Better to Wish

by Ann M. Martin

  “Hi, Wyman.” Rose’s voice floated out through the parlor window behind Abby.

  Abby glanced over her shoulder, said, “Shh,” to the window, and then turned her attention to Wyman Todd who, according to Darcy, was the dreamiest boy in the tenth grade.

  “Look what I have,” said Wyman. He climbed the porch steps, waving a magazine in front of him.

  “Oh, is that In Our Voices?” Abby leaped up from the swing.

  Wyman grinned at her. “Yes, and your story is in here.”

  “How did you get an early copy? Oh, never mind. Could I see it, please?”

  Wyman sat on the swing and pulled Abby down after him. “That’s why I brought it over. Turn to page twenty-four.”

  Abby opened the magazine and leafed through it, ignoring the whispered voice behind her that said, “Woo-hoo, he’s sweet on you!”

  “It’s so exciting to see it in print,” said Abby. “My very own story.”

  “You’ve seen your poems in print before. Zander put plenty of your poems in Words.”

  Abby glanced automatically across the yard at the Burleys’ house, and her eyes drifted to the window that had been Zander’s. Well, it was still Zander’s, she supposed, but he had been away at college — his first year at Harvard, an impressive fact that Pop never tired of pointing out — and his absence was almost as arresting as any unexpected glimpse of him through his bedroom window had been.

  “Yes, but this is different,” said Abby, turning her attention back to Wyman. “It’s an actual story. I feel like an author. Thank you so much for bringing this by.” She took Wyman by the hand, while Adele looked on in fascination and Wyman blushed a brilliant shade of pink.

  “You’re welcome,” he mumbled.

  “I wrote a story,” said Adele, climbing into Wyman’s lap.

  “Did you?”

  “Yes. It’s about a fairy. A boy fairy like Peter Pan. His name was Hankie and he lived in a flower and one day he left the flower and got lost and the rest of the fairies found him and took him home and the mother fairy was glad to see Hankie and kissed him and never let him get lost again.” Adele paused. “The end.”

  “That’s a very nice story,” said Wyman. Then he set Adele on her feet and stood up. “Well, I have to go.” He started to reach for In Our Voices, glanced at the street where Pop’s car was turning into the drive, and said, “You can keep it. I’ll get another,” before running across the lawn.

  In the drive, Pop slammed the door of his newest car, and glared after Wyman. Then he strode to the porch and said, “Abigail, what have I told you about entertaining young men?”

  Pop had not actually told Abby anything about entertaining young men, since no young men except Zander had ever visited her.

  “It wasn’t as though we were alone. Ellen and Sheila are right inside,” said Abby. “Adele was with me, and Rose has been spying on us.”

  “I have not!” cried Rose, appearing in the window.

  Pop grunted and sat down in a chair. “Where’s your mother?” he asked.

  “Upstairs. Pop, could I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “You know the new store? The one that used to be Haworth’s?”

  “Yuh.”

  “Well, the lady who owns it — Miss Maynard — asked me if I’d like to work there this summer. She said she could use help when things get busy.”

  “What do you need a job for?”

  “To earn money.”

  “Don’t I give you plenty of money?”

  “Yes. But I’d like to earn my own, and not have to ask you every time I want to buy something.”

  “Abby, I can’t have people thinking I don’t earn enough money to support this family. And that’s exactly what they’ll think if they see you behind the counter in that store.”

  “How about if she worked in a different store?” called Rose. “What would people think then?”

  “Rose!” Abby called out.

  There was a clatter and then the sound of Rose’s feet disappearing upstairs.

  “Could you think it over, Pop, please? I told Miss Maynard I’d give her an answer tomorrow.”

  “The answer is no.”

  “You’re not even going to think about it?”

  “I don’t have to. You’re not going to work. Especially not for that woman.”

  “What’s wrong with Miss Maynard?”

  Pop floundered for a moment. “She’s pushy,” he said finally. “And divorced.”

  “Zander’s going to work this summer before he goes back to Harvard.”

  “Zander is a boy. He has to learn how to support himself.”

  “But won’t people think Mr. Burley can’t support his own family?”

  “Not one more smart word out of you, young lady,” said Pop. “No job. The subject is closed.”

  Just like that, the subject was snapped shut, which, Abby realized, was how her father handled anything unpleasant. He snapped the lid shut on Fred, on her mother, on Abby’s cynical questions, and he refused to open it again.

  “It’s different without Mama, isn’t it?” said Rose, her gaze fixed at a point on the blazing horizon of the Atlantic Ocean. “Two weeks here at the cottage, but without Mama. And without Fred.”

  Abby, Rose, and Adele were used to visiting the house in Lewisport without Pop, and recently without Fred, but always, always Mama had been there.

  “In a way,” replied Abby, “it’s as if she’s here with us. It’s strange, but I can almost smell her.”

  Rose turned to look at her sister. “I stole her rosewater before we left,” she whispered.

  “Rose! The whole bottle?”

  “It isn’t as though she’s going to miss it. She hasn’t gotten out of bed in weeks.”

  This was why Abby, Rose, and Adele were on vacation at the cottage with Uncle Marshall and Aunt Betty but no Mama. Mama was feeble. She was frail. Night after night, Abby sat with her in her room in the house on Haddon Road, stroking her hands, telling her about the events of the day, and studying her face. She could see spidery blue veins crawling along beneath Mama’s ghostly skin.

  Mama had stopped asking about Fred. Sometimes she asked if the rosebushes were all right, but she didn’t ask about Fred.

  When the subject of two weeks at the cottage had come up, Pop had said, “Maybe Betty and Marshall will take you girls.” The trip was out of the question for Mama. And Pop would stay in Barnegat Point to work.

  “Abby!” Aunt Betty called now. “Rose!”

  Abby turned to look across the street at Mama’s sister, who was leaning out the front door of the house.

  “Make sure you keep an eye on Adele. The waves are rough today.”

  “We’re watching!” Rose shouted back. She adjusted herself on the wooden beach chair while Abby fixed her attention on Adele, who was busy digging a hole in the sand.

  “It’s a fairy hole,” Adele had informed her earlier.

  “What’s a fairy hole?” Abby had asked.

  Adele had frowned and pointed at the hole. “That,” she had replied, and continued digging.

  “This is strange,” Abby said after a long silence.

  “What is?”

  “All the people who used to be here with us — well, most of the people — are gone now. No Fred, no Sarah, no Orrin, no Mama, not even any of our cousins.”

  “Well, it isn’t as if they’re dead,” said Rose, and caught herself. “I mean, Sarah is, but, you know, Orrin’s just away, and so is Fred. Mama’s at home, and Blaine and everyone are … old. Hey, can you believe Erma’s going to have a baby? What will that make us? Aunts?”

  Abby shook her head. “Some kind of cousins, I think. Cousins once removed? Anyway, not aunts.”

  “I want to be an aunt.”

  “Don’t look at me,” said Abby. “I have to get married and have a baby before you can be an aunt.”

  “You should marry Orrin. I know you still write to each other.”

 
Abby made a face. Orrin wrote back only one letter for every five of hers.

  “What time is it?” asked Rose lazily.

  “I don’t know. Almost lunchtime, maybe. We should take Adele back to the house. She’s going to need a bath.”

  “Hey!” exclaimed Rose. “Who’s that?”

  Abby turned away from Adele and shaded her eyes as a car, a shiny new black car, barreled along Blue Harbor Lane and came to a fast stop in front of the cottage, sending out a spray of sand and gravel. The car door was flung open.

  “It’s Mr. Burley!” said Abby. “What’s he doing here?” She watched as Zander’s father ran to the cottage and pounded on the door. “Come on, we’d better see what’s happening.”

  Abby took Adele by the hand and ran her across the street. Rose reached the cottage ahead of them. They burst inside in time to hear Mr. Burley say to Aunt Betty and Uncle Marshall, “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but Luther didn’t think you’d want to hear this over the telephone.”

  “Where’s Pop?” Rose demanded. “Why didn’t he come to tell us the news?”

  Mr. Burley turned to look at Abby, Rose, and Adele, and his face softened. “Girls,” he said. “Why don’t you sit down?” He glanced at the sofa in the little front room.

  “Maybe we don’t want to sit down!” said Rose, her voice rising. But a shaken-looking Aunt Betty steered her toward the sofa and placed her hands on her shoulders. “Sit, honey.”

  Rose sat. Abby sat next to her.

  “I think maybe I’ll take Adele back to the beach,” said Uncle Marshall, looking from his wife to Mr. Burley.

  Mr. Burley nodded. “That might be a good idea.”

  Aunt Betty dropped to the couch and squeezed herself between Abby and Rose. She took their hands. “It’s Nell, isn’t it,” she said flatly.

  Mr. Burley bowed his head. He was holding his hat in his hands, turning it back and forth as if it were a steering wheel. “Yes. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. She passed away this morning. Just a little while ago.”

  Abby felt that some sort of outburst was expected, but she couldn’t muster one, not right now.

  “How did she die?” Rose whispered.

  Mr. Burley looked uncomfortable. “She just … passed away. In her sleep. She was … she was very weak.” He glanced at Aunt Betty.

  Abby suddenly realized that Aunt Betty had lost her sister. She let go of her aunt’s hand and put her arms around her instead, and Betty sobbed into her neck.

  “What are we supposed to do now?” asked Rose in a hushed voice.

  “Let me think. Just let me think,” said Aunt Betty. She got to her feet. “There will have to be a funeral, of course. And we’ll have to get your house ready for visitors.”

  “Aunt Betty?” said Abby. “What do we tell Adele?”

  Aunt Betty was wearing a strand of glass beads around her neck — pale, milky blue, the color of the sky before a storm sets up — and she twisted the beads around her forefinger, twisting and twisting until Abby thought the string would break. Finally she said, “Let’s just get you girls home first.”

  “Where’s Mama?” asked Rose.

  A pause. “At the hospital,” Mr. Burley replied. “Your father is with her.”

  “Will we see her again?” asked Abby.

  “I don’t know.”

  Abby glared at him, hating him for being Pop’s stand-in even though she knew Pop was where he ought to be. “Excuse me,” she said. She left the front room and walked primly through the cottage and out the back door to the spot where the rosebushes had once grown. She sat down carefully in the sandy soil and thought about Mama and the dead babies, and about the living ones who hadn’t seemed to matter as much to her as the dead ones.

  Everything has changed, thought Abby. Just like that, we’re a different family now. She found that she needed to steady herself. She thrust one hand forward and rested it in the soil as she felt — she was sure of this — the earth slip a little.

  The ride back to Barnegat Point seemed endless. Aunt Betty, Uncle Marshall, Abby, Rose, and Adele followed Mr. Burley back to Haddon Road in silence.

  “Why is nobody talking?” asked Adele.

  Rose glanced at Abby.

  “We have a little emergency,” said Abby, after a moment. “Do you know what an emergency is?”

  “Something bad?”

  “Well, something we have to take care of right away. Pop wants us back home.”

  “Why?”

  Now Abby glanced at Betty, but her aunt was pressing a hankie to her lips, her chin quivering.

  “Because Mama’s … sick.”

  “Does she have the throwing-up sickness like I did?”

  “No. She —”

  “Adele, quit talking for a minute and be quiet,” said Rose. “Just be quiet.”

  “That is not nice,” said Adele fiercely, glaring at her sister. “The fairies are going to get you.”

  When Mr. Burley turned onto Haddon, he had to park in his own driveway instead of in the Nicholses’.

  “Whose cars are those?” asked Abby. “Who’s at our house?” There were two cars in their drive and several more in the street.

  “Pop’s back,” said Rose. “And there’s Mrs. Evans.”

  Ellen was opening the front door to nosy Mrs. Evans, who was holding a dish covered in a blue-checked cloth.

  Abby, Rose, and Adele hurried up the steps after Mrs. Evans and were greeted by Sheila, who had clearly been crying.

  “Thank you, Mr. Burley,” she said over Abby’s shoulder. Then she turned to the girls. “Upstairs with all of you.”

  “But why are all these people here?” asked Rose.

  “News spreads quickly,” Sheila replied with distaste, and she shooed the girls up the staircase.

  “I want to see Mama,” said Adele, “but not her throw-up.”

  “What?” said Sheila.

  “Never mind,” said Abby. “Where’s Pop?”

  “Talking to the cor — Downstairs, I think. You can see him in a little while.”

  “I don’t want to,” said Rose, and burst into tears.

  Abby put her arms around her. Then she looked at Sheila. “Adele doesn’t know yet,” she said. “I’ll tell her.”

  “Tell me what?” asked Adele.

  “Let’s go into your room.” Abby led Adele along the hallway as, behind her, Rose slipped into her bedroom and shut the door softly. Sheila disappeared down the stairs.

  “Where’s Mama?” said Adele. “I thought we were going to see her.”

  “That’s what I need to talk to you about. Here.” Abby handed Adele one of her many dolls, a small pink one with painted brown hair, wearing a pleated skirt and party shoes (and nothing else). “Which doll is this?”

  “That’s Eddie.”

  “Okay. You hold tight to Eddie and listen to me very carefully.” Abby paused. She knew that if Mama were here, she would have told Adele the truth, so after a moment she said, “Adele, do you know what it means when a person dies?”

  “Yes.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, it means that the person isn’t alive anymore, which means that the person can’t come back.”

  “Okay.”

  “And Mama died this morning. She had been very sick, and finally her body just couldn’t stay alive any longer. So she’s gone. She isn’t coming back.”

  Adele stared at her sister. “I don’t believe you.” She jumped off the bed. “You’re wrong. I’ll show you.”

  Abby followed her sister into Mama’s room and stood next to her as they both looked at the empty bed.

  “Mama?” called Adele. She leaned back into the hall. “Mama?”

  Abby took her sister’s hand. “She really isn’t here, Adele. She’s gone.”

  Adele yanked her hand away. “You tell lies,” she said fiercely. “The fairies took her. They took Fred and now they have Mama.”

  “No.” Abby shook her hea
d. “Mama was sick. Remember? She stayed in bed all the time. She was very sick and this morning she died.”

  “Well, she’s still with the fairies.”

  Abby heard footsteps on the stairs and turned around. She watched Pop’s head rise and rise until all six feet of him stood at the other end of the hall. Adele thrust her hand back in Abby’s.

  “Does she know?” Pop asked Abby, and when she said yes, he let out his breath. “Good. Where’s Rose?”

  “In her room.”

  Pop nodded. Then he turned and went back down the stairs.

  At the end of the day, after the neighbors had gone home, and Adele and even Rose were finally asleep, and Pop was sitting in the parlor with Aunt Betty and Uncle Marshall, Abby stood in Mama’s doorway and studied her room. Sheila had made the bed. Abby couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen it clean and unwrinkled, each pillow in place. Two bureau drawers had been left open after Aunt Betty and Ellen had gone through them, looking for Mama’s final outfit. The closet door was open, too. Abby stepped into the room and closed the drawers. Then she walked into the closet and stood very still. After a long time she reached for Mama’s dressing gown and pulled the sleeve to her nose. She sniffed. Rosewater. She closed the door quietly and went down the hall to her room.

  Abby sat at her dressing table and leaned toward the mirror to examine her lipstick. When she pulled back, she saw Adele standing behind her and she jumped.

  “Did I scare you?” asked Adele.

  “Well, yes. You shouldn’t sneak up on people.”

  “I didn’t sneak up. What are you doing?”

  “Getting ready for the dance.”

  Adele nodded wisely. “With Wyman. You’re going with Wyman. He’s your beau.”

  “He’s not my —” Abby paused. It was better not to contradict her little sister. “Yes, I’m going with Wyman.”

  “Well, it’s almost my birthday,” said Adele, as if this were somehow connected to the subject of Wyman and the dance. “Three more days. Then I will be four years old.”

  “That’s right,” Abby agreed. She leaned into the mirror again and held a pair of pearls up to her ears.

  “Why is the Valentine’s Day dance tonight? Why isn’t it on Valentine’s Day?”