by Sandi Ward
“Sweetheart,” I sigh. “Okay. Sure. Go do your homework.”
I turn back to the photos, but don’t really feel like looking at them anymore. I am not going to win this battle with Donovan. I should just resign myself to that fact right now.
Delilah puts an arm around my shoulder. “It’s okay.” She leans her head against mine. “Do you want me to steal the journal back for you?”
“No, you don’t have to do that. Just let him stew for a while. I’ll try to talk to him again later.” I run the palm of my hand down Delilah’s hair, which is coarse and the color of tree bark, like mine.
Donovan, on the other hand, inherited his father’s fine blond hair. His hair is as long as his sister’s, which I still find hard to believe. He grew it out for years. Every time I’d get the urge to tell Donovan to cut his hair, Peter would tell me to leave Donovan alone; he’d start in with a lecture about how in Germany no one would care, and Americans are too rigid in their expectations. Donovan thought it was amusing to get us into this argument repeatedly, so I learned to keep my mouth shut.
“I could give you some ammunition,” Delilah suggests, lowering her voice. “If you think you might need it.”
I turn to look at her. I’m skeptical—but tempted. “What?”
She takes in a deep breath. “Well . . .” Her eyebrow raises and she traces the outline of a photo with her finger. “You want me to tell you a little about Donovan’s girlfriend? It’s getting serious. He’s been posting photos of her on his social media accounts.”
I don’t mention that I saw him with the girl in the drugstore, or that Emmy’s mom already brought it up. But I’m relieved one of the twins finally told me. I suppose it’s possible I could use the information against Donovan in some way. Maybe I should forbid him from seeing her until he returns the journal . . . ? No, that would backfire. There would be no way to enforce it, and it would just make him angrier. But maybe if I ask him about this new relationship, I could win him over. I am genuinely interested, after all. It might be a way I could re-earn his trust.
“Is that what makes it serious? The fact that he’s been posting photos on social media?”
She scrunches up her nose and smiles. “Yeah, it makes it official.”
I sigh.
“Darling Donovan.” That was my nickname for him when he was a baby. He’s got the same bright smile his father had, and an open, boyish face. I need to keep a closer eye on him. Pretty soon he won’t be sipping beer with his grandparents; he’ll be asking college kids to buy it for him.
“I think it’s a little crazy that Donovan has only been at Manchester High School for three months and he already has a girlfriend.” Delilah taps one finger against her bottom lip. “I feel like he jumped into a relationship kinda fast.”
“Well, you know, it makes all the girls take a second look, not knowing anything about a new boy and wondering what his story is. It makes him seem kind of mysterious and intriguing.”
I remember. Peter was once the “new boy” at my high school, having just arrived from Germany. I recall staring at the back of his head sometimes in art class and wondering what he was drawing. I contemplated the white sneakers and shorts he wore those first weeks of school, which looked very European to me. The boys talked about how Peter was a natural at soccer, and from the look of his thick, muscular legs—a little detail I remember because of his later accident—I believed it. We had no soccer team at that time, in the 1980s, and someone said the gym teacher might have Peter teach us some basic soccer skills.
I didn’t talk to Peter much, not at first, but I did notice him. I didn’t fall in love with him senior year of high school, because at that time my whole heart belonged to Sam. But Peter stood out because he was different.
“Don’t worry, this girl seems okay,” Delilah continues. “Her name is—”
“Wait.” I hold up a hand. “Don’t tell me. Let him tell me himself.”
I look over the photos again. It does look like the twins had a very good time in Germany. They’re smiling in most of the photos. I suppose it was a nice opportunity for the two of them to get away from me—and my sorrow—and grow up a little.
“Looks like Grandmommy showed you a fantastic time. I’m glad the two of you didn’t get lost in the Black Forest. I’m happy you weren’t captured and thrown into a witch’s oven like Hansel and Gretel.”
Delilah laughs. “Nope.” She pauses. “You sure you don’t want me to steal that journal for you? You could distract Donovan with an apple cider donut or something, and I could search his room.”
“Ha ha. No, thanks.” I close my eyes briefly. “No, this is between me and him. You don’t need to get in the middle of it.”
I have to talk Donovan out of reading that journal. I am sure there are things in there I don’t want him to know about. Since Peter started his journal back in high school, surely he wrote about the car accident that Peter, Sam, and I were all in on prom night. That would certainly upset Donovan. And there are more recent entries that I’m afraid may also be too personal for Donovan to handle. He’s too emotionally damaged right now to handle any more shocks to the system.
I’ve already tried to steal the journal from him myself. I searched high and low all around the house, but I can’t locate it. One way or another, I’m going to get it back.
I shuffle the photos into a pile. “So did you talk to Grandmommy about me while on your trip?”
Delilah looks startled, her big doe eyes widening. “About you?”
“Yes.” I square up the photos with the palms of my hands. “I assumed she asked about me.”
“Oh. Well.” Her shoulders relax a little. “I guess so. She’s just worried about you.”
“Mmm.” Worrying about me is not quite exactly what I’d call it. Judith has made it perfectly clear what she thinks of my move to Massachusetts, poor parenting skills, and lack of ability to hold down a job and keep the house running smoothly. Her crisp German efficiency doesn’t leave a lot of room for argument.
The twins need structure, Judith had said to me in the women’s room at Boston Logan Airport when I picked up the kids after their trip. They’re at a very important time in their lives. They are so smart. So special.
I know, I’d replied cautiously. I wondered if she was really talking about Peter; he was smart, he was special—but now he was gone. All she had left of him was her grandchildren. I wasn’t sure where she was going with this.
But they also don’t seem focused on the future. If they’re going to get into college, they need guidance.
What do you mean? I’m a college professor, for goodness sake, I’d countered. I can help them get into college.
There was a long silence. You’re not a professor anymore, Annika. You’re not working anywhere now. She took some brochures out of her purse and handed them to me. Look at this beautiful school. Wouldn’t this be wonderful for them?
I couldn’t win an argument with Judith, and usually quit trying.
I came to see she meant the twins need guidance from someone who doesn’t hole herself up in a cottage in the woods, afraid to leave the shrine she’s built to her deceased husband. I get it. I’m not in denial about my inability to deal with my grief. It’s been sixteen months, and I agree with her that it’s time to get my act together and make some better decisions.
So I have the brochures for The President’s Academy tucked away in a kitchen cabinet. The applications have been filled out, signed, and sent in—all by Judith. Frank wrote a check for the spring semester, which the school cashed. The boarding school is only thirty minutes from Judith and Frank’s house, so the kids can visit them on weekends if they want to.
But Judith assures me they won’t want to, because they’ll be very busy. The school offers everything the lost teenager needs to feel direction—the right courses, caring teachers, top-notch clubs and programs. And I assume they have a cafeteria that won’t forget to order celery, because apparently that’s vitally im
portant and it would be blatant child neglect to forget such a thing.
I tap my fingernail on the kitchen counter. It’s already late November. It’s time to show the kids the school brochures and share the plan with them. But every day I find some excuse to put it off.
“Did Grandmommy tell you more about that private school near her? She makes it sound so wonderful. I think we should drive down and take a look at the campus next weekend.”
“Yeah, it sounds okay. I guess. But I’m not really interested in changing schools again.” She narrows her eyes at me. “You haven’t seriously forgotten that we’re going to be snowed in, though, right? We’re not going to be driving anywhere for days.”
I shake my head. “I told you, it’s going to be fine. The forecast is always wrong.”
A little snow is the least of my worries.
A Strange Man Wearing a Black Mask
LUNA
All is quiet, but I can sense something is wrong.
A storm is coming.
I feel nervous. Restless. I decide to go out. I stand on the mat at the sliding glass door in the kitchen and wait patiently.
But there is something sharp and disturbing in the air. My nose catches it right away when Annika opens the door. Frigid air pours in like water topping an overflowing tub, and it sinks down to where I crouch on the tile floor. I feel my muscles tense, ready to run away. This is my first instinct, always: flight.
As the air washes over me, it smells alarming. My whiskers spread to full attention.
I don’t mind the cold. It is winter here much of the time, and I seek out bright squares of sunlight and warm heating vents when I need extra comfort.
But this feels different. The chill seeps down to my bones despite my thick winter coat. No, thank you.
“Not going out this time, Luna?” Annika asks me, but she is not enthusiastic about it. She knows what I know. This is no day for woman nor cat to venture outside.
When I glance up, she is studying the tops of the tallest pine trees against the blue of the sky. The beauty of the day is deceptive. The sun is brilliant but not strong enough to warm the air.
Annika examines the one cloud in the sky from under long, feathered eyelashes. I study her face. Her eyes, large and round, appear calm and thoughtful.
Annika takes time to paint her eyes, color her cheeks, and brush her hair, even when she is not going anywhere all day. This is how I know that her morning ritual is something she does for herself and not for others. She always looks wonderful to me. The colors of her clothes don’t always match, and sometimes she does strange things with her hair, like piling it up on top of her head. But as far as humans go, I find her lovely.
I believe it is Annika’s way of coping with Peter’s death. For a long time she was bereft, but now she tries to take care of herself, even when she is alone.
Annika sighs and shivers as she pushes the door closed. “Let’s make a cup of peppermint tea.”
I follow her back to the stove and plop down in my favorite spot on the kitchen floor. I know I shouldn’t worry about the storm. No matter how bad it gets, we won’t starve. I watched Annika and Delilah bring bags of food in from the car yesterday. The kids also hauled in several armfuls of chopped wood, which is currently sitting by the fireplace. I don’t get too close to the woodpile. The bark is peeling, and splinters stick out in odd directions. But I nose around it at times, attracted by the earthy scent and occasional bug I can turn into a snack.
Annika’s shoulders sag as she drops a tea bag into her mug. She has been exhausted. I worry about her health. I wonder if she is eating enough.
It’s all because Peter is gone. My heart sinks. I feel guilty for not doing more to save him the day he died.
It’s so strange feeling like Peter’s ghost is here with us. Sometimes, I think I can even smell him; my nose twitches with the scent of the fresh-peeled clementines he was always eating one slice at a time.
What if Peter haunts me forever? I assume it’s me he’s after, since I’m the only one who senses him. Perhaps he will follow me until the end of my days, until my body is cold and lowered into a shallow grave.
I remember how the family buried Delilah’s rabbit Snowball after she died. Peter dug the hole himself. Now it’s Peter’s body that rests rotting in the earth, while his spirit roams this house.
My back and tail shiver spasmodically. I have spooked myself!
A sharp rap at the front door flattens my ears and causes Annika to jump. She lifts her head and begins to move toward the front door, her fancy shoes clicking on the tile floor. I follow.
On her tiptoes, she peeks through the window high up in the door, then rocks back onto her heels, staring at the doorknob. Hmmm. Must be a stranger. We know the mailman and the package delivery woman. Annika would not hesitate if it were someone she knew.
Finally, she reaches out and swings open the door. The bright sun pours in again and we squint.
And—oh! It is a strange man standing on the top step.
Wearing a black mask that comes up over his nose and mouth.
Frightening! Like an ogre!
I freeze. Men are not my favorite type of human. Most of them strike me as big and clumsy. They talk too much, considering that they are not very sharp thinkers. Peter was an exception, of course, but even he stumbled over me a few times when I was lying on the floor, or he bumped me with a crutch.
Peter needed crutches sometimes because he had one leg made of human flesh, and the other leg—well, it was missing below the knee. Sometimes he wore a mechanical leg called a prosthesis, but when he did not have it on, he needed crutches to help him balance. Peter was like that from the day I met him. It didn’t slow him down. With his prosthesis on, he could still put on sneakers and get around like everyone else. He was a little slower with his silver crutches; they cuffed around his forearm just below the elbow and he’d lean down on the handgrips. I always made sure to stay out of the way of those crutches, just in case.
I wish Peter were here right now. I don’t like the idea of Annika having to deal with a stranger while she is weak and distracted. The children are in the back room, engrossed in a movie on TV.
Peter, where are you? I think. Make yourself known to me!
I glance around, but I get no reply.
Rats. I guess ghosts don’t appear on demand.
In addition to the mask, the man at our door wears a bulky black coat, clunky boots that look like they might break a cat’s tail, and a hat and gloves. Annika’s eyes open wide, but she does not move.
“Hi,” he says, almost out of breath, and I can sense that he has been out in the frigid air a long time from the husky tinge to his voice. “Is Rich here?”
Annika tips her head.
“No.”
As the man stares at Annika, my momentary panic subsides. The man’s eyes—which are essentially all I can see of him—are kind and alert, framed in dark eyebrows. Seeing this human feature calms me.
A moment passes by. It’s quiet. No wind. I glance up to watch a leaf falling slowly, like a feather, from the top of a tree.
“Rich and Cindy are in Maine,” Annika finally jumps in, putting one hand on her hip as if she is already tired of this conversation. “Permanently. What I mean is, they live there year-round now.”
The man hasn’t changed his expression. Finally, his eyes crinkle up and if I could only see his mouth, I’d understand better what he was feeling. “Annika?” he finally blurts out.
I take a step back. This man knows my woman?
“Yes?” Thankfully she closes the door a little, because the air is bracing cold.
“Don’t—don’t you remember me?” He pauses. “From high school?”
“Well.” She blinks. A few times. Those long lashes fluttering down and then back up. “I can hardly see you. But your eyes look familiar.”
“Oh.” He reaches with both hands behind his head and with a snap! pulls the mask free. His cheeks and mouth are as pink
as raw salmon. “Sam. Remember? Wow. Annika. It’s been a long time.” His mouth twists up for a moment in amusement. “Sam. Parsons. You must remember.” This man has a funny way of talking. It’s thick and raspy. Perhaps he is losing his voice in the cold.
I am not around men much anymore, and I have no idea what to expect of this one. I watch him warily. The way he looks at my woman, I believe his intentions are friendly. He seems genuinely pleased to see her. His mouth stays open for a moment in wonder, as if he is looking at snow falling inside our home and cannot believe it.
Annika’s face goes pale. “Yes, of course. Of course, I do. Hi, Sam. It’s great to see you.” She moves back a few inches. She looks almost—anxious. Uncertain. And it really is uncomfortable standing here with the door open. I don’t know why she doesn’t invite him in out of the cold.
But then, she never invites anyone in.
“I haven’t seen you in so long,” he blurts out.
Annika frowns. “I know. Since . . . since prom night.”
He grins. “‘Goodbye Yellow Brick Road,’ am I right?”
She shakes her head. “What?”
“We—” He extends a hand toward her. “Don’t you remember? We danced to it at prom. It was our senior class song.” When her expression doesn’t change, he leans forward slightly. “The vote came down to ‘Goodbye Yellow Brick Road’ or ‘Free Bird.’” He looks pleased with himself. The man waits for her response, and I can see this memory means something to him.
Annika exhales, a long sigh, and seems to relax all at once. She rolls her eyes. “So cliché. Who would want either one of those as their defining class song? Honestly. Those songs are from the seventies, for God’s sake. Why not pick a song from the years we were actually in school?”