Who Takes Care Of The Caregiver?
Lindsey made her second visit to the house. She knew what lay behind those walls, calling to her. Her small car hummed down the road, heading east towards the silent neighborhood where the house sat on the horizon. She pulled to the curb and walked out to the front porch, correcting the handbag on her shoulders. Her old cardigan, awkwardly fitting her lean, twenty-six year old body, hung astray as she pulled it while closing in on the front door.
Lindsey’s frail fingers knocked on the aged oak and she waited for an answer. I didn’t wash my face today. Hope she doesn’t notice or Rachel will be teasing me all day, she thought. The door jeered open and a short butler appeared. His face was small, eyes brown and beady. Tucked in is suit, Mortely looked nothing like the job he served. You could’ve mistaken him for the owner of the house, with his fine-looking jaw and attentive sight.
“Madam Rachel doesn’t look all that well today. Come in, young Lindsey, she wishes to see your presence.” Lindsey pulled her bag and handed it to him.
“Thank you,” she said, almost inaudibly. He passed a nod and closed the door as she walked in with slow, careful steps. Dust particles danced against the light and the deep smell of aged books struck her. She loathed the pungent smell that came from it and she couldn’t get over it. It reminded her of each time she came here, especially when everything wasn’t going well lately. She paced up the stairs, straight towards Rachel’s room as she held firm to her cardigan.
Lindsey knocked on the door and Rachel’s raspy voice came from the other end. “Come in!” It only took a second to open and Rachel’s gaze turned from the wall, towards the door. Lindsey walked in, eyes trained on her patient, and she reached for the wooden chair.
“Your mother was a good friend. Always said how much she loved you.”
“I know, and she always said good things about you, too, madam.” Rachel chuckled, her face grimacing with pain but she tried to keep it together, resorting to closing her eyes.
“Come here, young Lindsey.” Rachel leaned from her bed, hand outstretched. Lindsey pulled the chair close and held her hand. It was soft and subtly dry and Lindsey laid her other hand on top of it. She forced a smile, trying to hide the grief eating at her and she waited to hear what Rachel was going to say.
“What killed your mother. What’s coming after me. It will come for you. It won’t stop until it kills off everyone wielding this power. Your power. Make good with the gift that was given to you. The voices in your head will become clearer and you will be able to channel anyone’s thoughts.” Rachel coughed and Lindsey’s eyes widened. She held her hand tight and Rachel laid back on the bed, sighing. “That’s all for now. Now go get me some tea.” Before Lindsey opened the door, Rachel called to her. “And go wash your face, will you?”
The water was cold and uncomfortable, nothing that made it any easier for Lindsey. These cottages were the only ones with geysers but Rachel’s geyser was a stubborn contraption. Water sometimes came in slow drips or it was colder than the cold water itself. There wasn’t any reasoning behind this and they never took the chance to fix it.
Lindsey closed the tap and wiped her face with the clean towel. She could smell the fabric conditioner which took her seconds to remove the towel from her face. She didn’t have any of this back in her loft and she took the chance to experience it while it was there.
Her feet pressed against the wooden floors as she made her way to the kitchen and Motley’s voice could be heard over the clattering utensils. As she entered the kitchen, she could see him speak over the phone, what seemed like a small debate he was having with the person on the other end. The maid was busy with the dishes as she sang in a low hum. Lindsey headed towards the maid.
“Excuse me, Madam Rachel requests a cup of tea. Do you have any hot water around?” The maid paused and looked at her, eyes glancing to the side. She pointed to the stove behind her and Lindsey turned to see a grey steaming pot. “Thank you.”
As she took the gloves to remove the pot, a knock came from the front door. Motley covered the receiver and the maid stopped what she was doing.
“We weren’t expecting anyone,” Motley said, his brows furrowed and motion still. “Lindsey, come here.” He walked her to the pantry room and opened the door. Holding it midway, he gazed into her eyes. “If anything happens or if I cry out, just shut the door and lock yourself inside. Anyone comes banging, just break the window and run.” His look was stern and serious. Lindsey had never seen him so concerned.
“Good luck, young Lindsey. You might need it this time.”
