Help for the Haunted(110)

The way my father’s gaze lingered on my mother in certain moments, as it did then, made me wonder if he noticed the change in her too. He waited to see if she might respond to what I’d said; when she didn’t, he told me he remembered those swims, adding that when he was little, his father took Howie and him to an Indian Well outside of Philly to cool off some summer afternoons. Then he asked my mother, “Didn’t you used to swim in a pond on the farm in Tennessee?”

My mother quit segregating her food and looked up. “Yes. But someone once drowned in that pond, so I was always afraid of swimming there. Plus, it was such stagnant water it made for a buggy place. I only went when I felt desperate for—”

She stopped abruptly, and my father and I waited for her to finish. Window fans whirred. Moths beat against the screens in a haphazard rhythm. More mosquitoes hummed in the air. All the while, my mother just stared at the entryway of the kitchen. And then we turned to see her in the white nightgown intended for my sister.

She looked different than she had that first afternoon. There was the fact of that gown—cleaner, more simple, than the tattered clothes she arrived in. There was the fact of her hair, brushed so all the curls had gone straight. There was also the fact of those bruises and scrapes on her feet, healed now, I discovered with a quick glance down. But there was something more to it than those physical details. I couldn’t help but sense a deep and noticeable calm about the girl, a calm that had not been there before.

“Well, hello, Abigail,” my mother said.

“Yes, hello,” my father said too.

“Would you like to join us?” my mother asked. Rather than wait for a response, she stood and quickly set an extra place at the table.

Abigail lingered in the entryway long enough that I thought she might turn and retreat upstairs. Finally, she walked to the table and slipped into Rose’s chair. None of us said a word as she placed her napkin on her lap, picked up her knife and fork, and took the first hesitant bites of dinner. She kept eating, quickly and simply, until her plate had been cleaned. Then she looked up and said in a smooth and serene sort of voice, “May I please have seconds?”

My mother nodded, and she helped herself to another portion. That’s when I made an effort to bring back the previous moment, asking my mother to finish what she was saying about the pond on the farm. She didn’t elaborate on the topic, though, telling us it was just a pond and not a very nice one at that.

At last, Abigail wiped her mouth and said, “Lake Ewauna. Or Lake Ewaumo.”

“Pardon?” my father said.

“When we used to live in one place. Out west. There were so many lakes near the ministry, one in particular we loved. I could never say the name, but it was something like that. We used to go swimming there. Only at night, under the moon, when no one was around.”

“That sounds lovely,” my father told Abigail.

She gave a shy smile and went back to eating.

“Maybe we could go to that pond in Colbert and swim some night,” I said, trying again to yank back the conversation. Pushing my luck, I added, “Just us.”

Those words should have had some effect, but Abigail kept her head down and went on eating. My mother told me she was not even sure the pond was still accessible to the public. “It was owned by some farmer, I believe. Ever since they opened the town pool, I never hear of people going there anymore.”

“You know what?” my father said. “All this talk of late-night swims has given me an idea. How about we go out for ice cream? It’ll help us cool off.”

All my life, we had never been a family that went out for ice cream. Back when we were younger, Rose and I used to get the idea in our heads and take to begging only to hear the same lecture from my father about how absurd it was to shell out money just so some kid could fill our cones. Instead, my mother kept a tub of sherbet in the freezer, or Popsicles when she wanted to give us an extra treat.

That night, my mother pointed out that she had both sherbet and Popsicles in the freezer, so there was no need to make a trip across town to the ice cream shop. Unlike my father as it was, he told her to forget that. “It’ll be good to get out of the house. Before we pass out from the heat or these mosquitoes eat us alive.”

“What about . . .” My mother allowed her voice to trail off, but he understood.

“Abigail,” he said, turning to the girl. “How do you feel about this idea?”

Her plate was empty again. I wondered if she might ask for thirds. Instead, she just stared at it the way she had those photos of Rose and me, as though seeing something there no one else did. “I’ll be okay here by myself.”

That was all I needed to hear. I pushed back my chair and stood to rinse my plate in the sink with the intention of going up to be sure my bedroom door was locked before leaving. Nothing had happened to my horses since Penny had been put in the cage and Rose had been sent away, but I wasn’t taking chances. Then I heard my father say, “You’re misunderstanding me. I’m asking how would you feel about coming with us?”

“Sylvester,” my mother said. “I think perhaps—”

My father held up a hand, keeping his eyes on Abigail, so that my mother fell silent.

“Oh,” she said. “That’s very nice, Mr. Mason. But I don’t want to be in the way.”

“Don’t be silly. We’re happy to see you up and about.”