Help for the Haunted(64)

Once the door was unlocked, my mother entered first, moving through the dark to the kitchen. I heard her fill a glass of water while my sister shot up the stairs. My father followed, carting our luggage to the second floor. I used the time to move around the living room, snapping on lamps. When I was done, I saw him at the bottom of the stairs again, the letter from the door in his hand. His face looked grim, and I couldn’t help asking if something was wrong.

“Huh?”

“I was wondering if something is wrong? You look worried.”

“Things are fine, angel.”

I might not have asked who had left a letter for him, but I felt tired enough from the long night that the question slipped out.

“This?” He held it in the air. His normally neat hair was mussed, and I could see in his eyes that he was worn out from the trip too. “Oh, it’s just from that reporter. Sam Heekin. I’ve been letting him interview me for his book.”

The two of us must have sensed her standing there, between the kitchen and living room, because we both turned to see my mother. Now that we were home, I kept waiting for her to put down the doll, but she carried it with her still. “What about Sam Heekin?” My father folded the letter, tucked it back in his pocket. “We can discuss it later when you are feeling better.”

“I feel fine,” she said, but she went to the sofa where she settled in with Penny on her lap. “I think I’ll just rest here awhile, though.”

“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in your bed?”

She leaned back, closed her eyes. “I would. But the thought of climbing those stairs. I can’t just yet. You go ahead. I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Sylvie, sweetheart. Is that you?” She said the words without opening her eyes, and I had the impression she’d gone blind, a woman left to feel her way around the world. “What are you doing up? After the night we had, you should be in bed asleep.”

“I’m on my way. But I’m worried about you.”

“No need to worry. Now good night to you both.”

I looked to my father, who hesitated before adjusting the pillows on the sofa so my mother could lie back. When she was comfortable, he tugged a blanket off the armrest and draped it over her. Over Penny too. He leaned down and kissed my mother’s forehead. “It was a long day for all of us, but especially you. So get some rest.”

I went around the room snapping off lamps I had only just turned on, pulling the drapes shut. Once the room was dark, I went to her and kissed her forehead too, keeping my distance from Penny. My mother’s skin did not feel feverish or sweaty as I expected, but perfectly cool and dry, too. Whispering, I told her, “Good night, Mom.”

“Good night, my sweetheart. Thank you for being such a good daughter.”

Her words made me think of the lie I’d told earlier about that waitress not touching Penny. I thought suddenly of Dot too, the way I’d helped Rose in order to protect my essay from being destroyed. “I’m not always good.”

“Sure you are,” she said in a weak voice. “You never disappoint us, Sylvie. Now go on and get up to bed.”

My father and I climbed the stairs, giving each other a quick hug before heading to our rooms. I flopped on my mattress and fell immediately asleep. Only an hour or two passed before so much morning sunlight spilled in the window that it nudged me awake. In my drowsy state, I lay staring at the shelf above my desk. I’d been too young to remember my uncle giving Rose and me those horses. But my father said Howie frequented a racetrack near his apartment in Tampa. A big win did not come often, but when it did, he liked to buy a few from the collectors’ shop there. Since he didn’t trust himself not to pawn them the next time he found himself hurting for cash, he gave the horses to us. My father disapproved of his brother’s gambling but loved those horses anyway, and especially when he saw how much I loved them too.

But something was different the morning after our return from Ohio.

I got out of bed, crossed the room, pulled out my desk chair, and stepped up on it.

When I saw what had been done to Sabrina—the spotless white pony with glassy blue eyes and a tail made from genuine horsehair, the one Rose had remembered—my lips parted but no words came. I reached for the black pony with rippling muscles and green eyes. Esmeralda—Rose had remembered that one too. I held them both by their bellies, staring down at their limbs, which had been snapped off. Their legs, carved carefully to showcase their knobby knees and broad hooves, littered the carpet below. I climbed down off the chair. One by one, I began picking up the pieces, growing more angry, more bewildered with each that I found.

My sister was the most obvious culprit. But difficult as Rose could be, it was hard to imagine her sneaking into my room and doing something so unprovoked. Even less likely was my father. Besides, he was sleeping down the hall and had no reason. Listening, I could hear the faint rise and fall of his snores. As for my mother, she must have been downstairs on the sofa still, right where we left her, drained of even the small bit of energy required to climb the stairs. That’s when I thought of that doll. Cradled in my mother’s arms. Smiling her placid smile. Her blank black eyes soaking in our home, a place she had traveled so far to be, bringing nothing more than the fingerprints around her neck, a dainty bracelet twisted tight around her wrist.