Seven Stories Up (3 page)

“It is?” I touched my hair.

“It’s been a year since the last batch of pictures, Mother,” said Mom softly. “I’ve been busy, and she grows so fast. It’s hard to keep up.”

That was when I realized that while Mom hadn’t told me anything at all about my grandmother, she had been writing home to Baltimore about me. Sending updates, like people did in normal families.

“Come … closer,” my grandmother called. “Let me … look at you.” A frail hand stirred the air above the bed.

I forced my feet forward. “Hi,” I said, trying to sound like myself. I cleared my throat. “Hi!”

My grandmother raised her head from the pillow a few inches and peered up at me. “She’s … pretty,” she said to Mom.

“Yes,” said my mom. “She looks a lot like you.”

Staring at the withered face against the pillows, I didn’t want that to be true, but I could see what Mom meant. My grandmother’s high forehead was my own.
Her dark brown eyes. Her pointy chin. I leaned forward until my arms were touching the metal rail of the hospital bed.

My grandmother propped herself up a little. “Annie, I’m glad … to see you.”

“Umm, yeah, me too,” I said.

“Is that true?” she asked in a sharper voice. “Are you glad to see me?”

“Umm, yeah,” I mumbled.

The old woman stared a little too long. I felt funny. At last she took a deep, harsh breath from her oxygen mask, then said, “So … you must know I’m dying?”

“Now, Mother,” said Mom, standing up beside me. “Anything could happen. You might feel better tomorrow.”

The old woman scowled. To me, she said, “She has a bad habit … of always looking … at the bright side. Have you noticed?”

“I—I guess,” I said.

Beside me, Mom muttered something I couldn’t make out.

The old woman leaned toward me. “Annie,” she said, “I realize we don’t … know each other well, but … there isn’t much time. And I want you to know you’re … important to me. I think about you, dear.”

“Uh, okay. Thanks,” I said.

She paused, then added, “And I
do
hope … I’m … important to you?”

“Huh?” At first I thought she must be talking to Mom, but she was staring straight at me. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. “Sure, yeah,” I said at last. “I mean,
yes
.”

“Yes?” She raised her eyebrows. “You
do
care for me?”

I nodded dumbly.

“You … 
love
me?” She sucked at the oxygen mask again, waiting.

“I … uh …” I glanced at Mom. She covered her mouth with her hand and shook her head slightly.

Why would she ask that? How
could
I love her? I’d never even seen her until this minute. I stared at my grandmother’s whiskers, just a few silver hairs on her chin. I was close enough to count them. Six. There were six.

“Well,
do
you?” she rasped again. “Love me?”

“I—don’t—know,” I said, glancing from my mom to my grandmother. “I mean—sure.”

Her eyes narrowed. “
Sure?
You don’t sound very certain.”

“Mother!” Mom cut her off. “Stop. You’re a stranger to her.”

I stepped back from the bed as my grandmother turned
to Mom. She spat out her next words. “Well, whose fault is
that
, Ruby?”

Panic flitted across Mom’s face. I’d never seen her like that, ever. She looked like a scared kid. Suddenly I caught a glimmer of what she’d run away from. My grandmother wasn’t just old and sick. She was
angry
.

“Leave Mom alone,” I whispered.

My grandmother didn’t relent. “How about
you
, Ruby? Do
you
love me?”

Mom looked ready to cry. I wished I’d stayed in the other room.

“Of course I do,” Mom said softly. “But sometimes—love isn’t enough.”

“No, I suppose it isn’t,” said my grandmother, falling back against her pillows. “I guess it never was with you.”

Mom waited. The room felt electric, charged. At last she said in a small voice, “I was only a little girl.…”

“A heartless girl, always running off.” My grandmother frowned at the ceiling.

“Mother—please don’t,” Mom said with tears in her eyes.

“Don’t what?” My grandmother fixed her gaze on Mom. “What is it you want me
not
to do, Ruby?” She cocked her chin sharply to one side and raised her arched eyebrows. It was a strained gesture, awkward. “What
can
I do? Locked in the Lonely Room. Just like all those years ago. Nothing ever changes, not for me.”

It was awful, but I couldn’t turn my eyes away. It was like a bloody nature show you can’t stop watching, where a shark eats a seal or a lion takes down an antelope.

Mom ran a hand through her hair limply. “You know what, Mother? It’s after midnight. Annie doesn’t need to be here for this. In the morning we can talk. Things will be better—”

“Oh? You think so?”

Mom looked sadly at the old woman; then she turned and pushed me toward the door. “Scoot,” she said gently.

I started to scoot.

“Fine, run away,” wheezed my grandmother. “But if you do, I will die. Tonight. It’s one thing I
can
still do.”

Then it was like a spell had broken. I turned to watch as Mom pivoted slowly on one foot, to face the old woman in the bed. She put her hands on her hips and pulled herself up tall. “All right,
fine
,” she said. “Die if you want! I came here to be with you, Mother, but for twelve years I’ve kept Annie safe, and I’m not undoing that. I’ll be back in the morning, because I want to see you.
Not
because you’re playing head games with me. Got it?”

“Oh? You want to
see
me?” my grandmother called.
“You’ve been gone all these years, but now you want to see me die, Ruby?
This
you came for?”

Mom paused a moment, then said, “Of course I came, Mother. Because no matter what you choose to think—I
do
love you.”

Without opening her eyes or raising her head, my grandmother spoke. Her voice was clear, and there was a slight curve to her mouth, a smile like a small sharp knife. “Yes, well,” she said, “
you
love a lot of people.”

Mom jerked the bathroom door hard behind her, then stood for a second with her face in one hand. “So,” she said, “you wanted to meet your grandmother. Good times, huh?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

Mom splashed some water on her face, then rubbed it dry with a towel. When she was done, I padded after her into the bedroom, where we sat on the edge of the bed. Mom stared at the pictures on the wall.

“It used to be a beautiful hotel,” she said. “It used to be a beautiful family. Once upon a time …”

“Hey,” I said. “Mom?”

“What is it, kiddo?” Her voice was tender.

“I understand now why you kept her so secret. I get it. But if you’d explained, I bet I could have handled it.”

Mom spread out her fingers in a helpless gesture. “Maybe
I
couldn’t handle it. Or maybe I just didn’t know where to begin, or when. You were too little, until one day you weren’t anymore, but it was still such a hard story. I’ve never known how to tell it.”

“Well,
now
can you tell me—what’s wrong with her?”

Mom shook her head. “I wish I knew. She’s just always been like that. Angry. Or maybe
angry
isn’t the right word. I’m not sure what is. Desperate? When I was a kid, whatever I did—it wasn’t enough. Nothing was ever enough. I’d come home nervous and take a deep breath at the door before I walked in. I was
always
nervous. Kids shouldn’t grow up that way.”

“No.”

“The thing is, it wasn’t just me. To hear her tell it, I abandoned her. But so did everyone else. Her parents neglected her. Dad didn’t listen. Her sisters were mean. Every waiter in every restaurant has been disrespectful. It’s like she’s got a big black hole inside. Like she’s hungry and can’t get full, no matter how people try to feed her. Ugh.”

“Wasn’t there anyone who could help?” I asked. “A doctor, maybe?”

“You’re a good kid, Annie. I felt that way too. I tried to help for a long time. But it’s only gotten worse over the years. When my dad died and I moved to Atlanta, something snapped inside her. That was when she closed the hotel up, told me never to bother coming home. I was eighteen years old.”

“
Really?
What did you do?” I asked.

“I stayed gone, started over. I got an apartment near campus, married your father, made the best of it. Honestly, I felt guilty but relieved.”

“It sounds hard.”

“It was easier. I got to choose my friends, make my own family. You get it?”

“I think so.”

Mom stood up. “Look, you go ahead and crash. I need to take a walk, clear my head. I’ll feel better in the morning, I promise.”

“But it’s raining,” I said, looking out the window.

Mom laughed. “I’ll be fine. A walk in the rain never hurt anyone.”

When she was gone, I pushed the suitcase as hard as I could. It fell off the bed with a crash, but it didn’t matter. The floors below were empty. There was nobody to hear.

It was past late, so I got ready for bed. I settled into
the pillows, pulled the covers up, and burrowed down. But when I turned over to shut off the light beside me, something hard jabbed me in the neck. I sat up, slipped a hand beneath the pillow, and brought out a book, folded in heavy black cloth.

It was an old copy of
The Secret Garden
. Inside was an inscription:
To Mary Moran, from her mother
. I ran my hand over the worn cover. I wondered how long it had been forgotten in those pillows. I wondered why an old lady would be reading it, anyway.

I set the book beside me on the bedside table and began to lay the black cloth on top of it, when I realized that what I was holding was a sleeping mask. It was made of silk, stitched with tiny black beads.

Like the book, the mask was falling apart. The elastic had lost its stretch. The silk was faded and heavy, the beads coming loose. I pulled it on like a headband. It felt nice, smooth against my forehead.

I lay back, my head on the thick pillow, listening to rain pelting the window. Off in the distance there was a loud rumble of thunder. The storm was getting closer, and Mom was out there in it, alone and sad. I stared up at the faded canopy with its rips and stains, and wished there was a way to fix everything for her.

At last I began to pull the heavy silk over my eyes.
Just as I slipped the mask all the way down, there was a strange moment of static in the air, a beat of absolute silence … then another huge burst of thunder.

I flinched.

And the world went dark.

“Hello? Hello!”

Deep inside my dream there was a voice. I wanted to answer it, but everything was dark, muffled. My head was thick. My body wouldn’t wake up. My mouth wouldn’t move.

Until I heard the voice again. “Helllllooooo?”

I started to surface.

“Who
are
you?” The voice broke through. It was a girl’s voice. I could feel her breath on my face. “And what on earth are you doing here?”

Something touched my cheek. “Huh!” I sat up fast and opened my eyes.

Everything was still dark. I couldn’t see. Why couldn’t I see?

Then I remembered, reached up, and yanked the mask off. My eyes were flooded with thin, early-morning light.

“I have a sleeping mask like that too,” said the voice. “Only I never wear it.”

I whipped around, and there she was. A kid. Staring at me. A girl in a long ivory nightgown, with eyes as dark as mine, nearly hidden beneath a mop of brown curls. A girl, sitting in my bed!

“But how did you get in here?” she asked.

She was too close. It was weird. Her knee brushed my bare arm and I jerked back, lost my balance, and rolled from the high mattress onto the floor. Ouch. Just like my suitcase had done the night before. Though, now that I looked, I didn’t see the suitcase. From my tangle of sheets and blankets I could only spot the black sleeping mask, which had fallen with me. I sat up and rubbed my bruised knee.

The girl was peering over the edge of the mattress. Her ringlets clustered and hung, framing her narrow face. “I
am
sorry,” she said. She shook her head, and her curls trembled. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“O-okay,” I said. “I guess. But what’d you do with my suitcase?”

The girl looked puzzled. She tilted her head. “What suitcase?”

“The one that was right here!” I thumped the floor beside me.

“I didn’t see a suitcase,” she said. “Why would you bring a suitcase?”

“I’m—I just—” I looked around, baffled. “I went to sleep. That’s all I did.” Maybe I was
still
asleep and dreaming. Was that possible? Everything from the day before felt hazy. “I
think
I went to sleep here.” That had to be right. I recognized the big bed, its high canopy. “How did
you
get in?”

“This is my room, silly,” said the girl, sitting back on her feet. “I’m always here.” Her brow creased. “Maybe the door was open, and you sleepwalked?”

Her
room? From my spot on the floor, I tried to figure out what was going on. The bed looked the same, but maybe the girl was right—maybe this
wasn’t
the room I’d fallen asleep in. Maybe all the rooms in the hotel had beds like that. Now that I thought about it, the striped bedspread did seem different.