Dreadful Sorry (14 page)

She placed the lid of the hatbox gently on the bed now and took out the atlas. She held it on her lap a long moment, smoothing her fingers over the leather cover. Then she opened it. So many places in the world—and here she was, stuck in Hibben, Maine! But not for long. Surely there was more to life than this.

After all, it was 1912. It was the twentieth century, though the villagers didn't seem to know it. Hibben might be the sleepiest town on earth, but out in other places the world was bursting with people and motion and new ideas. Automobiles raced along city roads without horses to pull them. Streetcars drove shoppers to busy marketplaces. Huge, glittering passenger ships traversed the oceans. Some lucky people had even ridden aloft in aeroplanes. Yet here in Hibben only the Holloways owned an automobile. Everyone else walked or traveled by carriage. Hibben's general store was a poor cousin to the big city department stores. Clementine had read about how, at Christmastime, the shops in New York City were decorated with thousands of lights. Here in Hibben only the Holloways had electric lights in their house. And only a few villagers saw any use in such newfangled contraptions as the telephone. They were rooted in old ways and resisted every change. There was nothing for her here.

She leafed through the pages of maps and charts, her resolve to escape this town and this family growing even stronger. When she replaced the book in the hatbox, she fingered the locket before laying it in the box. She stroked the yarn braids on the little doll and adjusted its dress. "Something will work out for us, Mollydolly," she whispered. "Don't worry."

Then she put the round lid on the hatbox and pushed it back under her bed. She went down the hall to the playroom and dutifully took charge of her cousins. They led her straight into their game, romping and playing until bath time. But even while she stood on the window seat holding the baby competently on her hip with one arm, the other arm outstretched, clutching a wooden sword to do battle with Abner and Alice—pirates guarding the buried treasure—her mind was busy making plans. It was time to move on, and she would not be thwarted. It was time for a brand-new life.

"A brand-new life," Molly murmured. She turned her head on the pillows and opened her eyes. She blinked.

Jacob Horn sat next to her bed, his chair pulled close—but no, no, of course it couldn't be Jacob! It was her dad, it was
Bill.
Bill was stroking her arm. "It's all right, Molly. You're here with us."

"You're just fine," said a soft voice on her other side, and Molly turned her head.

"Aunt Ethel!" But as soon as she said the name, she knew it was absurd.

Paulette reached out and patted Molly's arm.

Molly struggled to sit up. Her headache was gone, but she was not at all refreshed from her nap. Drugged with the weight of the incredible dream of Clementine's story and the whole essence of how it felt to
be
Clementine, she rubbed her eyes.

"Oh, Molly," whispered Paulette. "That was amazing! Just hearing you talking—it was like being transported right back in time. I had to rush out and drag Billy in to listen!"

"Listen? What do you mean? What happened?"

Bill continued stroking her arm. "I'm not sure, Molly. I never saw anything like this in my life. When I came in you were wide-eyed and talking a mile a minute like you were this Clementine."

"You never left the bed," added Paulette. "But you made us feel we were right there with you—with Clementine—out on the headland, then inside talking to Aunt Ethel and Uncle Wallace. And all those children!
Very
bizarre."

Molly just stared at her. "You were giving me a head rub. What happened?"

"Just a little relaxation technique," said Paulette, her eyes bright with excitement.

"It was a trick!" Molly glared at her. "What did you do? Hypnotize me?"

"Molly, that's unfair. All I did ~was massage your head and shoulders. I could feel the tightness—all the things you bottle up inside don't just disappear, you know. They're in there festering. Making you tense, making your head pound. All I did was relax you, and when you were relaxed I suggested you open your mind to let out what was worrying you."

Molly flushed at the thought of being so completely out of control—and being
seen
so out of control. "Very New Age and touchy-feely. But you should have asked me first."

Paulette looked distressed. "You would have said no. I thought you'd rather try to deal with this on your own rather than see a psychologist."

"That's right.
On my own!
"

"Honey," said Bill. "Paulette didn't tell the story of Clementine,
you
did. We just sat here and listened. Paulette didn't put the words in your mouth."

Paulette put her hand on Molly's arm. "Don't be angry. Please. You wanted to remember."

"How can it have been a memory? That doesn't make sense."

"How did it feel, Molly?" asked Bill.

"It felt so real," Molly admitted, lying back with a great sigh. "That girl—Clementine—was the same girl from my dreams."

The pillows were very soft. She felt she could sink right down into them and fall deeply asleep in an instant. Despite the presence of Bill and Paulette at her bedside, the sight of the bedside table with her paperbacks and travel alarm clock on it and her clothes draped on the wooden chair across the room, Molly was still full
of
other impressions. Paulette was right; the memories were Molly's own: the faces of all the children, the drag of Clementine's long skirts, the weight of the wooden pirate sword in her hand as she played with the laughing children, the clean, warm smell of baby Augustus's head on her shoulder, the happy memories of playing with the doll.

"That name," she said slowly. "Mollydolly."

Bill cleared his throat. "That part kind of threw me, Molly. I'll admit it."

"I think it's thrilling! It proves even more that there's a connection between Molly and this ... this other girl." Paulette was looking across the bed at Bill, her face eager. "I feel we should be able to make something out of all this—all that Molly told us. But what?"

"It's fascinating," agreed Bill.

"It's not fascinating, it's crazy!" wailed Molly. She had a sudden, desperate longing to talk to Jen. She needed to hear her mother's calm, reassuring voice. She leapt out of the high bed, and in one corner of her mind registered surprise at the sight of her shorts and long bare legs. But what had she expected to see—Clementine's long skirts? "I'm going to call Mom."

"Of all people!" Bill exclaimed as Molly went out into the hall and down the stairs.

She headed directly for the study but stopped abruptly in the doorway. Was that acrid odor from Uncle Wallace's pipe?

She took a deep breath and went to the phone. She pressed the numbers, ¡then sat down on the couch, the receiver at her ear as she listened to the ringing in her own kitchen back in Battleboro Heights.

On the fourth ring, the answering machine clicked in, announcing that no one was at home, but if the caller wished to leave a message he or she should wait for the beep. Molly sighed and announced that she was fine and had called to say hi. She just wanted to hear Jen's voice.

Jen's sensible, no-nonsense voice.

As she replaced the receiver, the study door creaked. Molly turned, expecting Paulette or Bill. Then she froze. She heard whispers on the other side of the door, and a little boy's worried voice: "What's he going to do to Clemmy?"

Molly backed away and bumped against the table. She recognized that voice. Her heart hammered. The whispers vanished into thick silence. After a long moment Molly forced herself to walk over to the door. She took a deep breath before putting her hand on the knob. "Abner?" Her voice rang in the silence. Loud and absurd. She opened the door. The library beyond was empty.

Molly walked out into the hallway. She could hear the teakettle whistling in the kitchen. Bill and Paulette turned when she appeared in the doorway. "How is Jen?" asked Bill. "Did she explain the whole thing to you? Got everything clear now, all concise and reasonable?"

"Don't be snide, sweetie. Molly's had a rough day." Paulette wiped her hands on a dish towel. "Come on and sit down, Molly." She giggled. "I'm just so excited, I don't think I can eat! We've got to figure out what it all means."

"I'm hoping for a ghost, myself," said Bill. "No kidding—as long as it isn't out looking for revenge. A ghost would certainly attract tourists, wouldn't it, darling?"

"I have another theory, Billy. Come on, I'll tell you while we eat."

Molly sat down. As they ate the meal of salad and marinated tofu ("California food," Jen would call it), she listened to Bill and Paulette discuss their ideas of what could be happening to her. Bill wanted a ghost for the inn, while Paulette thought the strange occurrences might have to do with reincarnation. In a past life, she surmised, Molly had actually
been
Clementine. And now she was remembering things from that past life. "That's why it all seemed so real," she said. "It
was.
"

"But
why
is she remembering?" asked Bill with interest. "What's the point?"

But Paulette didn't have a theory about that. Not yet. "Just give me time, I'll come up with something," she said, and winked across the table at Molly.

Molly threw down her napkin, near tears. "You two are acting like this is just some new game," she cried. "But it isn't. I'm hearing things and seeing things, and I want to know why. How would you like to be haunted? Or maybe going crazy?"

Paulette reached over to put her hand on Molly's arm, but Molly pulled back. "You're not crazy," Paulette said, "No one thinks that."

Bill put down his fork. "Don't get angry at us. We're not trying to make this into a game—really we're not."

"It's just so fascinating," added Paulette. "And hard to believe when none of it's happening to us. I can understand that you're frightened. I would be, too."

Molly started eating again, her temper spent. After another minute she spoke up. "I feel like all this is a giant wave or something, sucking me down. Just like the water in the pool. If I'm not wacko and a ghost is really appearing to me in dreams and visions and stuff, then why? What am I supposed to do? It's not like this Clementine person's giving me a message or anything."

"In ghost stories," said Paulette, "you need to bury their bones properly so they can rest. That sort of thing."

"Well, I wish Clementine would tell me where her bones are now and where she wants me to put them," said Molly with some asperity. "I'd rush out and bury them, and then we could all rest in peace."

After the meal she excused herself and hurried up to her bedroom—the bedroom that had been Clementine's. She checked under the bed to make sure no hatbox lurked there, then sat on the bed and wrote lighthearted fetters to her mother and Michael. She mentioned nothing of what had been happening to her since her arrival. She did not say that Jared Bernstein had come to Hibben. The effort to put it all out of her head while she wrote exhausted her, and when she finished she set aside the papers and lay back on the bed to think.

She needed to figure this out.

Just say for a moment that Clementine was real. What could she want? Why in the world was she haunting, of all people, Molly Teague from Battleboro Heights, Ohio?

And then there was the house. This house, and the one with the long hallway in the dream. Who were the children whose voices and laughter whispered behind closed doors?

And how did Jared Bernstein fit in?

It was time to stop running scared and use her brain, Molly told herself. She could start tomorrow, utilizing all the tools reason had given her. Rather than just sit and let things happen to her, she would do something her mother would approve of. She would make a scientific inquiry. Do some research. She would begin first thing tomorrow at the Hibben Free Library.

Molly awoke to cheerful sounds of breakfast being made downstairs. Bill laughed. Water ran into the old porcelain sink. The electric coffee grinder whirred scratchily. Molly threw on her clothes and ran to the kitchen. Bill and Paulette were making pancakes and coffee.

"You're up early," she greeted them.

Paulette was wearing Bill's plaid bathrobe and her hair was ruffled. "We're going to the hospital. It's baby checkup time. I just love hearing that little heartbeat." She rested her hand on Bill's shoulder. "
Dup-dup-dup
. It's the sweetest thing."

"Come with us if you like, Molly," added Bill. "The closest hospital is over in Benson. We're taking the ferry because it's a lot faster than driving. The coast road is single-lane traffic the whole way and winds all over the place."

Molly sat down at the table and lifted her plate for the two pancakes that Paulette slid off the spatula. "I think I'll stay here," she said, reaching for the maple syrup, "if you don't mind."

"Listen, Molly," said Bill. "You're going great guns on the dining room walls, but we want you to have fun, too."

"I thought I might walk into town. Maybe go to the library or something."

Paulette looked at her sharply. "What if—?"

"I'll deal with it if it happens," said Molly firmly. "I want to look for history books about Hibben. Find out who lived here, find out ... you know."

"Good for you," said Bill. "Try the church, too. There's a graveyard behind it."

Molly shivered.

"We can drop you off on our way to the wharf," said Paulette.

"Thanks." Molly forked up a mouthful of pan-cake. "Leave the dishes, you guys. I'll wash up." When everyone had finished eating and Paulette and Bill went upstairs to get ready, Molly cleared the table. She rubbed the dishes in soapy water and gazed out the window over the sink at the long grasses blowing in the sea breeze; Reed grass, it was called. She knew the name now, she realized, because Clementine had known.

The town was quiet; the only bustle of activity was down by the wharf where tourists waited to board the ferry. Paulette stopped the van at the bottom of Cotton Lane. Bill slipped his house key off his key ring and handed it to Molly. "We'll have lunch in Benson," he told her as she climbed out of the back seat. "Expect us when you see us."