How to Disappear Completely

by Ali Standish

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, it’s just for her dad. Not for Edie or her mom.”

  My mouth drops open. Is that why Mom rolled up the blueprints so quickly this morning? “You mean her dad is leaving them?”

  “He already has,” Mom says. “He’s living in an apartment until the house is done. Something about the demands of his career being too much to balance with a family.”

  “That’s awful,” I murmur, picturing Edie red-eyed in the bathroom last week. Now I understand why she was crying. I would be, too. I can’t imagine how terrible it would make me feel if Mom or Dad decided that I was “too much to balance.”

  “Yes, it is,” says Mom. “If Edie has been bullying you, this doesn’t excuse it, but it might help explain it. It might help you see that it’s got nothing to do with you.”

  “It’s because she’s so unhappy,” I say.

  “And misery loves company,” Mom replies. “You’re pretty smart for a kid your age, you know that? Smart and resilient. I’m so proud of you, Emma. If you ever doubt that again, all you have to do is ask, and I’ll be here to remind you.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” I murmur.

  She puts the car in drive.

  “Hey, Mom? One more thing. Can Fina come over after school tomorrow? We have, um, a project we’re supposed to work on.”

  “Sure,” says Mom. And as we pull away, I can’t help but feel guilty. Guilty for lying to Mom about tomorrow after she told me the truth about Edie.

  But not quite guilty enough to take the lie back.

  42

  The sun is already starting to go down by the time Fina, Mom, and I pull into the driveway of Morning Glory Cottage the next afternoon. My foot has been tapping against the floor the whole way. All day, all I’ve been able to think about is finally meeting Madeline Mitchell.

  As soon as we get in the door, I tell Mom that Fina and I are going to walk Boomer.

  “I thought you had a project to work on?” Mom asks.

  “Fresh air is good for the mind, Mrs. Talbot,” Fina says innocently.

  “Well, don’t stay out too long,” Mom says, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “Dinner is in an hour or so.”

  Fina and I walk along High Street, where golden light spills out from the windows of the houses and into the purple afternoon.

  When we come to the bend in the road where the church is, we break into a run, sprinting past the orchard and the farm fields until we come to Briar Hollow Lane.

  “Looks creepy,” Fina murmurs, staring down the narrow, gravel road with piles of dead leaves strewn across it. “I wish we’d come when it was lighter.”

  “Do you want to go back?” I ask, even though I really hope she says no.

  “Are you kidding? No way. And Boomer will keep us safe, won’t you, boy?”

  Boomer looks up, wagging his tail. Fina and I link arms and start walking. The only sounds are the leaves crunching underneath our feet and Boomer panting happily. The farther we walk, the harder he pulls.

  We don’t talk much. I wonder if Fina’s heart is thumping in her chest like mine. If she is also thinking about Jack and Sarah stealing through the hobgoblin king’s castle, looking for a way to the dungeons to free the fairy princess.

  Though each corner in the corridor, each flight of steps, brought with it the possibility of new dangers, the children carried on. They had come with a mission, and they would leave with a princess.

  After what feels like miles, we round a curve in the road and gasp.

  A huge house looms in front of us. There’s just enough light left in the sky to tell that it’s white. It’s three stories, or four if you count the turret that points into the sky. There’s a dim glow on in one of the first-story rooms, but that’s it.

  This was a house that was built for a big family. For Christmases and birthday parties and summers packed with distant relatives. And now it’s practically empty. You can tell by its wobbly silhouette that it’s in bad shape, too.

  It’s like a beautiful cake baked for a wedding that never happened. And now it’s been left to slowly crumble away.

  “I can’t believe I didn’t know this was here,” I whisper.

  “I can’t believe one little old lady lives there by herself,” Fina replies.

  As we get closer, we see the house is surrounded by a foreboding iron fence. But the gates leading from the drive are open.

  “Almost like she’s expecting company,” Fina says, staring at me with moon-wide eyes. “Just like you said.”

  “I guess we should go knock,” I say. With every tiptoed step we take, my legs feel more unsteady. My palms are sweating inside my gloves. But I make myself keep going. I have to know why Madeline’s been writing to me. To know what she does about Gram.

  Holding hands and breathing nervous puffs of frost into the night, we make our way onto the porch. Boomer’s tail starts going nuts when we step up to the door.

  “Together,” Fina whispers, and each of us raises a hand and knocks gently.

  My heart is beating so hard it actually hurts. I hold my breath, waiting for the door to creak open.

  But it doesn’t.

  “Madeline?” I call after a moment. “It’s Emma Talbot. I just want to talk about my gram.”

  Nothing.

  I knock again, more firmly this time. “Madeline?”

  When there’s still no answer, I stand on my toes and look through the frosted windowpane in the door—the only window in the whole house that doesn’t have blinds over it.

  And what I see sends a bolt of fear through me.

  “Fina,” I say, “look. On the floor.”

  She stands on tiptoe next to me, drawing in a sharp gasp as she takes in the trail of red leading up to the door. “Oh, my god,” she whispers. “That looks like . . . blood.”

  I try the handle, but it’s locked. “Come on,” I say, taking Fina’s hand and leading her off the porch. “There’s got to be another way in.”

  43

  We stumble around the side of the house. But when we reach the back, we find that the yard is enclosed within a brick wall. I assume it’s brick, anyway. It’s hard to see with all the ivy growing over it.

  “Look!” Fina says. “There’s a door!”

  I squint through the dim light to see she’s right. You can just see a little iron ring that must be a handle. We both grab it at the same time and pull, then push. The door stays firmly shut.

  Fina turns in a circle and points at an oak tree behind us. “I bet you I can climb that,” she says. “And see that branch? It goes right over the wall. I can probably get across it and jump down.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask. “Maybe we should call the police.”

  But Fina is already climbing into the low branches of the tree. I start after her, but she looks down at me and shakes her head. “You stay here, and I’ll open the door,” she says. “I don’t know if the branch can hold both of us.”

  So I stand there, biting my lip as she clambers onto the branch and sits down, then begins to scooch across it until she’s reached the other side of the wall. “What do you see?” I ask.

  “A garden,” she says. “Hold on.”

  Then she takes hold of the branch with both hands and slides off it.

  CRACK!

  “Fina!” I yelp at the same time I hear her cry out in fear or maybe in pain. The broken branch snaps back up without her.

  “Fina, are you okay?” I call. From the other side of the wall, she lets out a sob in answer. “Hold on! I’m coming!”

  I push with all my weight against the door, but it won’t budge.

  Then Boomer and I are sprinting around, looking for another way in. It’s so dark now and there’s so much ivy that I don’t know if I would be able to see another door even if there was one.

  You have to find a way in! a voice in my head screams. Fina is hurt! Madeline might be, too!

  But I run the whole way around the wall without seeing another way in. I t
urn back, planning to look again, to start tearing at the ivy if I have to, but Boomer doesn’t budge. “Not now, Boomer!” I cry, pulling at his leash. “Come on!”

  Instead, though, he lifts a paw to scratch at the wall. I pull back the curtain of ivy where he’s scratching and see moonlight shining off another door handle.

  “Good job, boy!” I say, taking hold of the handle.

  I pull. It doesn’t budge.

  Then I push, and the door swings open.

  Even though it’s dark and nothing is blooming, I know the garden I’m standing in is extraordinarily beautiful.

  In the corner closest to the door I came in, there is an ancient double swing-set covered in rose vines. Two oaks stand like twin guardians by the back wall, and between them is a greenhouse. At the center of the garden is a sunken lily pond with little mossy stairs that curve all the way around it.

  I realize I’ve seen the lily pond before. This garden is the one I didn’t recognize—from Gram’s unfinished painting. So she’s been here, and I bet Boomer has, too. That’s how he knew about the door.

  Fina is nowhere to be seen.

  “Fina!” I call quietly. “Fina, where are you?”

  I turn to see the back door of the house hanging open, and my thoughts suddenly go wild. I think of Hansel and Gretel being lured to the witch’s house to be eaten.

  What if this is a trick, too? What if Madeline Mitchell has done something with Fina?

  I guess I’m about to find out.

  I head for the door, my fingers tightening into nervous fists. Boomer trots in behind me.

  The first thing that hits me when I step inside is the smell. Cooked apples.

  I take another step. The furniture is old, but it looks well taken care of. The curved wooden arms of the delicate sofas shine with polish. The walls are covered in old paintings and photographs. There’s no sign of Fina here, or anyone else, for that matter.

  I force myself to keep going, to walk through to the next room—a dining room with a table big enough for me to lie flat on and spread my arms wide and still not touch any of the corners—and then find myself in the kitchen, where the counters are completely covered with jars and jars of homemade jam. There’s a steaming pot on the stove, and I bet anything there are apples in it.

  I move on to the front hall, and see what was spilled across the floor.

  Not blood. More jam, and shards of glittering glass strewn across the tile.

  “Fina?” I whisper again.

  I’m just about to try the next room when something on the little table by the front door catches my eye. I do a double take.

  The name itself isn’t a shock. I’ve known it for years, after all. But I have no idea what it would be doing here, in this house, atop that table, typed on a crisp white envelope.

  I pick the envelope up and study it.

  Getty Publishing Group

  195 Broadway

  New York, NY 10007

  R. M. Wildsmith

  PO Box 47

  Lanternwood, NC 27660

  Before I can stop myself, I pull a letter from the envelope, which has already been opened.

  Dear Mr. Wildsmith,

  I hope this letter finds you well. I am writing one last time on behalf of all of us here at Getty to express our hope that you will allow us to move forward with the fiftieth-anniversary edition of THE WORLD AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL. As you know, sales for the book have been modest the last ten years, and we believe this edition will bring your story to a whole new generation of readers who will treasure it as so many have done before them.

  I know you are a very private individual, but perhaps we could speak on the phone at your earliest convenience? I am available to you at the number below, night or day.

  Warmly (and a bit desperately),

  Alexandra Homer

  Head of Editorial, Getty Publishing Group

  195 Broadway

  New York, NY 10007

  ahomer@getty.com

  212-555-9191

  44

  I feel a long breath leave my body as I quickly thumb through the rest of the envelopes on the table. They are all the same—all addressed to R. M. Wildsmith, all from the Getty Publishing Group.

  But what are they doing here?

  “Emma,” croaks a voice.

  I whirl around.

  Madeline Mitchell is standing behind me. Boomer’s tail goes crazy again, and he wags his way over to her. She gives him a stiff pat on the head. Of course if he’s been here, he must have met her before.

  I’m still holding the letter in my hand. “Ms. Mitchell,” I say. I mean to let it go, but my grip around the sheet of paper only tightens. “I didn’t—I don’t— Where’s Fina?”

  Her gaze lands on the letter. I’ve seen her before, of course, but I’ve never really seen her until now. The sunken cheeks and blue-gray eyes, the wispy eyebrows and silver hair, the shoulders knotted around her ears.

  “You’d better come with me,” she says finally, without even looking at me. Her voice comes as a shock. Like hearing a painting speak. “Watch your step. I’m afraid I—I was startled to see you and your friend walking up the drive.”

  She gestures to the broken glass, then turns around and disappears through a dark doorway.

  After a second’s hesitation, I follow her through another kind of living room and into a study. A bright fireplace sends light dancing over the shelves and shelves of books stacked every possible way. The room is filled with the smell of their pages.

  A big chair is in front of the fireplace, and nestled up in it is Fina. Her left foot is propped on a stool with a bag of frozen peas over her ankle.

  “Emma!” she says, sitting up when she sees me.

  “You’re okay,” I say breathlessly, rushing over to her. “I heard you yell, and by the time I found a way in—”

  “Madeline brought me in,” Fina says. “She was just going to find you. She thinks I sprained my ankle.”

  “That’s all?” I ask. “I thought you were really hurt or something.”

  Fina makes a face. “It does hurt.”

  “Would you like a s-seat?” Madeline asks quietly, gesturing toward a chair on the other side of the hearth. She still doesn’t quite look at me when she speaks. Her voice rattles like a cold wind blowing the last of the autumn leaves from the treetops.

  “Okay,” I say uncertainly.

  I can’t tell if she’s angry or not. She seems more nervous than anything. Her hands chase each other in circles on her lap as she takes a wooden rocking chair in the darkest corner of the study. Boomer circles around the room once, then lies down next to her.

  Isn’t she going to say anything about the fact that she just caught me reading mail that wasn’t mine? Or that Fina and I broke into her garden?

  I pass the letter to Fina before I sit, giving her a meaningful look. She glances down, and her eyes widen as she starts to read. And then, for a long, extremely uncomfortable minute, no one says a thing. The fire crackles.

  “Um,” Fina says finally, holding up the letter, “what is this?”

  “Why do you have R. M. Wildsmith’s mail?” I ask.

  Madeline leans forward just far enough so her face is lit in the orange glow of the fire.

  “I think you can put it together,” she rasps.

  And she’s right.

  Madeline Mitchell suddenly transforms. She is not the Apple Lady anymore. She never has been. All along, she has been the fairy queen in beggar’s clothes.

  “You’re R. M. Wildsmith?” Fina asks. “You wrote The World at the End of the Tunnel?”

  Madeline flinches, like a spark from the fire has just landed on her skin. She begins to rock, back and forth, back and forth. “The answer to your first question is yes, technically speaking, I am R. M. Wildsmith. Or as close as anyone alive could be. The answer to the second is more complicated.”

  “But I thought R. M. Wildsmith was a man,” Fina says.

  “People are good at
assuming things,” Madeline says quietly.

  “But you didn’t correct them,” I reply. “You never told anyone who you were?”

  “No.”

  A thought strikes me like lightning. “Gram,” I murmur, thinking of the hours and hours we spent together reading The World at the End of the Tunnel. “Did she know the truth?”

  Madeline Mitchell does the weird, flinchy thing again. Then she gives a bark of humorless laughter. “Know the truth?” she says. “She is the truth.”

  Fina and I glance at each other. “Is that some kind of riddle?” she asks. “I mean, we know you two were friends.”

  Madeline’s lips pucker. For the first time, she looks at me. Just for a second. “Friends,” she repeats, as if testing out whether her tongue can form the word. “Yes, I suppose we were. I am—I’m sorry for your loss, Emma. Your grandmother was a good woman. The best I ever knew.”

  “She’s been reading me your book ever since I can remember,” I say. “But she never said anything about you.”

  “She was protecting me.”

  “From what? Why didn’t you want me to know? Why do you hide away from everyone?”

  Madeline pulls a quilt from the back of the chair and wraps it around her frail frame. She doesn’t say anything for another long minute. Instead, she gazes at the patterns of light on the ceiling until her eyes seem to mist over. I’m just starting to wonder if she’s, you know, all there when she looks down at me again. The fire sparkles in her eyes.

  “Your face,” she says. “You have vitiligo?”

  I feel my body give a little jerk. What does my vitiligo have to do with anything?

  “Um, yes?”

  “Why does that matter?” Fina asks, scowling.

  “I wondered. Your story. Ivy slowly disappearing into the snow. It seemed too much of a coincidence. I assume it started to spread after your gram died?”

  I nod slowly. Goose bumps creep up my arms. How does she know that?

  “I think—I think I’ll tell you a story of my own now,” Madeline says. “Yes, I think it’s what she would want.”

  “You mean Gram?”

  Madeline ignores me. She keeps rocking backward and forward in her chair. Backward and forward. “I know what people say about me, you know. They call me odd. Strange. Crazy. When I was a girl, the names weren’t any nicer. I’ve never liked people, you see. Never understood them.