“What’s that?” Molly asked.
Nora laughed. “Well, until today it was a bread box, but I don’t want the kitten messing in the closet anymore. I thought this might be just the thing.” She headed for the bathroom.
We followed and watched as she tilted the bread box onto its back, lifted the door to an open position, and set it on the floor. When I looked inside, I saw that the box was half full of ashes.
“How clever you are!” said Molly. “Thank you!”
Nora blushed. “Why, it’s hardly anything. The hinges were broken and the kitchen was about to give it away, so I nicked it!”
Friend had followed us into the bathroom and was sniffing around the box. He hopped right in.
“He likes it!” cried Molly.
“Sure enough,” said Nora. “He’s a good boy. Now, how about we leave him to his business and you return to your supper. If you don’t like hot fish, you certainly won’t enjoy it cold.”
Once Nora was gone, we ate our peas and rice and fed some of the fish to Friend, who was leaving sooty little paw prints all over. We got into our nightgowns, but Molly didn’t drink her powder that night. She carried it into the bedroom and set it on her little table, but then she just stared at it.
“Don’t you need it?” I asked, staring at the cloudy glass. “To sleep?”
Molly eyed the glass. “I’m not even certain why they give it to me. Usually everything is so dull, I’m happy to nod off. But since you arrived, I don’t want to. Today I’d rather lie here and remember. What a grand afternoon! Wasn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Totally.” I rolled onto my side. “But if we aren’t going to sleep yet, let’s do something else.”
“What do you suggest?” asked Molly.
“We could read.”
“I always read.”
“We could talk.”
“We’re doing that right now!”
“Well, then you think of something,” I said, poking her in the arm.
Molly pondered for a minute. “Do you know what I’ve always thought about doing? Ever since I’ve been stuck in here?”
“I can’t possibly guess,” I said.
“From my window I can see two little statues.…” Molly crawled from the bed and pointed at the dark yards below. “Of the Blessed Virgin. Over there. One is made of white plaster, and the other is painted blue. They belong to two very old women, who scrub them and plant flowers at their feet.”
“Okay,” I said. “So?”
“So … I’ve always thought it would be fun if one day they suddenly switched places in the night. So that the women would think …”
“Ooh!” I sat up fast. “They’d think it was a miracle! What a great idea.”
Molly smiled. “I think maybe we should do that.”
I was out of bed now too. “You mean it? Right now? You want to go sneaking around in the night to steal other people’s Blessed Virgins?”
“You don’t think it’s wrong, do you? I mean it to make them happy.”
“No, I totally get it. Sure.”
Molly was bouncing on her toes. “Also, I want to go down in the dumbwaiter this time, so we can stop in the kitchen for a snack. Because that fish was …” She made a face like she smelled something bad. “Not delicious. Maybe we can find some chocolate chips. Maggie and Ginny steal them all the time.”
“I’m so totally in,” I said. “All in. If you’re sure you’re up for this.”
Molly nodded. “I truly, truly am.” She pushed a chair over to the ugly dog painting, climbed up, and swung out the picture. Then she gasped.
“What is it?” I said.
“I don’t know,” said Molly. She reached in and pulled out a piece of paper.
I leaned over her shoulder to read it. All the note said was “BE CAREFUL, GIRLS!”
“Oh,” I said. “It’s just Nora.”
“Yes,” said Molly. But her face looked serious. She folded the note carefully and slipped it into the pocket of her nightgown.
“What’s the big deal?” I asked.
Molly smiled. “It means—she was thinking of us. She was concerned. Isn’t that nice?”
“I guess so,” I said.
“It is,” said Molly. “It matters. Because … she cares.”
Two minutes later we were inside the black box, crammed together, creaking our way slowly down. One of Molly’s knees was digging into my back, and I could feel blisters burning into my palms from the rope. But it wasn’t as hard going down as it had been going up, and I was excited. At last we reached the bottom. Molly pushed gently at the door. It opened. A sliver of light shone in from the kitchen.
I whispered, “Hey, how do you know nobody will be down here?”
“I don’t,” hissed Molly. “But supper is over, and it doesn’t look like anyone is here, does it?” She swung the door open a little further, and we slipped down carefully onto a big wooden table, and then to the tile floor.
“It looks safe,” said Molly.
“Now what?” I asked.
“Now we feast!” Molly leaned into a cupboard. “What would you like?”
“Ugh. Anything but fish,” I said. “Or liver. So grody.”
“Grody?”
“Yeah, like gross, disgusting.”
“Grody,” repeated Molly slowly.
“Hey, I know,” I said. “Let’s invent something. Our own secret recipe. My friend Susie and I do that sometimes when she sleeps over. See what you can find for ingredients, okay?”
“Yes, yes!” Molly was so excited, her curls were trembling.
We snooped around for a few minutes, opening drawers and cupboards. Molly found ginger cookies, and I discovered a jar of raspberry jam. Molly turned up a bowl of whipped cream in the icebox. There wasn’t a chocolate chip to be seen, but there was homemade buttercream frosting. We put everything on the table and layered it all. A cookie, spread with jam and frosting, slathered with whipped cream, and topped with another cookie. Together we sat down on the floor, each of us holding a gooey, amazing sandwich.
“This is,” I said, nibbling my treat sideways, “the yummiest thing ever.”
“Eyefinkshowtooo,” mumbled Molly through a huge mouthful. She was grinning. There was whipped cream on her nose. She swallowed. “What shall we call them?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Molly and Annie’s Delicious Cookie Delights?”
Molly shook her head. “No, that’s too long.”
“True,” I said. “So you come up with a name, Miss Smarty.”
She licked a finger and pondered the question. “They should be called … Sneakypies,” she said. “And they can only ever be eaten late at night, in secret!”
“Hey, that’s pretty good.” I laughed.
We sat and ate and chewed and munched, and licked the sides when the whipped cream dripped out.
“Oof,” Molly said at last. “I’m stuffed!” She patted her stomach happily and groaned as she stood up. Then she walked over to the kitchen door and opened it just a crack.
“Me too,” I said. “But we still want to do our secret switcheroo thing, right? How will we get outside?”
Molly didn’t answer. Instead, with no warning at all, she pushed gently at the swinging kitchen door and took a step.
“What are you doing now?” I called after Molly.
She turned back and held up a finger to her lips. “Shhh! Come on. There’s nobody about. Let’s go!”
“Go where?” I asked.
“I want a key,” said Molly. “To my room. So we don’t have to sneak in and out anymore. See?”
I peeked over Molly’s shoulder. Sure enough, the desk was empty, and behind it on hooks were rings and rings of keys. “I want a key,” repeated Molly slowly. “This is my home. I should have one, shouldn’t I?”
“I … guess,” I said.
“Here I go,” she said, stepping away from the safety of the kitchen and into the main lobby of the hotel. Just like that. The
door swung behind her.
I watched through the crack in the kitchen door.
We’d been hiding so long it was strange to see her out in the open. It was like she was walking from a dark closet into a great big field or something. I held my breath.
Molly skated slowly away from me, in her sock feet and nightgown, across that broad expanse of marble. I hadn’t seen the lobby in all its glory before, and it took my breath away. The chandelier cast a soft, glittering light. The piano was gleaming ebony. The leather chairs looked deep and soft. The paintings that decorated the room were set in huge gilded frames. There was a warm, golden sheen to the room, a richness.
Molly looked tiny and pale in that great huge place. She made it to the reception desk and went around to the key hooks. She climbed onto a stool and reached up. I watched a small hand stretch out and grasp at a key. Then she slipped down again and waved for me to come out.
“Annie, look!” she called in an excited whisper, waving her key in the air. Her voice echoed across the cavernous lobby. She started back toward me.
I began to push open the swinging kitchen door for her, but a voice broke the calm, a cold voice, an angry voice. “Mary!” It was the sound of a whip cracking. I let the door fall back again and peered through the crack.
Molly’s father strode into view. “Mary!” he said again. “Mary Moran! Just what do you think you are doing downstairs? Dressed in your nightclothes?”
Molly spun around near the bottom of the staircase. Her face was white. Her eyes were huge. “Papa,” she bleated. “I—”
I could see the confusion on her face. It was like she was grasping for a story. Her eyes darted in my direction, but there was nothing I could do.
“I just—was hungry,” she said. “So I—I thought—”
“You thought? Your job is not to think, but to do as you are told!”
A moment later another man in a tuxedo entered the room. “Everything all right in here, James?” he asked.
Mr. Moran’s thunder died. He waved to the man and cleared his throat. “Just a second, Robert,” he said. “I’ll be right there! Have a drink on the house. I need to take care of a small matter. Nothing of import. No need for concern.”
The other man walked back the way he’d come, and Molly’s father’s spoke again, in the same tone I’d heard from under the bed that morning. Stern, cold. He reached out and grabbed Molly’s arm. “I have no patience for this,” he said. “I do not know how you got down here, and I’m not pleased. I have work to do, and no time for personal matters. We have guests, and I cannot have you complicating things. McGhee!”
I watched from afar as Molly’s face crumpled. It was like she shrank, faded.
From the staircase above, another man scurried down, a thin, nervous man in glasses. “Yes, sir? Did you need something, Mr. Moran?” When he saw Molly, his eyes went wide.
Molly’s father looked up. “Yes, McGhee. You are to take my daughter back to her room immediately.” He turned his back on Molly and started walking away. “I’ll deal with her tomorrow. Also, please tell Nora I’ll need to speak with her in the morning, first thing.”
“Yes, sir,” said McGhee, looking concerned as he continued swiftly down the stairs, his eyes on Molly.
Mr. Moran disappeared, and I heard the sound of a door shutting as McGhee reached out to Molly. Molly hung her head and turned to face him.
But suddenly—Molly changed. Her back straightened, her chin lifted, her arms rose, and she ran. Molly burst forward. At first I thought she was running at McGhee, charging him, but then I realized—no! Molly ran at the angel, the lovely marble angel on the pedestal at the foot of the stairs.
“It isn’t fair!” she shouted, throwing up her hands, pushing at the base with all her might. “I won’t go back!” The pedestal rocked, tipped slightly. “Why do you hate me so?” Molly called, pushing again. “Is it because I’m sick? Why?”
Slowly the pedestal tilted, and then the angel fell, crashing to the floor. Molly sank to her knees, surrounded by chunks of marble. She was wheezing hard, panting for air. Crying.
Through the crack in the door, I searched for Molly’s father. I wanted him to run to her, to scoop her up like a baby and make everything okay. But he was nowhere to be seen. He’d left the room. He was already gone.
Molly began to cry quietly into her hands.
It hurt me to see her like that. She looked so alone, a pale tiny thing in that huge rich room. I had to keep myself from running to her, but what could I do? What would it help for me to get caught? Where would they take me? The Baltimore Home for Girls? I couldn’t afford to find out.
McGhee knelt slowly and pulled Molly to her feet. He looked upset. “Miss Moran,” he said gently. “Molly, come along. You’ll feel better in the morning.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and led her to the elevator.
I don’t remember backing away from the door or climbing up into the dumbwaiter. I don’t know how I pulled myself back up to the seventh story on my own. But I must have done it slowly, because by the time I tumbled out and into bed, Molly was already asleep, drugged, breathing slow.
I didn’t know what else to do, so I just crawled in beside her. I stared at Molly’s flushed cheeks and watched the rise and fall of the covers as she snored. I pushed her hair out of her face. I felt so sad. I couldn’t imagine what kind of trouble she’d be in tomorrow. What else could they possibly do to her? What was left for them to take away?
I turned over in the bed, thinking about what I’d witnessed, and my mind replayed the scene in the lobby. All that shouting. The angel falling. The crash! So loud. It was a shame. I’d liked the angel.
Then something clicked in my brain, and I sat back up. The angel. She wasn’t supposed to smash. She was supposed to be there, waiting for me, dusty in the darkness. I’d touched her, or I would touch her, unbroken, in the future. Only now I couldn’t. Now she couldn’t greet me when I arrived. What did that mean? That things could be shattered! Things could be changed. I could change things.
I lay back, stared up at the canopy, and tried to think of what I might have already changed. Out of nowhere, a word hit me: TEEVEESET! I groaned, thinking of all the girls singing “Miss Lucy,” even though there were no teeveesets in the world to sing about yet. The things happening all around me were not only in the past. This wasn’t a vacation in the frozen land of long ago, a distant memory. These things were happening for real. What did that mean? Could they really change the future? Could they ruin it?
I had to go home, now! It had to work this time. I couldn’t stay any longer. This was too much. If only it would work this time … I reached under the bed for the mask.
But the mask wasn’t there! So I climbed down from the bed and crawled under to look. Over by the wall, I saw something crumpled … the mask! I reached out to grab it and breathed a sigh of relief when my fingers fell on heavy silk. But as I was backing out from under the bed, I saw something else crumpled in the darkness and reached for that too. I recognized the feel of it, the stretched elastic, the loose beads.
I stood up and stared at the two objects in my hands, puzzling. Two masks? Both of them lost beneath the bed. One mask was Molly’s—new and shiny and forgotten before I’d even arrived. One mask was mine—faded and falling to pieces, stolen from the future. The masks were the same, and yet they were different. I tried to understand.…
Did this mean anything?
Maybe it did! Maybe it meant I’d been using the wrong mask.
Hope fluttered inside me. Maybe this was the answer! Maybe this was why the mask hadn’t worked for me. Because it hadn’t been my mask! It had been Molly’s. Maybe now that I had my mask back, everything would be fine.
It had to. I willed it to. Because if things were changing in the past, I had no way of knowing what they’d do to my future. Maybe I was losing my memories each morning because those moments were actually disappearing. My stomach lurched just thinking about it, and I lay back down in the
bed. I needed to get home now, while it was still there. I slipped on the mask, my mask, the right one this time. I hoped.
I held my breath as I pulled the mask down and waited. For something, anything, to happen. For a moment, with my eyes squeezed shut beneath the silk and my mind focused on Mom, with my fingers crossed and my heart hopeful, I felt a twinge, a lifting, a half beat.
But it faded.
No.
No!
The magic didn’t come. No static. No strange silence. Just the sound of Molly snoring. Just my thoughts, still there, licking like flames at the edges of my sleep. I held my breath and counted to ten. I wanted to sleep. I wanted to run away from everything. Even Molly.
But it did no good.
I reached up and touched the sleeping mask on my eyes lightly.
I wanted to cry.
When I woke up the next morning, I felt sad. At first I didn’t know why. Then I pulled off my mask, looked at Molly, and remembered.
Her father. The angel. There was no fog around those memories. I didn’t have to work to know where I was. I remembered the shattering, the fight.
But when I tried to push further, the fog was back. It took many seconds before the rest came, dragging itself like a broken leg. Some part of me recalled this feeling of being lost, of waking in a cloud, and I just lay there, waiting for things to get better.
I struggled, casting about for the pictures, the words, until like a cloud taking shape, it arrived—a picture of a woman with short brown hair and a smear of lipstick. With that memory came more sadness.
Bit by bit I brought it all back to me. But there was no joy in the remembering. It was painful, to think I had to work at remembering Mom. Chicken pox. SpaghettiOs. I pulled out stories. Brown bag lunches with cartons of chocolate milk. Smurfs. All of it like a story I’d read, all of it distant and sad.
Eventually Molly woke and rolled over too. She stretched. She stared at me. She rubbed her eyes. “McGhee took my key,” she said.
I reached out a hand to touch her arm. “Are you okay?” I asked.
“I think so,” she replied. She picked at the bedspread for a minute, and then she shot me a strange look.
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