Girls of Brackenhill

by Moretti, Kate

  After breakfast, Huck took Rink back out in the woods. He’d been quiet at breakfast, his conversation surface and polite. She’d asked him, “Are you okay?” and he’d said yes, but quietly, his smile pasted on.

  “You want to go.” She’d said it like a statement, but it was a question, and she held her breath.

  “Whatever you need to do,” Huck said.

  “I just have to find a place for Uncle Stuart, okay?”

  He’d nodded and escaped outside. She resisted asking again, tugging his arm—No, really, are you okay?—because that had always seemed pathetic to her: begging to be seen. She should have told him about the sleepwalking. But he’d been oddly quiet since yesterday. Jinny’s bombshell about Ruby hadn’t helped. She’d brought it up on the truck ride back to Brackenhill.

  “What do you think it means?” she’d pressed.

  “It’s sad that their daughter died, Han. But it doesn’t change your childhood. Your life with Fae and Stuart. Your memories.”

  It was so like Huck to paint over everything with a sunny brush. To make light of dark things. It used to be Hannah’s favorite thing about him. But here, when she needed a partner, someone to bounce ideas off, his optimism felt like a slap. It didn’t feel like support; it felt like a rebuke.

  “It changes everything,” she’d snapped. Later, she’d apologized, and he’d hugged her. His mouth landed somewhere between her cheek and her ear in a distracted kiss before he disappeared outside again. He didn’t have the tolerance for this kind of thing: digging through dusty bedrooms, old secrets. His life was ordered, measured, line itemed.

  When he was gone, she listened for a moment to make sure he wouldn’t return. She crept to the end of the hall, the turret room at the other end of her hallway, facing Valley Road. She tried the doorknob and found it locked, as she’d expected. The door was antique, and the lock would have been locked with a skeleton key, but despite a cursory search around the kitchen, Hannah couldn’t locate one. She found a small rusty screwdriver in the kitchen drawer, though, the wooden handle chipped and broken, and went up to jiggle it in the keyhole, pressing the tip of the screwdriver against the pin. The lock popped fairly easily, and the door swung open, banging against the wall before she caught it.

  She felt immediately like she was doing something wrong. Like she needed to avoid getting caught. By whom? Alice, perhaps? Alice seemed to slip in and out of the castle soundlessly, appearing suddenly, without warning at the most unexpected moments. Well, so what? This wasn’t Alice’s house. It was Stuart’s now.

  Behind the door was a child’s room, painted in bright periwinkle blue. The walls coated in a swirl of plaster, like clouds, the ceiling painted to mimic a bright summer sky. The bed had a canopy, white chenille coverlet, lacy curtains, and giant pillows with ornate ruffles. The bed held a throng of stuffed animals: bears and rabbits and puppies in shades of brown and gray. A purple plush blanket was folded neatly across a large cedar chest.

  Hannah cracked the lid on the cedar chest a few inches and peered inside. Stacks of clothing and blankets. She moved to the dresser and armoire and opened the drawers: jeans and dresses and shirts and sweaters. Winter mixed with summer clothes. Small socks and little-girl panties. The armoire held the same—winter coats and bathing suits and sandals and boots. The room smelled musty, and everything was coated in a thin layer of dust. Not twenty-five years of dust—clearly Aunt Fae had cleaned the room periodically.

  The dresser held a music box. A small ballerina twirled when she opened it, and she heard the opening notes of “Clair de Lune.” In the top drawer, Hannah found a small leotard, tights, ballet flats. Little Ruby had been a ballerina. The bookcase contained children’s books: Dr. Seuss and Berenstain Bears and Roald Dahl. An easel sat in the corner, untouched paints and dusty paper, a collection of paintbrushes in a pristine, seemingly unused mason jar.

  Hannah didn’t know what she was looking for, exactly. She wanted to understand why she’d lived in this house for five summers after Aunt Fae and Uncle Stuart’s daughter had died and had no idea this room was here, no idea that Ruby had even existed. Aunt Fae had always been secretive, private, but Hannah’s room had shared a wall with a child’s room, and she hadn’t even known it. She could have read these books, painted on this easel. She chastised her own selfishness, but still, a strange feeling of abandonment persisted.

  Hannah went to the window and looked out, wondering if Ruby had fallen out her own bedroom window. The window opened outward, joined in the center by an antique latch. She tried to turn the latch, but it seemed to have been either painted shut or cemented together with moisture and age. The windows were old: single pane, drafty. She gazed down at the cement patio below that led into the garden and tried to imagine a child falling. She couldn’t—didn’t want to—envision it. How had it happened? Had Fae been with her? Had she lived with guilt as well as grief?

  The ballerina stopped twirling, the music stopped, and Hannah moved to the dresser to shut the music box. From underneath the ribbon-tabbed lid of a jewelry compartment, a corner of yellow stuck out. Hannah lifted the lid. A folded piece of paper. She opened it. A birth certificate.

  Ruby Anne Webster, born February 2, 1991, to Fae Summer Turnbull (mother) and Stuart G. Webster (father).

  Turnbull? Had Fae and Stuart not been married at the time of Ruby’s birth? Also, Fae and Trina were sisters; they shared a maiden name, and it wasn’t Turnbull. It was Yost.

  There was only one explanation. Fae had been married to someone else.

  Hannah left Ruby’s room as she had found it, closing the door softly behind her. She tiptoed down the second hall, the one facing the forest, and paused in front of the room next to Uncle Stuart’s. It had been Aunt Fae and Uncle Stuart’s study, with floor-to-ceiling bookcases and a stately mahogany desk. A rolltop secretary stood along the wall, and Hannah lifted the slatted door to find the desk stuffed with paperwork. She didn’t know what she was looking for, but she pulled the stack out and sat on the old oriental rug and started sifting through. Bills, tax paperwork, piles and piles of medical records, all jumbled together. She sifted them into piles, pulled a new pile down, and began the same process. When the desk was emptied, she had seven piles—categories of paperwork—organized loosely by date. Nothing jumped out at her. Nothing on Ruby, everything labeled Fae Webster.

  Hannah didn’t even know why she was bothering to do this. What did this have to do with Julia? The body in the woods? Aunt Fae’s crash? Probably nothing. But there were so many secrets accumulated over the years, jumbled together like the papers in Aunt Fae’s desk. Hannah took a deep breath.

  She’d spent the last decade and a half avoiding any thoughts of Brackenhill. Existing with her mother at surface level. Even with Huck, she tried to stay even, easy, happy. She buried any longing to know about her past because it seemed difficult, even tragic. Life was easier lived without tragedy. She also carried guilt—for that last fight with Julia. For not knowing if her sister had truly come back to her room that night, pale white in the doorway. For not chasing her down, helping her, stopping her. For not remembering the end, for not coming back to Rockwell sooner. Everything she’d done in the past seventeen years felt wrong, like she should have done the complete opposite. She should have called Aunt Fae.

  Hannah’s instinct now was to turn around, close the door. She’d avoided the study, kept herself busy with Aunt Fae’s lawyers, Alice, Wyatt, the remains found in the forest. Something about a life boiled down to paperwork, grinding it down to the pulp, felt too exposed. More intimacy than Hannah deserved.

  But now, Aunt Fae was gone. Uncle Stuart was almost gone. Brackenhill was her responsibility, or at least it would be soon. The problem with living superficially was that the truth always lived in the deep. Truth lived in the mess. If she closed the door, walked away, she’d be passing a legacy of secrets down to her children, should she choose to ever have them. Normal people got married, like she was planning. Normal people even had
children! She couldn’t imagine wading into motherhood with Brackenhill an albatross around her neck. No, she had to at least attempt to sort through it all, piece together her own history, where she came from, if she ever wanted to move forward. Figure out what had happened to Julia, Fae, Brackenhill. Ruby. Put all the pieces together and start her life, fresh and shiny and new.

  In frustration, she jerked open the closet door. A small bookcase was pushed up against the back, and on the second-to-bottom shelf was a fireproof box, the key dangling from the lock. She retrieved the box, about the size of a large boot shoebox, and set it on the mahogany desk in the center of the room.

  Hannah lifted the lid and saw folded squares of paper. Resting on top of the papers was a long brass key. The top contained a fleur-de-lis, and the key end was rectangular, notched. Hannah stood and traced her steps back to Ruby’s room. Inserting the key, she tried to relock the door. No luck. The key was for something else, but what? She pocketed it and returned to the study, sitting cross-legged once again on the floor.

  She began unfolding the papers, running her index finger along each crease to flatten it. There were a handful of documents: passports, bank statements, a copy of the castle deed, Fae’s and Stuart’s birth certificates. No surprises.

  But then:

  Certificate of Surname Change: Fae Summer Turnbull to Fae Summer Webster

  Date: April 17, 1991

  Reason: Estrangement, psychological distress

  Petition: Granted

  And the second document of interest, a folded square of yellowed paper:

  New York State Certificate of Vehicle Title

  Year: 1989

  Make: Dodge

  Model: Ram

  Name and Address of Owner: Warren Turnbull, 1442 West St, Rockwell, NY

  Turnbull?

  There was no marriage certificate. Hannah had two questions. Why had Aunt Fae and Uncle Stuart not legally married?

  Who the hell was Warren Turnbull?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Then

  June 14, 2002

  She met Wyatt every night after the pool closed, skimming her bike down the path away from Brackenhill toward town. She’d gotten bolder. Julia was off alone, whereabouts unknown, and Hannah refused to wait for her. Refused to kowtow to her sister, seek her out, beg her for company.

  Besides, she had Wyatt. Wyatt with his quick smile, his teasing, the way he called her ghost girl, because she lived in the haunted mansion and he’d so desperately wanted to be invited up the mountain.

  She waited for him to close up the snack stand, for the last of the pool goers to leave, corralling kids to cars as dusk settled around them, the light of day fading to purple, the air cooling just enough to make it easier to breathe.

  “It’s the ghost girl.” Reggie came up behind her. Hannah had been sitting at the picnic table, waiting for Wyatt. They’d wander back to his father’s house for an hour or so before Hannah would bike furiously up the mountain, racing the clock for Aunt Fae’s dinner at eight p.m. Summer dinners were later, after the sun had started to set and the yard tools and wheelbarrows and tractors had been put away.

  All the girls giggled around Reggie and Wyatt. Wyatt with his teasing charm and Reggie with his boyish face, cheeks ruddy from the sun, and white, straight smile. Reggie made Hannah uncomfortable; his gaze was so intense, like he was trying to see into her, and his smile looked like he was perpetually mocking. Hannah didn’t know how to respond to him, how to take him.

  Ghost Girl was Wyatt’s nickname for her, not Reggie’s, and Hannah batted away a flash of annoyance. She gave him a quick smile.

  “Waiting for your summer boy?” he asked and sat next to her, too close, his breath warm on her cheek.

  “What are you doing here, man?” Wyatt emerged from the side door, carrying a garbage bag. He grinned at Reggie, but his eyes glinted.

  “We’re going to Pinker’s,” Reggie said easily. The bar in town, notorious for not checking IDs, letting teenagers hang in the back room with the pool tables long after they should have been asked to leave. Sometimes, if the boys charmed the waitresses well enough, they’d snag a beer or two. “You in? I’ll wait.”

  “Nah, I’m tired. Go on without me tonight.”

  Reggie’s gaze flicked from Wyatt to Hannah and back. “You hanging out with Ghost Girl tonight?” His voice had an edge, something mean to it.

  “I’m just waiting for Julia,” Hannah rushed to fill in, and Wyatt nodded once, small and approvingly.

  “Ah, the two ghost girls.” Reggie stood, smacked his lips together, the silence awkward. “You can both come,” he said like he’d just thought of it.

  “We have to get back. Our aunt makes dinner,” Hannah said.

  “You know, if you’re looking for Julia, I think I saw her at Jinny’s.” Reggie took a step backward, flippant, like he was going to leave. “She’s into that stuff, I heard. It’s like devil worship. Witchery.”

  Hannah hadn’t known, but it made sense. Jinny, Aunt Fae’s old friend, the town eccentric with the psychic shop. A place to buy oils and herbs and hopes and dreams for a bright future provided by Jinny with her stacks of jewelry and smell of patchouli. Hannah affected a look of boredom.

  “It’s hardly devil worship. It’s just a hobby,” she said flatly, picking at the skin around her thumbnail.

  “Pretty strange hobby for a ghost girl.” Reggie grinned again, his eyes hard. “Anyway, you two have fun. Whatever you’re up to.”

  “We’re not up to anything, Plume,” Wyatt sighed, leaning over to wipe off the picnic table with a wet rag.

  “Yeah, sure. I think Ghost Girl here has a crush.”

  Hannah’s cheeks flamed hot, and Wyatt shrugged, his face a mask. “She’s just a kid, Reggie. I’m keeping an eye on her until her sister gets here.”

  Like he was babysitting!

  Hannah’s blood pressure spiked; she could feel the thrum in her temples. It was one thing to keep their relationship—whatever it was—under wraps. It was another to act so dismissive, like she was nothing.

  “Ah, okay.” Reggie nodded, a flip of his hand: See ya later. He flicked his soda can into the closest wastebasket and whistled his way out of the gate.

  Hannah sat stiffly, unsure of what to say next. “I should head back up.” She gestured toward the mountain and stood, her arms hanging at her sides heavily, unsure of what to do next.

  Wyatt looked over at Hannah, his eyes darting. “I’m sorry. I panicked.”

  “Well, then it’s okay, I guess,” Hannah said, her teeth clenched as she gathered her bicycle and realized she did look like a child. And to think she wanted him to find her sexy! The whole thing was humiliating.

  Wyatt’s hand shot out and gripped her handlebars, his eyes searching hers earnestly. “Seriously, I’m sorry. Please don’t leave.”

  She yanked the bike away and struggled to keep herself upright through hot tears.

  “It’s fine. I’m fine,” she said. Hannah pedaled away furiously, Wyatt calling behind her.

  Outside the park, in the parking lot, she picked up speed, the breeze lifting her hair, her thighs burning with the exertion. A shadow in the trees moved to under the streetlight, and she could make out the glint of Reggie’s blond hair, slicked and shining. She rode away from him, glancing back once to see the orange glow of a cigarette like a heartbeat in the dark.

  When she finally got home, breathless, her face red from exertion and still smarting with embarrassment, she realized Julia’s bike was missing from the shed. Night had fallen at Brackenhill, and inside, the castle was warm and smelled like homemade dinner—meatloaf and mashed potatoes—and Julia was nowhere to be found.

  Was she still at Jinny’s? Hannah wondered. What had she been doing there in the first place?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Now

  “I’m going into town,” Hannah announced to Huck, the yellowed truck title burning a hole in her back pocket. She wasn’t exactly being se
cretive on purpose, but Huck rarely had time for things that weren’t practical. She came close to telling him about Aunt Fae and Uncle Stuart not being married. About Warren Turnbull. But something inside stopped her.

  Hannah tried to be patient. She knew he was getting restless rattling around this dark, cavernous castle all day while she chased down long-forgotten ghosts and a history he knew nothing about, especially when she kept it all close. She knew Huck was running out of steam to keep humoring her; he had a real life, a business. He was too kind to say so, too supportive to question her. Yet. But she knew it was coming. Soon he’d want to leave.

  True, she had to stay until they could place Uncle Stuart. That could be any day. Alice had said that morning that he was on a waiting list for a hospice facility about a half hour south of Rockwell. To Hannah, this meant she had only days left.

  If she could put together the pieces of this puzzle, she might be able to break it all down for Huck in a way that made sense. Her past was messy, immaterial to their future. She could see he was ready to box the whole dusty castle up and be on his way. Her insistence on following the leads around her aunt’s newly discovered complicated private life would try his restraint.

  “Oh, I’ll come with you,” he offered gamely, but there was no enthusiasm in his voice.

  “Please stay here. What if Wyatt comes by?” Another pang of guilt: she’d still never told him anything about Wyatt. Huck, sweet, trusting, took everything at face value. Or she hid her emotions well. Either was possible. If he noticed her fluster, her nerves around Wyatt, he was too polite to mention it. It was almost troubling, in a way. What kind of marriage would they have if she was too cowardly to broach tough subjects and he was too polite to question her?

  Oh, for goodness’ sake, she had enough self-awareness to know that she was doing mental gymnastics to somehow blame Huck for her own silence.

  “If you’re so worried about the investigation, why don’t you just call him?” Huck’s voice was muffled behind his book, and Hannah couldn’t tell if it was impatient.