Help for the Haunted(112)

While we drove the dark streets, I stole glances at her. The windows were down and, same as my sister, she did not tuck back her hair. It whipped all around, random strands reaching out and snapping at my cheeks, stinging my skin. I held my hand out the window, cupping my palm and letting it ride the wind, up and down, down and up. Had I not been paying so much attention to Abigail and to my palm, I might have noticed my father take a detour.

“Sylvester,” my mother said, eventually. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

Two words—that’s all they were, but enough to seize our attention. I quit hand-surfing. Abigail gathered up her hair. We leaned forward between the seats, looking out the front window until we made a series of turns and the headlights shone down a narrow dirt road with a strip of wild grass in the middle. We were in Colbert Township, I realized, heading to the old pond. Judging from the way the trees pressed in on both sides and the lack of any official signs, it appeared my mother was right about no one going there anymore.

“Sylvester,” she said again. “What are we doing?”

“Just checking things out.”

“Why?”

“Why not? I don’t know about you, but I’m in no rush to go back to that hot house.”

“I don’t think this is a good idea. We have no clue if this place has become private property. What if someone contacts the police?”

My father shrugged. “If the Colbert cops are anything like the dolts in Dundalk, who sound half asleep when I call about the vandals having fun with our mailbox and trash cans, I doubt they’ll care. And if they do, well, then I just might give them a piece of my mind.”

My mother gave up protesting, but I could tell by the way she folded her hands on her lap that she did not like this impromptu excursion one bit. It didn’t take long before the trees opened up to a clearing and our headlights fell upon the glassy surface of the pond. Not far from the water’s edge, my father stopped the car, then turned off the engine and the lights. We were four shadows, no sound but the crickets and cicadas and night creatures all around.

I thought my father might instruct us what to do, but my mother spoke instead, saying she wanted to have a private talk with my father for a few minutes. “You and Abigail can go on outside for a little bit.”

“But we didn’t bring our bathing suits,” I told her.

“That’s because we are not swimming,” she said in a stern voice. “But you can have a look at the old place if you like. Don’t wander too far, though.”

My father’s gaze found mine in the rearview mirror. “Sorry, tadpole. Consider this a reconnaissance mission. If things look good, we can come back tomorr—”

“Sylvester,” my mother interrupted. Then to us, “Go ahead, girls. But like I said, no wandering off.”

Abigail’s hand had been on the door handle for some time, but she kept watching me for a signal that it was okay to get out. When I opened my door, she did the same. She followed me to the pond and bent to rinse her sticky hands in the water, just like I did. Just as I’d imagined, moonlight shimmered on the surface of the pond so that it glowed like some living, breathing force. Too many stars to count twinkled in the inky sky overhead. Across the water, in a marshy area thick with reeds, I made out what looked to be a half-sunken dock.

“Is everything okay?”

[page]Not just on account of her oddly serene voice, but because she had been quiet for so long, it was still something of a shock to hear Abigail speak. In some way, it felt not much different than if Penny’s mouth were to open and words were to come tumbling out. I quit rinsing my hands and stood to look at her. “What do you mean?”

“Are they fighting?”

The moment we shut the back doors of the car, my mother had launched into the conversation she wanted to have with my father. Muffled as their voices were, I caught their opening gambits before stepping away.

“First the trip out for ice cream, now this detour. What are you trying to do?”

“Show us a good time for a change. After everything that’s happened, I thought you’d like that. I thought the girls would too.”

So the answer to Abigail’s question was yes. But I didn’t think it was any of her concern, and that’s exactly what I told her before turning away. While I was busy looking into the water, she stepped into the pond. I heard her before I saw her: plunk, plunk.

When I glanced over, Abigail was submerged up to her ankles. My parents said we wouldn’t be swimming, but they didn’t mention anything about wading, so I decided to slip off my flip-flops and step into the cool water too, my feet sinking into the mud, shifting away from stones that pricked my soles like sharp teeth.

“I bet this isn’t like that lake in Oregon,” I said, making a stab at conversation.

Abigail swirled a foot around, mixing the mud and rocks into something soupy. “No, it’s not.”

“Can I ask why don’t you live there anymore?”

“We still live there.”

“That’s not what you told us earlier. You said when you were little you used—”

“To live in one place. That’s what I said. Now we live lots of places. Oregon is just one. But we’re usually there for a few weeks in the winter when it’s too cold to swim.”