The Ice Cradle (8 page)

It would remain to be seen whether she was still there when I came back; she might drift away out of boredom, as Silas, Henry’s other “imaginary playmate,” had often done. In the meantime, I could explain away any laughter or chattering coming from the room as evidence of Henry’s getting overinvolved with the on-screen hijinks.

“Don’t go anywhere without telling me,” I warned him.

“Okay,” he said.

“I’ll be right in the kitchen.”

“I
know,”
he responded, flashing me a look that meant,
And now would you please leave?

Back in the kitchen, the talk was still of Frances. I had assumed that she was Lauren’s cat, and her story the classic tale of a doted-upon feline being supplanted by her owner’s boyfriend and eventual husband. But Frances belonged to Mark, or more accurately, to the house. She had wandered into the kitchen almost two decades ago, a stray kitten, and proceeded
to make the place her home. She had earned the family’s affection by being a first-rate mouser, and had been sheltered and fed during the colder months by neighbors who stored their snow removal equipment in the Rieglers’ back barn. Every spring, though, when Mark’s family returned to the island, Frances took up residence again in the kitchen.

“Does she still catch mice?” I asked.

Mark grinned. “Look at her! What do
you
think?”

“Oh, she’ll give it a go,” Lauren said, “once in a while, just for old times’ sake. But she’s just too slow. Poor thing.”

Mark shot his wife a look I couldn’t interpret.

“This is
not
about Frances,” she said cryptically. “I’m just
nervous.”

“Lauren believes all the old wives’ tales,” Mark explained.

“They wouldn’t have lasted for all these centuries if there wasn’t some truth to them!”

“Oh, come on,” Mark said. “Cats climbing into cradles and sucking the breath out of babies?”

“Maybe they suffocate them! Who knows?”

“She’d have to get into the crib first, and that ain’t happenin’,” Mark teased. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll build a little crib top—a crib canopy! And we’ll rig the whole thing up with bells!”

“What if she gets through the bars of the crib?” Lauren insisted.

“Fat chance,” said Mark.

Lauren, who had been experimenting with dessert recipes, offered me a choice: lemon pudding cake, a brownie with or without ice cream, or what she called a “pot de crème.”

“Or all three!” she said. “I need feedback, I really do. I’m trying to figure out what to put on the menu.”

I love brownies—I suppose everyone does—but you can
get a good brownie any time. I chose the pot de crème, having absolutely no idea what it was, only to be delighted when Lauren produced an antique English teacup in its saucer. It looked like something from which Miss Marple might have taken her afternoon cuppa. In the teacup had been baked an individual serving of a fragrant vanilla custard.

“Oh my gosh!” I said after the first bite. “This is wonderful!”

“Thanks,” Lauren said. “In season, we’ll have berries on top. But we’re trying to stay seasonal. And local. I mean, pretty local, given that we live in New England. On an island.”

“All the more reason,” said Mark. “It’s here and along the shorelines that you can really see the damage.”

I was so intoxicated by my custard that I must have shot Mark a dumb glance.
Berries? Damage?

“From erosion,” he clarified. “Parts of Nantucket are losing fifty feet a year. Beaches, houses, just—gone. Some of it’s natural, but not this rate of loss. The land’s just washing away.”

“Because the polar ice cap’s melting,” I guessed, hoping to redeem myself in Mark’s eyes. I wasn’t a complete moron when it came to global warming. I was familiar with the concept of carbon footprints and with the true costs of flying raspberries halfway around the planet.

“That and the nature of the storms we’re getting now, which is also a result of the warming,” Mark went on.

I’d always assumed that the storms we were getting now were no different from the storms we had always gotten. But I grew up in Ohio and have only lived around Boston for a few years. I have no real feel for what’s “normal” in New England.

“What kind of storms
are
we getting?” I asked.

“Not as many hurricanes and nor’easters, but lots more
storms that are moderately severe. Add to that the way our beaches are shaped—they’re long and broad and kind of flat—and well, let’s just say it’s not a good combination. If erosion keeps happening at the rate it’s happening now, Nantucket will be under water in a few hundred years.”

“You’re kidding!” I said. “The whole island?”

“Yup. They’ve already lost twenty-five buildings. Expect to lose fifty or sixty more in the next ten years.”

“That’s terrible,” I said.

“And we’re not immune here. They already moved the Southeast Lighthouse once, back in 1993. The edge of the cliff was wearing away, so they had to pull the whole building back a few hundred feet. Took them ten years to raise two million dollars to finance it, but if they hadn’t done it, the lighthouse would have fallen right into the ocean. The Bluffs are still taking a beating.”

Lauren wore a patient, indulgent expression.

“This is Mark’s passion,” she explained, “in case you haven’t figured it out.”

I smiled. “You’re preaching to the choir. I even recycle those little wire twisties from the bread bags.”

Mark was apparently relieved to discover that I was a kindred spirit, environmentally. “Our entire renovation was green,” he said, “though it did end up costing us more than we’d hoped.”

“Don’t things always go over budget?”

“Yeah, sure, and we’ll save money in the long run.”

“We hope!” Lauren added. “Half the island turned up at the open house. The real old-timers were the ones who stayed the longest, believe it or not. They couldn’t get enough of the new technologies, inspecting the solar panels, checking out all the energy-efficient materials. I was really surprised.”

“It makes sense, though,” Mark said. “They’re invested in the island, and not just here on the weekends or for a week in the summer. They’ve seen the changes happening over their lifetimes.”

“To be fair, though,” Lauren said, “everybody cares about the island. There are just different ideas about what we should do, and people worry about the impact on tourism of some of the proposed changes.”

“What changes?” I asked.

Lauren shot Mark a look. “There’s an initiative to build an offshore wind farm. Mark’s the head of the committee. The debate’s been pretty spirited.”

“Spirited?” Mark said.

“Lively?” Lauren asked.

“How about
ugly?”

“Energetic,”
she declared.

“Vicious,” he said.

“What’s your name?” I asked the little ghost. I am able to hear what ghosts are thinking, but they don’t usually think about their own names. The little ghost might have been used to young children being aware of her, but she seemed shocked that I could see her. Henry answered my question before she could recover her composure and speak.

“Vivi.”

She had followed us up the stairs and into our room. It was nearly nine o’clock, time for Henry to go to bed, but Vivi showed no sign of being aware that she was expected to leave. I had no one but myself to blame for this, of course, given that I had let her curl up in my lap the previous night.

“Is that a nickname?” I asked her.

She stared at me and said nothing. I tried again.

“What’s your real name?”

After a pause, she floated over to Henry and whispered in his ear.

“Viveka,” said Henry.

“And what’s your last name?”

She whispered again, and Henry said, “Riegler.”

“Viveka Riegler,” I said. “That’s a pretty name.”

She stuck out her tongue.

“Why are you sticking your tongue out at me?”

She stuck it out again.

“Okay, Vivi,” I said, sighing. “I think we’ve all had a very long day. I know Henry’s tired.”

“No, I’m not,” said Henry.

“Well, I am, and we all have to get up very early tomorrow. So Vivi, honey, maybe it’s time for you to go back to—”

I broke off. To where? The hallway? The attic? Her cubby under the stairs? The truth was, I had no idea where this kid went when she wasn’t with us.

Vivi glared at me, her skinny little arms crossed angrily.

“Can she sleep over?” Henry asked. “Could you ask her mom?”

Could I ask her mom?
Okay, so this meant that Henry believed Vivi
had
a mom, either here on the premises or, possibly, reachable by phone. That indicated that Vivi seemed like a normal kid to him, a kid whose mother, like any other parent, would or would not grant permission for a last-minute sleepover. So far, this hadn’t given me any new information.

“You know,” I said, “I’m not sure tonight’s the best night.”

Vivi stamped her little foot and scowled at me defiantly.

“Why not?” Henry whined petulantly. “You
said
 …”

“I said what?”

“You
said
it was vacation.”

I sighed. “We still have to get up early, honey. You’ve got that car to paint.”

“Greased Lightnin’,” he said edgily. “We’ll go to sleep right away, I promise.”

I knew how the night would go. Just as it usually went when Delia and Nell, Henry’s half sisters, ages four and three, spent the night: there would be laughing and whispering followed by tickling and kicking followed by fighting and crying.

Now I was the one feeling irrational. There was no reason to feel anxious about this little sprite, but I just didn’t like the schizophrenic vibe she was sending off: curling up in my lap one minute and acting devilish and fresh the next.

Like most children her age, I reminded myself.

I understood. I did. She was desperate and lonely, and she had finally found a playmate her age, a playmate who could actually see her and talk to her. Not to mention a mother-type person who had let her curl up in her lap.

And now the person who had been nice to her last night was turning on her. I was saying no. No to the playmate, no to the sleepover, and no to the shelter and solace she had found in my arms. I was turning her out into the darkness.

“Vivi,” I said quietly. “Henry’s going to hop in the tub, and maybe you and I can have a little talk.”

“I don’t like you,” she answered, in a squeaky little voice. “You’re mean.”

“Henry, honey, go in and run a bath. Go on.”

“I don’t want to,” he groused.

“Now!” I snapped, a little more fiercely than I meant to. I
startled him. He got right up and went into the bathroom, and I heard the water begin to flow. I also heard him lock the door.

“Unlock that door,” I called.

I heard him obey. I also heard him give the door a little kick, but I decided to let that go.

I wasn’t aware until the moment I opened my mouth that I had changed my mind: I wanted her gone,
now
! I wanted this much more than I wanted to find out about Henry’s paranormal abilities.

“Vivi,” I said. “I know you must be really lonesome for your mommy and daddy. I can help you cross over and see them again. Right now. Would you like to do that? We can do it right this minute.”

“No,” she said, pouting.

“No?”

“I want to play with—him. I want to stay here.”

“Well, you can’t, honey. Your mommy and daddy really miss you, and they’ve been waiting a long, long time to see you. I want you to look over at that door.”

Vivi refused to turn her head, but I went ahead anyway, confident that she would be mesmerized by the sight of the glowing doorway and would, upon seeing it, instantly change her mind and hurry toward the light.

I closed my eyes and imagined the light burning warmly and brightly inside me. I pulled the glow upward and outward and opened my eyes, and now the blinding beams of light from the other side were filling the room, and the door to the other side was right there, superimposed on the doorway to the hall. It was less than five feet away from us, just waiting for Vivi to walk through it.

“Look, honey,” I said. “Everyone you love is right through that door. Look! Look at the light! Go ahead! Maybe you’ll see your mommy. Or your daddy.”

She wanted to look, I could tell, but she refused to turn her head. I could see how hard she was working to control her own curiosity and longing. But she didn’t like me. She had liked me last night, but now she didn’t, and she wasn’t going to give me the satisfaction of doing anything I asked her to do. Even at the cost of her own happiness.

“Sweetie,” I said. “I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings. I really and truly am. I want you to be happy. I don’t want you to be lonesome anymore.”

“Liar!” she said. “You want me to go away.”

I sighed. It was true. If I could have picked her up bodily, carried her over to the door of white light, and tossed her through it, I would have. But you can’t pick up a ghost.

“How about we just look?” I suggested. “You don’t have to go through if you don’t want to, but we could just walk over to that door and have a little peek. See who we see.” I winked, hoping my enthusiasm would be infectious.