Circle of Secrets (16 page)

But
all
the other recipe pages are done in the same handwriting. I spread the blue bottle note next to one of the pages and get the flashlight again.

I knew it. I knew it!

The death note
was
written by Mirage. Even though the lettering looks sort of like a kid wrote it, the style is the same as the handwriting in Mirage’s recipe book. The same up-and-down letters, the big exclamation points with the dots slightly off center.

The other four, which include the very first one I found plus these three new ones, are definitely
not
written by Mirage. I’m positive of that. So they must be written by my
grand-mère?
Is she the
she
who died?

Then I look at the note that says:

My mamma says we’re going
into Lafayette today. I’m sorry!

That don’t sound like my
grand-mère
wrote it. Sounds like a kid getting dragged on a trip. Who was the other person who had written these notes? Someone who was young. Or maybe my
grand-mère
turned senile?

The whole thing is very odd and confusing.

Another lightbulb pops like a spark in my head and since I’m already out in the kitchen, I go out to the backyard one last time. I can’t stop now.

All the notes I’ve found so far have been on the left side of the tree.

When I get back outside, Miss Silla Wheezy’s eyes are glowing in the dark. She’s perched on a limb that stretches long and gnarly — to the right of the blue bottles where I just found the other notes.

I scratch the top of her head and stare straight into her green eyes. “You are one spooky cat. I swear you are readin’ my mind.”

It takes a few minutes of searching, but then I find another cluster of bottles — with folded notes inside. “I knew it!” I
whisper and Miss Silla Wheezy yowls at me like she knew it all along.

My legs are trembling now as I climb down the ladder, dump out the notes, and run back inside.

I double-check the lock, replace the spell book under its bed of papers, and let out one of those big sighs of relief when I make it back to my bedroom.

The thrill in my stomach is exhilarating.

“Dern!” I mutter as my fingers fumble on the tightly folded notes.

Finally, I lay them out and just stare and stare.

Yeah, Mamma says I do. Don’t believe her. Annoying!

My boat sprung a leak, dad gummit! In town gettin’ it fixed. Don’t start without me!

Got my baby alligator charm today when ‘Daddy took me to town. But he says if he ever catches me with a baby gator he’ll give me a whippin’. Gotta be more careful.…

My mind is worked up like crazy.

My hands are shaking as I pull on my nightgown. I decide to skip the teeth brushing because Mirage will hear the water
running. Just as I yank the curtains closed — a figure peeks out from behind the blue bottle tree.

It’s the girl again! My heart leaps into my throat as I cup my eyes against the glass. Is it really Gwen? The girl looks up at my window, staring, staring, staring.

I wave back, flapping my hands at her, but she doesn’t seem to see me.

A moment later, she buries her face in her hands like she’s crying.

And runs away into the swirly fog rising off the swamp water as it gently laps against the banks.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTEEN

T
HE NEXT MORNING,
M
IRAGE KNOCKS SEVERAL TIMES
before I hear her.

I’m dreaming that I’m dancing with Gwen under the blue bottle tree in the moonlight. We leap and float in our nightgowns, our faces pale and ghostly. Gwen and I hold hands and run along the bank, jumping over the elephant ears and splashing in the water. When we get tired, we sit under the tree and write notes to each other on crisp, lined paper. An angel floats down from the sky and taps our heads with a magic wand.

The next instant, I’m standing on the broken pier, alone and sobbing.

Gwen has disappeared.

Rotting wooden planks like jagged teeth fence me in so I can’t escape back to dry land. I can see the blue bottle tree, but I can’t get to it. My hands are full of notes to stick inside the bottles, but I’m stuck. I want to go home so bad my bones ache.

“Shelby Jayne!” Mirage calls through the door and I hear her voice through the dream fog.

“Yeah,” I finally croak and slit open my eyes. My lids are crusty and I’m sweating. My heart is racing like I’ve been running a marathon.

“It was just a dream,” I whisper aloud, but the dream world and Gwen were so real, my mind is still caught up in it all.

I glance around and the bedroom looks cheerless in the hazy morning light. I remember that I wanted to go home real bad. But where’s home? With Daddy in the Ukraine? Or New Iberia with Grandmother Phoebe? Or right here in the spooky swamp with Mirage, my mamma who ran away and doesn’t tell me she loves me?

I woke up sweaty, but now I get a peculiar shiver. Soon as I’m dressed, I head out to the porch. It’s warm and muggy and foggy. The feeling of the dream is so strong; I head down to the banks behind the blue bottle tree and look for footprints.

Strands of wispy fog rise from the flat surface of the bayou. Cypress knees and a forest of trees stretch as far as I can see like there’s no end ever in the whole world.

It’s damp and muddy, but I can’t find no footprints at all.

Maybe I’m just tired after all those trips up and down the ladder last night.

I wish I’d taken Miss Silla Wheezy in my room with me last night. Would she have seen the girl in the fog? If Miss Silla had looked out the window when I saw the girl and meowed, then I’d know for sure I wasn’t seein’ things.

“Breakfast, Shelby,” Mirage calls.

I scoot back up to the porch, passing under the blue bottle tree. Drips of dew plop onto my head.

“Can I eat out here?” I ask, pointing to the card table on the porch. Maybe it’s dumb, but I want to be here if Gwen suddenly shows up in her pirogue. I hold no real hope. Gwen is ethereal and dreamy and just a teensy bit strange. Like she belongs in the moonlight and hiding in graveyards.

Mirage clears off the tools and sets down some scrambled eggs, grits, biscuits, and fried tomatoes. “Gettin’ close to the last of the summer tomatoes. I’ll be canning all day while you’re at school.”

Miss Silla Wheezy sits on a chair next to me and stares at my eggs.

“I do believe you’ve made a friend,” Mirage says as the telephone starts to ring its loud, throaty ring like it’s fifty years old.

“How old is she anyway?” I ask Mirage.

“Oh, she’s old,” Mirage says, her hand on the screen door. “She was jest a tiny kitten when I was a bit older than you are now. So she’s ’bout eighteen now. I do believe she’s been using them nine lives of hers wisely.”

“The word
peculiar
describes you perfectly,” I tell Miss Silla Wheezy after Mirage runs inside and grabs up the phone.

“Mreow!”

“Is that all you can say for yourself?”

“Mreow!” She licks her mouth and keeps staring at my food.

“This is people food, not cat food.”

Suddenly, Miss Silla Wheezy jumps down from her chair and runs around the table like she’s chasing an invisible mouse. She darts in and out from under my feet, circles the table twice more, then finally slows down.

A second later, she hops back up in her chair, flicking her tail neatly around herself. Slowly, she blinks, almost like she’s
thinking, “I know I just did a crazy thing, but I’ll pretend it didn’t really happen.”

Her feline eyes seem full of secrets. My arms prickle. “I’m thinkin’ you know the mystery story and just don’t want to tell me.”

My answer is a pair of solemn, unblinking green eyes.

“On second thought, maybe you
are
trying to tell me the story. If you been living here all these years, then you probably
saw
who put those notes in the blue bottles. You’ve seen Gwen in her boat down there by the water when you’re sneakin’ around in the dark catching mice.”

Miss Silla Wheezy yawns, stretches her legs out, then curls up in the chair next to me, laying her chin on her front paws and slitting her eyes. She ain’t gonna tell me a single thing.

The photo albums are still on the table from last night.

I stuff a forkful of eggs into my mouth and turn the pages, then almost choke on my breakfast.

Me and Mirage are at a park and I’m sitting on a swing, soaring so high my mouth is wide open with laughter as she pushes me. Then there’s me and Mirage curled up on the couch at Grandmother Phoebe’s house reading a stack of books. Me in the bathtub full of bubbles. Mirage letting me pour a cup a sugar into a big bowl of cookie dough.

Daddy must have taken these pictures. I can suddenly see him in my mind sneaking up on us and snapping shots.

The next instant, I hear Grandmother Phoebe tsking her tongue and telling Daddy that they are spoiling me rotten as well as messing up the house.

I remember all those nights Mirage or Grandmother Phoebe stomped off to their rooms after dinner, Daddy and me pulled between them like a tug-a-war rope.

“Shelby Jayne,” Mirage says in my ear.

My head’s so far into the photo albums that when she speaks I practically jump out of my skin. “What?”

She looks at me with a peculiar-like expression. “You gone a million miles away,
shar.
You’re actin’ so funny the past couple a days. Could hardly wake you up this morning neither.”

“I’m not funny,” I tell her, indignantly.

She glances down at the photographs and runs a finger along the empty plastic sheets at the back of the album. I’d already looked through to the very last page. “You like ’em?” she asks.

I bite my cheek and flick my eyes away. “Yeah,” I tell her, but my voice is so quiet I can hardly hear it myself. “I mean, yes, ma’am. Guess I forgot we did all this stuff together. And Daddy, too.”

She looks at me with her dark brown eyes and touches my arm. This time I don’t jump. “Once upon a time, we used to be a real family.”

My ears are buzzing like I got cicadas stuck inside my eardrums. My eyes burn a little bit, too, but that’s probably due to finding all them blue bottle notes last night at midnight.

“I know we can be a family again, Shelby Jayne. I mean, I’m hopin’ real bad we can. I’m prayin’ for that every single day.”

“What about Daddy? Didn’t you get a — a divorce?” The word tastes bad in my mouth, like bitter beets and burnt onions, but I’ve been wondering about that and Daddy’s never told me for sure.

Now Mirage bites at her lips, and my curiosity radar is on high alert. “We been separated this last year, but nothing else is official. We never done no paperwork or lawyers or nothing. Don’t got no money. And neither one of us got the heart. Least not yet.”

I look down at my lap and then I look at the photos again because I’m having a hard time looking at her. But I want those pictures to be true. I wish I could remember it all better. “You ever wish you could go back in time and start all over again?”

“All the time,
shar,
all the time.” Mirage gives a start. “Oh, lordy, your grandmother Phoebe’s been waitin’ on the phone for you! Told her you were eatin’ your grits. Hurry inside!” She motions to the kitchen table and I scrape my chair back and run.

My grandmother is calling from the hospital. “My goodness, did Mirage forget to relay my message? I’m a patient woman, but not that patient.” She’s huffy and perturbed.

“I’m sorry, Grandmother Phoebe. I was kinda busy,” I tell her, pretending I was in the powder room.

She harrumphs, but changes the subject. “So how are you, my darling girl?”

“I’m okay,” I say, stifling a yawn. Maybe Miss Silla Wheezy’s yawns are rubbing off on me. I heard once that yawns are contagious. Didn’t know I could catch it from a cat.

“Are you surviving that swamp house?”

“Yeah.” That’s a funny word. Surviving. “I’m still alive,” I add, trying for a joke.

“Very funny, Shelby Jayne Allemond. And please use the word
yes,
not
yeah.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I called because I am finally coherent after that horrible anesthesia. I’ve been so groggy and nauseated. But the doctors say the surgery was successful and I should be my normal self in a few months.”

“You mean you can’t walk for months?”

“I can get around with a walker, but it’s going to be very slow and I am required to do detailed lists of exercise and therapy. Being away from my own home and bed is going to be the death of me.”

“Don’t sound very fun.”

“Not much is ‘fun’ anymore, Shelby. I just wish my darling girl were here with me. You could read to me and we could listen to music and you would be such a big help fetching things for me. You could be my hands and feet and eyes for me while I’m forced to recuperate.”

“Yeah. I mean, yes, ma’am.” Sitting around a hospital, fetching magazines and ice water sounds sort of awful, actually.

Grandmother Phoebe lowers her voice. “Does she still have that smelly owl?”

I glance up at Mirage, feeling guilty that we’re talking about her, but she’s busy scouring the frying pan and not looking at me.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, I hope she’s feeding you something besides crawfish and wild mushrooms. And I hope you have a decent mattress. If you bring home bedbugs that will be the death of me! You’re attending school, correct?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. I must go now. The nurse just walked in. They’re forcing me to get up and roam the halls every two hours. The people I must put up with are quite taxing, my darling Shelby.”

I give a little laugh thinking about the nurses and orderlies in the hospital trying to get my grandmother to do what
they
want instead of what
she
wants. “I’m sorry you have to go through all this hospital stuff, Grandmother Phoebe. I’ll bet it hurts, too.”

“Yes, it does, but my will is stronger and I will survive.” She gives a long, drawn-out sigh. “We will get through this, darling Shelby. And be reunited soon. The hardest part is being apart from each other and our own routine.”