Sissy opened her floppy tapestry bag and took out four small pouches, which she set down on the glass-topped table. “Bloodroot, celandine, chicory, and pennyroyal,” she explained. “I don’t know whether they really work or not, but they’re supposed to help the gone-beyonders to find their way through.”
She took out a red candle, too, in a round stone holder, and lit it with her cigarette lighter. The candle had a strong, cloying scent, like rotting peaches.
“Now, you’re thinking about George, aren’t you?” she asked Darlene.
Darlene nodded.
“Close your eyes if it makes it easier. Try to imagine that he’s here, standing in this room, watching you.”
Darlene closed her eyes. She was silent for a short while, and it was obvious from her tightly clenched fists that she was concentrating deeply.
“George,” she whispered. “George, where are you, darling? Come talk to us.”
Sissy joined in. “George, we need to ask you some questions. Come on, George, Darlene’s here, waiting for you.”
Nearly a minute went by. Darlene said, “Please, George. I miss you so much. The girls miss you so much. I need to tell you that I still love you and I always will. I need to hear you say that you still love me.”
Sissy suddenly saw a distortion in the air, in front of the fireplace. She looked meaningfully at Molly and inclined her head toward the distortion, and Molly saw it, too. It looked as if the fluted pillar on one side of the fireplace was slowly rippling, as if it were under water.
The mirror above the fireplace began to darken. Sissy touched Darlene on the arm and said, “Look.” The reflection of the living room grew gloomier and gloomier, and as it did so, a man’s face began to appear, pale and staring, like a face from a long-forgotten photograph. His eyes were smudged, and the rest of his features were blurred, but Darlene immediately rose to her feet and held out one hand toward the mirror, and her eyes filled up with tears.
“George! It’s George! Oh my God, how did you do that? George!”
Sissy stood up, too. Molly looked up at her in alarm, but Sissy said, “Don’t be frightened. It’s only his image. He’s using the mirror’s memory. the impressions that he left on its silver backing when he was alive.”
All the same, Sissy could feel George’s presence as strongly as if he were standing right in front of her, although his personality was jumbled and bewildered, and he was still in state of shock. She approached the mirror and concentrated on calming him down.
Steady, George, steady.
“George, can you hear me?” she said. “My name is Sissy Sawyer. I’m a friend of Darlene’s.”
George’s head moved jerkily, and his lips moved, but all Sissy could hear was a distant, strangled sound, like a loudspeaker announcement on a windy day.
“George, I need to ask you some questions about how you were killed.”
More strangled noises — but then, unexpectedly, and very clearly, the word sorry.
Sissy laid her hand on Darlene’s shoulder. Darlene was weeping quite openly now, and she had to wipe her nose with the back of her hand.
“George, can you hear me, George?” Sissy asked him. No matter how distressed Darlene was, she couldn’t allow George to fade away — not yet, anyhow, not until she had talked to him — because she might never be able to call him back. Like so many gone-beyonders, he could well find this contact with his past life so painful that he never wanted to repeat it.
“George, darling,” said Darlene. “George, I miss you so much.”
“ — miss you too — and Kitty, and Amanda — ”
“Oh, George.”
“What happened, George?” Sissy interrupted. “Can you remember the man who stabbed you?”
George’s image suddenly shuddered, but then it came back into focus. “ — it was all so — sudden — didn’t — ”
“The man who attacked you, George. Can you tell me what he looked like?”
“ — stabbed me and stabbed me — strange thing, though — I didn’t feel it — didn’t feel anything — ”
Molly stood up now. “George, my name’s Molly.”
George stared at her as if he thought he ought to know who she was.
“I’m an artist, George. If you tell me what the man looked like, I can make a drawing of him and help the police to catch him.”
“ — just started stabbing me — ”
“Was he white? Was he black? What kind of clothes was he wearing?”
“ — couldn’t see too clearly — all I saw was that knife — ”
“George, listen to me,” Molly insisted. “Was he taller than you? How would you describe his build?”
George turned toward Darlene. His expression was one of infinite regret. “I’m so sorry, Darlene — how can you ever forgive me?”
“George, it wasn’t your fault. I don’t blame you.”
“ — if only I hadn’t — ”
“It wasn’t your fault, George. How were you to know that he was going to get onto that elevator with you?”
“ — not that — she — ”
George’s image in the mirror began to shudder. Darlene said, “No! No, George, don’t go!” and she went right up to the fireplace and pressed her hands and her forehead against the glass. “No!” she sobbed, as her own reflection grew clearer and brighter, and the living room reappeared behind her. “Please, George, we haven’t talked at all!”
Sissy gently put her arm around her. “He’s gone, Darlene. For now, anyhow. It’s as much of a strain for the gone-beyonders to talk to us as it is for us to talk to them. But he won’t be far away, ever. So long as you go on thinking about him and remembering what he was like and how much he loved you, he’ll always be close to you, I promise.”
Darlene turned away from the mirror, distraught. Her two palm prints remained for a moment, like ghosts, and then they faded, too.
“He didn’t have to say he was sorry,” she said. “Why did he keep on saying he was sorry?”
“Well. often a gone-beyonder will feel guilt for having died, leaving his family to fend for themselves. Just like his family will blame him for dying, even though it wasn’t his fault.”
Darlene pulled a Kleenex out of a decorative box on the table and wiped her eyes. “Do you think I might be able to talk to him again?”
“I hope so. Especially since he’s so regretful. But give him some time. If you like, I could come back in a week or so, and we could try again.”
Darlene nodded. “I’d like that. Now — how about a drink? I could really use something to steady my nerves.”
“A little too early for me,” said Sissy. “But coffee would be good.”
Darlene went through to the kitchen, leaving Sissy and Molly still standing in front of the mirror.
“That was incredible,” said Molly. “You actually made him appear. I’ve never been so frightened in my life.”
“He was desperate to appear, that’s why. Absolutely desperate. He needed Darlene to see how sorry he was.”
“If he’d committed suicide, maybe I could understand it. But sorry for being murdered?”
“Well, you’re right, of course,” said Sissy. She held out her hand with the amethyst ring that used to belong to her mother. The stone was still shiny but it had turned black as a stag beetle. “Our friend behind the mirror was lying to us.”