“Not now,” Wilfred said. “Thee’ll upset our guest.”
“The toast —” Alyssa gestured helplessly toward the stove.
But Frances was wriggling down from Deborah’s arms. She ran to Wilfred instead. “Pick me up!” she insisted. “That horrid, wicked rooster bited me.” Then she squealed with laughter as her biggest brother swooped her up almost to the ceiling.
“He can’t peck thee now,” Herbert announced smugly.
Deborah shot Alyssa a knowing look. “I’ll get Eva,” she said.
Wisps of smoke leaked through the cracks around the oven door.
“’Moke! ’Moke!” little Charles cried, pointing.
“Who’s in charge of the toast?” Wilfred asked.
Helplessly, Alyssa looked around for oven mitts. Nothing — no oven mitts, nothing recognizable as a pot-holder. Grabbing a dish towel, she opened the heavy oven door. Choking smoke billowed into her face.
“Pee-yew!” Herbert said.
The dish towel was too thin, and searing pain lanced her hand. Alyssa sagged onto her knees, trying to keep the blackened toast from sliding onto the floor, but several slices skittered away. Tears blurred her vision. She sat there on the wooden floor, protecting her burned hand against her middle.
“I’ll help thee,” said a quiet voice. Wilfred knelt beside her, gathering up the evidence of the disaster.
The fiery pain didn’t ease up. Looking at her hand, Alyssa saw angry blisters forming on her fingertips and on the webbing between her hand and thumb. She sniffled and pressed her trembling lips together. “Is there any more bread?” she asked.
“Never mind,” Wilfred said. “This will scrape off. Herbert!” he ordered. “Scrape the toast. Alyssa’s burnt her hand.”
Herbert looked at her hand. “Ow,” he said sympathetically. “Thee needs some butter on that. That’s what Mama always says.”
Butter? An ice cube was more like it — and Vitamin E, or maybe aloe plant goo. Why couldn’t she be at home, where people knew what to do, and everything wasn’t so hard? Alyssa gave in to the tears, shuddering as somebody smeared greasy butter on all the places that hurt. Friendly hands guided her to a chair at the table. “Where’s Susannah?” Frances’s piercing voice hurt her head. Then, a shriek, accompanied by the sound of small, stomping feet: “Herbert! Don’t sit on Susannah!”
“Just shut up!” Luckily no one seemed to hear her, in the noise. Her teeth clenched. “Can’t thee ever —” Realizing what she’d just said, Alyssa squeezed her eyes shut, trying to tune everything out.
Breakfast started in a way that was eerily familiar — everyone holding hands for a silent grace. Deborah thoughtfully didn’t clasp Alyssa’s burned hand. After that it was an overload of newness with so many people eating at once, and food that was nothing like the granola, dry cereal, or waffles Alyssa was accustomed to. And a greasy hand that hurt too much to hold a spoon comfortably. Alyssa squeezed her elbows close to her sides, surrounded by moving arms and chattering voices. The milk was warm — straight from a cow, she realized. Then everybody was done, and she was still nibbling at her burned toast, and her hand still hurt. The homemade apple preserve was tasty, but not the sort of thing she usually had with toast. Behind her, somebody started scraping dishes.
The bigger boys trooped outside with their father. Deborah was talking to Eva about needing boiling water. Little Charles scooted past, rolling an empty wooden spool. “Susannah, Susannah, Susannah,” Frances crooned in a shrill, lilting voice. Alyssa rested her tired head on the table and wished she were home. No dizzy spell conveniently whisked her away.
“Alyssa.” Deborah’s hand touched her shoulder. “Could thee please hold the door open? Eva and I have to carry this pot outside.”
Feeling guilty, she looked up. A huge steaming pot sat on the stove. It was so big.… How could Eva and Deborah possibly manage it? “I’ll help carry it,” she said, standing up.
“No,” Deborah insisted. “Thy hand’s already hurt, and thee can’t afford another accident. Just hold the door.”
Another accident? Was that how they all thought about her? Alyssa bit her lip hard and did what she’d been asked. Outside, the two other girls set the heavy pot on a low weather-beaten table.
Flossie came running to greet them. She had something in her mouth. Before Alyssa had a chance to see what it was, the dog looped around to sniff at Herbert — or, rather, what he was carrying. Herbert strode over and dumped a bundle that looked like brownish feathers into the steaming pot. A soggy, musty smell rose into the air. “Look at him now!” Herbert said triumphantly. “Mean old thing finally got what he deserved.” He made a hacking sound.
Deborah sighed and began prodding at the thing with a stick.
A yellow claw lay on the grass. In the pot, a curved black feather rose to the surface. Alyssa’s stomach lurched.
Herbert staggered around, laughing. “Rooster stew!” he hooted. “Tough old rooster stew!”
“Here, Flossie,” Eva called.
The black-and-white dog came obligingly. But when Eva reached out to her, Flossie snarled and backed off, tail still wagging. Whatever she had in her mouth was terribly important to her. “Thee’s horrid,” Eva said.
Something red dangled from the side of the dog’s mouth. As Alyssa watched, it slid onto the grass. Flossie put her foot on top of it, guarding her prize — but not before Alyssa had seen the chewed, now-eyeless brown head of the rooster, with its yellow beak and red, bloody wattles.
Dizzying nausea roared through her. Alyssa sagged forward and vomited into blackness.
There was a collision. A shriek. And a soft surface.
Humiliated, Alyssa wiped her mouth, too late remembering the burns on her hand. Something — butter, she remembered — smeared across her cheek. In her lap —in her skirt — was a mess containing unmistakable bits of burned toast and oatmeal.
“Alyssa! Where were you?”
It was Rachel. She was back on the bed in Rachel’s room, where she’d been when she looked at the photograph.
A convulsive sob wracked her. “Rachel,” she wailed. “I’m sorry! This mess … How can I ever tell thee what —”
“I’ll get Mom,” Rachel interrupted. “She is completely, absolutely, freaked.” She headed for the door. “What do you mean, ‘ever tell the what?’”
The vomit had soaked through the front of Deborah’s dress. Alyssa shuddered. “How can I ever tell thee … oh …” She was saying “thee” again.
Rachel crinkled her nose. “The … secret? The … answer? Finish your sentence!” It was obvious that she’d been crying.
“Tell you.” Alyssa wiped her unhurt hand on the folds of the skirt. Poor Deborah; this was her second-best dress. Would she ever get it back?
Rachel stood there impatiently. “Where’d you get that dress?” she asked. “What happened to your pajamas? Where did you go?”
“The picture!” Panicked, Alyssa fumbled for it. If she’d barfed on the picture … Thank goodness — it was facing down.
Lori appeared in the doorway. “Alyssa, honey!” She crossed the room and gathered Alyssa into a hug, dress, vomit, and all. “We’ve been terrified.”
Alyssa sagged against Lori. It felt so good to be hugged. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “It’s hard to explain.”
“It’s three in the morning,” Rachel said. “Your dad’s looking for you.”
Three in the morning? Alyssa felt cold all over.
“We’ll call his cell and let him know you’re safe.” Lori straightened up. “Alyssa, honey, let’s get you cleaned up. Where’d the dress come from?”
“Iowa,” she said numbly. “From one of my old relatives.”
But Rachel and her mother weren’t listening. Lori got the cordless phone. “Greg,” she said, “she’s here. She’s safe.” A minute later, Alyssa was in the bathroom, where Lori started hot water running and lathered a washcloth. “You’ll feel much better once you’re cleaned up,” Lori murmured. �
��Rachel, hon, go get Alyssa’s clothes.”
Alyssa gasped when the washcloth rubbed the burns on her hand. Lori noticed. “Alyssa, what happened to your hand? Whoever snuck in and took you — what did those people do to you?”
Lori and Rachel must think she’d been kidnapped. “It’s not like that!” she said.
The doorbell rang.
Chapter Nine
“Quick,” said Lori. “Let’s get you dressed. Rachel, go see who’s at the door. Don’t open it unless it’s Greg.”
Alyssa jammed her legs into her jeans, then yanked her sweatshirt over her head. She brushed her teeth, thankful for the cool, minty taste. How was she ever going to explain to Dad?
He was in the living room, sagged on the couch. Alyssa couldn’t remember ever seeing him so tired — except on that awful day, after what happened at the hospital. He stood up slowly. “Lyssa! Are you all right?”
She nodded, and was enfolded in a trembling hug.
“What happened to you?” Dad’s voice was croaky.
Alyssa pulled back. “I …” She’d never been any good at fibbing; no matter what she said, nobody would believe her. “I was in Iowa,” she mumbled.
“What?” Three shocked faces stared at her.
“In the past,” she stammered. “Old relatives, the Claytons —”
But they’d quit listening. Voices rose. She was bundled into the minivan, where she clutched her backpack to her chest. Her hand still hurt. As the familiar streets swooshed by, there were no other vehicles. She and Dad seemed trapped in a silence that was too big to penetrate.
The lights were on at home. It looked weird, next to the neighbours’ dark houses. Alyssa noticed that the house key clattered against the doorknob before Dad managed to unlock.
“They’re here,” Ethan yelled the minute Alyssa followed Dad inside. He was waiting by the door, wearing a t-shirt and his boxers. “Where’d you go?” he asked.
Alyssa didn’t answer because it seemed pointless. Ethan’s eyebrows looked like Wilfred’s — and Eva’s, the longer she thought about it.
There was a swish of clothing in the hallway. “Alyssa?” Mom appeared. As always, her hair was a greasy mess. For an instant Alyssa could see Martha Clayton’s face — and how, even though she’d been in bed, her hair was neatly parted and brushed. Then she was enfolded in a hug that smelled of unwashed skin and dirty clothes. Alyssa held her breath.
Nearby, she could hear Dad yawning. “After all that searching,” he said, “she says she was in Iowa.” He sighed loudly. “I guess we’ll get the truth out of her tomorrow.”
Eyes stinging, Alyssa yanked away from her smelly mother and ran down the hall to the bathroom. The mirror showed her a red, angry face and tangled hair. There was even something caught in it — a tiny rust-coloured feather. And she’d gone around looking like that? Alyssa inspected the burn blisters and the rooster scratches on her arms. She fumbled in the medicine cabinet for the Vitamin E ointment. Then she sat on the toilet and cried.
After a while Ethan’s characteristic knock sounded on the door. “Are you still in there?” he asked.
Alyssa wiped her eyes and flushed. “I’m making hot chocolate,” he whispered as she came out. “Come to the kitchen if you want some.”
Hot chocolate? That was how she’d happened to look at the picture in the first place. The clock on the microwave said it was 4:12. But she wasn’t sleepy, because she’d already slept — in 1931.
Ethan poured milk into two mugs and set them in the microwave. “You said you were in Iowa?” he whispered.
She’d never thought about telling Ethan. Except for Mom, it might make the most sense to him. “Yes,” she said cautiously. “It happened once before. I never told anybody.”
“Huh?”
“It did!” Alyssa got her backpack and dug in it for the photograph. “It’s this picture,” she said. “When I look at Deborah Clayton — the oldest girl — with the magnifying glass, I … go there.” She looked at the old black-and-white photograph. Something was different. Flossie! The dog hadn’t been in the picture before, but now she sat by Herbert’s legs, grinning at the camera. And … wasn’t Deborah wearing a different dress? She thought about the dress that Lori had promised to wash, and shivered. “Weird! It changed!” Her hand shook as she gave the photo to her brother.
Ethan studied the picture. The microwave beeped.
“I’ll do the hot chocolate.” Alyssa stirred the chocolate powder into the mugs and took a swallow. Warm and creamy, it relaxed something inside her.
Ethan took the other mug and gave her a scrutinizing look. “Think it’d work for me?” he said.
Startled, Alyssa slopped hot chocolate down her chin. “You believe me?” Marigold appeared and rubbed against her legs.
Ethan shrugged. “If nothing happens, I’ll know you made it up. Or were hypnotized, or something. How’d you get back?”
“I have no idea.” Alyssa bent over to pet the cat. “If you disappear too, maybe they won’t think I’m lying.” Something inside her jealously hoped that it wouldn’t work for Ethan.
Standing there in his underwear, with his shaggy hair falling into his eyes, her brother looked more closely at the photograph. “It’s like that girl Deborah’s staring right at me,” he said after a moment.
Alyssa’s heart started beating hard and fast. “Ethan …”
He set his hot chocolate on the counter. “Gimme the magnifying glass.”
Down the hall, a bedroom door opened. Dad’s footsteps thumped toward the kitchen. “What are you two doing?” he demanded.
“I can’t sleep,” Alyssa said.
At the same time, she heard Ethan’s mumbled, “It’s Saturday now, so who cares?”
Dad gave an exasperated sigh. “You may not care, but I have a class to teach in about six hours.” Like Ethan, he, too, was in his underwear and socks. Dark stubble covered his jaw and chin.
As if he’d noticed her stare, Dad looked straight at her. “Iowa,” he muttered. “Why on earth would you imagine going there? Why not Disneyland, or Hawaii? Or even Alaska?”
Something flickered across Ethan’s face. “What’s wrong with Iowa?” For whatever reason, he was challenging Dad. Alyssa looked at him, then at their father. Tension seemed to quiver between the two of them.
“Maybe I want to find out more about my ancestors,” Alyssa said. “For my genealogy report.” Right away she hated how she’d said it. Dad had been really scared, driving around looking for her at three in the morning.
Dad drew in a sharp breath. His mouth tightened. “Kids!” he muttered as he went down the hall.
Ethan rolled his eyes eloquently. “Where’s the magnifying glass?” he whispered.
“Not in here,” Alyssa whispered back. “When you land, you … crash.”
“Let’s go to my room. That way the Male Parent won’t make such a stink.” Without waiting for her to answer, Ethan headed down the basement stairs. Marigold darted after him. Alyssa gulped the last of her hot chocolate and slung her backpack over her shoulder.
The computer was on in Ethan’s room; a red screensaver glided serenely across the dark monitor. Alyssa stood in the doorway while her brother kicked aside heaps of clothes on the floor. She noticed that the sole was almost completely off one of his shoes. She nudged it with her foot. “Haven’t Mom or Dad noticed?” she said.
Ethan’s mouth tightened in a way that looked uncannily like Dad’s. “Why would they?” There was a bitter twist in his voice.
For an instant she felt like hugging her brother — tall, gangly, and looking suddenly vulnerable in his t-shirt and boxer shorts.
Ethan flopped onto his rumpled bed and studied the picture of the Claytons. “Have you got the magnifying glass?”
Alyssa handed it to him. Ethan brushed hair out of his eyes, then held the lens steady over the photo. “It’s like she’s smiling at me,” he said.
The air in the room seemed to shudder. Goosebumps shot down Alyssa�
�s arms and legs. Her neck prickled. On the floor, Marigold growled a low, eerie cat growl. His fur puffed out; then he hissed and ran from the room.
“Huh?” Ethan looked at the empty doorway. He yawned hugely. “Oh well,” he said, and stretched out on his bed. The magnifying glass slid onto the floor. The photograph of the Claytons lay on the pillow near Ethan’s head.
“Ethan?” When he didn’t move, Alyssa called his name again, louder. Was he all right? Was this what had happened to her? Except … Rachel and Lori hadn’t been able to find her. At all. And she’d come back wearing Deborah’s dress. The burns and the scratches proved that her physical body had been someplace else. How else could she have gotten that rooster feather in her hair? She touched Ethan’s shoulder.
He squirmed away. “Lemme sleep,” he mumbled.
Sleep? Something bizarre had happened with the picture. She’d felt the air change — and Marigold reacted to it.
“Ethan!” she said again.
He rolled over. His breathing settled into a soft, drowsy rhythm.
Should she leave him like that? Alyssa sat down at the computer and keyed her password into the messaging system. When the box opened, she typed:
rache — 2 weird, i don’t get it. ethan looked at the picture using the magnifying glass. now he’s — sleeping??? was i gone? u couldn’t find me, right? have 2 talk 2 u asap.
It was awkward doing everything with her left hand because of her burns. Would Rachel understand? Had she even mentioned the photo of the Claytons? Probably not.
The clock on the computer said it was 4:49. Alyssa leaned back in the chair and clicked to a search engine. She keyed in “Iowa.” Confronted with page after page of blue links, she backtracked and typed in “Stardancer.” One site had the song and clips from the movie.
After a while she looked over at Ethan. He was still asleep. The picture of the Claytons had moved. It seemed in danger of falling between the bed and the wall. Holding her breath, she reached across her brother. As her fingers touched the print, the air pressure seemed to change.
Picturing Alyssa Page 6