Chapter 8 - Unspoken Remedies
The attic fan whirred, a low, rhythmic drone that seemed to suck the oxygen out of the air. Sarah stood amidst the dust motes dancing in the sliver of light from the hatch, her hand hovering over a dusty cedar chest. It had been Jack’s idea to clean out Eleanor’s things before the move to the psychiatric facility, a gesture of closure she hadn't had the heart to initiate herself.
She lifted the lid. Inside, wrapped in moth-eaten linen, was a leather-bound journal and a stack of yellowed, brittle letters.
Sarah pulled out a letter dated 1947. The handwriting was frantic, the ink bleeding through the page. “He was so loud, Mama. The screaming didn’t stop. I tried the tincture. It made him quiet. It made him still. I didn’t mean to make him sleep forever, I just wanted the noise to stop.”
Sarah’s breath hitched. She pulled out another. “The doctor says it was a fever. But I know the truth. I was the nurse. I was the only one who knew how to make the pain go away. If I can’t fix him, I’ll fix the noise. The remedies are the only things that work.”
A wave of nausea crashed over her, followed immediately by a crushing wave of pity. The letters revealed a girl forced to play mother to a dying brother, using harmful, untested "remedies" to silence his suffering. Eleanor wasn't a monster; she was a traumatized child repeating a cycle of violence, convinced that the only way to care for someone was to numb them into submission. The rage that had fueled Sarah’s days—the fury at the slap, the venom at the overdoses—melted into a cold, aching sorrow. She wasn't looking at a villain; she was looking at a mirror of brokenness.
***
The therapy session was a quiet, suffocating room with a one-way mirror. Emily sat on the blue couch, her small hands clasped tightly in her lap. She was thinner than Sarah liked, her eyes wide and haunted.
"She was scared," Emily whispered, her voice barely audible. "The bad dreams were too loud. Grandma said the candy would make the dreams go away. She said it was a special remedy."
Sarah squeezed her eyes shut. She wanted to scream, to tell Emily that her grandmother was a manipulator, but the realization from the attic held her back. Eleanor wasn't just drugging Emily; she was drugging her to escape the noise of her own grief. If Sarah attacked now, she would be attacking a defense mechanism, a twisted form of love.
"I know," Sarah said, her voice trembling. "I know you were scared."
"I miss her," Emily admitted, tears spilling over. "I miss the quiet."
***
Sarah drove to the facility in a daze. The air conditioning in the car felt too cold. When she walked into Eleanor’s room, the older woman was sitting by the window, staring out at the parking lot, her hands folded in her lap.
Eleanor turned slowly. Her face was pale, the harsh lines of her face softened by the fluorescent lights. She didn't look like a criminal; she looked like a woman waiting for the end.
"You found the letters," Eleanor said, her voice raspy.
"Yes," Sarah said, sitting in the chair opposite her. "I read them. About Thomas."
Eleanor flinched, a ghost of a smile touching her lips. "He was a burden, Sarah. A loud, demanding burden. I was just a child. I wanted him to rest. I wanted the screaming to stop."
"You gave him medicine that killed him," Sarah said, the words raw.
"I gave him peace," Eleanor corrected softly. "I tried to do the same for you. For all of you. You were so loud, so frantic. I just wanted you to be quiet. To be still. Isn't that what a grandmother is supposed to do? Keep them safe?"
The logic was terrifying in its twisted simplicity. Sarah felt her defenses shatter. She wasn't fighting a villain; she was fighting a woman who believed she was the only one capable of saving her family from their own chaos. The pity Sarah felt for Eleanor curdled into a sharp, terrified realization.
"You can't do that anymore," Sarah said, standing up. "We are going to get you help. We are going to help Emily."
Eleanor looked at her with eyes that were surprisingly clear. "You can't stop the noise, Sarah. Not really. But the remedies... they work. They really work."
Sarah backed away, her heart hammering against her ribs. "I'm taking Emily home."
She turned and walked out, leaving Eleanor staring at the window, a faint, knowing smile playing on her lips.
***
The house was silent when Sarah returned. She walked down the hall to Emily’s room, her mind racing. She needed to talk to Emily, to reassure her that she was safe, that the "remedies" were over.
She pushed the door open slowly.
Emily was sitting up in bed, bathed in the moonlight streaming from the window. She wasn't sleeping. She was wide awake, her gaze fixed on the nightstand.
Sarah stopped dead in the doorway.
On the wood, next to the bed, sat a small, clear plastic baggie. Inside was a handful of what looked like crushed, colorful hard candies.
Sarah took a step forward. "Emily?"
Emily turned her head slowly. She looked pale, her eyes glassy, but she was smiling—a small, vacant smile that made Sarah’s blood run cold.
"Grandma said I should take them," Emily whispered, her voice sounding thick and slurred, though she hadn't swallowed any yet. "She said the remedy is the only thing that makes the bad thoughts go away. She put them there before she left."
Sarah lunged for the baggie, her hand shaking. "Give them to me. Give them to me now."
Emily didn't let go. She held the bag tight to her chest, her fingers curling around the plastic. "She said I have to take them to be good. She said I have to be quiet."
"She is gone, Emily! She can't help you anymore!"
Emily looked past Sarah, her eyes unfocused, seeing only the ghost in the window. "No," she murmured, her hand drifting to her mouth. "She's still here. The remedy is still here."
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Emily lifted a handful of the crushed candy to her lips. Sarah lunged, knocking the bag from Emily's hand, but the damage was done. The powder spilled onto the white sheets, mixing with the moonlight. Sarah stared at the scattered remnants, realizing with a jolt of pure, unadulterated horror that the "remedies" weren't just in the attic; they were being passed like currency, and the cycle was far from broken.
"Grandma said..." Emily whispered, her eyes fluttering shut as the powder touched her tongue, "...Grandma said the quiet is the best place to be."
