Help for the Haunted (38 page)

“Sylvester,” my mother said. “I think perhaps—”

My father held up a hand, keeping his eyes on Abigail, so that my mother fell silent.

“Oh,” she said. “That's very nice, Mr. Mason. But I don't want to be in the way.”

“Don't be silly. We're happy to see you up and about.”

Maybe my mother did not tell him about that warning from her father, how the girl could seem normal—or
almost
normal—but that's when she changed. Or maybe my mother did tell him, and he thought he knew better. Either way, even if no one else was thinking about Albert Lynch's words, they whirred in my mind like those frantically spinning window fans. On the few occasions I'd been in Abigail's presence, never once had she looked at me—not directly anyway. It was something I hadn't realized until, there in our kitchen, she did for the first time. The effect was that of seeing some strange, poisonous flower bloom before my eyes, opening its petals and turning its face toward me. I watched as she lifted her gaze from her empty plate, fixing those wild blue eyes upon me, while speaking to my father in that serene voice. “Sylvie doesn't want me to go.”

“Nonsense,” my father told her.

“It's okay,” Abigail said. “If I were Sylvie, I wouldn't want me to go either. It sounds like a family thing. And I get the feeling it's important to her.”

That tub of sherbet, those Popsicles—my mother chimed in about both again, but those things had become consolation prizes nobody wanted, least of all me. My mother must have sensed it, because her next offer was to stay home with Abigail while my father and I went and brought back ice cream for everyone. But my father seemed determined we go together. “Sylvie, tell her it's not true. We didn't raise the kind of daughter who leaves out a guest in our own home.”

They were all watching me, but it was Abigail's gaze I felt most. I looked into her wild blue eyes and my mind filled with the memory of the afternoon her father slid open the van door to reveal her lying on the thin mattress inside. I thought of how calm she seemed now, so different from the girl with snarled hair and bruised feet who hid behind my mother, who toppled the very chairs where my parents sat, who shredded our wallpaper. But despite that newfound serenity and my mother's days and nights of prayer and scripture, I did not feel comfortable having her around.

Even so, I looked back at Abigail while speaking to my father, same as she had done to me. “I'm not sure where Abigail got the idea I don't want her to come. But I don't mind. If that's what she wants.”

It was, of course, exactly what Abigail wanted.

After changing into a T-shirt with a faded Saint Louis arch decal and shorts my mother had repaired days before with a needle and thread, she got into the Datsun along with us. On a night that hot, any ice cream shop would have been mobbed; the one in Dundalk was no exception. The parking lot teemed with so many vehicles, my father settled on leaving ours a block away.

The moment we got out of the car, my mother noticed what none of us had before: Abigail was in bare feet. Too late to do anything about it, though, so we walked right past the
NO SHIRT, NO SHOES, NO SERVICE
sign on the door. As soon as we joined the line snaking through the place, a lull rippled through conversations all around. When it came to driving by our house at night, shouting from car windows, batting down our mailbox and trash cans, and speeding away in the dark, people had plenty of courage. But beneath the fluorescent lights of that ice cream shop, they stuck to whispers. They stuck to nudges and stares.

My parents paid no attention, of course. If Abigail noticed, I couldn't tell, since she stayed busy studying all the ice cream behind the counter. I kept expecting someone to kick us out, but the line just inched along until I found myself waiting by a freezer with smudged glass doors. Inside, cakes filled the shelves. All those blue ice cream flowers, and blank surfaces, like snow-covered ponds waiting for happy messages to be squiggled on top, made me think of the
Rosie
cake, which had a way of hollowing me out right there on the spot.

“What flavor are you going to get?”

I was so caught up in thinking about Rose and how much our lives had changed that it took a moment to realize the person asking was Abigail—and she was asking
me
. I turned away from those cakes and looked at the decal on her shirt, plagued with so many delicate cracks it was like gazing at an old painting. I tried to guess which flavor my sister would have ordered if she had been with us, then made up my mind to do it for her. “Chocolate,” I told Abigail.

“Oh,” she said, smiling. “That's what I'll get too. I mean, if you don't mind.”

The line lurched ahead. I stepped away from that freezer, away from Abigail as well. “Of course I don't mind. Get whatever you want.”

At last, when our cones were in hand, the four of us headed outside to a row of picnic tables where customers congregated. In the dusky sky over Colgate Park, someone was shooting fireworks. I was glad for the distraction, since people were too busy gazing up at the bursts of Roman candles sputtering over the treetops to care about the Mason family and their guest. Even we became hypnotized, while ice cream trickled down our wrists, melting faster than any of us could keep up. When the show was done—cones eaten, napkins balled in our sticky palms—my father looked down and spoke in an oddly remorseful voice. “Maybe I was wrong,” he said, “all these years about it being a waste of money to go out for a night like this. It's important for a family to share certain moments. When Rose gets back, let's be sure we do this again.”

After so many days of no one saying a word about my sister, the mention of her, particularly the notion that she would return and that we would do something as a family, lifted my spirits more than ice cream or fireworks ever could. As we walked back to the Datsun, my happy feelings even led me to wonder if I should be nicer to Abigail. After all, strange as she was, the girl had nothing to do with Rose being gone, and like my father said, she wouldn't be with us much longer.

While we drove the dark streets, I stole glances at her. The windows were down and, same as my sister, she did not tuck back her hair. It whipped all around, random strands reaching out and snapping at my cheeks, stinging my skin. I held my hand out the window, cupping my palm and letting it ride the wind, up and down, down and up. Had I not been paying so much attention to Abigail and to my palm, I might have noticed my father take a detour.

“Sylvester,” my mother said, eventually. “Where are we going?”

“You'll see.”

Two words—that's all they were, but enough to seize our attention. I quit hand-surfing. Abigail gathered up her hair. We leaned forward between the seats, looking out the front window until we made a series of turns and the headlights shone down a narrow dirt road with a strip of wild grass in the middle. We were in Colbert Township, I realized, heading to the old pond. Judging from the way the trees pressed in on both sides and the lack of any official signs, it appeared my mother was right about no one going there anymore.

“Sylvester,” she said again. “What are we doing?”

“Just checking things out.”

“Why?”

“Why not? I don't know about you, but I'm in no rush to go back to that hot house.”

“I don't think this is a good idea. We have no clue if this place has become private property. What if someone contacts the police?”

My father shrugged. “If the Colbert cops are anything like the dolts in Dundalk, who sound half asleep when I call about the vandals having fun with our mailbox and trash cans, I doubt they'll care. And if they do, well, then I just might give them a piece of my mind.”

My mother gave up protesting, but I could tell by the way she folded her hands on her lap that she did not like this impromptu excursion one bit. It didn't take long before the trees opened up to a clearing and our headlights fell upon the glassy surface of the pond. Not far from the water's edge, my father stopped the car, then turned off the engine and the lights. We were four shadows, no sound but the crickets and cicadas and night creatures all around.

I thought my father might instruct us what to do, but my mother spoke instead, saying she wanted to have a private talk with my father for a few minutes. “You and Abigail can go on outside for a little bit.”

“But we didn't bring our bathing suits,” I told her.

“That's because we are not swimming,” she said in a stern voice. “But you can have a look at the old place if you like. Don't wander too far, though.”

My father's gaze found mine in the rearview mirror. “Sorry, tadpole. Consider this a reconnaissance mission. If things look good, we can come back tomorr—”

“
Sylvester,
” my mother interrupted. Then to us, “Go ahead, girls. But like I said, no wandering off.”

Abigail's hand had been on the door handle for some time, but she kept watching me for a signal that it was okay to get out. When I opened my door, she did the same. She followed me to the pond and bent to rinse her sticky hands in the water, just like I did. Just as I'd imagined, moonlight shimmered on the surface of the pond so that it glowed like some living, breathing force. Too many stars to count twinkled in the inky sky overhead. Across the water, in a marshy area thick with reeds, I made out what looked to be a half-sunken dock.

“Is everything okay?”

Not just on account of her oddly serene voice, but because she had been quiet for so long, it was still something of a shock to hear Abigail speak. In some way, it felt not much different than if Penny's mouth were to open and words were to come tumbling out. I quit rinsing my hands and stood to look at her. “What do you mean?”

“Are they fighting?”

The moment we shut the back doors of the car, my mother had launched into the conversation she wanted to have with my father. Muffled as their voices were, I caught their opening gambits before stepping away.

“First the trip out for ice cream, now this detour. What are you trying to do?”

“Show us a good time for a change. After everything that's happened, I thought you'd like that. I thought the girls would too.”

So the answer to Abigail's question was yes. But I didn't think it was any of her concern, and that's exactly what I told her before turning away. While I was busy looking into the water, she stepped into the pond. I heard her before I saw her:
plunk, plunk
.

When I glanced over, Abigail was submerged up to her ankles. My parents said we wouldn't be swimming, but they didn't mention anything about wading, so I decided to slip off my flip-flops and step into the cool water too, my feet sinking into the mud, shifting away from stones that pricked my soles like sharp teeth.

“I bet this isn't like that lake in Oregon,” I said, making a stab at conversation.

Abigail swirled a foot around, mixing the mud and rocks into something soupy. “No, it's not.”

“Can I ask why don't you live there anymore?”

“We still live there.”

“That's not what you told us earlier. You said when you were little you used—”

“To live in one place. That's what I said. Now we live lots of places. Oregon is just one. But we're usually there for a few weeks in the winter when it's too cold to swim.”

Behind us, the doors of the Datsun opened. Immediately, Abigail retreated back to the shore. I didn't move fast enough, though, and my mother arrived at the water's edge to find me ankle-deep. She glanced at Abigail's feet, slick with water, then looked at her slim watch and said, “Now that we're here, your father and I agreed you might as well take a dip. It'll help you sleep tonight at least. So go in with your clothes on if you like. You've got ten minutes. And let's hope we don't get arrested or find out this place has become a toxic waste site.”

If Rose had been with us she would have let out a loud
Wooohooo!
Abigail simply waded in again, deeper this time. When the water reached the hem of her shorts, she turned to my mother, my father too, who had just arrived at the water's edge, looking shaken. Neither protested, so she sucked in a breath and slipped under.

In the silence that followed, the three of us stood waiting and waiting for her to emerge. Abigail seemed strange enough that she might have been capable of sprouting gills and fins, capable of swimming down to some watery underworld, or out into the shadows of those trees and the starry sky beyond. At last, however, her head emerged, small and turtlelike, far out in the pond. Since we didn't have much time, I waded up to my shorts too, trying not to think of creatures beneath the surface as I slipped under as well. When I came up again—sooner than Abigail, closer to the shore—I saw that she had swum the entire way to the reedy area with the half-sunken dock. Rather than follow, I floated on my back and studied the stars dotting the sky.

If I kept my splashing to a minimum, it was possible to hear my parents. My mother took a seat on a slanted bench not far from the water's edge and my father stood next to her. “We've received requests for lectures that pay more than ever,” he was saying. “Not to mention all the places people want us to investigate. There's an old estate in New Zealand that a widow refused to leave after her husband died. Now she's deceased as well, and people there are reporting some pretty bizarre occurrences.”

To all of this, my mother said only, “New Zealand.”

“That's right. They'll fly us there. All expenses paid.”

“What about the girls?”

“They'll fly Sylvie too. And Abigail if that's what we want.
We
hold the cards now, my dear. How's
that
for a change? No more sharing the stage with that phony Dragomir Albescu and his fingers full of fake jewelry. No more humiliating myself at Fright Fest just to make a—”