Help for the Haunted(49)

“What stuff?”

In the same way that ghost appeared in the mirror then vanished, the true Rose had appeared for a moment too, but then she gave a little shake to her head, as though flinching at the thought of something unpleasant, before vanishing as well. Around her wrist, she wore an elastic band I’d noticed for the first time that morning. All day long, I’d been watching her snap it until the skin beneath grew red and irritated. She yanked and released it then too, telling me to forget she said anything. “Let’s just enjoy the ride. It’s fun, huh?”

“Guess so,” I told her.

When our buggy wheeled to a stop, we followed the path of railings outside, where the sun felt harsh compared to the dim lights of the ride. In the throbbing heat, our parents waited. The warm weather had led them to abandon their usual attire. Rather than a column dress, my mother wore jeans and a pale purple top I’d never seen before. Rather than a brown suit, my father wore a pocket tee and plaid shorts, putting his hairy legs on display. Even though they were dressed not much differently than other adults in the park, I caught people staring anyway.

I’d brought my underlined copy of Jane Eyre with a plan to mark more passages I liked while waiting in line. But the thought of that conversation Rose and Howie had about me not being like kids my age led me to instead give the book to my mother, who had begun rereading it herself. My father sat by her side, a glazed expression on his face as he dabbed his forehead with a hankie and watched people pass by. “How was the ride?” he asked when he saw us. “Anyone inside ask for help from your mother and me?”

I looked at Rose, wondering if that sneer might reappear. Instead, she gave my father her cheery new smile. “No, but they should have. It’s pretty scary in there.”

“Next stop, Frontierland,” he told her. “Don’t think we’ll have much to worry about there. Except cowboys and Indians.”

From Frontierland to Adventureland and every other land in the park, Rose did not break from her new persona again. And when the vacation ended at last, we drove north with her seated quietly beside me in the backseat. Instead of shouting obscure scriptures, she took her turn reading that now beat-up, dog-eared copy of Jane Eyre. All the while, I glanced over to see her snapping that elastic against her wrist, which had become even redder and more irritated.

Once we settled back in Dundalk, where the air had grown cooler and autumn loomed, Rose kept up her good behavior. She began junior year by joining the track team and doing homework each night without complaint. Some evenings, she even made Hamburger Helper or sloppy Joes so my mother could get a break from cooking. Rose also brought home her first boyfriend: a senior named Roger who had the straightest part I’d ever seen, a crisp white line that divided his scalp. Except to answer my father’s questions about his academic interests and to compliment the food, Roger was mostly quiet during dinner, even quieter when we watched a documentary afterward and he held Rose’s hand on the couch. After that night, Roger didn’t come around again, though Rose didn’t seem to care. As weeks passed, and still there was no trouble from her, I had the feeling our parents had begun to trust that my sister had settled down again.

I started to believe it too.



In late September, Rose’s seventeenth birthday arrived. Since Rose had begun attending confirmation classes at Saint Bartholomew, my parents invited the new parish priest to dinner. Every birthday, my mother baked a Lady Baltimore cake, which, despite the name, she told us was not a Maryland tradition but a southern one. Father Coffey, however, took it upon himself to arrive with an ice cream cake. When he set it on the table, we all stared at the words Happy Birthday, Rosie in loopy cursive across the top. “Who the hell is Rosie?”—that’s the question my sister normally would’ve muttered beneath her breath. Instead, after Father explained that the people at the shop slipped in the i all on their own, Rose laughed and said she kind of liked being Rosie for a night.

After dinner, I cleared the table and arranged candles on Rosie’s cake while my mother’s creation—with its white frosting, nuts, and candied fruit—had been banished to the refrigerator out of politeness. If my mother was bothered, she didn’t let it show. She sang “Happy Birthday” just the same, her voice more pleasant than the rest of ours, before my sister squeezed her eyes shut then blew out the flames in a single breath. As Rose sank a knife into the cake, my mother asked what my sister had wished for.

“She can’t tell you,” I said, watching the bricks of vanilla and chocolate ooze apart.

“Why not?”

“Because then the wish won’t come true.”

“Who made that rule?” my father asked.

Smart as my parents were, some basics about the world escaped them, but it usually came down to a lack of knowledge about things like MTV and Swatches and Reeboks. “I don’t know,” I told him.

“Wishes are like certain prayers,” Father Coffey said, seated between my mother and father and wearing a black turtleneck. “Some are best to carry privately in your heart.”

Our family was used to Father Vitale, who had come to dinner many times. Vitale never brought his own cake, never showed up without his collar, and never challenged my father even on a point as small as that. But Vitale was retiring soon, which was why Coffey had been brought to Dundalk. My father considered his comment before saying, “I suppose that’s one way to look at it. But to my way of thinking, prayers and wishes are nothing alike. The former is a sacred conversation with the Lord. The latter is a whimsical expression of worldly desire.”