by John Saul
As Michelle drew abreast of the cemetery, the bright afternoon sun faded. Fog began to form around her. She had grown used to it now, and was no longer surprised when the damp coldness suddenly closed in around her, blotting out the rest of the world, leaving her alone in the mist. She knew she wouldn’t be alone long: when the fog came, so did Amanda. Michelle was beginning to look forward to the fog, look forward to seeing her friend.
There she was, coming toward her out of the cemetery, smiling to her, and waving.
“Hi,” Michelle called.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” Amanda said as she came through the broken fence. “Was it as bad as we thought it would be?”
“Yes. They laughed at me, and kept whispering to each other.”
“It’s all right,” Amanda said. “I’ll walk with you and you can show me things.”
“Can’t you see things yourself?”
Amanda’s milky white eyes fixed on Michelle’s face. “I can’t see anything,” she said, “unless I’m with you.” Michelle took Amanda’s hand and started along the path. For some reason, she noticed, it was easier to walk with Amanda next to her. Her hip didn’t hurt nearly as much, and she hardly limped at all.
Amanda led her across the cemetery and along the bluff trail. Soon they arrived at the Pendletons’, and Michelle instinctively started toward the house.
“No,” Amanda said. Michelle felt Amanda’s grip on her hand tighten. “The potting-shed. What I want to see is in the potting-shed.” Michelle hesitated, then, her curiosity aroused, allowed Amanda to lead her toward her mother’s studio.
Amanda led Michelle around the corner of the little building, and stopped at the window.
“Look inside,” she whispered to Michelle.
Obediently, Michelle peered through the window.
The fog, thick around her, seemed to have permeated the studio as well. There was a mistiness inside; everything was indistinct.
And nothing looked quite right.
Her mother’s easel was there, but the painting propped up on it was not her mother’s.
Michelle stared at the painting for a second, then a movement caught her eye, and her glance shifted. There were people in the studio, but she couldn’t see them clearly. The mists swirled around them, and their faces were invisible to her.
Then Michelle heard the sounds.
It was Amanda, next to her.
“It’s true,” Amanda whispered, her voice constricted into a hiss. “She’s a whore … a whore!”
Michelle’s eyes widened in fright at the anger in her friend’s voice. She tried to pull her hand from Amanda’s grip, but Amanda hung on.
“Don’t!” she begged. “Don’t pull away! Let me see! I have to see!”
Her face twisted in fury, and her grip on Michelle’s hand became painful.
Suddenly Michelle wrenched free. She backed away from Amanda, and as their hands parted, Amanda’s sightless gaze fixed on her.
“Don’t,” she repeated. “Please? Don’t go away. Let me see. I’m your friend, and I’m going to help you. Won’t you help me, too?”
But Michelle had already turned away. She started toward the house. The fog seemed to lift a little.
By the time she reached the house the mist had cleared.
But her limp had slowed her nearly to a stop, and her hip was once more throbbing with pain.
CHAPTER 14
Michelle let the kitchen door slam noisily behind her, dumped her bookbag on the table, and went to the refrigerator. She was terribly conscious of her mother watching her, and struggled to control the trembling of her hands. It wasn’t until she had poured herself a glass of milk that June spoke to her.
“Michelle? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” Michelle replied. She put the milk back into the refrigerator, and smiled at her mother.
June regarded her daughter cautiously. Something was wrong. She looked frightened. But what could have frightened her? June had watched her come along the path, hesitate for a moment, then continue on to the studio, where she had paused briefly at the window. When she had started toward the house, it was as if she had seen something.
“What were you looking at?”
“Looking at?” June was almost sure Michelle was stalling for time.
“In the studio. I saw you looking through the studio window.”
“But you couldn’t—” Michelle began. Then she caught herself, and glanced out the window.
The sun was shining brightly.
The fog was gone.
“Nothing,” Michelle said. “I was just looking to see if you were working.”
“Mmm,” June said noncommittally. Then: “How did it go at school?”
“All right.” Michelle finished her glass of milk and struggled to her feet, her hip throbbing. She picked up her bookbag and started toward the butler’s pantry.
“I thought you might bring Sally home with you this afternoon,” June suggested.
“She—she had some things she had to do,” Michelle lied. “Besides, I wanted to walk by myself.”
“You mean Jeff didn’t even walk with you?”
“He did for a while. He walked Susan Peterson home, then caught up with me.”
June looked sharply at Michelle. There was something her daughter wasn’t telling her. Michelle’s face was guileless. And yet June was positive she was hiding something, holding something back. “You’re sure nothing went wrong?” she pressed.
“It was fine, Mother.” There was a hint of irritation in Michelle’s voice, so June decided to drop the subject.
“Want to help me with the bread?”
Michelle considered it for a moment, then shook her head. “I’ve got a lot to catch up on. I think I’d better go up to my room.”
June let her go, then returned to her bread dough. As she worked, her eyes drifted outside to the studio.
What was it? What did she see in there? Something that frightened her, I’m sure of it. She pulled her fingers loose from the dough, wiped them off on her apron, then left the house. Whatever Michelle had seen, it must still be in the studio.…
Michelle closed her bedroom door, and sank onto the bed. She wondered if she should have told her mother about the people in the studio. But something had told her not to. What she had seen was a secret. A secret between her and Amanda. But it had been scary. Even as she remembered it, a shiver went through her body.
She got up from the bed and went to the window seat, picking up the doll that was propped there. She raised the doll to eye level, and gazed into its china face.
“What do you want, Amanda?” she asked softly. “What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to show me things,” the voice whispered in her ear. “I want you to show me things, and be my friend.”
“But what do you want to see? How can I show you things if I don’t know what you want to see?”
“I want to see things that happened a long time ago. Things I could never see then … I’ve been waiting for you for so long—for a while I didn’t think I’d ever be able to see. I tried. I tried to get other people to show me, but they never could. And then you came …”
The whispering was interrupted by a sound.
“What’s that?” the voice whispered.
“Just Jenny. She’s crying.” From the nursery down the hall, the wails of the baby increased. Michelle waited a moment, sure she would hear her mother’s tread on the stairs. Then the voice whispered to her again.
“Show her to me.”
“The baby?”
“I want to see her.”
Jennifer’s cries had turned into a squalling sob. Michelle went to the door.
“Mom?” There was no response.
“Mom, Jenny’s crying!” When there was still no response, Michelle started down the hall toward the nursery. She was sure Amanda was with her, beside her: though she could see nothing, she could feel a presence. She decided she liked that feeling
.
She opened the door to the nursery. Jennifer’s cries were suddenly louder. Michelle picked up the crying baby, cradling it against her chest as she had been taught by her mother.
“Isn’t she beautiful?” she whispered to Amanda.
“Do something to her,” Amanda whispered back.
“Do something? Why?”
“She’s like the others … she’s not your friend …”
“She’s my sister,” Michelle protested uncertainly.
“No, she isn’t,” Amanda told her. “She’s their daughter, not your sister. They love her, not you.”
“That isn’t true.”
“It is true. You know it’s true. You have to do something.” The whisper became intense, urging Michelle, commanding her.
She looked down into the face of the baby, saw Jenny’s tiny features, grimacing with unhappiness, and suddenly, unreasonably, she wanted to squeeze her, wanted to make her stop crying, wanted to punish her.
Her arms tightened, and she pressed Jennifer against her chest.
Jennifer’s screams took on a note of pain.
Michelle squeezed harder. Jenny’s cries seemed to fade away, and the sound of Amanda’s voice grew louder.
“That’s right,” the voice crooned in her ear. “Harder. Squeeze her harder …”
Jenny’s eyes began to bulge in her head, and her little arms flailed as she tried to breathe. The wailing was growing softer, turning into a whimper.
“Just a little more …” the voice whispered.
And then June appeared at the nursery door. “Michelle? Michelle, what’s happening?”
It was as if a switch had been turned. The voice in Michelle’s head was gone. She stared first at her mother, then down into Jennifer’s face. She realized she was squeezing the baby, squeezing it so hard, she was hurting it. She relaxed the pressure. Jennifer suddenly stopped crying and gasped a little. The slight bluish cast to her skin faded, and her eyes seemed to ease back to a normal position. “I—I heard her crying,” Michelle said. “When you didn’t come up, I came in to see what was wrong. All I did was pick her up …”
June took Jenny, who had once more begun to sob, and cuddled her against her breast.
“I was out in the studio. I couldn’t hear her. But it’s all right now.” She stroked the crying Jennifer, and made soothing noises. “I’ll take care of her,” she told Michelle. “You go on back to your room. Okay?”
For a moment, Michelle hesitated. She didn’t want to go back to her room. She wanted to stay here, with her mother and her sister.
Amanda’s voice came back to her, reminding her that Jennifer was not her sister. And this woman was not her mother. Not really. Her mind filled with confused images and thoughts, Michelle limped out of the nursery, made her way down the hall to her room.
She lay on the bed, cradling her doll in her arms, staring at the ceiling.
It was all starting to make sense to her now.…
Amanda was right.
She was alone.
Except for Amanda.
Amanda was her friend.
“I love you,” she whispered to the doll. “I love you more than anything in the world.”
When Cal came home that afternoon June was sitting in the kitchen, holding Jennifer on her lap, gazing out at the sea. He paused at the kitchen door, and watched them. The indirect light of the afternoon cast a soft glow over them, and for a moment Cal was overwhelmed by the beauty of the scene—the mother and child, his wife and daughter, with the window and the cove beyond framing them almost like a halo. But when June turned to face him, his feeling of well-being was shattered.
“Sit down, Cal. I have to talk to you.” He didn’t need to be told that she wanted to talk about Michelle.
“Something’s wrong,” June began. “It’s more than her limp, and God knows that’s bad enough. Something happened at school today, or after school. She wouldn’t tell me what, but it frightened her.”
“Well, it was her first day back—” Cal began, but June didn’t let him finish.
“There’s more. I was out in the studio this afternoon, working. I heard Jenny crying, and when I went up to take care of her, Michelle was there. She was holding Jenny, and she had the strangest look on her face. As if she wasn’t aware of what was going on. And she was squeezing Jenny.…” Her voice trailed off, the memory of the afternoon still vivid in her mind.
Cal remained silent for a moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was strained.
“What are you trying to say? You think something’s wrong with Michelle?”
“We know something’s wrong with her,” June began, but this time Cal didn’t let her finish.
“She fell, and she got bruised, and she’s missed some school. But she’s getting better every day.”
“She’s not getting better. You wish she were, but if you’d spend some time with her, you’d see that she’s not the same girl she used to be.” Against her will, June’s voice began to rise. “Something’s happening to her, Cal. She’s turning into a recluse, spending all her time by herself with that damned doll, and I want to know why. And as for you, you’re going to spend some time with her, Cal. You’re going to go with me when I take her to school tomorrow, and you’re going to go with me when I pick her up. And in the evenings, you’re going to stop burying yourself in Jenny and your journals, and start paying some attention to Michelle, Is that clear?”
Cal stood up, his face dark, his eyes brooding. “Let me handle my life my own way, all right?”
“It’s not your life,” June shot back. “It’s my life, and Michelle’s life, and Jenny’s life, tool I’m sorry about everything that’s happened, and I wish I could help you. But my God, Cal, what about Michelle? She’s a little girl and she needs us. We have to be there for her. Both of us!”
But Cal didn’t hear her last words. He had already left the kitchen, hurrying down the hall to the living room, where he closed the door behind him, poured himself a drink, and tried to shut out his wife’s words, accusing him, forever accusing him.
But the words would not be shut out.
He would have to prove her wrong.
Prove to her, and to himself, that everything was fine, that Michelle was all right. That he was all right.
That evening, after dinner, Michelle appeared in the living room, her chess set tucked under her arm. “Daddy?”
Cal was sitting in his chair, reading a journal, while June sat opposite him, knitting. He made himself smile at his daughter. “Hmmm?”
“Want to play a game?” She rattled the box of chessmen.
Cal was about to beg off, when June shot him a look of warning. “Okay,” he said without enthusiasm. “Set it up while I get a drink.”
Michelle carefully lowered herself to the floor, her left leg sticking out awkwardly, and began setting up the chessboard. By the time her father returned, she had already made her first move. Cal settled himself on the floor.
Michelle waited.
He seemed to be studying the board, but Michelle wasn’t sure. Finally, she spoke.
“It’s your move, Daddy.”
“Oh. Sorry.” Automatically, Cal reached out to counter Michelle’s opening. She frowned slightly and wondered what was wrong with her father’s game. Tentatively, she began setting him up for a fool’s mate.
Again, Cal sat silently staring at the board, sipping his drink, until Michelle reminded him that it was his move. When he made his play, Michelle looked up at him in astonishment Didn’t he see what she was up to? He’d never let her get away with this before. She advanced her queen.
June put her knitting aside, and came to look at the board. Seeing Michelle’s strategy, she winked at her daughter, then waited for Cal to spoil the gambit. But Cal didn’t seem aware of what was happening.
“Cal? It’s your move.”
He made no response.
“I don’t think he cares,” Michelle said quietly. Cal didn’t appear to hear her
. “Daddy,” she said, “if you don’t want to play, you don’t have to.”
“What?” Cal came out of his reverie, and reached out to make a move. Michelle, tempted by his lack of concentration, quickly set her trap and waited for her father to slip out of it. He’d been baiting her, she was sure of it. Now he’d come up with something smart, and the real fight would begin. She began to look forward to the rest of the game.
But Cal only drained his drink, listlessly made a useless move, and shrugged as Michelle slid her queen into position and announced the checkmate. “Set ’em up, and we’ll do it again,” he offered.
“Why?” Michelle asked. She stared at her father, her eyes stormy. “It isn’t any fun if you aren’t even going to try!” Quickly, she tossed the chessmen back in the box, struggled to her feet, and went upstairs.
As soon as she was gone, June spoke. “I suppose I should give you credit for trying. Even if you didn’t look at her, talk to her, or react to her, at least you sat across from her. How did it feel?”
Cal made no reply.
CHAPTER 15
Cal sat in his car for a long time after Michelle had disappeared into the school building. He watched the other children arriving, sturdy, healthy children, skipping through the autumn morning, laughing among themselves.
Or were they laughing at him?
He could see them glancing over at him every now and then. Sally Carstairs even waved to him. But then they would turn away, giggling and whispering among themselves, as if they somehow knew how frightened he was of them. But they couldn’t know. They were only children, and he was a doctor. Someone to be trusted, and admired.
It was a sham, all of it. He neither trusted nor admired himself, and he was sure they knew it; he knew all about children’s instincts—their ability to pick up the vibrations around them. Even tiny babies, carefully shielded from reality, react to tension between their parents. These children, the children whose health he was supposed to be responsible for—what did they think of him? Did they know what he was really like?
Did they know he was afraid of them?
Did they know that fear was turning to hatred?
He was sure they did.