MAE’S ARM WAS SWEATY IN its sling as she turned away from the headstone. Sonny and Elle were already past the gate and making their way home. Her sister spun around, her lipstick bright enough to see, her hair chopped short, all the blond growing out. “You coming or what?”
Mae waved with her good arm, the one she hadn’t landed on when her dad had shot Cage and they’d fallen together, hand in hand. “Right behind you,” she called out.
Elle strode forward, catching up to Sonny, his neck sunburned from their fishing trip. Their first and last before the school year started, but they’d already planned another one—Elle beat them three fish to zero, and she wanted to win again. There was time for fishing now, since the reporters had finally lost interest in Blue Gate. In all the publicity over Fern’s near death, someone from the city council had come to the house and declared it a historical landmark. It’d been something good in the news instead of all the stories about Lance.
Lance had surprised Mae as much as anyone else. He eventually told his dad that he’d gotten in the back of the ambulance to make sure Fern stayed quiet for good. But she woke up from the pills he’d given her—the ones he got from her mother’s supply—and he realized he couldn’t do it. Not when she was blinking up at him, asking questions. It had been easier when she’d been asleep at the dock, he said. When his dad had pressed him, he claimed that something had made him try to drown her. Said he didn’t believe in ghosts, but that when he took her down to the water, he thought he was doing it for Ro. That he loved Roxanne Cole more than anyone and always would.
Mae knew the last part had gotten to her dad the most, though he was trying not to hold it against Childers, who came over every day to apologize for his son. Because Fern had told everyone her cousin’s secret when she woke up. That Lance had asked if she wanted to go to sleep and see Ro again. He hadn’t denied much; he’d even mentioned the green book—something he described as an old book of rituals that belonged to Ro. By talking of magic, Lance probably hoped to get a psychiatric examination instead of spending the rest of high school in jail. Either way, he wouldn’t be around Blue Gate next year.
Mae touched Ro’s grave and then turned and started down the path. The iron gate creaked as she pushed it open, its metal wet because it had rained again that morning. A humid dampness was rising in the woods, the smell of rotting leaves and new green shoots, that sharp stench of life and decay. When her arm healed, she might paint this: the moment after a storm, the little muddy path leading out of the cemetery.
She ducked past a low branch and shivered, shoved her good hand deeper into her thin pocket. Her Cons squelched in the mud, but she kept going, ignoring the tingle at her neck. It felt like someone was watching her, but it wasn’t Lance, and it wasn’t Cage. It couldn’t be him. She looked over her shoulder and then stepped off the trail and headed deeper into the woods. There was one last place she needed to go today, one last thing to be done. She would do it for him—she had to.
Mae walked until she heard the creek. Soon enough the trees opened into a clearing, the one with the stretch of kudzu and the old cement dome. The graves it shaded were still covered by vines, except for where the edge of a stone peeked out from the carpet of green.
Mae strode forward, careful not to trip this time. When she got to Hanna’s grave, she opened her bag and pulled out a bundle of wildflowers, setting it down by the small headstone. Hanna had given her life for her child, for her children’s children. For Cage. Everything she had was taken from her, her grave hidden by the very earth itself. But soon the historical society would find out—they’d dig into Hanna’s history, into the Cage Shaw family link, as they should. Until then she’d keep the secret. Keep this place green and wild and quiet, just the way it was now.
Mae looked over her shoulder again but didn’t see anyone. The sharp tingling at her neck was still there as she knelt down and used the trowel she’d brought to dig away the vines. After a few minutes, she’d cleared a small section of ground so there was only a round circle of earth at her feet. Then she pulled the book from her bag and untied the ribbon, fighting off the ache in her chest.
For a moment she closed her eyes and stood there, with the weight of the book in her hands and the necklace hanging over her heart. On a thin chain was Ro’s gold locket and Cage’s family ring—he’d asked her to keep it safe until he came back. She thought of what he’d told her, right before he left: that she was going to do something big one day, something people would remember. That he would always remember what she did for him. But unless he’d read the green book to the end, the half that her granddad had hidden away, he didn’t know there was one last thing remaining.
She glanced over at the cement dome, wanting to see him standing there. His dark hair, the tiny cut near his temple, his pale eyes. He’d already left the state, gone to visit his mom. He said she was sick and he hadn’t been to see her in a while. By this time he should have gotten to her house, should already be on his way back like he’d promised.
Mae stared down at the green book she was holding, at the etching on its leather cover. Two coffins, side by side, so the dead would never be lonely. There’d be no more raising anyone, no more enduring eternally on earth. And there’d be no more suffering for those who’d been raised, she’d make sure of it.
Because she had to. She’d read the book from cover to cover, the first part and the last, and she knew what needed to be done. She’d read Grady’s account of his life with Hanna and all he’d learned from watching her, all the rituals he’d written down with good intentions, to make the magic his. He’d seen the impossible happen at Blue Gate, and he’d tried to re-create it. Hanna had raised his mother when his day-old sister, Amelia, died. She’d raised his brother Jacob too, on the night Miss Etta died of a cold. But Hanna had never intended for the ritual to be passed on to those who didn’t understand its power. Both Grady’s mother and Jacob had suffered from walking between worlds, and they’d wished for nothing but peace, to go home.
Mae let out a deep breath and forced herself to open the book. A sudden breeze caught its pages and they fluttered and then settled, landing right where she needed them to. She stared down at them and felt her throat tighten. She wanted to go back to Blue Gate without doing it, she wanted to see him again. How was making things right so hard? But this was the only way to set him free, she knew that now. He deserved this much. She fumbled in her bag, found the beads and the bundle of herbs wrapped in muslin. She lit the dried sage like the ritual instructed, inhaling its smoke.
“Putting to rest,” she started, and then swallowed down the knot in her throat. She wiped at her face, surprised to find it wet. She looked down at the page again, at the drops of tears staining it. “Putting to rest the raised,” she said, louder this time, and she thought of him. She thought of Cage and her sister, and her granddad, and Hanna too, and Pearl and Grady, and her mother. They were all swirling in her mind and her eyes were hot and stinging, but she made herself read the next line, her fingers working over the beads with every breath. She kept going, faster now, so fast she wouldn’t stop, the words tumbling into each other, all the way down to the end of the page. When she finished, she dropped the book; she was shaking.
Before she could change her mind, she pulled the tinder from her bag and placed it on the ground to make the firebed. Then she struck a match and held it beside the book, watching the flame lick the paper. It crackled and spit, and heat rose from it.
She stared at the fire as it took hold next to Hanna’s grave, and then she turned away, the brightness behind her. She could feel the power of it, calling her back. But Grady’s obsession with raising the dead would end with her; it wouldn’t be passed down to anyone else.
Mae didn’t want to look at the book burning, so we watched for her—just as we watch her now on the path back to Blue Gate. She’s wiping the soot from her hands and she has a sudden longing for her paints and canvas, to create something. She’ll start with Cage on the sailboat with Ro. Her granddad holding the stray black cat. And then it all seems too much—it feels as though her heart has been torn in two. But the heart is resilient and can grow back over time, stronger than before. Mae will find solace in her paints and her family; they’re waiting for her on the porch, they’re looking toward the woods and calling her name. She has almost found her way home, and she hopes Cage has too.
Right now he’s on the highway, going west, a paper map spread on the seat beside him. He’s late to visit his mother because his headache got so bad he had to pull over. Now he’s on his way again, heading to her apartment in New Orleans, and it’s one of the hardest things he’s ever done. He doesn’t want to smell the cat shit, see the dishes overflowing in the sink, or meet her new boyfriend, but what he really doesn’t want to see are those pill bottles of hers, the way they make her angry. She’s angry that she’s sick, always has been. The sickness has made her mean, but he’s been mean too. He gave up on her, even though she’s still alive, battling through her pain like she battles everything in life, never believing in even a shred of magic. He won’t say he’s sorry for moving out, because he’s not, but he can at least say hello, tell her she doesn’t have to worry about him anymore. He’ll start with hello and see what happens. Trace his steps home.
Cage yanks down the visor and squints into the sunlight. Next gas station he sees, he’ll pick up a pair of sunglasses. He’ll take another round of painkillers too, because his head is hurting again in a bad way and so is his shoulder. He lifts a hand from the ratty wheel and feels the bandage. It’s dry but still tender.
The road curves, and when it straightens again an exit sign comes into view, a side road heading off into the trees. Tempting, but he’ll wait till the needle’s low. Part of him wants to turn off, head south toward Mexico, work as a fisherman down there for a while. Save up some money to pay back the people he owes and then some.
The tires hum over the pavement and he lets himself think of Mexico, how no one will know him. They won’t know where he comes from, won’t know about his family, about his record, about the things that have been said and unsaid about him. But Mexico doesn’t hold a candle to Mae. Maybe he can work for his uncle in Gulf Shores instead, finish up his last year of high school and visit her now and again. Her dad even apologized to him for getting it wrong. Can’t blame him, not really, though he didn’t have to shoot him in the driveway. Lucky Sonny’s more a fisherman than a hunter, because the shot went wide, just got him in the shoulder. Another scar, but that’s okay with him.
Earlier this week, when they released him from the hospital and he told Mae he needed to go home, she and Elle let him borrow their car. He didn’t want to take it, but they asked him to. Sonny’s exact words were Don’t make me shoot you again, son. Followed by maybe his first smile, ever. Thinking about it now makes Cage grin, and so does thinking about Mae. He remembers how she hugged him before he left. Her not-quite-blond hair, her brown eyes looking up at him. The softness of her lips on his cheek as she stood on her tiptoes to kiss him goodbye.
His head starts aching again, and he lifts a hand to rub his temples. He picks up his water bottle and pours the last of it over himself. The coolness hits his neck and wets his shirt, but the pain doesn’t go away. He squints at the sun and sees splotches of light across the road. It comes over him all at once, and he shoves on his blinker and pulls onto the gravel shoulder. The ballerina hanging from the rearview mirror jostles as he stops.
Breathe, breathe. He squeezes his eyes shut and hunches over the wheel, wanting the pain to pass. But it’s worse now—a tire-iron sort of headache, all the way into his spine. Fresh air, that’s what he needs. He pushes open the door and staggers to the side of the road, steps over the guardrail. Throws up on the gravel, onto the grassy slope beyond. Throws up again, clutching the hot metal rail. The pain feels like it’s splitting his skull, and behind him is the beep of the open car door. Maybe he just needs to sleep it off. He can get into the backseat, close his eyes. One, two, three. Breathe. Get back to the car.
He tries to straighten, but another wave of sickness rushes him and his knees buckle, hitting the gravel, and when he stands back up he loses his balance and then the world tips and he’s sliding down the grass. He shuts his eyes, feels branches snapping past him and small bushes that he grabs at and a rock hits his shoulder and he yells out and then the ground levels and he tumbles to a stop.
He groans and rolls onto his knees, opens his eyes. His arms and legs seem to be moving, so he hasn’t broken anything, but his shoulder bandage is torn off and he’s bleeding. He forces himself to look around, get his bearings. Tree trunks swirl above him and sunlight cuts through green leaves and he shuts his eyes, collapses back onto the dirt. He’ll lie here for a minute. Just a quick minute. But sometimes in life, minutes have a way of turning into hours, and then days, and then…
“Cage,” he hears, and his eyes snap open. The green canopy churns above him, far, far above him.
“Cage.”
Is someone saying his name?
His mouth is dry, and he tries to lick his lips. Starts to get up but can’t. He feels heavy, his limbs like sludge, and when a shadow falls across him he stares up at it, trying to focus.
His heart nearly stops. Actually, it’s already stopped, but he doesn’t know that yet.
“Cage,” she says, and her smile gets him in the chest. Her hair dangles down, blocking some of the light, so it’s easy to keep his eyes open, straight on her. He won’t look away, even if the pain kills him, but he won’t be feeling any of that anymore.
She holds out her hand. He thinks he must be dreaming, he must, because they all think that at first. He reaches up to touch her hand and his headache disappears all at once—it goes away and his pain goes away and the memories rush from him too, into something vaster, a bay emptying into an ocean, into endless water, and for a moment, this one long moment, the only thing he can feel is her.
This time it’s easier, much easier, to take him home.