The Winter People (19 page)

“Isn’t it amazing to think of, Ruthie?” he’d asked.

Ruthie had found the idea that we were only a series of neatly constructed puzzle pieces or building blocks vaguely unsettling—even at eight, she wanted there to be more to it than that.

Ruthie shuffled back through to the earliest photo of herself she could find: standing in the driveway, holding a green stuffed bear. She guessed she was about three in the photo. It was taken in the driveway one spring. There were still clumps of snow clinging to
the grass, but Ruthie could see crocuses poking through. She was wearing a stiff-looking dress and a little peacoat, her hair in two neat pigtails.

She remembered the bear suddenly: Piney Boy. He went everywhere with her. What happened to that old bear? Most of her stuffed animals had been passed down to Fawn, but she hadn’t seen Piney in ages. Suddenly she missed the stupid bear so much her eyes began to water.

“Buzz?” she said, clearing her throat and rubbing hard at her eyes. “Would you say there are more pictures of you or your sister?”

He seemed puzzled by the question. “Um, Sophie, definitely. She was the first kid, you know. They got pictures of everything she did—like,
every thing
—including her first poop in the big-girl potty. By the time I came along, things like the first poop weren’t quite as exciting. There are pictures of me, sure, but not half as many as they took of Sophie.”

Ruthie nodded. That’s exactly what she’d been thinking.

“Where are your baby pictures?” Fawn asked, looking as owl-eyed as ever as she studied her sister over the top of the computer.

“There aren’t any,” Ruthie admitted.

Fawn bit her lip. “Oh,” she said, the word a disappointed sigh. She went back to looking at the screen, but didn’t seem to be playing anymore.

“Maybe they’re just in a different place,” Buzz suggested.

Ruthie shook her head. “I’ve never seen any. Once in a while, especially when I was younger, I’d ask, and Mom always said, ‘Oh, we’ve got pictures around here somewhere,’ but I never saw one. This photo of me with the bear is the earliest I can find. I’m guessing I’m maybe three years old here.”

Ruthie glanced back down at the picture. She was smiling happily into the camera, her right arm wrapped around the bear. Her coat and dress looked clean and new. She longed to travel back in time, to sit down with that little girl and ask for her story. “What do you remember?” she would ask. “Where have you been up until now?”

She closed her eyes, tried to think back to her earliest memories, but came up with nothing new. She remembered riding her bike
in the driveway, being chased by one of the roosters, riding in the truck with her dad to the town dump on Saturday mornings. Being warned to stay out of the woods, told that bad things happened to little girls who wandered off and got lost.

And there it was again, the memory of her father finding her out there somewhere, carrying her back home—running down the hill, her face, wet with tears, pressed against the scratchy wool of his coat. “It was just a bad dream,” he’d told her later, while her mother soothed her with a cup of herbal tea. “You’re safe now.”

She looked back at the photos: there she was with her mother in their matching sweaters, her with the chemistry set, her dad showing her the periodic table.

Liars
.

H
ello?”

“Hi, Ruthie. It’s Candace O’Rourke.”

Ruthie had put Fawn to bed, and Buzz had gone out to buy them some beer. As soon as he’d pulled away, the phone started to ring. She’d answered quickly, afraid the ringing would wake Fawn.

“You were at my house today,” Candace continued when Ruthie stayed quiet, stunned. “With the wallets.”

As if Ruthie really needed reminding. She crept outside, easing the front door closed behind her. Cordless phone in hand, she went down the front steps and into the driveway.

“How did you get this number?” Ruthie asked. Their number was unlisted, impossible to find.

“I’m sorry if I did anything to scare you off,” Candace said brightly. “I was just so shocked to see the wallets, to hear your story. I’m really glad you answered—there’s so much I didn’t get a chance to ask you.”

The night was cold and clear; the stars were brilliant. Ruthie looked up and saw Orion overhead, remembered her father teaching her to follow the line of stars that made up Orion’s belt to find the star Aldebaran, which was the eye of Taurus the bull. Taurus was her father’s astrological sign, and though she’d never admit it to anyone, she sometimes imagined it was him up there, looking down on her.

She made out the Big and Little Dippers, the frosty Milky Way stretched out across the middle of the sky.

“Is Alice still missing?” Candace asked.

“Alice?” Ruthie stammered, mind racing.

“Your mother, dear.” She spoke slowly, as if Ruthie were a young child. “You said she’d disappeared?”

“But—I didn’t tell you her name.”

“So she’s still gone?” Candace sounded almost hopeful, excited by the prospect.

“I’m going to hang up now,” Ruthie said, in full panic mode. “I’m sorry to have bothered you today. I think I made a mistake.”

“Oh, it was no mistake,” Candace said. “Please don’t hang up. There are things I can tell you.”

“What things?” Ruthie watched her breath come out in great clouds of steam as she spoke.

“Like about Hannah,” Candace said, voice teasing, luring Ruthie in. “My precious girl. There’s not a day that’s gone by when I haven’t thought of her. I know this might sound crazy, but I never believed she was gone. There were times when I could almost feel her out there, waiting to be found. Does that even make sense?”

“Yes,” Ruthie found herself saying as she leaned back and looked up at the stars, which made her feel suddenly dizzy. Head spinning, phone clenched in her hand, she thought about chemical elements, pink cupcakes, green bears; about the ways everything was connected. Maybe it wasn’t all so random. “Yes.”

And then she hung up the phone.

Visitors from the Other Side The Secret Diary of Sara Harrison Shea

January 25, 1908

Gertie had always loved the closet so. How she enjoyed hiding there, leaping out to surprise me. One time, I discovered her curled up in the back corner, napping on a pile of mending.

“What are you doing in here, love?” I’d asked her.

“I am a bear in a warm cave,” she told me. “I am hide-r-nating.”

G
ertie?” I called to her this morning. “Are you in there?”

I stood before the closet door and knocked gently.

I was still in my nightgown, my bare feet cold on the smooth wooden floor. The sun was just up over the hill, giving the bedroom a soft glow through the window. I caught sight of myself in the mirror atop the dresser. I looked like a madwoman: pale, thin, dark circles under my eyes, tangles in my hair, nightgown tattered and stained.

I held my breath, waiting.

Then Gertie knocked back!

I turned the doorknob, pulling, but she held fast from the other side with a strength that surprised me.

“Won’t you please come out and let me see you?”

The door would not budge. There was only a small scuttling sound from inside the closet.

“It’s all right. Papa’s gone. He went up the hill to hunt.”

I knew she would not come out if he was near. Last night, even though I knew she was in there, I obeyed Martin and went back to bed. But I could not sleep. I lay on my side, my eyes fixed on the closet. I saw the door inch open, the glint of an eye looking through the crack. I waved at her in the dark.

Hello
, my wave called.
Hello, hello! Welcome back, my dear, sweet girl!

Martin was up and dressed early.

“It’s not even light out,” I said when I saw him.

“I’m going to go look for that buck. His tracks are all over the woods. If I can get him, we’ll have meat for the rest of the winter. I’ll do the chores and head into the woods; then I have some things I need to do in town. I’ll be back for supper.”

“Do you want breakfast?” I asked, rising out of bed. I thought this would please him—seeing me up and about, offering to cook.

He shook his head. “I’ll wrap up some biscuits and salt pork.” He limped down the stairs, started a fire, let the dog out, packed up some food, and fetched his gun. At last, the front door opened, then closed.

I watched out the window as he crossed the yard. As soon as he was out of sight, I ran to the closet.

How relieved I was to know for certain that it was not a dream!

I tugged at the door again, but she held tight.

“Fine, darling,” I said, stepping back. “We’ll just visit like this, then.” I settled myself on the floor. “You knock once for yes and twice for no.”

But what to ask? There were so many things I longed to know: what she remembered, if she could recall falling, if it had hurt terribly.

Yes and no questions, I reminded myself.

“Are you all right? Are you … hurt?”

No answer.

I took a breath. Tried again, deciding not to mention anything about the accident or her final day. There would be time for all of that later.

“May I get you something? Are you … are you hungry?”

She knocked once, hard and fast.

“Yes, of course, I’m so sorry, my darling—I’ll bring you some food.”

I raced down the stairs, quickly gathered a biscuit, jam, and a piece of cheese from the larder. I heated up milk and spooned in honey, just the way she liked. My heart leapt with joy to be preparing food for her once more. I hurried back upstairs, terrified that I would find the closet empty—that I had dreamed it all.

“I’m back,” I announced to the closet door. “I’m putting the food right outside the door. Would you like me to go away while you eat?”

One knock.

But, oh, what joy that one knock brought me!

I laid the food down just outside the closet.

“I’ll just be out in the hall,” I told her, backing away.

I slipped out of the room and closed the bedroom door. Then I held my breath and waited. I picked at the skin around my fingernails, squeezing out tiny drops of blood.

I remembered all the times little Gertie and I had played hide-and-seek around the house and yard. How I would wait like this, eyes clamped shut while I counted out loud to twenty, then called out, “Ready or not, here I come!”

And when I’d find her, I’d take her in my arms and she’d laugh, say, “Aren’t I the best hider ever, Mama?”

“Yes, darling. The best ever.”

Sometimes the game would start without warning, even when we were in town. We’d be shopping at the general store, and I’d turn, sure she’d just been right behind me, to find her gone. I’d wander the narrow aisles, the wooden floor creaking beneath my feet, searching. I’d look among the shelves of flour, salt, cornmeal, and baking powder. I might find her hiding amid bolts of fabric, behind the barrel of molasses over by the counter, or in the corner near the coal stove, where the old men gathered to warm their hands and talk. I’d search the store, calling Gertie’s name, and the other patrons would chuckle—the farmers in their bib overalls, the women who’d stopped in for buttons and thread or a box of soap powder—they were all in on the game, sometimes helping me look, sometimes keeping her hiding place secret by standing right
in front of it. Abe Cushing once let her hide behind the counter, under the cash register. He fed her candy from the jars he kept on the counter—bits of licorice, toffee, rock candy—while she waited to be discovered.