Help for the Haunted(80)

“After we returned to our apartment from the hospital, where we had lost our daughter, I put Penny on top of her bed,” said Elaine Entwistle. “For some time, I felt too heartbroken to go back into that room. But when I did, I saw the doll’s arms and legs were arranged differently than I’d left them. I asked my husband if he’d been in that room, and he said no. I told myself it was my imagination, that I wasn’t thinking clearly. But soon, it happened again. That was just the beginning of a series of very strange occurrences, which led us to contact the Masons.”

I stopped reading. I’d already been through it once at the library that day. Clearly, Rose wanted to be done with it too, because she crinkled the paper and tossed it in my wastebasket. “I feel sorry for you, Sylvie.”

“Me?”

“I’ve only got another year left. But you’ve got all of high school with them. It’s not going to be easy after this. And according to Dad, the piece got picked up by other papers. Bigger ones.”

“Maybe people will forget,” I said, detecting that flimsy sound in my voice once more. “Maybe things will go back to normal.”

“Keep telling yourself that. But if I were you, I’d get rid of that doll before she does any more damage.”

“I thought you didn’t believe the things they said about her.”

“I don’t. But does it matter what I think if others out there believe? Now that people know she’s here in this house, Penny will just keep influencing things. Look at Mom and Dad. They believe, and it’s changed them already. It’s changed the whole feeling in this house too. It’s like the air is harder to breathe. That’s what belief does, Sylvie. Whether something is true or not is beside the point.”

I sat on the edge of my bed, considering. Finally, I asked, “But get rid of her how? Where?”

“You’re the brainiac. Figure it out.”

Rose looked past me then. Her expression tightened, and I turned to see our father in the doorway. In one hand, he held an ancient book from the curio hutch, so thick and heavy it might have been a weapon. “I made dinner,” he said, his voice deep and low.

“I’ll be right down,” I told him, even though I didn’t feel hungry in the least.

“And what about you, Rose? Should I assume you won’t be joining us again?”

“No thanks,” she answered, quieter than I was used to. “I ate after track practice.”

“Suit yourself. I’ll take food to your mother, Sylvie, then see you downstairs.”

Once he was gone, Rose stood from my bed and went to the door. I asked why she never ate with us anymore and she told me the more she stayed out of his way, the better. “Like I said, I’ve only got next school year left. At this point, I’m just trying to get through it.”

With that, she turned to go. Despite the fact that Rose had gotten into my room anyway, I locked the door and headed down to the kitchen. My father had not set the table, so I did. When he joined me again, he took the phone off the hook, then pulled out the frozen glass tumbler I only ever saw him use at holidays. From the cabinet above the fridge, he dredged out a bottle of scotch and poured himself a drink, and then we sat at the table, Rose and my mother’s chairs two ghosts among us now. If Penny keeps having an influence, I thought, someday soon I’ll be the only one left.

It was unlike my father not to bother with conversation while we ate the dinner he had prepared—a flavorless meatloaf that tasted nothing like the one my mother made with onions and garlic and stewed tomatoes on top. I kept trying to introduce topics into the silence, telling him about my upcoming exam and the trick questions my teacher tossed in, but those things did not hold his interest.

“Is something the matter?” I asked finally.

My father sipped more of his drink. Turpentine mixed with rubbing alcohol—from where I sat that’s what it smelled like, a smell that made me think of Christmas, since it was normally the only time he allowed himself a glass. “Just nerves,” he answered. “I’m meeting that reporter tonight.”

“Oh. Is he still writing his book?”

“He’s about done with it actually. But our last interview, well, it didn’t go the way I wanted. So I convinced him to meet me one more time. He’s always got so many questions. Some of them I’m incapable of answering, because it comes down to faith and the way we interpret the world.”

“But you’ve always been good at explaining those things, Dad.”

“Yeah, well, I guess the way our lives have been around here lately has me distracted. I want you to know, Sylvie, that this isn’t how I intended things to turn out.”

I stayed quiet, pushing chunks of meatloaf around my plate.

“I’m talking about your mother upstairs. Your sister as well. The two of us eating dinner alone. When I left home years ago, I dreamed of having my own family. A happy one.”

“We are happy,” I said, but there it was again: that flimsy sound in my voice.

My father took a few greedy sips from his glass, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed, letting his meatloaf go untouched. And then a horn honked outside. He stood from the table, giving me a kiss on the forehead.

“You’re right, Sylvie,” he said, sounding less tense. “We are happy. All families have bumps along the way, so why should ours be any different? Things will go back to normal. Anyway, I’ve checked in on your mother for the night, so it’s best just to let her sleep.”