. A braided rag rug covers the floor, it wobbles when I step on it. Pressed against the far wall, a homemade worktable. Papers scattered on top. Collections of old Appalachian folk magic and medical herbs, similar to the ones Grandmama and I use. Tucked like a bookmark inside a textbook, a pamphlet for pregnant teens. Scrawled in the corner, an appointment reminder for a free women’s clinic. Whether it was for a health checkup or for alternate plans, I’m not sure.
I flip through a few spiral notebooks, one filled with math equations, the other chemistry notes. Aunt Violet told me my mama was smart but didn’t go to college on account of getting pregnant. Maybe she would have done something with herself, if not for me.
Below hangs a ratty curtain, I pull it back—nothing but dust and rags and a milk crate full of old records.
I drag the crate out from underneath. Layers of dust cake the tops of the now-brittle albums. I thumb through and unearth greats like Jessie Mae Hemphill and Etta James. Bluesy, soulful tunes that push me back in time to those fuzzy childhood memories with Adaire. Incredible how a song can sink you into your past so vividly. I pick up a forty-five single by Patsy Cline. A smile spreads across my face as the memory bubbles to the surface. I press the small record to my chest, letting my mind drift.
The music taps like a heartbeat against my chest.
A slow, powerful thu-thump.
Thu-thump.
Thu-thump.
The sound pushes through an old Victrola as a warbly voice croons a lonely Mississippi song. The smell of rosewater perfume, old-fashioned yet timeless, tickles my nose—something Adaire stole from the old lady who babysat us. My skin grows sticky thinking about the sweltering summer heat when she and I listened to those stolen records in that cave. My mind wanders on as I breathe in the memories.
“I remember those,” a heavy voice eases from the doorway. I smile at its familiarity, remembering all the nights he whispered to me in my dreams. Slowly, I open my eyes to find Rook leaning against the door frame. He saunters barefoot into the room. Shoes don’t shift when he goes from man to crow. It was something he explained after I caught him barefoot at a carnival once, where I couldn’t save a man who had choked on a chicken bone. The rooty smell of earth and pine trail in with him. His cool black eyes hold a steady gaze on me. I can’t tell if he’s deciding whether or not he should trust me, or if he’s just taking me in now that he’s a man again.
“How did you find me?” I pull at the bottom of my shirt, suddenly feeling exposed in my cropped gray T-shirt. Self-conscious, I run my fingers through my hair, knowing it’s probably windblown from the ride here. I hope like hell Raelean didn’t hear him come down here.
His face lights up. “I can always find you.” He’s right. Like somehow my mourning heart summons him. Maybe it does.
He flicks through the stack of 45 singles. A soft chuckle tumbles out of him. “You and your cousin.” He shakes his head. “You two would belt out the lyrics from that cave. Loud enough to scare the trees.”
I hide behind my palm, wrestling back a laugh.
“Do you remember that place? In the woods?” he asks, big grin on his face.
There’s a small scuffing sound from the floor above us, Raelean rummaging around.
We both wait quietly, and after nothing further, I whisper, “Remember? Of course. That was our secret escape. And those trees, I’ll have you know, they were our captivated audience.” I pretend to be offended, knowing good and well we sounded like wild chickens.
I love the ease of my playfulness with him, like no time has passed since we were together last, despite the years.
“There wasn’t a tree we didn’t climb or a song we didn’t sing. Summers were our time. We loved those woods.”
Reality rolls back in like a bowling ball to pins, and it smacks me in the face.
“I’ll never see her again.” My words crack as my heart reminds me she’s gone.
“Hey.” Rook steps up, tilting his head so I will look up at him. “She’s always with you.” He holds out an open palm, offering it to me. It’s a gesture that lingers a moment until I realize what he’s doing.
This hand that’s carried many souls over.
The gravity of what this might mean pushes deep into my chest. Did he walk Adaire over?
I lean forward, tempting a curious touch. Here’s the boy I’ve loved since we were children, now a man, the flesh of him alone enlivening. And now he’s offering me a chance to connect with her again.
Cautiously, I trace two fingers across his palm, longing to feel some tiny shimmer of her.
“Did she suffer?” I swirl the tips of my fingers in a circle, as if in doing so I could conjure a piece of Adaire and it keep it for myself.
“She was at peace,” he says, not completely answering the question, but it’s enough. “Go ahead.” He nods at his outstretched hand.
Unsure and a little bit afraid, I slip my hand into his. The flesh of his against mine...something I’ve dreamed of, longed for. There’s a tingle between them. My body tuning into the energy of those who crossed over with him. They flicker by, as if he’s sorting through to find the one.
Then I feel her, or I think I do. Her presence lingers there between our touch. Not the whole of it, but a soft echo. Like the lingering scent of someone’s perfume after they’ve already left the room. It makes me long for her even more. To bring my cousin back, even if it’s only so I can say goodbye.
“Did she say anything? Before she...” I ask, yearning for a crumb.
“I wish I could give you more, but the dead usually don’t talk to me. I only see brief glimpses of their joys. The kindness in their heart. The sadness for those they must say goodbye to.” It’s the depth with which he says this that surprises me, earnest in his attempt to convey the weight of what he is. He pulls us closer together, wrapping me into that soft scent of pine.
“It’s a beautiful, emotion-filled light,” he says. “Like a warm summer day that kisses your face.” The backs of his knuckles grazes my cheek.
I close my eyes, vividly recalling one of the many times Adaire and I sunbathed on the rock by the quarry pond. It’s as if Adaire is passing me one of her favorite memories.
How sad, or rather bittersweet, it must be for Rook, to feel love and sorrowed goodbyes. I am only experiencing this tiny moment, and it’s almost too much. I cannot imagine how that must weigh on him. His gift a price he paid when I talked the death out of him and brought him back to life—if you call his split time as a crow a life. Both of us hold a shared burden for the miracles we can do.
“It’s like an embodiment of their essence,” he says. “You get a sense of who they truly were in life. Adaire was lovely.”
I huff a small laugh. Lovely is not how I would expect Adaire to be described. Ornery. Grouchy. Surly. Not lovely. But I like the idea that all that gruffness she projected in life covered up her true self. The side of her Davis must have fallen in love with.
“Thank you for that.” I pull my hand from his.
