Help for the Haunted (35 page)

“What happened?” I asked my mother.

She shut the basement door, looked down at that wallpaper book on the floor. It had fallen open to a pattern I recognized by now—The Tiniest Hearts. “I wanted to take her downstairs but she shook her head. I told her it would be fine and held out my hand. But as soon as we reached the top step, she pulled back so suddenly and with such force that our hands came apart and she fell into those chairs. She grabbed for something and caught that wallpaper, which peeled right along with her as she fell to the floor.”

“Where is she now?”

“I don't know.”

Once more, my mother told me I didn't need to be a part of what was happening. But I ignored her. She picked up Rose's nightgown and slippers, and we roamed the house. I expected to come upon Abigail tucked in the back of a closet or behind a hamper or beneath a desk, burrowed away like an animal in hiding. Instead, when my mother and I reached Rose's doorway, we spotted her inside, slipped beneath the covers, eyes closed, as though she had been asleep for hours.

More to herself than me, my mother said, “I can't have this.”

“What should we do?” I asked.

She did not answer right away. Instead, we lingered in the doorway, watching Abigail. I thought of the story her father had told about the Sisters, those hunched old women who took his money but did nothing to help beyond pointing him to my mother and father. After so much false promise, no wonder the girl did not trust anyone to lead her into an unfamiliar basement.

My mother must have been thinking the same thing, because as I watched, she entered the room, reached out, and made a sign of the cross on the girl's forehead again and again. It went on long enough that I looked away, staring at my sister's globe and giving it a spin the way she used to do, planting my finger down on random locations: Hong Kong. Ontario. Bombay. I wondered if Rose had arrived at Saint Julia's by then. Maybe she'd even checked into her room and begun making friends with other girls there, realizing already that it was the best place for her after all.

“I don't like the idea,” my mother said to me in a hushed voice when she was done making crosses. “But we could leave her here for just tonight. Do you feel comfortable with that, Sylvie?”

I lifted my gaze from the globe and looked at Abigail asleep in Rose's bed. “For now, I guess it would be okay.”

“When your father gets home, he can help us make other arrangements.” She stood, leaving that white gown Rose had never bothered with at the foot of the bed, those slippers on the floor. My mother joined me in the hallway and was about to close the door when we heard something from inside the room: a voice, worn as those tattered clothes in the washer, saying, “Thank you.”

My mother and I looked at each other to be sure we had actually heard it. And then, through the small crack in the door, my mother spoke gently, telling her, “You are welcome, Abigail Lynch.”

 

Chapter 19

Candles

I
n the dark beneath that scratchy wool blanket, the station wagon's wheels turning beneath me, it became difficult to keep track of time. Had an hour passed? Or only twenty minutes? The woman turned on the radio, and an announcer's voice filled the chilly air inside the car. His was a syrupy, southern drawl I recognized as one my father sometimes tuned into when we were driving. The preacher spoke of things I'd heard him say before: that the end was near, that the listeners better hurry up and get right with God. Normally, there was a menacing edge to the sermons but tonight even he sounded tired of it, rattling off the scripture as if it was old news, which in every possible way, it was.

The woman at the wheel must have grown bored too, because she turned off the radio without warning. I wondered if we were getting close to our destination, but then the car picked up speed and I felt us climbing upward, heard the whir of cars and trucks passing. We were merging onto a highway, and I realized I'd slipped into the backseat without considering that Delaware license plate on her car.

When I couldn't bear the darkness a second longer, I peeked from beneath the blanket. Above me, headlights from passing vehicles shape-shifted on the ceiling. I lifted my head just enough to make out the driver's hair yanked into a tight bun. I wanted a better look, but didn't dare risk her catching sight of me. Instead, I did my best to read the dozens of road signs we moved beneath, though it was impossible to see more than a blur. Beside me lay a few Tupperware containers, like so many she brought to our house, only these were empty.

After what felt like ages, the station wagon finally slowed. I heard the
clicking
of the turn signal, and we moved off the highway, stopping a few seconds before picking up again at a slower speed. Once more, the woman began to hum that same hackneyed tune as we made a series of rights and lefts. I tried to memorize the order in case I needed to follow the path in reverse when finding my way back home, but after too many, I lost track. And then we made one final turn before the car came to a stop—her humming stopped too.

In the silence that followed, I worried she might hear me breathing. I slipped back beneath the blanket, pressing my face to the floor and feeling the sand and grit there against my cheeks. When I heard the woman gather her purse from the front seat, I realized she might also want the containers next to me. She opened the door and got out while I bit down on my lip, bracing myself again to be discovered. But then came only the sound of her footsteps clicking away.

A moment later, I poked my head out and was considering sliding back over the seats when a car rolled up and parked directly behind the station wagon. A police car, I saw when I turned. I ducked and listened as the officer got out and slammed the door, his footsteps heavier than hers.

“Where were you?” a male voice asked.

“Errands.” The woman's voice, like her humming, sounded full of false cheer.

“More
errands
?”

“Yes. You know, post office, grocery store.”

“Where are the bags?”

“Bags?”

“The grocery bags.”

“Oh. Well, I just stopped to see if they had more of those potpies you like. The turkey ones. I had a coupon. But they were all out. I swear the stores do that just to get you in the door, figuring you'll buy something at full price instead. Not me. I turned around and walked right out of there.”

Things were quiet, and I considered lifting my head to look around again, but waited to be certain they'd gone.

“What's the matter?” the woman asked at last.

“Why do you think something is the matter?”

“The way you're staring at me right now. Like you're angry, Nick. Either that or I've got food in my teeth.” She laughed, but if he did, I couldn't hear it over the
shhhh
.

“I'm just hungry is all. Bad day. Very bad day.”

“Sergeant again?”

He mumbled something I couldn't make out before saying, “Let's just eat. Then I'm going back down there and talking some sense into that jackass.”

A door opened and banged shut, and the voices disappeared. Still, I lingered beneath the blanket in case they returned. When I lifted my head finally, the world came into view in pieces. There was that police car with the gumball lights on top. There was the front lawn, or not a lawn really, but a strip of crushed shells with a small plastic windmill spinning away in the center. There was the house, tall and narrow, white with black shutters, the roof full of peaks and dips—the sort of place I remembered from nights trick-or-treating in my parents' old neighborhood. Except this must have been near the ocean: I could smell salt in the air, hear the faint sound of waves crashing.

Slowly, I slipped over the seat, making as little noise as possible when I stepped from the station wagon. Outside, I looked at the side of the police car: Rehoboth Township. The sight should have made me feel safer, but somehow it worried me more.

I gazed up at the house again. Lights glowed in the windows on the first and second floors. Nervous as it made me, I followed the path of crushed shells to one side of the property, where a row of garbage cans and a chain-link fence divided the backyard from front. In the moonlight, I could see a cement patio, a picnic table, and a kettle grill. In the yard stood a statue of the Virgin Mary, vines winding up her open arms and obscuring her face. In the corner was a wooden shed, newly built with two sturdy locks on the door.

“I cooked it earlier today.”

The woman's muffled voice from inside the house startled me. I looked up to see that I was beneath a small window. Now that I was paying attention, I heard water running, the clatter of dishes and silverware. The sounds faded as I moved into the yard, keeping near the fence, until I reached the shed. I couldn't hear anything from this vantage point, but I saw them through a picture window, seated at a table. The man was bald and wore a white T-shirt that hugged the bulky muscles of his arms and shoulders. I watched as they bowed their heads and closed their eyes, then the man made a quick sign of the cross before shoveling food in his mouth without so much as looking up. The woman didn't eat more than a few bites and simply stared across the table at him, until finally standing to clear the dishes.

As they moved from the window, I returned to the side of the house where I'd be able to hear what was going on inside. At first there was only more of her humming while the water ran. From somewhere deeper in the house came the sound of footsteps moving about. A toilet flushed. A door closed. All the while that woman kept humming until the footsteps moved into the kitchen, and I heard his deep voice telling her, “Not that song.”

“Sorry. All day long, I find myself halfway through before I realize. I try not—”

“Well, try harder.”

She fell quiet, before asking, “Don't you ever wonder?”

“No. Not anymore. I've let it all go, and you need to do the same.”

I stood there waiting for something more when without warning a porch light snapped on in the backyard, flooding the cement patio with light. I froze there in the shadows a moment as the back door swung open and the man stepped from the house, carrying an overstuffed garbage bag. He moved directly to where I stood by those trash cans, so I turned and slipped quickly through the gate. Out on the street, I paused along the sidewalk, looking back to see him drop the bag into a can and press down the lid, then start dragging the can toward the road.

The narrow front lawns in the neighborhood and so few trees left no easy places to duck out of sight. If I stepped behind a car in a neighboring driveway, I worried someone might see from a window and snap on their light too. So instead I simply walked down the street as though I belonged there. Before I got too far, I crossed to the far side and turned back in order to get a better look at him. He was no longer dressed in just a T-shirt but wore a police uniform, the buttons of his shirt still undone.

While dragging the second can to the curb, the man glanced up and caught sight of me across the street. He lifted his hand to his forehead, visor style, and asked in the same gruff voice he used to speak to that woman, “What are you doing out here?”

I couldn't tell if he recognized me, though I certainly didn't recognize him. “I'm just . . . here,” I said.

“Are you on your way home? And do your folks know where you are?”

“Yes and yes,” I said.

“Well, get there safe.”

He turned away from me and finished up his business with those cans before retreating to the house and snapping off the light out back. So I was a stranger to him after all, I thought, walking to the corner and wondering what to do now. A few minutes later, the roar of an engine filled the quiet air, and I glanced back to see the police car come to life and roll out of the driveway. Windows down, I heard the static squawk of the police radio inside. When he passed me, the officer looked my way and waved.

The moment his taillights disappeared around the corner, I turned back again, feeling braver now that it was just the woman alone.
Knock on the door,
I told myself.
Ask her point-blank who she is and why she has been coming to Dundalk.
I was about to work up the nerve when I saw the garbage cans. I knew from the times when vandals tipped over our trash that all sorts of personal information could be revealed that way.

I looked up at the house. A glow came from the windows still, but the curtains were drawn. Quickly, I lifted the lid of the nearest can and tore into the plastic, then held my breath and reached in among the crumpled papers and dirty napkins and balled foil.

It didn't take long before I pulled out an envelope that offered more information:
Nicholas and Emily Sanino, 104 Tidewater Road, Rehoboth, DE
. I tried to recall if I'd ever heard those names before.

“Can I help you, young lady?”

The sudden voice led me to drop the trash can lid. If it had been the old metal kind, there would have been a loud clatter. Instead, the plastic made a dull thud at my feet. I looked at her and searched for the right words. None came so I just held up the stained envelope. “Are you Emily Sanino?”

The woman stepped nearer, swooping down for the garbage can lid, placing it back on the can. Her face, I saw, looked softer up close. In the streetlight, I could see a web of faint lines around her eyes and mouth. She snatched the envelope from my hand. “Who are you? And what are you doing out here in the dark digging through our garbage?”

“I'm Sylvie,” I told her. “Sylvie Mason.”

The woman was pressing down on the lid to be sure it was secured, but the moment I spoke my name, she stopped. A hand went to her mouth. “Rose's sister?”

I nodded.

“How did you—” Her voice faltered. “What are you doing here?”

“Trying to find out who you are.”

Emily Sanino stared at me, considering what I'd said, before asking how exactly I had found her. When I explained, she let out a long breath. “Does your sister, or anyone else, know you're here?”

I shook my head.

“Okay, then. Why don't you come inside? But you can't stay long. My husband will be back soon.”

I followed her around the side of the house to the back door. The wood-paneled kitchen smelled of garlic and stewed tomatoes, whatever it was she had cooked for dinner. The smell caused my stomach to grumble, since the last thing I'd eaten was that sandwich Heekin bought me from the deli in Philly.

I ignored my hunger and looked at the speckled white countertops scrubbed clean, a bright blue mixing bowl on top, a bag of flour, an eggbeater, and her simple black purse with a lone gold buckle. “I was going to bake something,” she explained. “It calms my nerves. But I realized I didn't have any eggs. I went out to the car to go to the store. That's when I saw you.”

“Were you baking for us?”

“Us?”

“You know, more of the things you leave at our house?”

She shook her head. “Not tonight. I left a cake at your house earlier.”

I wondered if Rose had found the cake on our stoop on her way to Dial U.S.A. and tossed it in the trash just like all the rest.

Emily Sanino returned the mixing bowl to a cabinet, the flour and milk to the fridge. I peeked down the hall to the living room. I saw a rocker, like my mother's. Just beyond, I noticed a row of framed pictures on a side table, a cluster of trophies with little gold figures on top.

“You know,” I told her as she moved about the kitchen, “I'm sorry to say but nobody eats the things you leave for us.”

She had swung open the door to the refrigerator but turned back to look at me, visibly perplexed. “And why not?”

“My sister and I have no idea who's leaving it.”

Emily Sanino considered that a moment. I had the sense that she was debating something in her mind, before closing the fridge and saying simply, “I see.”