Cat Dubois' Odyssey to Enchantment Page 21

  “Oh, not weird at all dear. How I love lavender. This room will be perfect. Thank you, Catherine,” said Eleanor. “And, no; it’s not odd, either.” Eleanor smiled. “Now, good night, dear. Please, have sweet dreams.” Eleanor yawned.

  “You’re welcome,” Cat said reluctantly polite. “There are clean towels in the bath. The bathroom is next to your bedroom and this door opens to it.” Cat pointed in to the door.

  “Oh, delightful. Wonderful.” Eleanor looked in at the old bath tub to see that it sported lion’s feet claw legs. “Just like home. I will be quite comfortable here. Thank you, dear.” Eleanor readied herself for bed. She fluffed up the pillows on the downy bed. The manor was cold and drafty, but she felt warm and cozy in her lavender bedroom. She soon fell sound asleep, but not before a review of the day’s events. It had been a long day—especially wearing human flesh again. The travel to Glory Town via meditation control and concentration that landed her exactly where and how she envisioned her entry, the people of the town who were utterly impossible, the horrific weather for her drive, the accident, and then the initial meeting with Catherine—these circumstances exhausted her just rethinking them. And then, meeting Catherine, brought her to her synopsis now, just before sleep—”She is a tough soldier. But, Lord, I’m glad I came. She really needs me. She just doesn’t know it, yet,” Eleanor said to herself and yawned again. She rolled over after telling God her many thank you’s—using her short list for this evening—and went to sleep.

  Catherine found herself sitting in the living room feeling rather suspicious of the whole situation. “Who is this English woman wearing an outdated, green velvet suit? She shows up on my doorstep in a blizzard, looking like she stepped out of Grimm's Fairy Tales? Oh, enough is enough! Who the hell is she? What is she doing here? And God forbid, what if she dies tonight with complications from a head injury? Then what?”, she thought, weighing the options. “Maybe I should call the police?”, she muttered, again picking up the old phone. But she did not phone the police, for the phone was dead when she picked it up to call. Her brain was worn out. “Oh, not something else! Now, the phone is dead? Oh, come on, for Heaven’s sake! Enough is enough.”

  In her cozy bedroom, Eleanor wore a devilish little grin before she fell asleep. She could imagine what Cat would have just done, if the phone had worked. “Thanks Tadhg, good job.”

  After ruminating about the whole situation, over and over again and sorting out the details, Cat surrendered to the need to rest. She fell asleep on the floor, after pulling the heavy down comforter off of the couch. She curled up on the old tapestry rug next to the fireplace, holding a brandy snifter. She had tried some more of Eleanor’s cognac and herbal tea remedy, and it made her very sleepy. She slept with one ear close to the floor, hoping to hear if Eleanor woke at any time to get into her things. Cat would protect her stuff. After all, one couldn’t be sure. The cognac leaked onto the wooden floor in the middle of the night when her hand relaxed during deep restful sleep. The floor was cold and creaky, but the herbs, the tea and the cognac put Cat to sleep quite soundly for the rest of the night.

  But, in the stillness of her dream, she heard a whisper. She thought it was Eleanor putting a spell on her. The voice echoed a whisper: “Mugwort…mugwort…mugwort. Now, dream, my dear. Relax and have sweet dreams.” Cat shifted in her sleep, feeling like someone was smiling at her during the night as she dreamed.

  Eleanor stood at the grand French doors that opened into the den where Cat was slumbering. Quietly wearing an endearing grandmotherly smile, she watched Cat for a minute—the restful breaths she took. “We are here now, the three of us. You’ll see. You won’t be disappointed,” she issued to the universe beyond. Eleanor drifted back to her room in a ghost-like state. From a distance, she appeared translucent and totally disappeared before she turned into her room. She had carried a candelabra in hand, with steadily burning candles, leaving a wispy trail of smoke in her wake. The hall was very long and only the smoke from the candles lingered. No one saw this, except the young boy ghost. He had been watching from out of sight of the den doors, peeking through the wooden cracks to see where Cat was passed out.

  “Catherine, wake up! There is something strange about that woman. You gotta wake up!”, the boy pleaded.

  Cat just moaned. “Not now. Let me sleep. Later, okay?”

  The little boy knelt in confusion. “Wake up, Catherine.” He tried to touch her but his hand passed through her solid form. He looked at his hand, then bent to whisper in her ear, his British accent more pronounced now, “Catherine, you must wake up. Can you hear me?” He sat next to her and stayed by her side. He tried to tickle her arm, but that didn’t do anything.

  Cat only roused enough to say “Huh?” But, she never really awakened.

  The little boy fell asleep next to her. He tried to lay his head on her side, but his head wouldn’t stay. It just floated down through her. Sometime later, when the morning light began to come over the mountain tops in the east, he vanished.

  Good Morning. Smell the Coffee.

  Catherine rolled over on the floor as the aroma of coffee permeated the air and filtered into the living room. The smell was savory and sweet, but it wasn't coffee, she decided, as the scent grew stronger. No, this was something familiar, but not coffee.

  A memory from her childhood was coming through. “What is that smell?”, she wondered again. Her eyelids slid halfway open and she breathed deeply, trying to identify the scent. Then, slowly with the aches and pains of winter on an aging body, Cat managed to get up. Stretching like a cat, she bent forward and held the pose for a few seconds. She was disheveled, of course. A night on the cold floor tends to do that to people, she chuckled mid-yawn. Her mascara was smudged on her cheeks below her eyes. Her clothing was wrinkled, her gnarled hair stood straight up, and the rest of her eye makeup was smeared. Her nightly indulgence in wine, and the brandy or cognac over the past twenty years, had relaxed Cat’s vanities. Sleeping in her bed was often forsaken for the hard wooden floor in the den, a detail that meant she rarely removed her make up. Morning showers would refresh her from a night of spirits, but for Catherine, sleeping on the floor brought comfort to her and positioned her in a safe place in her home. Should there be any intruders or prowlers, she felt safest here in front of the fireplace, on the plush decorative rug. She felt as if someone who loved her was watching over her when she was there. Her bed felt lonely and isolated. At times she even thought her bedroom felt evil. In the den, the memories of her mother felt the strongest, and so, for all those reasons Cat most often slept there.

  She had loved her mother dearly, and she missed the little affections that had been given to her, particularly in her adolescent years. In her younger years, Cat vaguely remembered that her mother felt distant to her. It wasn’t until she became a teenager, that they grew close. She would always remember how kind her mother was to Daniel. Her father maintained a cool, aloof personality, carrying an air of royalty around him. Her mother never felt the same entitlement as he did; thus she was remembered, mostly, for perpetually being humble, graceful and kind. No one would ever replace the memories of her.

  Inhaling deeply, Cat tried to guess where the scent was coming from. The aroma was too inviting and it smelled like something was cooking. “Oh, yeah…I forgot; I have a guest.” Cat sniffed the air again. “Eleanor?”, she thought, wonderingly as she began to move from her little spot beside the fireplace. She was hesitant to investigate, though, and took small steps at first, then picked up her pace and walked into the kitchen, as she ran her hands through her hair.

  Cat found herself in the kitchen, staring at muffins on the kitchen table. The table was set with a white linen tablecloth and matching napkins. The kitchen was spotless as evidenced by the fact that the copper pans were brightly polished and hung from the brass pot rack over the kitchen island— “just like it used to be when mama was alive,” she thought. She continued to look around and saw that not a single dish was in the sink and
the stainless steel trim sparkled. The floor was spic-and-span. Eleanor wasn't in the kitchen, but the mysterious brew was. Catherine smelled the coffee that summoned up foggy childhood memories. My mother made coffee that smelled like this on freezing winter mornings. Cat shook her head, “This can’t be right. Is it a trick? Yes. That must be it. What is she up to? She must have been up all night cleaning the kitchen?”

  While she stood watching out the kitchen window, she looked for Eleanor who was not in the house. She noticed that she was picking flowers. God, that’s strange—picking flowers in snow that’s two feet deep. “Dang, how does she find flowers in snow?” Cat shook her head in amazement. This strange woman brought with her a feeling of magic—a fascinating feeling she had not experienced since childhood. But on the other hand, Cat didn’t want to let her guard down, just in case—just in case something terrible came with the peculiar woman. Cat stared.

  Then, she felt a drastic change. A change in the temperature in the warm kitchen became cold. Her teeth chattered. Then, she saw her breath, when the temperature dropped without warning. Suddenly an upstairs doors slammed shut. “This old dank house,” Cat muttered a logical excuse. She retreated to the den to throw wood on the embers in the fireplace. Once finished, she stood for a moment, enjoying the warmth as her gaze fell upon an old picture on the mantle. It was a picture of her mother and father and the family’s springer spaniel. It seemed warm, alive, drawing her closer to it. She picked it up. It was old, now—dingy. Staring at it, Cat became distracted by music coming from a music box that was sitting on a dresser upstairs. It was faint, but she knew the song. It was the one that came from her mother’s music box. She listened and looked up towards the melody, The 1812 Overture played from the tiny chords, so she thought… Then, another door slammed, “Bang!”, upstairs. Disturbed by the rise of unusual activity going on in the manor, Cat moved back to the kitchen. The bizarreness of these activities in her home confused even her.

  Thinking, perhaps, she had imagined the coldness, she moved back to the window to see what Eleanor was doing. Looking through the kitchen window and pouring a cup of hot coffee with trembling hands, it spilled over a little as she added fresh cream. She tasted the drop that fell on her hand. Putting it to her tongue, she tasted, “Mmm…cream. It’s fresh. How did she manage that?”

  Cat pondered all the little things strange happening right then. As she watched Eleanor still outside in the freezing weather, she saw her bending down and raking her hand over the snow. Eleanor was looking for something. Her guest was in the backyard not far from where the barn had burned down. Cat could hardly look at that spot of land anymore. Where the barn stood was now rubble from old burned bricks and worn wood that peeked through the snow. For a moment, Cat thought of her animals who died there—her dog, the cats, the horse, the goats and the chickens, gone in that spot. She couldn’t look. That place held overwhelming sadness, for years. The bleakness of winter lingered there; it was the same with her heart. It could not let go of those memories. And, Eleanor was standing where the barn was, picking flowers.

  Another loud bang came from another room. It sounded as if it was upstairs, too. And, the music had stopped.

  She moved towards the den again, then quickly moved back to the kitchen. Deliberately taking her mind off the noises and the music box, Cat watched out the kitchen window again as she kept an eye out for Eleanor. She rubbed her chin in contemplation.

  The upstairs door slammed again. She looked toward where the loud noise came. “What is going on? The door slamming, the room’s temperature drastically changed, and, then, the odd woman is outside picking flowers? In this weather? How are there even flowers? What is she doing, and what is going on here?” Cat’s worried frown deepened. There was never this much noise—never. And, the crazy things all started simultaneous with the strange old woman who showed up out of nowhere.

  “It’s cold in here again,” she whispered. Her breath could be seen in soft, white puffs. Cat stood in the kitchen, watching her breath. The little boy, the apparition, tried to hold her hand while she was in the kitchen. Cat jerked her hand up and shook her fingers at the tingling sensation. “Damn, my fingers are freezing. They're numb with coldness.” The skin on her finger tips was cyanotic. Eleanor looked up at that moment and caught sight of Cat at the window. She waved and smiled like an angel. Catherine pulled back out of view, not wanting to appear as if she was spying. A moment later, she peeped out through the side blinds. But it seemed that Eleanor had expected that, and now she waved even bigger. Catherine smiled and found that her fingers were moving side to side, waving back. She smirked, and then turned away.

  Soon thereafter, Eleanor came inside, entering through the backdoor by the kitchen. Cat seated herself at the breakfast table and eyed Eleanor suspiciously, as Eleanor said, “Good morning, dear, I found theses glorious purple passion flowers. Aren’t they lovely?” Purple ones!” She wiped her feet on the mud mat. Then, looking around, Eleanor found a small vase sitting on the shelf in the mud room. “Is this alright to use?”

  “Yes, that’s fine,” Cat, agreed. “Good morning.”

  “I hope you found the breakfast?” Eleanor pointed to the little table set to the side.

  “Yes, thank you. I haven’t eaten yet. I thought you might want to join me?” Cat busied herself with further examining the breakfast table. Because of all the doors slamming, and the temperature dropping, and Eleanor picking flowers where the barn once stood, had alarmed her so much, she had simply forgotten about the food or eating.

  There were two muffins with fresh butter and jam placed on an old china plate of her mother’s—a dish she’d left unused for decades. The delicious coffee was poured into a waiting china cup. “Where did she find these?”, Catherine wondered. All of the dust had been washed away.

  Eleanor stepped outside again and then returned with several handfuls of cones and twigs. Cat shook her head, seeing only a mess of bark and sticks, questioning, “What is all that for?”

  “Wreaths. We will make a Christmas wreath,” Eleanor said, cheerfully.

  “Just how long does she think she’ll be here?”, Cat queried herself. “A wreath? Christmas is a month away?” Cat contemplated Eleanor’s plans to make a wreath, and that meant longer than a night or two.

  “Oh dear, I won’t be here for that long. No need to trouble yourself with anxiety. I’ll be gone way before Christmas. But, while we’re snowed inside, I thought we might make cookies and a wreath just for you. How about that?”, Eleanor added.

  Cat remembered when she was a little girl. She’d made wonderful Christmas cookies and a wreath, each holiday season, with her mother. Cat paused for a moment, stopping herself from any good thoughts of good old days. She couldn’t allow any pleasurable memory to entertain her. Those memories were most especially haunting and hurting. She didn’t deserve any good thing anymore. She would have to stop this from continuing any further; but, then again, Eleanor was a sweet old lady. “Maybe she will give an inch of kindness,” Cat thought.

  “Thank you for the breakfast,” she whispered. She didn’t think Eleanor would hear, but she did not want to seem ungrateful. And, Eleanor had heard her anyway.

  “You're welcome, dear.” She stopped and touched Catherine’s cheek. “It is so beautiful outside. The air is clean and not a breeze to make it seem cold. Just gorgeous weather.” Oh, such a warm smile radiated from her lips. For a moment, Catherine caught a glimpse of her mother's silhouette from her memories, many years ago. Surely she was imagining that similarity, too.

  This woman and her gestures and actions had her recalling many good times she hadn’t thought of in years. They were thoughts that didn’t matter any longer; after all, those times were so long ago. Suddenly, the warm, long ago memories of goodness vanished from her mental and emotional vision.

  Eleanor looked at Catherine like a mother to her beloved child. She touched her hand, tenderly, to the other cheek and, with her fingers, gently moved Cat’s raven-dye
d hair from her face, smoothing over the mascara-stained skin.

  “Elizabeth Catherine Dubois, has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are?”

  Catherine jerked backward. “No. No, not in a long time. Except last night,” she said, hastily. She looked away as a tear welled up in her right eye and she had to look down. She had to stop this tenderness. It hurt too badly. Cat slipped out of her seat and quickly left the kitchen without saying a word. She felt like a girl again; she had not been excused from the table or dismissed. She couldn’t stay to see what her guest would do next, or hear anything else she had to say.

  Instead, Cat ran to the upstairs bathroom and shut the door behind her. She looked into the mirror and began to cry upon seeing her reflection. Like a dam that had shattered the floodgates, she could not hold the tears back. Cat turned on the shower, setting the temperature as hot as she could stand. She climbed in and stood there, letting the hot water surround her. It seemed to wash her sins away. But then, voices began speaking all around her; they accused her of being unlovable. “The old woman lies to you!”, the voices said. “You’re not worthy at all! Don’t let her touch you. You’re filthy and dirty. No one will ever love you. She is a liar. Get her out of your home, today.” The voices were relentless.

  Cat stopped crying after fifteen minutes. After all, her parents passing had left her orphaned many years ago; the only man she loved was gone forever; and the townsfolk resented her. When the hot water stopped, so did the tears; and so did the voices. Although Cat’s eyes were puffy, she felt relief. But the voices had been right, Eleanor must go. No wreaths or muffins, cookies or turkey would be made. She boldly decided to return downstairs after she was dressed and had reapplied her make up. Cat would get to the bottom of this. She would tell Eleanor to leave as soon as possible. No one was allowed to stay. These were life’s rules regarding Elizabeth Catherine Dubois. There is a force that keeps me from being loved. Cat thought, dismally. After, regaining her composure, and readying herself for the day, she headed downstairs in search of her house guest.