“You aren’t still mad at me, are you?” I asked as I gently wiped him clean. “I’m sorry I was mean.”
Lucca shook his head, rested it against my shoulder, and stayed like that for the rest of the ride.
I’d been reading, but my eyes kept closing, so I got up to turn off the lights. Then I couldn’t fall asleep. I was drifting, listening to the gentle murmur of my parents’ voices, until they were no longer speaking gently; their voices had become sharp, sounding through the thin walls of the old house.
Dad said, “I’m the one who’s burdening him? Anxiety? You’re the one who’s always worked up. Why can’t you stop pushing, stop nagging? He’ll talk when he wants to. He likes it here. He’s happy.”
“But doesn’t it kill you, that you can’t even get to know your own son?”
“Of course we know Lucca!”
“Then why isn’t he comfortable talking to us? What happened?”
“I don’t think anything happened! We’ve been talking about this for over a year. Just leave him be.”
“You’re giving up on him. You don’t care.”
“How can you say that?”
“Something’s wrong with your little boy and you don’t care.”
“There’s nothing wrong with him!”
I covered my ears.
Oh, God: Lucca.
I flew out of my bed and into his room. He was sitting up, the whites of his eyes shining big and round in the moonlight.
We reached for each other at the same time, and I hugged him. Then I set him down and turned around, throwing my hands behind me to be stirrups. He hopped onto my back, holding on loosely around my neck.
I left his room and went down the stairs, hoping we wouldn’t be heard. Luckily, the stairs felt as familiar to me as if I’d been running down them my whole life, so my feet never missed a step. At the bottom I opened the front door, carried Lucca off the front porch, and headed across the lawn. Then I set him on his feet and took his hand, and we ran down the steps and out to the beach.
Mom wouldn’t have liked us going to the beach in the middle of the night. But who cared what Mom wanted?
Was it dangerous? The moon was bright, almost full, so we could see well. The tide was pulling back, leaving moist, freezing sand to chill our bare feet.
Lucca started shivering.
“It’s okay,” I said, knowing that the words wouldn’t really make it okay. “Grown-ups fight. About all kinds of stuff. It’s not your fault.”
I sat down in the sand, pulling him into my lap and cuddling him.
“Why, though, buddy? Why don’t you talk to us?”
I listened for his answer. I heard only the response of the waves, crashing and rolling loudly in the night.
“Is it Mom’s fault?”
He shook his head.
“Dad’s?”
He shook it again.
I couldn’t bring myself to ask, Mine?
He must have been able to see the tears sliding down my cheeks, because he reached up to touch my face.
“Don’t!” I turned away. “Your hands are sandy.”
Then I pulled him into another hug, rocking him. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
After a few moments, I held him back at an arm’s distance. “You can talk to us, you know. It would be okay.”
Lucca looked at me, thinking hard. He clamped his lips, opened them, clamped them, opened them, took a deep breath, and said, “I just don’t want to.”
14
Men come in and out of the tent; some stay, some get treated. The medic comes back with a small dose of something and slips it into the girl’s mouth. He gives me a blanket to wrap around her.
I sit with her. Holding her. Hold on, hold on.
Time passes. It might be days, weeks, years.
The little girl seems heavier and colder, and finally the medic says, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, she’s gone. I don’t respond. The child is lifted from my arms and taken away.
I don’t move. Time passes. It might be days, weeks, years. Men come in and out of the tent; some stay, some get treated. The same medic comes back with an open can of something, something like stew, like always.
I hold on to the can and don’t touch the food, don’t touch it, just sit and sit and time passes and I hold the can and don’t touch the food. It might be days, weeks, years. Men come in and out of the tent; some stay, some get treated. I sit with the can and don’t touch the food and don’t touch it, and finally there’s a hand on my forehead and the medic is there and he’s saying, Hey, soldier, hey there, soldier, I think you have a touch of fever, of fever, come on now, let’s lie down, that’s it now, a bed has opened, there’s a good man.
My head ached. I wanted to lie down so badly.
Where was I?
Sitting upright on our porch, leaning against the wall of the house, a beach towel wrapped around my shoulders. Lucca cuddled in my lap, sleeping soundly, his mouth open like when he was a baby.
Noise. The ache in my head became a pulse. What was Mom yelling about now?
She stormed out onto the porch.
“Siena!”
“What?”
“Do you have any idea what it’s like to find your children missing in the morning?”
“Do you have any idea what it’s like to be three years old and listen to your parents fight about you? Leave us alone.”
She stormed off. But I knew she’d be very upset that Lucca had heard them.
There was no way I was going to fall back asleep now, but I didn’t want to risk waking Lucca, so I stayed right where I was, putting together the hazy memories of what had happened late in the night.
Had Lucca spoken to me? Had I imagined that? I had listened for, imagined him talking so many times.
Well, if it had happened, I definitely wouldn’t be telling Mom and Dad. I wouldn’t want them to believe that their fighting had made Lucca do it. If it had happened, he was talking to me and not to them.
After a few minutes, the door opened again. Dad sat down next to me.
“You guys heard that? I guess we figured you were both asleep.”
“You were yelling loud enough to wake the dead.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, looking right into my face. “I mean it, he never should have heard that stuff. I’ll tell him, too, when he wakes up.” Dad rubbed his hands over the stubble growing in on his face. His eyes were red.
“I’m sorry, too.”
“What are you apologizing for?”
I shrugged.
“I like it here, I do, and I do think it will be good for all of us,” Dad said. “I just don’t think that we should be focusing so hard on that one goal. It’ll drive us all crazy when we could all be a lot more positive. And that would probably be the best thing for him anyway.”
“Yeah, I get it,” I said. “Sometimes Mom says just to wait, but then she tries and tries and tries.”
Dad sighed. “I know. I think she’s trying to convince herself it will be okay. Sometimes she feels calm enough to wait, but other times, she feels so much pressure, or guilt, maybe, that she isn’t, that we aren’t, doing enough. And then …”
He was quiet for a minute. Then, “It’s because she loves you both so much, you know. She freaked out when she couldn’t find you this morning, but I was thinking, They’re together, and they’re okay.”
Dad rubbed at his face some more. He must have been really tired. “I have to get ready for work. Sure you don’t want to be my assistant today?”
“Lucca,” I said. “I want to be here for him today, you know, in case …”
“Right. Okay. I’m going to go get ready.”
I held Lucca until he opened his eyes. He had a brief look of panicked confusion at being outside, but his eyes found mine and he relaxed.
“It’s nice to wake up outside, isn’t it?” I asked. It did feel good to be in the sunshine, surrounded by green leaves, though my back and neck were aching and I felt like I hadn’t h
ad a proper sleep in a month.
I took the beach towel off my shoulders, spread it on the wooden floor, and plopped Lucca down.
“Stay here, I’ll get a surprise.”
I went inside to the kitchen; in a few minutes I was back.
“Look, a breakfast picnic,” I said, setting down two bowls of sweet but organic cereal.
Lucca dug in.
“Long nights make me hungry, too.”
Dad came outside and held out his arms. Lucca went to him and was scooped up into a hug.
“I’m sorry, kiddo,” Dad said.
I picked up the empty cereal bowls and went inside. I wouldn’t ask Lucca whether he had really talked to me last night. What I’d thought he’d said was plenty of information.
Mom had calmed down. She snuggled with Lucca and then gave him a bath. I could hear them laughing together. She made us a nice lunch and the three of us sat down at the table to eat together.
After lunch I took a nap. When I got up, I still wanted to be by myself and not think about what happened last night. And there was something I could do—continue Sarah’s story. I still needed to figure out what had happened to her. What could make a kid not want to talk?
I took out the pen and my notebook.
Jezzie was supposed to be here today. It was warm out, finally, so I wanted to play outside. But I hadn’t seen her yet.
I sat on the porch with my dolls, waiting, waiting.
I kept my eyes up, looking over the railing, to see if she was coming.
Maybe if Joshua was home, he would have played with me. He used to make my dolls talk in very high, funny voices and say the silliest things. But Jezzie was all I had with him gone.
Frank was planting new flowers along the base of the porch.
“Got your eye out for someone?” he asked.
I nodded. “My cousin Jezzie.”
“I saw Jezzie when I arrived.”
“You did?”
“Yeah. That was a while ago. Not sure where she went off to. Maybe inside?”
“Maybe.”
I took one of my dolls and went to look. Where would she be?
Nobody in the kitchen, but the sweet blueberry bread on the counter had been cut unevenly, with crumbs everywhere. I tasted them. Had Jezzie done this? Blueberry bread is Jezzie’s favorite. Everyone knows that.
I walked through the first floor calling, “Jezzie! Jezzie?”
Would she go up to my room without me? She wasn’t there, either.
What a puzzle.
I went out the kitchen door onto the back porch. No Jezzie.
I sat down and hugged my doll to my knees.
I started walking around the house and heard a small giggle and the rustle of clothes. The door to the basement was open a little.
Why would she be in the basement? That’s where we mostly keep the things for the gardener.
I pushed the door open.
“Jezzie?”
And there she was, all right, with the gardener’s son, Paul, their bodies close together, their lips pressed against each other’s.
“Jezzie!”
She pulled back, surprised.
Paul turned pink.
This must have been Jezzie’s idea. She always had crazy ideas.
“See you later,” she told the boy, then grabbed my hand and started to run. I ran with her, holding tight to my doll in the other hand.
She led us all the way down the wooden steps to the beach, and when we got there, we both tumbled down onto the sand, out of breath.
“What were you doing?” I asked her again.
“Ah, nothing, Sarah.” She propped herself on one elbow to look at me. “Just having a little fun. You won’t tell anyone?”
“What if someone asks me?”
“Well, you could kiss him, too, if you wanted. Then I wouldn’t tell anyone that you’d done it and we could both keep the secret.”
“Nah, I don’t want to.”
Jezzie lay back with her hands behind her head. “You’re a baby.”
I lay back, too, looking up at the clouds. Jezzie was older than me, and she was probably right.
But not old enough that I would have thought she wanted to kiss Paul. Ew. Ew and yuck.
“Siena … Siena?”
I looked around and there was Sam, right in front of me.
“What are you doing?” he asked, his face scrunched up with worry.
“Writing.” I tried to steady my breath. I felt woozy and put my head between my knees. It was not good to be interrupted while I was inside Sarah’s mind, apparently. “I’m fine.” I slowly sat back up.
“But I’ve been saying your name for like five minutes. It was like you couldn’t hear me.” Sam looked alarmed. “You just kept writing.”
Great. Sam would think I was crazy, just like the kids at my old school. And he’d probably tell everyone about it. The same thing here all over again.
“I guess I just got really involved in the story.”
Sam gave me a look. “It seemed like something more than that.”
Sam pushed too much. I’d only known him a week, and yet he wanted to know things, to come over, to call. Maybe it was safer just not to have friends. They only turned on you.
“What are you doing here, anyway?”
“Today was my day to play with Lucca, remember? I just finished. Your mom said it was okay to find you.”
I looked back at him. There was something about him that I trusted. He was nice about Lucca, and to Lucca.
“How was Lucca? He seemed okay?”
“Yeah, fine.”
Sam stared at me, not about to let me off the hook.
Okay.
“If I tell you, promise you won’t think it’s weird?”
Sam nodded. “Tell me.”
I thought carefully about what version of the truth to give him, and how much. “I think my house is haunted.”
“That’s cool,” he said very casually.
“You don’t believe me.”
“I’m as open to a good haunted house as the next guy. But what, are you being possessed to write?”
“No, it was my idea to start writing … but I don’t control the story at all. It’s like I’m just witnessing it, from the eyes of one of the characters. And it turns out the character lived here.”
“Are you sure?”
“I think so.”
Sam watched as I closed the notebook and set it beside me on the window seat. He was much more serious than usual. “Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“Outside?”
“Okay.” Was he creeped out?
He watched me set the pen on the shelf.
“Hey,” he said, seeing my collection, “this is that thing you found at the store.” He picked up the butterfly hair clip.
“Yeah.”
“You really aren’t going to wear it.”
I shook my head. “I won’t ever wear it.” I took it back and put it on the shelf.
“What’s this other junk?”
“It’s not junk … it’s just stuff I found. Stuff that didn’t belong to anyone anymore.”
Sam didn’t say anything else. He led the way downstairs.
“We’re going for a walk!” I called to Mom.
“Dinner’s at six!” she answered.
“Are you staying for dinner?” I asked Sam.
He hesitated; then, “Yeah, okay.”
We sat down on the beach. Sam waited for me to talk. When I didn’t, he asked, “Well, what is it?”
“What is what?”
“What you collect?”
“You just saw it upstairs.”
Sam laughed. And laughed. I whacked his arm.
“Ow!”
“Why are you laughing at what I collect?”
“Oh.” He stopped laughing. “It’s totally random. Looking at it, you would never know, not in a million years, what it’s a collection of.”
“I told you, it’s left-
behind things. Things people didn’t want anymore.”
“That’s a weird thing to collect.” He paused. “Tell me again what happens? When you write, I mean.”
I kept quiet for a minute, watching the sand dance across the beach in the wind. Finally I said, “I think it’s all connected, the visions and what I collect. There’s something left behind in the house … memories, feelings … and I don’t want to leave them alone. Like I don’t want to leave those little things I find alone.” That wasn’t answering him, exactly.
The wind picked up and whipped around us.
“I don’t get it,” Sam said. “What happens to you.”
Well, I didn’t get it, either.
We didn’t talk for a few more minutes.
“So, how was playing with Lucca?” I asked finally.
“Good. We used his train set like last time.”
“He seemed happy?”
“A little tired, but fine. Why are you so worried?”
“Mom and Dad had a big fight last night, about Lucca. About him not talking. He heard it.”
“Oh,” Sam said. “Does it bother you a lot, about Lucca?”
I sighed. “Kind of.”
“Why?”
“Because … well, it’s my fault Lucca’s the way he is.”
“Your fault?”
I made a small noise like a hiccup, and Sam scooted over and found my hand in the sand. He squeezed it. Our skin felt gritty and clammy; his hand was warm.
“He used to say things. Little things, like single words, two- or three-word sentences. He could name pictures of things in books or make the noise an animal makes. But he used to come to me all the time, to read books, to play, and it was annoying. He was noisy. I would be trying to do my homework or trying to talk to Dad. One day, when it was just the two of us, I yelled at him.” Tears were sliding down my cheeks now. “To shut up and go away. I don’t know how long it was after that, but he did shut up. And he didn’t talk at all anymore.”
Sam was shaking his head. “But brothers and sisters don’t stop talking to each other forever because they yelled at each other once. My brothers and I would never talk to each other if that was the case. We tell each other to shut up all the time. Everybody does that.”