Part Two

by Nancybe

Under control once again, Julia concentrated on the drive. The day was calm here so she wasn’t concerned about driving in inclement weather. She remembered winters up here when the columns of snow towered so high that all you could do was look up and see the sky. But today was bright and clear, and it wasn’t difficult to negotiate the curves of the country roads as she drove deeper into the farmland. She smiled fondly at her memories of this place: the crisp, clean air; the fresh-picked berries for breakfast; catching frogs in the pond; jumping off the rope swing into the frigid, crystalline water of the river. Why had she lost touch with these people? she wondered. She had fond memories of this place and these people. But why was she bothering to ask herself this question? She knew the reason why, and the reason was named Barnabas Collins. It was hard to visit when you have been off in another century or time trying to help a vampire and his family. How could she explain what she had been doing?

But there was another reason why she had avoided coming here – the other questions that her aunts would ask. Have you found anyone yet? they would say. They had been asking that since she had finished medical school. They always managed to lay her life bare with their questions, to open up for inspection all that she tried not to confront. It was easier to just stay away and not to have to listen as they pointed out her failings in life. It was almost easier to answer the supernatural questions at Collinwood than to have to answer those about everyday life because these were the ones that cut her to the quick.

As she passed the many dilapidated and collapsing barns on the winding country road, she was glad that her aunts had been able to keep up the family farm. The farmhouse looked the same as always as she turned down the long, narrow, dirt road that led to the door. The barn still looked solid and had been painted a rustic red within the past few years, and plaintive moos seeped through the closed doors. She negotiated the slippery walkway and paused for a moment before turning the knob at the front door. Her mind was flooded by memories of coming here with her father, of having to watch where she stepped and of wrinkling her nose at the smell of the manure. Her father had always laughed at the look on her face. Smiling, she opened the door without knocking; she couldn’t remember anyone ever knocking on this door. She glanced around at the simple furnishings and felt as if she had stepped back in time. Nothing had changed here except for the new room at the end of the hall. So they had finally installed a bathroom, she thought. Hallelujah, no more chamber pots! Welcome to the 20th century, aunties, she chuckled to herself before realizing that she herself had spent most of her time lately with a man who had refused to install modern plumbing in his own house!

"Aunt Ida? Aunt Margaret?’ she called out when she saw no sign of her aunts.

Julia heard shuffling on the stairs, and smiled as a stooped, old woman appeared carrying a tray in her gnarled, workwoman’s hands. Despite her eighty-odd years, she still sported a full head of black hair, and Julia took that as a hopeful sign in her own fight against the gray.

"Julia! Well, I’m certainly glad to see you, girl," the woman exclaimed giving Julia the once over with ancient but eagle eyes. "You look kind of thin, Julia, and tired around the eyes. Ain’t sick are ya?" she asked as she set the tray on the table.

"No, Aunt Ida, I’m fine. It was just a long trip from Maine, and I’m rather tired and hungry. How is Aunt Margaret?" Julia asked sinking into a worn kitchen chair.

"Weak, but she’ll be mighty glad to see you. Your cousin Mary Jane’s been after her somethin’ awful to go to the doctor down in the city."

"That’s why I’m here, Aunt Ida. I want to see if she really does need more medical treatment than I can give her here at home."

"Well, I sure hope she ain’t got the cancer. That’s terrible stuff. Eva Parsons’ got it, you know," she said, her voice falling to a whisper. "They say she ain’t got long, either." Ida looked at Julia and shook her head. "I still can’t believe our little Julia is actually a doctor. It’s really something. They’re still amazed in town when we talk about it. Skinny little Julia Hoffman, an important psychiatrist. ‘Course, they don’t think much of head doctors, you know. Folks around here figure you should be able to fix your own mental problems without sittin’ on some couch or takin’ some fancy medicine. Oh well, you go up and see Margaret while I fix you something to eat."

Julia nodded and headed up the narrow stairs. It had taken Aunt Ida all of two sentences before remarking on how thin she looked. The other questions, the harder questions, couldn’t be too far behind.

She almost gasped as she entered the tiny bedroom at the top of the stairs. The figure that lay in the wrought iron bed looked wasted and drawn and her breathing sounded labored and wheezy. Unlike her sister, Aunt Margaret’s hair, what little that remained, had gone white and lay against the pillow like a wispy halo around her shriveled head.

"Hello, Julia," a still strong voice called out from the bed. "I hope you ain’t come to try to force me to go to the hospital. Don’t want to go see a bunch of doctors, you know."

"I’m going to examine you, Aunt Margaret, and then I can tell you what we need to do. We’ll just take this one step at a time, okay?" She smiled at the fragile woman who seemed to be swallowed up by the old, feather mattress that sagged in more places than Julia could count.

"Haven’t been up to see us in quite a while, Julia," Margaret said as Julia pulled out her stethoscope. "They must keep you pretty busy up there in Maine."

If you only knew, Julia thought to herself with a wry smile. "Yes, I manage to keep quite busy, I’m afraid."

"Don’t look like ya eat much. Don’t they feed ya there at – what’s the name of that place where you stay?"

"Collinwood, and yes, they do feed me, Aunt Margaret," Julia answered as she continued her examination.

"Why, Julia," her aunt said watching her niece perform her ministrations. "You’re just like the old country doctor, comin’ right to the house when you’re needed, payin’ house calls. These modern doctors don’t do that any more. Do you make house calls up there in Maine?"

If you only knew the house calls I’ve made, Julia thought. It would make your heart stop dead just like Barnabas’ Aunt Abigail. Then again, maybe not, she thought; these old broads might just be tougher than that. "Oh, sometimes, I have to make house calls. It all depends on the case." Depends on whether there are vampires or werewolves or Frankenstein’s monster involved, she wanted to say.

Julia looked up as Ida entered the room with a fresh tray of food. "Made you a sandwich, Julia. What’s wrong with our Margaret, can ya tell?"

"Yes," Julia answered putting her instruments back in her medical bag and extracting some medication. "She has pneumonia. I’ll give her some antibiotics and that should take care of it."

"No hospital?" Margaret asked in a hopeful voice.

"No, I don’t think that will be necessary as long as you take all of the medication and continue to rest," she said in a reassuring but forceful tone.

"I’ll make sure of that, Julia," Ida said as she fluffed her sister’s pillows. "Now, why don’t you tell us more of what you’ve been up to, Julia. We don’t hear from you much."

You always cut right to the chase, don’t you? she wanted to say but didn’t. "Oh, well, I run a private hospital, Wyndcliffe, but you knew that. And I have some private patients as well. That’s what I’ve been spending most of my time on the past few years," she said vaguely, settling down in a tattered overstuffed chair next to the bed and biting into the sandwich.

"Well, what about your personal life, Julia? You have to be in your forties by now. Never married, just like Margaret and me. Have you got a fella? You’re not gettin’ any younger, you know."

She had thought she would be prepared for this but now that it had finally come, she knew that she had been fooling herself. How could she explain Barnabas to them? How could she explain him to herself?

"Uh, well, I’m really so busy with my work - " she began.

"Sounds like there’s somebody who’s keepin’ you warm up there, though, Julia, from the way you’re stammering about it," Margaret interrupted her.

"Well, not really," Julia said quietly.

"Not really? Now what does that mean?" Ida piped up. "Tell us about him. Has he got money?"

"Of course, he’s got money, Ida!" Margaret interjected. "Julia’s a doctor. Do you think she’d go out with some bum?"

"I’m not ‘going out’ with him, Aunt Margaret," Julia tried to explain. Oh, this was so awkward. What were they going to say next?

The two old women exchanged a glance. "So why not? What’s wrong with him? Is he sick?" Ida asked with a frown.

"No, he’s perfectly healthy." At least she could answer that honestly. What would they say if she had had to tell them that up until recently he had been one of the Undead?

"Well, that’s good, anyway. So what is it? Is he married, divorced?"

"No, he’s not married." How could she explain Barnabas’ marital status? Well, he was married to a witch but she died several times so I guess that makes him a widower?

"Is he good lookin’?" Margaret asked, always concerned with how someone looked.

"Yes," Julia said almost shyly. "He’s very handsome."

"And it sounds like you got it bad for him, missy," Ida said, narrowing her eyes at her niece. "So why ain’t ya married to this man?"

Julia sighed. What could she say other than the truth? What indeed? "I’m not sure how he feels about me," she said slowly, looking down at the floor, and it was evident to even her aunts that this statement was spoken with great pain.

The elderly sisters looked at each other again with mutual understanding. "Well, I guess I’ll go get your room ready, Julia," Ida said as she getting slowly to her feet. "You just relax, dear. You’ve had a long trip."

Julia sat in awkward silence for a moment after her aunt had left the room, grateful that the inquisition was over, at least for the moment. "Let me get you a fresh pitcher of water, Aunt Margaret," she said finally, seizing upon a reason to escape.

A hot, leathery hand caught her own as she rose from the chair. "Julia," her aunt whispered, with a firm grip on her hand, "don’t end up like Ida and me, two old maids living out our days alone. You deserve better than that – a husband, maybe a family. If this fella is what you really want, find a way, Julia. Find a way."

Julia looked at her aunt quizzically for a moment. Margaret had never spoken to her like this before- so earnestly, so honestly – and she did not know how to respond. Finally, she nodded her head mutely, gave the withered hand a squeeze and fled into the hall before allowing the dam to break on the flood of tears behind her eyes.

Twenty-four hours later, Julia listened to her aunt’s lungs and shook her head in amazement. "You sound much better, Aunt Margaret. The antibiotics must really be doing the trick. And I don’t think it hurts that you know you won’t have to go to the hospital," she said giving the woman a close look. "Thank goodness for antibiotics, anyway. It still amazes me that we haven’t even had them that long."

"Sure wish they had invented them back in the ‘20’s when your Uncle Donnie got so sick," Ida muttered as she moved into the room. "All’s he did is get hit by a rock, but the doctors couldn’t stop the infection. Eleven years old, Julia, can you imagine that? It pret’ near killed Papa when we lost Donnie; he was never the same after that, was he, Margaret?"

"No, he sure ‘nough wasn’t," her sister answered. "Now, Julia, I meant to ask you yesterday. This fella of yours ain’t a lawyer, is he?"

So the détente was over, Julia thought to herself with a groan. Even her tactless aunts had realized yesterday that talking about "her fella" (how strange to hear someone refer to him like that!) had been difficult for her, and they had discontinued their interrogation of her rather abruptly. But she had known that it wouldn’t last, and twenty-four hours seemed to be the limit of their endurance. She wondered what else they would ask her and what answers she might yet have to manufacture or finesse.

And how could she explain his profession? Former vampire and erstwhile paranormal investigator? Wouldn’t that be something to put on a business card! Maybe the two of them could even open their own detective business or star in their own television series.

"No, he’s not a lawyer," she heard herself saying. "He’s, uh, he’s a businessman."

"Oh, good," Margaret responded with a relieved sigh. "Because that daughter of Mary Jane’s has up and gone to the city and met herself some fancy lawyer. And I know he’s nothin’ but a crook."

Julia stifled a chuckle and turned away from her aunt. There was no use arguing with them; she had learned that a long time ago.

"I suppose you’ll be leavin’ soon to get back to him," Ida asked her pointblank.

"Well, I’ll stay until tomorrow to make sure that Aunt Margaret is going to be okay, but she really is recovering very well," Julia said with a smile. She stopped and looked closely at Ida and realized for the first time who the woman had always reminded her of: Margaret Hamilton who played the Wicked Witch of the West in THE WIZARD OF OZ! Julia almost laughed out loud at the irony of it. Her own harmless old aunt reminded her of one of the most infamous witches of the 20th century, a character who had scared millions of children witless for decades. But Julia knew that real witches were not necessarily ugly and warted on the outside, that they sometimes came in very pretty packages that hid their hideousness very well. And she had faced down one of these witches, one who had looked like Glinda, the Good Witch of the North, but who had housed the soul of the Witch of the West.

"Thank you for makin’ this house call," Ida said earnestly, reaching for Julia’s hand. "And I hope that you bring your fella here to meet us real soon."

"I hope so, too, Aunt Ida," Julia said wistfully. "I hope so, too."

TO BE CONTINUED

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