Help for the Haunted(41)

“How long have you done it?”

“Well, it began when I was a girl not much older than you. I find there are moments when I am overcome by certain feelings about things. You know that much already. But sometimes, what I feel most of all is another person’s need for peace. A soul can be so scared, so troubled, so lonely and sad in this world, Sylvie, and when that happens, what’s needed most is a promise of calm, of comfort, of safety. That’s what I did my best to give that girl tonight.”

“But you didn’t even speak to her.”

“It’s not about speaking. It’s about sensing what’s inside a person. Most people could do the same if they tried. I know you certainly could.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.” She laughed. “There’s no one else here but us, is there?”

“But how would I do it?”

“I’m sorry to say I don’t have a set of instructions. But, well, try looking at me.”

My mother moved her pale, pretty face still closer on her pillow. In the slash of light that came through the gap in the curtains, I could see her glittery green eyes blinking. For a long while, the two of us were silent, gazing at each other, breathing softly, until at last, in her whispery voice, she said, “Tell me now. What have I been feeling as we lie here?”

I did not plan my answer, but out it came. “That you love me.”

My mother smiled. She leaned forward, kissed my forehead.

“Was I right?”

“Right that I love you? Of course.”

“No. Was I right in guessing that’s what you were thinking?”

“First of all, Sylvie, ‘guessing’ is not the word for what we are talking about.”

“Well, you know what I mean.”

“I don’t need to answer that question for you. You know the truth already. What I will say is this: each of us is born into this life with a light inside of us. Some, like yours, burn brighter than others. You don’t see that yet, but I do. What’s most important is to never let that light go out, because when you do, it means you’ve lost yourself to the darkness. It means you’ve lost your hope. And hope is what makes this world a beautiful place. Do you understand what I am trying to say?”

“I think so,” I said if only not to disappoint her.

“That’s my good girl. It won’t always be easy, but you have to believe. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Now, like I said, it’s been a long day so let’s try to get some rest.”

There was more I wanted to know, but my mother said good night and rolled away. Too soon, her breath grew heavy and I lost her to sleep. I waited, staring toward the window, feeling more alone in that room than I should have with her so close. But without her voice, without her eyes looking into mine, an emptiness spread inside me, until at last, I heard a hand jiggle the doorknob.

With so little light in the room, it was as though two shadows entered. Without speaking, they moved to their suitcases and took turns using the bathroom. Rose went to the cot as my father settled into the bed, releasing an enormous sigh as he pulled the covers over him. With all of us safe inside, I should have felt calm. Instead, I lay there thinking about that conversation with my mother. Despite what she said, my answer really had been a guess. It didn’t take a gift to see the love she felt for me—her good daughter, the one my parents relied on and trusted to do what they needed. I thought of that pleading expression on Rose’s face earlier, the way I’d watched our father yank her from the room without uttering a word.

Something has gone wrong with Rose, and we’re working hard to make it right . . .

Why, if my mother’s gift gave peace to that Lynch girl, did it not work to bring the same sense of calm to Rose, her very own daughter? My mind tugged and pulled at that question until it grew weary enough that sleep came at last, though the answer I wanted never did.





[page]Chapter 11

Snowbirds




Snowbirds—that’s a term I learned today. Now I’m certain to hear it all the time in that way new words have of popping up after you discover their existence, making you wonder how you missed them before. (Someone should come up with a term to describe that phenomenon.) Anyway, snowbirds was how Detective Rummel described the old couple who stopped at the gas station where Albert Lynch claims to have been at the very moment I followed the footprints toward the church last winter. As I stepped inside to see those three figures near the altar, he claims to have been washing his hands in the men’s room at the Texaco. He claims to have been making small talk with . . . a snowbird.

“Have you always kept a diary, Sylvie?” Rummel asked.

“No. This is just something I started doing lately.”

“And do you mind if I ask what sorts of things you write about in there?”

“School stuff,” I told him, closing the book while being careful not to let the letter I’d found beneath Rose’s bed on Halloween night slip out. I stared around at the gray walls of the interview room. They had become achingly familiar since that article appeared in the paper two weeks before, and Rose and I had been summoned to the station almost daily. “Just things I need to remember. It helps me do better on tests.”

“According to your sister you don’t need much help,” Louise Hock said from the corner where she stood. Even though it was nearly three in the afternoon, her curly hair looked damp. Beneath her blazer, her shoulder pads had shifted in a way that gave her a lopsided appearance. “She says you’re very bright. Top of your class.”