Took (15 page)

Miss Perkins must have heard me. “I ain't sleeping. I'm pondering.” With surprising energy, she pushed herself up and out of the rocking chair. “You all come back here tomorrow afternoon. By then I might have an idea or two.”

She walked to the door with us and watched Mrs. O'Neill help Selene with zippers and mittens. “The poor child,” Miss Perkins said softly. “She's under a spell, like that girl who come back fifty year ago and died in the orphanage. When Auntie lets them go, they ain't long for this world.”

Mrs. O'Neill stared at the old woman. “Please don't talk like that in front of the child.”

Selene didn't seem to have heard. She was standing with her back to us, watching the cats racing each other up and down the steps.

Miss Perkins sighed. “Ain't none of that girl's fault my auntie took her. Must be something I can do to stop that old woman, her and that hog of hers.”

She opened the door and ushered us out. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

With that, we were on the porch with the door shut behind us. It was dark now, and the sliver of moon high above us didn't do much to light our way down the icy sidewalk to the car.

“Well,” Mrs. O'Neill said as she started the engine. “I don't know what to make of the old woman.”

“Do you trust her?” I asked.

Mrs. O'Neill bit her lower lip and eased the car over the ruts in the icy road. In the headlights I saw a skinny dog running along the sidewalk. He had something in his mouth—a scrap he'd found in the garbage, I guessed.

“I'm truly hoping she can get your sister back. How, I don't know—just so it doesn't involve trading one child for another.”

She paused as she turned right from Railroad Avenue onto Main Street. It was only five o'clock, but not a single store was open. Except for the streetlights and a traffic light set on blinking red, the town was dark.

“I'm also hoping we can keep Selene with us for a long time,” she said.

I looked over my shoulder at the back seat. Selene was staring out the window, watching the buildings and houses slip past. Her face was pale and sad. The doll lay beside her as if she didn't care about it anymore. I think she knew then that she'd never see Auntie again.

As Mrs. O'Neill pulled her car into my driveway, she asked me if I'd like to have dinner at her house. “My daughter Eleanor will be here,” she said. “It should be interesting to see what happens between her and Selene.”

While Mrs. O'Neill and Selene waited, I ran into the house to ask permission. Dad was sitting on the couch by himself, staring into the fire. The room was dark.

Barely acknowledging me, he nodded. “Sure, sure, go ahead. I don't think your mother plans on cooking anything tonight.”

“Where is she?”

He shrugged. “Upstairs, taking a nap.”

“At five thirty?”

“Go on, Daniel. Don't keep Mrs. O'Neill waiting.” He poured himself a glass of wine and went back to staring into the fire.

On the way out, I glanced upstairs, wondering if I should check on Mom. I decided against it and ran from the house to the warm car. Was this how it was going to be from now on? Mom upstairs sleeping, Dad drinking wine in the dark? I had to get my sister back.

“Is everything okay?” Mrs. O'Neill asked.

“Fine.” I kept my head turned so she wouldn't see my face. One sympathetic look and I'd break down and tell her everything.

At the O'Neills' house, lights shone from windows and woodsmoke rose from the chimney into the cold night. Mrs. O'Neill helped Selene out of the car and led us inside. From the sounds and smells, I figured that Mr. O'Neill was busy in the kitchen. A tall gray-haired woman waited in the hallway as we took off our coats and jackets, scarves and hats and mittens. While she hugged her mother, Eleanor stared at Selene. She was so pale, I thought she might faint dead away.

Selene didn't so much as glance at Eleanor. Turning her back on all of us, she went into the living room, sat down near the fire, and began whispering to Little Erica.

“My God, Mother,” Eleanor whispered. “She's fifty-seven years old, but she looks like she did on the day she disappeared. How can that be?”

“I warned you,” Mrs. O'Neill said.

Eleanor took her mother's arm. I could almost smell her fear and confusion. “Do you think she'll remember me?”

“Maybe you should go sit beside her and tell her who you are.”

Eleanor looked so scared, you'd have thought Selene was a ghost—which in a way I guessed she was, a girl come back from the dead unchanged.

“What's the matter?” Mrs. O'Neill asked.

Eleanor bit her lip just the way her mother did when she was nervous. “It's a shock, Mom, seeing her again, looking exactly the same. I recognize her, but how can she possibly recognize me?” She glanced uneasily at the child in the living room. “I don't know what to say, what to do.”

“Selene needs our help, Eleanor. She's so unhappy, I fear she'll fade away from us altogether if we don't reach her.” Mrs. O'Neill patted her daughter's arm. “Why don't you talk to her awhile—win her trust, maybe.”

I watched Eleanor cross the room slowly. Sitting on the floor beside Selene, she smiled at her. “I'm Mrs. O'Neill's daughter Eleanor,” she told her. “What's your name?”

Without looking at Eleanor, Selene said, “I'm called Girl.”

Eleanor sent her mother an anxious glance. “I had a friend when I was your age,” she told Selene. “She looked just like you.”

“It wasn't me, if that's what you're thinking.”

“Her name was Selene, and she lived right up the road. We played together every day.”

“Well, I ain't never played with nobody. I worked every day and half the night for Auntie.”

Eleanor glanced at her mother again. Mrs. O'Neill joined the two of them in front of the fire. “Try to remember, Selene,” she said gently. “You spent the first seven years of your life playing with Eleanor—hopscotch and jump rope and—”

Selene jumped to her feet, her face flushed with anger. “I declare I'm sick to death of hearing about that girl! My name ain't Selene. How many times I got to tell you?”

Mrs. O'Neill reached out to pat Selene's shoulder, but the girl pulled away from her. “Leave me be!”

Jumping to her feet, Selene ran from the room and up the stairs. Overhead, a door slammed shut.

Mrs. O'Neill started to go after her, but Eleanor stopped her. “You heard her, Mom. She wants us to leave her alone.”

Mrs. O'Neill looked upstairs. Even with the door shut, we could hear Selene crying. “She's so unhappy, so confused. She needs someone to help her remember who she is.”

“I don't know who she is, but she's not Selene,” Eleanor said. “She can't be—it's simply not possible.”

I could tell that Eleanor's attitude disappointed her mother. “You grew up here,” Mrs. O'Neill said. “You know about Old Auntie. She's turned Selene loose and taken Daniel's sister.”

“I'm sorry, but I don't believe those old stories anymore. Maybe that girl was abandoned in the woods and raised by wild animals. That's no more far-fetched than your explanation. Call Social Services. They'll know what to do.”

Mrs. O'Neill stared at her daughter as if she didn't know her. “And let the child die like the one before her?”

Eleanor gathered up her coat and her purse. “I'm going home. Call me when you come to your senses.”

Mr. O'Neill came in from the kitchen, wearing his chef's apron. “What's going on?” he said. “Surely you're not leaving before we eat. I roasted a chicken and made your favorite dressing.”

But Eleanor went on zipping her parka. Her face was determined. “I'm sorry, Dad, but I can't stay in the same house with that girl. It's too upsetting.”

“We were hoping you could help her,” he said.

“There's nothing I can do for her.” Eleanor took her mother's hands in hers. “Please hand her over to the authorities.”

Mrs. O'Neill shook her head. “I can't do that. I
won't
do that. Selene stays here.”

Eleanor released her mother's hands. “All right, do what you think is best, but don't ask me to be involved.” She went to the kitchen door, but before she opened it, she looked at her parents. “I'm sorry, I really am, but there's something very wrong with that child, and it scares me.”

As Eleanor stepped out into the cold, dark night, Mrs. O'Neill followed her to the door, as if she meant to call her back.

Mr. O'Neill stopped her. “Give her time,” he said. “Let her think about this. For fifty years she's believed that Selene was dead. And now—put yourself in Eleanor's place.”

Mrs. O'Neill sighed. “Well, dinner is ready for those who want to eat.”

Mr. O'Neill went to the foot of the stairs and called Selene. Silence. He called again. And again. After three tries, he climbed the steps and knocked on a door.

“Selene, dinner's ready. Come down and join us.”

“I ain't hungry,” she answered.

“It's roast chicken and mashed potatoes and green beans.”

“I said I ain't hungry.”

“We'll save some for you,” he said.

While we ate, I glanced at the empty places set for Eleanor and Selene. I wished Eleanor had stayed and tried harder, but maybe Mr. O'Neill was right and she'd change her mind. I wished that Selene was sitting at her place, eating her food, and behaving like a normal girl.

But most of all, I wished that Erica was sitting beside me.

After dinner, Mr. O'Neill offered to drive me home. When we were alone in the car, he asked me how my folks were doing.

“Okay, I guess.”

He looked at me. “Okay, you guess? That doesn't sound good.”

We were heading down the driveway toward our house, which stood out stark and gray against the snowy fields. One light shone in Mom and Dad's bedroom window. The clock on the dashboard said eight fifteen. Too early for them to be in bed.

Mr. O'Neill parked beside the back porch. To my surprise, he walked up the steps with me. The door wasn't locked—in case Erica came home, Mom said.

“Dad? Mom?” I called. “It's me.”

Nobody answered. The kitchen was dark and cold.

Mr. O'Neill went to the foot of the back stairs and called, “Ted, you up there?”

A door opened, and light from Dad's study spilled down the steps. “John, is that you?”

“Yep, I brought your boy home.”

Dad appeared at the top of the steps, backlit so we couldn't see his face. “Good of you,” he said to Mr. O'Neill. “Thanks. I hope he wasn't a nuisance.”

“Oh, no, not at all. Daniel's no trouble.”

I turned on the kitchen light and watched Dad come downstairs. “Where's Mom?” I asked.

“In bed, reading.” He went to the cupboard and pulled out a whiskey bottle. “Have a drink, John.”

Mr. O'Neill sat at the table, and Dad filled a couple of glasses. I opened a can of soda and started to join them, but Dad told me to go up to bed. I started to protest, but changed my mind and did what he said. Maybe a talk with Mr. O'Neill would be good for him.

Before I went to my room, I knocked on Mom's door. “It's me, Daniel,” I called softly. “Are you awake?”

“Come in,” she said.

“Are you all right?” I asked. She didn't look all right—hair still uncombed, bags under her eyes, dressed in an old bathrobe over her pajamas. Huddled under blankets and quilts, she had the look of an invalid.

“Of course I am. Why do you ask?”

I shrugged, embarrassed. “You don't usually go to bed this early.”

“The house is so cold. I can't get warm anywhere but here.” She looked around the room. “Why did we move here? Why did I let your father talk me into it?” She pulled the covers up around her shoulders and stared at the black night pressing against the windows.

“Mom,” I said. “I—”

“Who's downstairs with your father?” she interrupted.

“Mr. O'Neill. He brought me home.”

“Did you see that girl at their house?”

“Yes. She's staying with them.”

“She belongs in an institution.” Mom handed me an empty wineglass. “Make yourself useful, Daniel. Go fill this up for me. Red, not white. I hate white wine in the winter.”

I backed away from her, but she was staring out the window again. “Do you think she's out there somewhere? Will she come back? Will we see her again?” She began to cry. “I can't stand this. I can't bear it. I want my daughter. I want Erica!”

“Mom—”

“Go to bed, Daniel. Let me alone, please, just go away.”

“But what about—” I held up the wineglass.

“No. I changed my mind. I don't want it.” She lay down and hid her face in her pillows.

“Well, good night,” I said.

When she didn't answer, I left the room and closed the door. What was I supposed to do? Nothing was right in our house. Not even me.

The next day, Mrs. O'Neill picked me up around three. Selene huddled in the back seat, hugging the doll, her face mournful. Snowflakes drifted in the gray air, floating up and down, swirling like tiny moths.

By the time we parked in front of Miss Perkins's house, an inch of fluffy snow coated the old snow, making it look fresh and new. We walked to the front door silently. No one had said much during the ride into Woodville. I think we were each locked in our own thoughts, wondering what Miss Perkins might tell us. Each of us hoping, hoping, hoping . . .

We waited on the cold porch for at least five minutes before the door opened and Miss Perkins stepped aside to let us enter. Three cats shot out of the house and two ran in.

Inside, it was as dark and cold and smelly as before. A small fire burned low on the hearth, but we didn't take off our coats.