Help for the Haunted(95)

“How do you know all this?” I asked.

I glimpsed an odd expression on my mother’s face then: a wide-eyed flicker that left me with the feeling she’d said more than she intended. Her mouth opened to answer, but just then the phone burst into another series of shrill screams. I asked once more if she needed to get it, and she told me, “Eventually, I should. But he’ll call back.”

“He? Who is calling?”

“Well, I don’t mean he. Not exactly anyway. After all, there are plenty of people calling. More reporters who want to interview us. And these people who call themselves lecture agents, who want to book your father and me all over the country for more talks. And so many strangers have been calling too, more than ever before, seeking our help. But there’s one person who has been more persistent than the rest. Relentless, in fact.

“But enough about that,” she added, looking at me with her glittery eyes. “What’s most important, Sylvie, is that I need you to promise you’ll never ever read these pages, even when the book is published. This reporter no longer has a good opinion of your father. And whoever’s fault that is—your dad’s, mine—I don’t want you going forward in life with disillusioned feelings about your own father, who loves you very much and would do anything for you.”

“I promise,” I told her, meaning it. “I won’t read any of it. Not a single word.”

“That’s my good girl.” She brushed back more hair, wiping her eyes too. “I knew I could count on you. And now, Sylvie, I need to ask your help with something else. Between what’s happened with Rose and now this book, your father is going to be pretty upset when he gets home. I’d like there to be one less thing that frustrates him.”

We sat for a long moment, side by side, silent except for the sound of our breathing, the sounds of birds and squirrels all around. My mother did not need to say anything more; I knew what she was asking. Even though a sizable part of me wanted to refuse, another part—the part that wanted to please her, the part that felt so dogged about using my smarts to solve any problem—had already begun dissecting the matter. It took little time before arriving at the most obvious method. I stood and told my mother I’d be right back, before making my way into the house and down the basement stairs.

When I tugged the string that dangled from the ceiling, the bare bulb came to life, illuminating the hatchet on the wall, the hulking bookshelf blocking the crawl space, my father’s desk in the center, and the empty area where my mother’s rocker had been before they lugged it upstairs for Penny. I went to the desk and pulled open a drawer. Those tarnished instruments lay inside, bound by a rubber band, same as they’d been so many years before. I removed the dental scaler and orthodontic pliers then used the pliers to bend the tip of the scaler until its shape resembled a hook. Next, I went to my mother’s knitting basket, grabbed a spool of yarn.

When I got back outside, my mother was still on the steps, alternately turning more pages of Sam Heekin’s manuscript and looking up to observe what I was doing. Pushing off the plywood, staring into that dark well, I located Penny, facedown and floating in the water. I slipped my makeshift fishing line over the edge, lowering the scaler and moving it in a figure-eight motion. A hand, a sleeve, a strand of that strange red hair—I hoped to hook any such part of that doll. Twice I managed, but no sooner did I begin lifting than the weight of its waterlogged body became too much and Penny slipped free. Before the line broke or the hook came loose, I brought it up again—tripling the yarn, doubling the knots, testing to be sure things were secure. Dropping it down and circling once more, eventually I felt the gotcha feeling a fisherman must when something is on the hook. Carefully, I lifted. The closer the doll got to the surface, the louder the rainstorm sound of water gushing from its body. I kept tightening the line, winding it between my hand and elbow, until at last I was able to reach down and grab Penny.

My mother had put aside Heekin’s manuscript by then and joined me at the well. She watched as I dropped the doll on the ground. Water pooled from its body, trailing in small rivulets around my mother’s slippers and my sneakers.

“There,” I said, brushing my wet clothes. “That’s what you wanted.”

She stared down at Penny—a few dead leaves in the doll’s hair, but otherwise no worse for wear. “Thank you, Sylvie. And I’m sorry too.”

“Sorry?” I said.

“Your sister was right. Your father and I—we used to keep you girls separate from our work, as much as possible. As time’s gone on, I’ve realized we failed at that.”

The mention of Rose and the things she said before leaving only stirred the sadness and guilt I felt about her being gone. In an effort to change the subject I said, “Last night, you told me you didn’t believe them at first.”

“Believe who?”

“That couple in Ohio. The Entwistles. When I came to your room, you said you didn’t believe the things they claimed about the doll. What do you believe now?”

My mother let out a heavy sigh, watching as still more water drained from Penny; it seemed the doll had soaked up a never-ending supply. “I felt badly for them,” she said. “That much was certain. But from the letters they sent, I had the sense they were simply a couple mourning the loss of their daughter, hoping for something to be true that was not. And I told your father as much.”