Beneath the Surface
The morning sun filters softly through the hospital room window, casting a gentle glow on Veronica’s still form, a vivid divergence to yesterday’s chaos when she claimed to be the reincarnation of a thousand-year-old witch who once ruled our priesthood and fed her enemies to her pet wolves. Attached to various cables to monitor my heart rate, I sit beside her instead of in my bed, my eyes locked on her peaceful face.
No sign of the power for which Jaryx was admired. No sign of the ruthlessness for which she was feared.
The incessant beeping of our two monitors penetrates the sterile hospital room, but my mind is still in chaos. My trembling hands clutch the edge of the bed as I replay yesterday’s traumatic events over and over again, each time kicking myself for letting her out of my reach for five minutes. The smell of antiseptic and the sound of muffled conversations from the hallway only add to my overwhelming anxiety.
The possibility of attracting unwanted attention is terrifying. The thought of fleeing, of hiding in another shadowed corner of the world, sends a shiver down my spine. The priesthood entrusted me with Veronica’s care, and now I worry I’ve failed them, endangered the very soul I was supposed to protect—a soul they’d deemed as not the one they were waiting for, but still a product of a union within the priesthood, however much she’d failed the prophecy.
Every sound in the hospital, every murmur from the outside our shared room, feels like a warning of what might come. The priesthood gives me a healthy allowance to live in the comfortable shadows and not cause trouble, but now the spotlight in this small Alabama city is on us. Will we have to disappear again, leave this fragile normalcy we’ve built? My gaze remains fixed on Veronica, her innocence a pronounced difference to the weight of the decisions that loom over us. The responsibility is too much, too suffocating, but I know I’ll face whatever comes for her sake. For now, all I can do is watch over her, ensuring she’s safe.
The door creaks open, and Mr. Casey steps into the room, his arms laden with brown paper bags advertising the local grocery store. Pushing his wire-rimmed glasses higher on his nose, he smiles broadly enough that his long, graying sideburns recede into his cheeks. The grin doesn’t hide his concern, however much he might try. I’m not a kid, even if he treats me like one. He’s not my father, but he has filled that void in my life ever since I moved in next door and immediately earned his wife’s distrust. His interest has been paternal only.
I’m grateful to see him. He’s a solid, reassuring presence amidst the sterile environment of the hospital and the isolation I feel. Neither Veronica nor I would be alive if he hadn’t thrown that garden hose to me or turned off the water valve at the street or driven like a bat out of hell to the hospital. Despite his concern, there’s an air of practicality about him that feels comforting in this moment.
“Got some fresh clothes for ya both,” he says brightly, placing the bags gently on one of the two yellow vinyl chairs against the wall. “Linda went over to your place last night and picked ‘em out. Hope that’s all good by you. The house was still open, like you left it. Got some bell-bottomed jeans for you and a T-shirt with a Jesus fish on it.”
I swallow hard as I scramble back onto my hospital bed. The Jesus fish shirt was a gift years ago from Siobhan, one of her silly jokes that I’ve never worn. The jeans are old, a little out of style. If Mrs. Casey chose these clothes from the back of my closet, then she’d dug her way through all my secrets she could find.
“Your purse is in one of the bags there with some under-things, Linda said. And shoes. And some things for Baby Girl over there.” Mr. Casey squints in Veronica’s direction as he breathes through clenched teeth. “How is she today?”
“Sleeping, mostly.” I nod, trying to mask the unease that bubbles inside me at the thought of Mrs. Casey going through my things. It’s an intrusion, one that makes our already fragile world feel even more exposed. If she found my Jesus fish shirt, then surely she found astrological charts christened in my own blood as well as my altar adorned with animal bone and carved black tourmaline images of Lord Daegan, the sleeping God also known as Archangel Michael.
“Thank you, Mr. Casey,” I say, my voice a whisper. “For everything. I—”
“Hush now. What are good neighbors for? Besides, you remind me of my own daughters at your age. Almost grown but still needing help, and you ain’t got none.”
Silence stretches between us. He raised one family already, lost his first wife to colon cancer, then eventually married a woman over a decade his junior and started a new family. His other kids live in Canada and France, too far away for visits, and the second Mrs. Casey thinks of me not as a daughter but as a rival for his affections.
He nods, his eyes briefly meeting mine before looking away. “Linda’s also left a tuna casserole in your refrigerator. Didn’t figure you’d be up for cooking when you get back home.”
“That’s very thoughtful of her,” I reply, my mind still wrestling with the implications of Mrs. Casey’s visit to our house. Mr. Casey and I both know the casserole was his idea, tuna or not. “You’re right—I’m sore all over. Scratched up, too.” I hold up my bandaged hand.
Mr. Casey clears his throat, a bit of discomfort showing. “Ronan mentioned something when I tucked him in last night. He said he saw a lightning bolt near the sinkhole when I was turning off the water. Quite the sight, if he did. Did you. . . ?”
A chill runs down my spine at his words. A lightning bolt? That detail feels too significant, too aligned with the omens and warnings of the priesthood. The sleeping God Himself is said to be lightning personified.
“That’s, um, weird,” I manage, keeping my gaze on Veronica. “The sky was clear. Maybe Ronan saw something he misunderstood?”
“Must have. That boy has a crazy imagination. Too much television.”
“And the water company fixed the pipe?”
“Yep, all taken care of. Nature’s work, they said. Willow tree roots can be real invasive. They find a tiny crack in a water pipe and weasel their way in. That’s why I rushed out to the valve to turn it off or that sinkhole would’ve been a whole lot bigger and deeper with all that water rushing in and undermining your yard.”
I nod, but his reassurance does little to quell the storm of thoughts in my mind. I don’t want him to realize it, but I actually believe Ronan might have seen lightning while Veronica and I were both under the surface of the mud. Could the priesthood be involved? The broken pipe and cave-in might be natural, but lightning out of the blue at our direst moment? As the priesthood taught me years ago, destiny will find the easiest path to assert itself, but so will divine intervention.
Mr. Casey seems to sense my unease. “You good, Maeve? You seem. . .preoccupied.”
I force a smile, hoping it looks genuine. “Just tired, Mr. Casey. It’s been a long twenty-four hours, and I didn’t sleep much last night.” I don’t tell him I kept thinking I heard wolves howling somewhere outside the hospital window. “I think Peanut and me might have nightmares for years to come.”
He nods sympathetically. “Well, we’ll have you home soon enough. Linda and me will drive you home in the family car when you get dismissed. Fresh air might do you both some good. I’ve already got your back yard fixed, though I’m afraid Baby Girl’s sandbox couldn’t be salvaged. Been thinking: I might pick up some rose bushes at the feed-and-seed store to plant when the mud hardens up some more. Make a place of scary thoughts into a garden instead, but if you two want our spare bedroom for a few nights, we can make that happen, too.”
As he pulls up a chair and sits down, I feel a mix of gratitude and apprehension. His company is both a comfort and a reminder of the life outside these hospital walls—a life that now seems fraught with hidden dangers and unseen threats. For now, I’m thankful for the company, but I can’t shake the feeling of being on the edge of a precipice, with Veronica’s and my fate hanging in the balance.
Like the ground caving in beneath us.
The door, solid wood with a thick pane of mottled glass, swings open again. This time it’s the doctor, his white coat crisp and pristine in the warm glow of morning light. He holds a brown clipboard almost as weathered as his face, his eyes scanning the room before settling on me. Even from here, I can smell the coffee on his breath.
With a polite nod, Mr. Casey slowly rises from his seat, his chair legs scraping against the floor as he stands. His movements are deliberate, authoritative. Protective.
“Good morning, Maeve,” the doctor says, approaching my bed. “I’ve reviewed your charts. You’re healing well, but that ankle needs rest. Avoid putting weight on it, and watch for signs of fever or infection. I’m going to order a tetanus shot for you, too, because Lord knows what caused all those cuts on your arms and feet.”
I nod, feeling the heaviness in his words. My thoughts drift to the long walk from our front door to Veronica’s bedroom at home, wondering how I’ll manage.
He then turns to Veronica, checking her vitals with a practiced ease as she sleeps. “She’s a strong little girl. Recovering better than expected, actually. If you want my medical opinion, the fact that she’s alive is a miracle.”
His tone shifts as he looks back at me. “Maeve, I have to ask—you are Veronica’s legal guardian, correct?”
“What’s this about?” My voice quivers. “I-I have her birth certificate. It clearly says I’m her mother.”
“And her father?” Discreetly, he glimpses my ring finger for a wedding band.
“That’s none of—”
“He’s on an oil rig in the Gulf,” Mr. Casey interrupts. It’s a lie, but it’s a respectable one and he’s a well-respected attorney in Wiregrass. “He’s an underwater welder. Makes damned good money but has to spend most of his time away from home.”
“No need to get defensive,” the doctor says, but he himself sounds defensive. “We might have a welfare worker stop by, just to ensure that everything’s safe at home. Standard procedure to investigate after such incidents as yesterday’s.”
Before I can respond, Mr. Casey steps forward, putting himself between the doctor and me. “Look, I live right next door. I’ve seen Maeve with Veronica every day since she moved to—since she and her husband moved to town. She’s an exceptional mother, and what happened was a freak accident. Could’ve happened to any of us. Could’ve happened to me and my boy twenty feet away in our back yard instead of hers. You wouldn’t send a welfare worker to check up on me, now would you?”
The doctor shakes his head, but his expression remains unreadable. “Maeve, we’re discharging you later today. Both of you. Make sure to get plenty of rest and keep that ankle elevated. My nurse will be by shortly with that shot.”
As the doctor makes notes on his clipboard, a fresh wave of worry washes over me. Welfare workers, investigations—it feels like our quiet life is slipping through my fingers.
“Mr. Casey,” I whisper, “they can’t take her from me.”
He sits back down, his eyes kind but serious. “Maeve, you’ve done nothing wrong. We’ll sort this out. Linda and I, we’ve got your back.”
His reassurance is a slight comfort, but the nagging fear persists. Veronica stirs in her bed, her eyes fluttering open. She looks at us, her gaze unsettlingly perceptive for a child her age. Then her gaze lights on the doctor.
“Are we going home?” she asks, her voice calm but distant. Small, but so adult. She doesn’t sound like the little girl who, only yesterday, begged to play in her sandbox.
“Yes, Peanut,” I start, but she cuts me off.
“Don’t call me that.” There’s an edge to her words that wasn’t there before.
The doctor turns back to Veronica with his stethoscope in hand. A friendly smile breaks over the doctor’s face, unlike the frowns he’s given me. “And how are you feeling, little lady? Do you remember what happened?”
Veronica’s eyes, sharp and discerning, meet his. “I remember. . .everything.”
“Oh? That’s good to—”
She sits up, then leans forward against her blankets, her voice low and menacing. “But I also remember you, Doctor Evans. Your past is catching up with you.”
He tries to laugh it off, feigning nonchalance as he scribbles furiously on his clipboard. “That sounds ominous! Has your mom been letting you watch too much television?”
“You’ve been pilfering Quaaludes from the pharmacy.” Her words, with all their inexplicable syllables, hang heavy in the air as Mr. Casey and I exchange glances.
She’s never even heard these words, let alone spoken them in her tiny, squeaky voice. How could she even know their meaning?
The doctor’s smile twists into a sneer of confusion and unease. “You wicked little thing,” he hisses. “Are you repeating something you heard your mother say?”
The child stares back, unflinching. “Like you weren’t wicked to report my mother as a danger to me and pretend like you haven’t—yet. The hospital investigation is complete. Your arrest is imminent, and well-deserved.”
She turns her gaze to the doorway where a junior nurse stands frozen, overhearing, a capped syringe of tetanus vaccine in one hand.
“And you,” Veronica continues, undeterred. “The next two years will be hard, but you’ll be okay. Today, you’ll go home early and find your husband with your sister. In your bed.”
The nurse gasps, her hand flying to her mouth.
Mr. Casey shifts uncomfortably beside me. I can feel the tension radiating off of him.
“Veronica,” I bark. “That’s enough!”
“There’s more,” she growls. Something about her tone sends chills down my spine. She sounds nothing like my little girl.
But before she can say another word, the beeper clipped to the doctor’s belt chirps. He glances at it, his brow furrowed. He doesn’t even excuse himself as he hurries out.
The nurse, still in the doorway, looks lost in thought as if something suddenly makes sense for the first time. “I. . .I need to go home,” she mutters, more to herself than to us, and quickly leaves the room with the syringe still full of the vaccine.
Mr. Casey follows her out into the hallway, then turns back to us, his face pale. Voices rise outside our room, one of them the doctor’s. “Maeve, you need to see this,” Mr. Casey whispers. “Baby Girl’s predictions are coming true, right now!”
“Veronica?” I search her face for some sign of my little girl, but her eyes are too knowing, too old. “Veronica, what’s happening? Who are you? Jaryx?” The name catches in my throat.
She doesn’t answer immediately but seems to sift through a lifetime of thoughts. “You. . .you love me. You really do. You always tell me we’ll be okay, and we are, even when you’re not sure. You’ll do whatever it takes to keep me safe. And it has nothing to do with my destiny. It’s because you love me.”
“Of course, I love you!” A second later, tears stream down my face. I can’t hold them back any longer.
She studies a scrape on her hand, the abrasion slathered in ointment, and then the lacerations all over my arms and feet. Veronica’s eyes are the same shade as always, but something about them has changed. They seem to hold a secret knowledge, making her expression indecipherable.
“Maeve,” she says finally, quietly, “I’m still your daughter. But I see things now. I know things now. I remember my last lifetime and the people who betrayed me. I remember everything that’s going to happen in this lifetime, too. From yesterday until the day I die, eighty-seven years from now. I remember it all.” Then she gasps and frowns up at me. “And the end of the world. I remember that, too.”
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