by Becky Citra
Seventeen
The next morning, Renegade and I are standing in the middle of the round pen. His ears flick back and forth as if he’s thinking Now what? He lowers his head and sniffs the saddle blanket and saddle that rest on the ground beside us.
I coil my rope and rub it over his legs and up over his neck and ears. I bounce it up and down on his back. He’s used to this. He turns his head and looks at me, his eyes soft. We’ve done this before, he says. Get on with it.
He pays a little more attention when I pick up the saddle blanket. His head raises and he takes a step backward. I go with him, holding the blanket in my arms. He stretches out his neck, blows through his nostrils. Slowly I feel him relax.
I lay the blanket over his back and then take it off before he has a chance to get upset. I do this several times. Finally I leave the blanket there. All the time, I’m alert to the signals Renegade is giving me. He’s lowered his head again, and his mouth is gently chewing. All good signs.
I flap the sides of the blanket and thump it up and down. I slide it up his neck, almost to his ears, and back down again.
No problem.
I eye the saddle lying on the ground by my feet. A tickle of uneasiness curls in my stomach. I slide the right stirrup over the saddle horn, lay the cinch and the latigo over the seat. I pick the saddle up.
That’s when Renegade bolts.
I make a loud shooshing sound as he pivots away. I want him to think that it’s my idea that he go, not his. I put the saddle down and drive him around the pen with the rope, one lap, then two. A turn to the left. A turn to the right.
I allow Renegade to slow his steps and stop. I make the kissing sound and he walks toward me. His ears are forward, his lips move. He stands quietly.
Before I can change my mind, I pick up the saddle again, take a deep breath and place it on his back. Not a muscle twitches as I walk around him and lower the stirrup and latigo.
Back to his left side. I reach under his belly for the latigo. My hands are shaking. I’m not sure what’s going to happen. I’ve been practicing in the barn, the saddle resting on a sawhorse. I tighten the latigo firmly and make a knot.
I stand back.
Renegade plunges forward. He crow-hops across the pen and bucks hard. Again and again. He’s making a frantic effort to get the strange thing off his back. My heart thuds as saddle strings whip around and stirrups slap his sides. Dirt flies.
I’m starting to freak out, and then Renegade loses interest. Just like that. He stands still. I can almost see him thinking Is this worth it? I kiss and he comes to me willingly. I stroke his face and his ears.
“Next time,” I say, “I’m going to ride you.”
I go straight to Tully’s computer and search for sites on horse training. Earlier Marion had suggested I type in natural horsemanship and horse whisperer. One link leads to another. I find lots more good stuff to add to what I’ve already got. But when I try to use the printer, it whirrs and hums and then makes a sick noise.
Then silence.
I investigate the problem. A sheet of paper is caught in the rollers. I fiddle for ten minutes before I get it out. It’s deeply creased across the middle and I’ve torn the corner off, but you can still read it. The title at the top says Anaphylactic Shock and Wasp Stings.
I’m about to crumple it up and throw it in the wastepaper basket when I hesitate. Someone wanted it badly enough to print it.
Tully comes in from outside. He looks over my shoulder. I hold up the paper. “Is this yours?” I ask. “It’s something about wasp stings.”
“Not mine,” says Tully. “It must be Marion’s. She was using the computer a little while ago. Said she’d jammed the printer. I was just coming in to have a look at it.”
“I’ve fixed it,” I say.
Why would Marion be worried about wasps? I haven’t seen any around here. And what is ana—whatever—shock?
I read the first few sentences.
Anaphylactic shock is a severe allergic reaction that can be life threatening. On rare occasions complete respiratory failure and death can occur within seconds to minutes of exposure to the trigger. Common triggers are high-protein foods, such as shellfish and peanuts, and the venom of stinging insects, such as bumblebees and yellow jacket wasps.
Sounds lovely. I push the paper aside and sink back into the world of horses.
In the afternoon I help Tully clean the lodge. Dad’s working, Marion is out in the boat and Tully has chased the dogs outside, so we’re by ourselves. Classical music is blaring. I can hear it even over the roar of the vacuum cleaner. Beethoven, Tully tells me, but that means nothing to me. Though I have to admit I like it more than I thought I would.
I’m dusting, and every once in a while Tully turns the vacuum off to tell me a story about the object I’m dusting: a piece of pottery from Peru, a carved wooden elephant from India, a Venetian mask, a chess set with detailed figures shaped like pirates and British soldiers. It takes ten times as long to get the cleaning done, but I like Tully’s stories and I’m in no hurry.
When we’re finished, Tully asks me to take some freshly laundered towels to Marion’s cabin; after that I’m free, he says. The towels are stacked on top of the dryer. I pick out a bath towel, a couple of hand towels and a facecloth and head outside.
The blue boat is gone and nobody answers my knock on the door of cabin three. I glance out at the lake, but there’s no sign of Marion. The water is slate gray and a breeze ruffles the surface. The sky has clouded over and it looks like it might rain.
I knock again but no one answers. The door is unlocked, so I go inside. It’s the first time I’ve been in here since Marion came. The cabin is much smaller than ours. It has one main room with a kitchen sink, gas stove and mini-fridge at the end. There’s one bedroom and a tiny bathroom. Everything is so neat. You’d hardly know anyone was staying here, except for the book sitting on the table beside the armchair and a jacket hanging on a hook by the door.
I take the towels into the bathroom and set them down on the counter. It’s just as tidy in here. A toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste with one of those clip things on it sit in a drinking glass, a damp facecloth is folded over the edge of the sink, and the used towels are in the tub. I gather them up.
As I leave the cabin, something on the table beside the couch catches my eye. It’s a beautiful carved box—the only personal thing of Marion’s I’ve seen. It’s made of golden wood and has a piece of abalone shell embedded in the lid. It reminds me of something that Tully might have brought back from one of his trips.
I put the towels down and touch the abalone. It’s smooth, like silk. Curious, I pick up the box and lift the lid. Inside the box, a chain with a heart-shaped gold locket rests on a piece of white cloth. In the middle of the heart, a name is engraved in scrolly letters:
Livia
Eighteen
The thrum of a boat engine jerks me out of my state of shock. Quickly I close the lid and put the box down.
I grab the used towels, hurry out the front door of the cabin and wave at Marion, who’s almost back at the dock. “Clean towels,” I holler as I scurry up the path to the road.
I can’t talk to Marion right now.
I need to think.
I go back to our cabin and lie down on my bed. My head whirls. There can’t be more than one Livia. It’s just too big a coincidence.
I need to make some sense out of this. I get up and search for a piece of paper and a pen. I sit at the table and make a list of everything I know about Marion.
1. comes all the way from England
2. goes out in the boat every day—where?
3. possibly lied about friends being here ten years ago
4. what was she doing in the old abandoned cabin?
5. acted weird when we looked at old photographs
6. wasp stings?
7. gold locket with Livia’s name
I stare at my list for a long time. At the bottom I write:
<
br /> Who is Marion Wilson?
I fold the paper in half and put it in my pocket. I need to talk to Van.
It’s the first time I’ve taken one of the ranch boats to Van’s place by myself. The wind blows in my face the whole way and the boat struggles against the tiny waves that break against the bow. I’m worried that I’ll never get there.
Van meets me at the dock. I had told him over the phone about the gold locket, and he’s excited. “Grandma’s in the garden,” he says.
We find her kneeling on a foam mat, thinning carrots. She straightens her back when she sees us and says, “Hello, Thea.”
“Hi,” I say.
The first few drops of rain start to fall, spattering on the frilly green leaves of a mound of lettuce. May stands up stiffly. “I only do a couple of rows at a time. It keeps my hands in the dirt and that’s what I like.”
“Grandma,” says Van, “we want to ask you a few questions.”
“About that business with Livia Willard?” she says sharply, and I wonder how she guessed.
I nod my head.
“It’s best to let sleeping dogs lie,” says May.
“This could be important,” says Van.
May is silent for a moment. Finally she says, “All right, for a few minutes.”
We run to the house in the rain. May washes her hands at the kitchen sink. She takes a jug of lemonade out of the fridge and puts it on a round wooden table, along with three glasses. “Sit down,” she says.
We sit. “The family’s gone to town and Heb is asleep,” says May. She gives me a long steady gaze. “What is it you want to know, Thea?”
I swallow. I’m not sure where to begin. So I plunge right in. “This might be hard to remember, but did Livia have a gold necklace? A little heart with her name on it?”
May is still for a moment, and I imagine her reaching back into the past. She pours lemonade into the glasses. Her back is straight, her movements slow. Then she folds her strong brown hands together and says, “How did you know?”
I hesitate. I don’t want May to think I was snooping. I wasn’t. It was just that the box was so beautiful. So I tell her about the locket in Marion’s box.
“That’s extraordinary,” says May slowly. “I don’t understand it.”
“So Livia did have a necklace like that?” says Van.
“I haven’t thought of it for years,” says May. “It was a ridiculous thing for a little girl to have. Her father gave it to her. Livia was very proud that her name was on it. She came running to the kitchen to show me when they arrived that year. Esta and Iris never owned anything so pretty.”
“It doesn’t make sense,” says Van. “Why does Marion Wilson have Livia’s necklace?”
“Was Livia wearing the necklace when she disappeared?” I say.
“I can’t be certain,” says May, “but I think so. She never took it off, even when she went in the water.”
“There’s something else,” I say. “This is going to sound crazy, but do you remember anything about wasps that year?”
“Wasps?” May sounds uncertain. “No, nothing about wasps.”
“What do wasps have to do with this?” says Van.
I tell them about the paper Marion left in the printer.
A door shuts somewhere in the house. May says quickly, “Heb is awake. I don’t want him to hear any of this.” She reaches out and holds my hand. Her hand is steady, not shaking like mine. “Thea, you must tell me anything you find out,” she says quietly.
“I will,” I promise.
Van phones me late that night. I’m in bed, almost asleep. I’ve just talked to Chloe for an hour, mostly about horses. I roll over on my side, my cell phone cradled against my ear.
“The wasps,” says Van. “Grandma’s remembered.”
I’m wide awake now.
“She says there was a huge wasp nest above the door of the old cabin. She remembers that Livia’s mother knew about the wasp nest and had told the girls not to play there that summer. Grandma said that when they were searching for Livia, the cabin was one of the places they looked. She said the nest had been knocked down and wasps were swarming around.”
My spine prickles. “That printout of Marion’s has to mean something.”
“What did you say it was called—some kind of shock?” says Van.
“Anafa…latic or something like that.”
“I’ve never heard of that before,” says Van.
We talk for a while longer, but we don’t get anywhere. After we say good night, I lie awake for a long time. I’m convinced that the wasp nest is an important piece of the puzzle, but I have no idea where it fits.
Nineteen
It’s been raining hard all day. I brought a book over to the lodge this morning and have been curled up in an armchair most of the morning, reading. Tully is working on the computer in his office, designing a new website for the lodge, and Dad is laying a pine floor in cabin five. There has been no sign of Marion.
I put on a slicker and run out to the barn a few times, once to feed Renegade and the other times just to visit. He’s in his shelter, sleepy-eyed, but he nickers when he sees me. In the afternoon there’s a break between rain showers, but it doesn’t look like it will last. Tully takes the dogs for a walk. I go to our cabin and make myself a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch and then come back to the lodge to use the computer.
I hunt around in a pile of loose papers for the article on wasp stings but it’s gone.
I google wasp stings and anaphylactic shock, making a wild guess at the spelling. Google corrects my spelling, and I click on a few sites. This time I read the articles carefully, searching for clues.
One article calls anaphylactic shock an explosive overreaction of the body. It lists the symptoms: painful hives, swollen tongue, difficulty breathing, loss of blood pressure, unconsciousness, death.
I keep reading.
The insect responsible for the largest number of severe allergic reactions is the yellow jacket wasp.
Anaphylactic shock is usually caused by multiple stings.
Anaphylactic shock is more likely to occur in people who have asthma.
Although rare, death can occur within as little as five minutes.
Five minutes. I feel slightly sick. I tilt my chair back, thinking.
It’s pouring again. The rain is thundering on the metal roof. Tully comes back with the dogs, yelling at them to stay on the porch until they’re dry.
I stare at the computer screen. Asthma. I frown, reread that part. Anaphylactic shock is more likely to occur in people who have asthma. Why does that seem important? My brain is foggy with information. Finally I turn off the computer and take Tully up on his offer to make us some hot chocolate.
While I sip my hot chocolate, I hunt through the old guest book, studying the names of the guests who were at the ranch the same time as the Willards. Is it possible Marion’s family stayed at the ranch too, that Marion played with Esta and Iris? Is that how this all fits together? I imagine Marion as a little girl, finding the gold locket that Livia dropped somewhere and keeping it because it was so pretty. I check the names carefully, especially those that look like they were written by a child. But nowhere do I find the name Marion.
Later, when I call Van to tell him what I’ve learned, he says, “Thea, don’t you remember? Grandma told us. Livia had asthma.”
Marion doesn’t join us for dinner. Tully sends me over to see if she’s okay. She comes to the door of her cabin when I knock, wearing a dressing gown and blue slippers. She looks ill.
“It’s nothing,” she says. “A migraine headache, that’s all. But I don’t feel like eating.”
I don’t know how to act around Marion now. I felt like I knew her when we were working with Renegade. Almost like she was a friend. Now I realize that I don’t know her at all. “Can I bring you anything?” I say.
“I’ve got some canned soup. I’ll make that later. I’m sorry you’ve had to come all the way over h
ere in the rain.”
Marion wants me to go. I can see it in her eyes, which are glassy and filled with pain.
“If you’re sure then,” I say.
Marion closes the door, but I have the feeling that she’s watching me through the window as I run back to the lodge.
After dinner, I offer to do the dishes while Dad and Tully head over to cabin five in the rain to look at the new floor. The phone rings while I’m loading the dishwasher.
I pick it up on the third ring. “Double R Ranch,” I say. “Can I help you?”
A woman answers, her voice crisp. She has an English accent. “I’d like to speak with Marion Wilson, please.”
It’s the first time anyone has called for Marion. I wonder if I’m speaking to someone in London (the only place I can think of in England), although the connection is so clear the woman could be in the next room. I hesitate. I’m pretty sure this woman is calling long distance, but Marion made it clear that she wanted to be left alone.
“She doesn’t want to be disturbed,” I say. “She’s not feeling well. Maybe I could take a message.”
The woman is insistent. “It’s important that I talk to her.”
“Well…”
“It’s about her sister.” There is a pause and then she says, “It’s about Esta.”
Twenty
Of course I get Marion. She takes the call in the office. She has thrown a long red poncho over her dressing gown and she’s wearing a pair of gumboots. We’ve both left pools of water on the floor. Trembling, I wipe them up with an old towel. Marion has shut the office door. I can hear the murmur of her voice, but I can’t make out what she is saying.
I am reeling with shock. Esta is not a common name. Except for Esta Willard, I have never heard of anyone called Esta. So for one crazy second, when the woman on the phone said Marion’s sister was Esta, I thought that Marion was Livia. I don’t believe in ghosts but maybe—somehow—Livia miraculously survived whatever it was that happened almost sixty years ago.