House of Wonder (24 page)

Tree Bridge

M
y mother and I sat in silence for a long time, my hand over hers as I watched her eyes. I saw relief there, a relief that rushed in after dread suddenly and with finality released its hold. My mother had never wanted anyone to know about what happened to my grandmother. To her, in a very real way, my grandmother
had
died when my mother was five.

“So Dad knew?” I finally asked, realizing that he was the likely source of Lydia's knowledge.

With the back of her head still resting against the leather chair, Mom looked at me. “Not for a long time,” she said, before turning back to the bayberry. “He was the only person I ever told.”

I imagined him driving back from Alexandra's college
yesterday with Lydia, his eyes fixed on the road.
What is it, Stewart?
Lydia would say. And he'd pause.
There's something I've never told you. About Priscilla's mother.

“I'm so sorry, Mom,” I said.

She turned her palm to meet mine and gave my hand a small squeeze. “It's all right,” she said. “But if you don't mind, I'm just going to sit here for a little while.”

I nodded. “Okay.”

With my hands in my pockets, I walked from the room, my head hanging heavy as I thought about what had happened to my grandmother, about what might lie ahead for Warren. Hardly aware that I was in the foyer, I heard Rose's footsteps coming down the stairs and looked up. She was slumped forward, her arms hanging limply in front of her with her mouth sagging open like a trout's. “I'm
bored
,” she said.

I smiled and tried to brighten my voice, the way mothers do. “Didn't you have fun building planes with Uncle Warren?”

“Yeah, but the new one isn't ready to fly yet,” she said. I heard the jingle of Gordo's collar as he peered over the banister, then returned to Warren's room. Sensing that I wasn't entirely moved by her monumental boredom, Rose slumped even farther forward. “Where's Nana?”

As she finished her question, the phone in the pocket of the coat that I was still wearing began to chime loudly. Holding one finger up to Rose, I pulled it out and saw Maggie's husband's name on my screen.
Lance Dyer.

I pressed it and brought it to my ear. Lance rarely called me, and never casually. “Hey, Lance,” I said.

But it was Maggie's voice that replied. “Hey,” she said. “Are you coming in today?”

“I don't think so.”

“Why?” she asked. “What's going on?”

Bending down and pressing the phone against my chest, I found Rose's eyes. “Rosie,” I said, “go back up to Uncle Warren's room. I need to talk to Maggie for a minute.” She groaned and let her head drop back in protest. “
Please
, honey.” From the phone, I heard Maggie's muffled voice calling my name. I saw Rose turn toward the stairs; then I opened the front door and stepped outside, clicking it shut behind me. My explanation was one I didn't want anyone to hear. Especially Rose.

“Maggie,” I said, leaning against the hard brick facade, feeling its chill seep into my back, “I'm here.”

“Is everything okay?”

“I left you a message this morning . . . ,” I started.

“We lost power last night and my phone died. I'm on Lance's phone.” Her voice was hurried and concerned.

“I'm at my mom's. Things aren't good here.” I swallowed, feeling the cold prick my cheeks. “I think Warren might have had something to do with the thefts.” I looked around at the neighborhood, at the peering windows of the homes across the street. “In King's Knoll.”

“Why do you think that?” she asked, her voice grave, her words decelerating.

“There's some evidence. I think.” Even saying the words felt like a betrayal. “And . . . there's a lot going on here, Maggie.”

“Are you all right?”

I nodded, though I didn't respond. Then looking down the street, I saw Mr. Kotch pedaling on his bike, staring at our house as he always seemed to. “Listen. I'll call you later, okay?”

“Okay,” she said.

Still watching Mr. Kotch, I hung up the phone. Without looking away, I slid my phone back into the wide pocket of my coat, and turned it round and around in my hand. Mr. Kotch's gloves gripped the handlebars and underneath his helmet, he was wearing a winter hat. I stared at him and he at me until he was right in front of my mother's house. His feet ceased pedaling and he glided with spinning tires and shimmering spokes over the cold, black pavement. I exhaled a white cloud of breath, and then he looked coolly ahead again, his front foot pumping forward as he took a curve and headed toward the beginning of Royal Court. I watched him grow smaller in the distance until he turned onto Prince Street, where his bike came to a stop in front of his beige house. I watched him long enough to see him open his back door and clap his shoes together over his deck railing. I watched him long enough to see him glance once again at my mother's house, then turn and head inside, where through the window I saw him switch on what looked like a brand-new, wide-screen television set.

I watched him until, next to me, the door pulled slowly back. In the thin gap appeared Warren's face. He scanned the front yard, then looked at me. “Where's Rose?” he asked.

From somewhere deep, I felt a mobilizing panic. “I thought she was with you?”

Warren shook his head. Immediately, I pushed the door open wide and stepped inside. “Rose!” I called, as Warren shut it behind me. “Rose, come out!” I marched toward the kitchen.
“Rose!”
I called again, sensing Warren at my heels. I spun around, looking suspiciously at the house, as if it had taken her. Then I saw Warren's stare, frozen on one of the chairs set around the kitchen table. For one, two, three seconds he stood
there. And then the realization came to him, and it was like seeing rock meet the water of a deep, calm pool.

By the time I heard the back door open, he was beyond it, flying across the deck and heading for the stairs. My mind, which had always worked differently from his, offered me a picture of the chair that Warren had been looking at, the chair on which I had hung Rose's coat. The chair that was now empty.

“Rose!”
I screamed, as I lurched through the door, following Warren through the yard and over the hill. I tried to catch him, tried to run like him, pumping my arms hard and fast, racing over the yellowed grass.
“Rose!”
I shouted again. My heart was rolling from fear and speed. I was far enough behind my brother that I saw him crest the hill, then disappear down the front of the slope. Sobbing and running as fast as I could, I pulled the freezing air into my lungs as I tried to get there, understanding by then that Rose hadn't gone back up to Warren's room when I went outside to speak to Maggie. Understanding by then that she had gone to see the tree. I imagined her pink tongue sticking out as she pulled herself onto it. She'd hold her arms straight out at her sides as she tried to balance, walking across its slick, frozen trunk. Over the deepest part of the pond.

I was at the top of the hill when Warren took his first step onto the water, breaking through a thin layer of ice that had begun to form at the edges. He took fast, steady strides until he was waist deep and had reached the felled maple. I was still running when he pulled Rose out, and I fell to my knees, sobbing, before I scrambled back up and stumbled to the edge of the pond, shaking my hands as if there were blood on them.

“Call nine-one-one!” I heard a voice behind me yell, close and distant all at once.

Warren held Rose, her body limp and white against his chest, her red hair like wet leaves plastered against her forehead. Her hair was dripping a steady stream of frigid water, as was her thick jacket. Warren was walking steadily, but more slowly now, his eyes focused one foot in front of him. He moved with quiet, supernatural determination until he reached me. I was up to my knees in the water when I took her from him, clutching her cold, wet body against me, the water brown and opaque around my legs.

Then Bobby was there, his breath coming fast from his run. Swift and efficient, he shifted her body to pull off her coat, which landed with a sodden thump. He slid off his sweatshirt and set it on the ground. Then he lifted her out of my arms and into his. “Take off your coat,” he ordered, and with shaking hands I did, draping it around her body. “Get some blankets!” he yelled over his shoulder. Then he set her on the ground and in his thin white T-shirt, he began performing CPR. I was on my knees beside her, holding her hand, which was pale and small, like a little fish.

My chest shook when I saw the water gurgle out of her mouth, when I heard a gasping breath suck into her lungs and I pulled her up onto me so that her chin was resting on my shoulder. Bobby immediately followed, covering her with my coat. My mother was there now, and neighbors were milling around the perimeter of the scene, necks craning and eyes alert, muttering to one another about what had happened, about what they could do, while staying far enough away that they couldn't be considered involved. I saw Mr. Kotch on the periphery, looking haunted. Suspicious eyes fell on Warren, who
had collapsed to his knees at the edge of the pond, trying to steady his jagged breathing.

“We need to get her inside,” said Bobby, as his hands slid between her body and mine, pulling her into his arms.

I gripped her hard, not wanting to let go, wanting to feel the rising of her chest against mine, the vibration of her cries.

“Jenna,” he said firmly. “We need to get her warm.”

From somewhere, though I didn't know whether near or far, internal or external, I heard my mother's voice. And I let go of Rose.

I ran next to Bobby up the steep grade as he rushed her to the house. “Shhh, baby,” I whispered, hearing her unfocused wails, tears still spilling from my eyes. “Shhhh.”

We were halfway to the house when paramedics arrived. They rushed through the park carrying a stretcher and bright blue blankets. They took her from Bobby and he quickly and succinctly communicated critical information.
She was found in the water. The submersion time is unknown. I started CPR immediately.

One of the paramedics, a young man with mahogany-colored skin and an exotic accent, placed a mask over her mouth. She twisted her face to the side, but he held her head to steady it. “It's all right, little girl,” he said, his voice calm and cadenced. “You're going to be all right.” And then they hoisted the stretcher up and we all hurried back over the rough earth to the open doors of the shiny ambulance.

Bobby climbed in ahead of me, his voice assured and strong, and began assisting the paramedics. They were wrapping blankets around Rose's head, around her torso and limbs.

The ambulance lurched into motion and glided in a smooth turn, its siren screaming as it headed back up Royal Court. And though I wanted to look nowhere but at Rose's face, at the blue crescents under her eyes, at the clear mask covering her pale mouth, I glanced behind me, through the high, wide rear window of the ambulance. And traveling swiftly down the street as we were traveling up it, I saw Detective Dunn's car, his once discreet lights flashing red and blue, cutting through the daylight.

Twins

1976

S
illa's eyes opened and then slid shut again. She was still feeling the warm tingle of anesthetized sleep and might have let herself tumble back to unconsciousness but for the memory of what had brought her here, rising up through her mind like a single bubble to the water's surface. She felt a hand on her forehead, pushing back her hair.

Her tongue moved against the dry palate of her mouth and she tried to swallow. “Where are they?” she asked, her words a whisper. The last thing she could remember was a sweet-smelling mask slipping over her face while nurses and doctors had rushed around the room, their faces serious, their voices hard. Baby B, as it was called, was not coming out.

“They're fine,” soothed Stewart. Silla forced her eyes to open, to look at her husband's face. “They're being cared for.”

With relief, she let her lids close again. “Is the second baby—”

“A boy,” said Stewart.

Without even seeing his face, she knew he was grinning and so she smiled, too. “A boy and a girl,” she said, the words like a song.

Stewart released a grateful laugh as he took her hand. Feeling a tugging against her arm, she opened her eyes and saw a tube—red and thin—running into her skin. “You lost a lot of blood, honey,” explained Stewart. “They needed to put some back in.”

She made a sound of acknowledgment as her head slumped back. She was too exhausted to mind much about the blood, but she was slowly becoming aware of her body again, of the dull throbbing in her abdomen, its roar muted to a whisper by morphine. “But the babies are okay?”

Stewart nodded. “The little girl is in the nursery already,” he said, and she could tell from the way the statement lingered that what came next would be worrisome. “But they brought the little guy up to the NICU. I guess they were concerned about his breathing.”

“What's wrong with his breathing?” asked Silla, anxiety rising through her fatigue and the drugs.

Stewart held her hand between two of his. “They think he might have some fluid in his lungs,” he said. “I guess it's not uncommon.” He gave her hand a squeeze. “He's a tough little guy, though.”

Again, Silla felt herself smile. “So what are we going to call
them?” she asked. They had narrowed the names down to just a few for either sex, but hadn't wanted to choose any until the babies came.
It's bad luck,
Stewart had said.

“I like Warren,” he said. “For the boy.” He was silent for a moment. “It's a strong name.
Warren Parsons.
” Silla saw in his eyes that he was imagining who their son would become. What he would be with a name like Warren Parsons. “It sounds presidential.”

She chuckled and moved her foot under the rough white sheet. “President Warren Parsons,” she said.

“President Warren Parsons,” repeated Stewart, his voice full of awe. Full of wonder.