Scarecrow (27 page)

I could hear Girlie singing to herself as I neared her room. Her door was open and she was standing with her back to me, intent on something she held in her hand. I knocked softly, and she jumped, turning to look at me, all head and eyes. A changeling, I thought again, before I could stop myself…
right out of a Grimm’s fairy tale…

“Hi. What’s so interesting?”

She continued to stare at me. Her eyes were expressionless, but I had the odd feeling I’d intruded.

“Rachel’s baking cookies,” I tried again. “She sent me to ask if you’d like to lick the bowl.”

Her head moved slowly—no. She looked as if I were going to scold her. I halted, puzzled.

“Girlie, what is it?” I asked cautiously. “Would you like me to go away?”

The look tightened over her face. At once her eyes looked unbearably sad. “Never,” she said. It sounded so final, so decisive. “Never,” she said again. “I like you, Pam.”

I stared down at her, feeling peculiarly unsettled. The thing in her hand hung loosely between her fingers; it looked like a scrap of paper. Thinking a moment, I squatted down and held out my arms. “Come here.”

She came. Without a moment’s hesitation she came within the circle of my arms and leaned into me as if she belonged there. I kept my voice low and easy, matter-of-fact.

“I like you, too, Girlie. Very, very much. But you know sometime I’ll have to leave, don’t you? I’ll have to go live in my own house, like you live here in yours. I’ll have to go be with my family, like you have to be here with Seth and Rachel and Franny and—” I bit my lip. I had been about to say “Micah.”

Girlie looked placidly into my eyes. “Micah,” she said.

“Yes,” I sighed, hugging her close. “Yes, and Micah.”

“But you can stay all the time,” Girlie insisted. “It’s nice with you here.”

I was glad she couldn’t see the pain, the guilt that I struggled to control. “Thank you, Girlie, that’s nice you think so. But I don’t belong here. I’m just—you know—company. No, not even company, I guess. I didn’t even plan to come here. It just…happened.”

Here is where you’re meant to be…

Girlie’s voice was muffled against my shoulder, and yet I heard it—heard it as if it had been a cold wind crying through the room…leaving its icy echo…leaving me chilled…

“I made it happen,” Girlie said softly. “I brought you here.”

The chill crept through my body. I know I clutched her tighter but my fingers had no feeling. Her breath tickled my arm, but she felt like a wooden doll.

“What do you mean?” I asked her, my voice slow and deliberate. In equally slow motion I held her off from me, our eyes locking in a long, long silence.

“I…brought…you.” Each word quiet, but firm. She held out her hand, and I saw the scrap of paper, damp and crumpled, and after a while I realized that she meant for me to take it.

It was a newspaper clipping.

The date was nearly a year old.

The ink was smeared and blotchy, as if little fingers had handled it repeatedly; dull creases told of much folding and refolding, and threatened to tear apart at any second.

The photograph was blurry and black-and-white and not very good.

Yet I recognized myself at once.

Myself…and Brad…and Kerry.

“W
HERE DID YOU GET
this?”

My voice came out in a choke, the photograph throbbing in my hand, a live, horrible thing, throbbing, and growing, so that all I could see was the date—a month before the accident—and those three familiar faces—not Girlie—not the room—just the date and those three faces, like strangers I had known a long time ago.

“Where?” I said again, only this time my voice was harsh, and I felt the sharp pain of my lip between my teeth. “Where, Girlie,
where
?” I jerked her arm, and she stood there, taking it, not even trying to get away.

“From Dewey.”

“Dewey—” My mind spun. “But Dewey hasn’t even been here—”

“When he came before. Long before now—”

“When!”

“Before Christmas.” Her eyes clouded, an expression of hurt. Still she stood there, looking back at me.

“What was Dewey doing with it?”

Her voice was tiny, a mechanical doll with a worn-out voice box…fading…“He brought kittens to us in a box. With newspapers on the bottom. I found it. I kept it.”

My eyes narrowed, trying to comprehend.

“I liked the picture, Pam. You looked nice.” Her voice quivered.

Stunned, I rocked back on my heels. An old newspaper lining the bottom of a boxful of cats…a little girl with nothing to do…a picture from a world she would never know…

“I tore it out,” Girlie went on cautiously, as if wondering what I might do to her. “I brought you here.”

Numbness crept over me. Things began falling into place in a kind of haze. So that explained how she’d known Brad’s and Kerry’s names—the photo caption told who we were, that one of Brad’s shows had just opened at a gallery in San Francisco. But that still didn’t explain how she’d known they were dead…unless I really had talked…rambled deliriously in my unconsciousness…
but they said I didn’t!
I glanced at her now, anger flooding through me.
You couldn’t have known!
I wanted to scream at her.
I refuse to be a part of this stupid game you insist on playing with everyone…

I forced myself to be calm. “You didn’t bring me here. Stop telling me that you did. You know better.”

“I did,” Girlie said.

I looked at her sharply, but there was no insolence in her tone. Just her huge sad eyes begging me to believe her. I averted my face for a long time. Finally I looked at her again.

“How, then?” I asked quietly. “How did you bring me here, Girlie?”

“I…” To my surprise, her eyes began to swim, full of strange reflections…pain…loneliness…wet tragic shadows and confusion, spilling down, down the cheeks that were suddenly, ghostly white.

“Oh, Girlie,” I whispered, gathering her to me, holding her close.

“I…I made the scarecrow, Pam…and then…I don’t know how I do it…I just do…” The confession spilled out with the frightened tears, and it was heart wrenching to watch. “I…just…do…I wish real hard…I…feel…” Her little body convulsed in sobs and I grabbed her even tighter.

“Oh, Girlie…honey…ssh—”

“I feel it, Pam, I…feel it.”

“Where, sweetheart? Where do you feel it?”

She wriggled back, putting her hand to her chest. Her little face collapsed helplessly, and she stood there, patting her heart, crying as if she’d never stop.

“There…I feel…it makes me…light…and I know it’s happening—”

“Light? Do you mean you get dizzy and light-headed?” I tapped a finger to my temple, searching the unhappy depths of her eyes.

She shook her head miserably. “Light. Like sun on my face.”

“It makes you warm?” I nodded encouragement, and was relieved to see the tears slowing.

“Here.” She touched her heart again with the palm of her hand, then very slowly ran her palm upward along her neck, across her face to the crown of her head. “And sometimes…here.” The palm returned to her heart but this time traced a different course, down her arm to the tips of her little fingers. I reached out very gently, capturing the hands in my own.

“And when you feel it here—in your hand—is that when you make people well? And…” I swallowed hard, forcing myself to say it, “bring dead things back to life?”

Her eyes fell into mine, a wet sparkling film glossing over the pain. “Not all the time,” she whispered, and as I leaned close to make out her next words, I felt the flesh ripple along my neck. “Not every time…I don’t have to touch. Sometimes…I just think it.”

There was nothing else—just she and I and the impossible truth between us. I stared at her as if seeing her for the first time. I smoothed the damp hair back from her forehead. I reached out and wiped the tears that were falling again from her enormous eyes.

“Am I…
bad,
Pam?”

She fell against me and I rocked her, soothing her, my own tears mingling with hers. “No, darling, not bad. You could never be bad.”

“You looked so nice,” she sniffled. “I picked you out just for me.”

I saw it again, suddenly, clearly, that day in front of the house—the scarecrow with my eyes…and Micah’s undisguised fear when he had looked up that very first time to see me standing there, alive and human. “Girlie…no,” he’d said, because he had known…
My God, he’d known all along what she could do.

“You wanted a friend,” I said softly. “It’s not wrong to want a friend.”

“But you want to go away.” She looked hurt, bewildered. “Why?”

“Because…”I felt at a sorry loss for words. I patted her head and felt her arms tighten around me, clutching me as if she would never let go. “This isn’t my home, you see,” I said slowly. “This isn’t where I belong.”
I want to believe her…dear God, it can’t be real, it can’t be true, but I want to believe everything she’s telling me, even though it’s impossible
—
and how can I not believe this special, beautiful child, even though it’s something I can never possibly understand…
“Do you understand?” I asked her.

She nuzzled her head in the hollow of my neck. “I wish,” she said softly, “that you could be my mother.”

A thousand emotions coursed through me—a thousand excuses whirled through my brain—but before I could even respond, the door opened all the way and Rachel stood there, worry etched sharply on every line of her face.

“Pamela,” she said, motioning me out into the hall.

I gave Girlie a quick kiss, forcing a smile, disentangling myself, promising her we’d go out later to play in the snow. But once Rachel and I were back in the kitchen, I could feel apprehension building in me like a time bomb.

“I think maybe I should go look for them,” Rachel said, decision in her voice, her hands wringing the worn hem of her apron. “If I leave now, I should be back before bedtime.”

“Rachel, don’t,” I begged her. “You said yourself you’re not even sure where Seth might be. And look at the sky—it could snow again any minute.”

“But I have to do something. It’s better than sitting here and not knowing.”

As much as I hated the idea, I said, “Give him another hour.”

“If it was just Seth, I wouldn’t be so worried,” she said, sinking down into a chair. “But with Franny missing, too, why, I just can’t—”

“Couldn’t she have gone off by herself somewhere, like you said?” I asked lamely. “Forgotten about the time?” But even I knew how silly that sounded, with the weather the way it was.

Rachel shook her head. “I’ve checked everywhere outside—the barn, the smokehouse. She’s not in the orchard. I checked there, too. I even went along the woods and called.”

“Did you check the woods in front of the house?”

“Yes, there, too. She doesn’t answer. I just don’t think she’s here.”

“But if she did go looking for Seth, you know she’ll be all right with him.” I was grasping at straws.

“If she found him,” Rachel said glumly. “I keep thinking about the bridge being out. I can’t get that out of my mind.”

I hadn’t thought about the bridge; now a whole new wave of dark possibilities loomed between us. “If you go,” I said at last, “I’m going with you.”

“Don’t be silly, Pamela. Someone has to stay here with Girlie. And I know the way. You don’t.” At my expression she reached over and squeezed my hand. “I thank you, I really do. You’ve been such a godsend to me…to us all.”

I avoided her eyes, that all-too-familiar guilt surging through my heart. “I haven’t done anything. And I don’t think you should be taking unnecessary chances right now.”

“But what if he’s lying out there somewhere…hurt.” She went to the back door, her narrow shoulders slumped as she clenched folded arms across her chest. “I just can’t get it out of my mind…that I should go to him.”

I shivered then, but not from the cold. In the wake of what I’d just been through with Girlie, it was easy to imagine Seth’s voice, whispering out of nowhere, brushing the mind with a desperate plea for help…
Don’t think about it, Rachel…please just don’t think about it…
I walked to the stove and poured Rachel a cup of coffee, keeping my eyes the whole time on the desolate stretch of woods and snow beyond the window.

“Would Girlie know?” I heard myself ask quietly.

Rachel turned to face me, disappointment showing in her eyes. “I already tried that,” she said softly. “It’s not something you can always ask her about…things like that. Most times she only says something out loud if she knows it’s true.”

I couldn’t believe I was actually talking this way. “And she said—?” My heart dropped at the shake of Rachel’s head.

“Nothing,” she whispered. “She didn’t say anything.”

I stared at the floor a long time, finally raising my head as a soft spattering sound began to seep through into my consciousness. Slush was beginning to pattern the windowpane, leaving wet globs as it streaked across the glass. Freezing rain. I wondered how long it would be before it turned back to snow. Rachel’s face was a mask of weary emotions. I knew she had her heart set on going to look for Seth and Franny, but with a new snowfall that would be out of the question for now.

“Reckon I better start supper.” Her voice was small, her hands mechanical, reaching toward the pie safe, the stove, the pots and pans. “He’ll be starved to death when he comes home…”

I couldn’t bear to hear any more, to watch her brave pretense at calm. Something inside kept telling me that Seth would never allow himself to be at the mercy of the elements—and yet Rachel’s growing fear unnerved me. I wasn’t sure how much more pressure she could take. And if something really had happened to Seth or Franny…

I marched determinedly upstairs. Daylight had faded within the last several hours. The hallway was shadowy, and cold drafts crept in from the corners of the house, raising the flesh along my arms.
If something really has happened to Seth…or Franny…
But I wouldn’t let myself think about it. I convinced myself that in just an hour or so we’d all be eating around the table, wondering how we could ever have been afraid.

“There’s no betrayal in this world….
” Without warning Seth’s words drifted back to me. I remembered scoffing at him, feeling so superior about his silly superstitions, and that serious, knowing look on his face. “You act like something’s going to happen, because of that scarecrow,” I had told him once—
oh, stupid, stupid fool meddling in things you don’t understand
—and there’s no betrayal in this world, Seth had said to me.
No betrayal.