Help for the Haunted(79)

“Well, if you must know, word is getting out about us,” he said with a measure of pride. “People are curious about the things your mother and I do.”

My mother. The mention of her caused me to glance over at her rocker. Penny was not there. As if to prove my father’s point about how in demand they were, the phone began ringing again. “Where is Mom anyway?”

“In bed.”

“Bed? But it’s barely four o’ clock.”

“Yeah, well, she’s not feeling her best.”

“She’s sick again?”

“I’m afraid so, Sylvie.”

Before he was even done talking, I turned and started toward the stairs. My father called after me that I should leave her alone so she could rest, but I ignored him, going directly to my parents’ bedroom and peeking in.

Since the shades were drawn, the green glow of the alarm clock was the only light in that room. My mother’s body was a lump under the covers once more. I could make out only her pale face, eyes closed, on the pillow. Someone must have turned off the ringer on the phone in their room, because inside I heard only the soft rise and fall of her breathing even as down below the sound started up again. I wanted to bring my mother soup and cool washcloths and ginger ale, to take care of her the way she had always taken care of us, but there seemed to be nothing to do at the moment except let her sleep. I stepped away and went to my room, where I found Rose lying on my bed.

“How did you get in here?” I asked, since I had locked the door when I left.

My sister ignored the question, held out a copy of the Dundalk Eagle. “I’ve been waiting for you. Did you see this?”

I looked down at the photo of our mother cradling Penny. “Someone said something at school,” I told her. “So, yeah. I went to the library and found it.”

“Why do they have to put this crap in the paper? It makes us look insane.”

“Don’t blame them both. I was there when Dad took that picture. She said she didn’t want it turning up anywhere.”

“Well, she’s an idiot for posing for it in the first place. What does she expect out of him?”

I fell quiet, turning to look up at the horses, counting their legs, counting their tails. I’d taken Rose up on her offer, and now that shelf held her horses too. Fourteen of them crowded for space—a herd that had come to the edge of a cliff. “Don’t call Mom names,” I said, quietly. “She’s sick again. I’m worried about her. Something’s not right.”

“Yeah, and I’ll tell you when it began: the moment they came down the stairs from that apartment in Ohio lugging that doll.”

After so many weeks spent waiting for her to broach the topic, there it was at last. “That morning I walked with you to the bus stop. You said you were going to tell me things about what goes on in this house. But you never mentioned another word. Why?”

“You were the one who had it on your mind, Sylvie. You should have asked me again. Besides, I’ve been busy focusing on other things.”

“What other things?”

“My life. Some of us actually have one. Unlike you.”

I went quiet once more, returned to counting the horses. It was easier than talking to her, easier than thinking about our sick mother down the hall and our father in the living room combing through those ancient books full of strange stories, and the sound of that phone ringing and ringing. From behind me, in a softer voice, Rose said, “I’m sorry.”

Since there were so many horses now, it took longer to inspect them. I kept counting, imagining I was staring into an actual herd, breath blowing from their nostrils, tails swishing about to keep the flies away.

“Did you hear me, Sylvie? I said I was sorry. I know I’ve got a mouth on me, as Dad likes to point out. But I shouldn’t use it on you all the time.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. I’ll try to be better, though.”

I had seen how easily her efforts to control her behavior peeled away, so I didn’t put much stock in what she was saying. When I finished counting the last of those horses, finding every last one intact, I turned to look at her on my bed.

“You know, I think about it sometimes,” she told me.

“Think about what?”

“Growing up here. I’m hardly the sappy type. But once in a while, I can’t help remembering.”

“Remembering what?”

“Stuff.”

“What stuff?”

“Stuff like sleeping in the living room under those makeshift tents or drawing our houses in the foundation across the street. I remember those times, even if I act like I don’t.”

Her words left me with the same awkward feeling as when I told her I’d miss her if she went to live with Howie. I wanted to ask why we couldn’t share a more grown-up version of that closeness now, but worried the question would make her defensive, so I kept quiet.

“I remember when Mom and Dad first brought you home from the hospital too. ‘Look at its hands,’ I used to say. ‘Look at its feet. It’s so tiny.’ And Mom would say, ‘Rose, your sister is not an it, but a she.’ ” Rose let out a laugh then and paused, lying there with her sneakers on my mattress, staring at that picture of our mother in the paper. I walked over and looked at it again too, my gaze shifting to a passage from Heekin’s article: