Picturing Alyssa

by Alison Lohans

  Ethan stirred. Then he sat up in a hurry. “What are you doing in here?” he mumbled.

  Chapter Ten

  “What happened?” Alyssa demanded. “Tell me!”

  Ethan looked drowsy and disoriented. “What do you mean, ‘What happened?’ You woke me up, is what happened.”

  “But —” Alyssa held the picture in front of him. “Don’t you remember? You were looking at this. You wanted to …” Was there any point explaining if he didn’t remember?

  “Huh?” Ethan was slightly pale; his freckles looked like scattered cinnamon. Just like Herbert’s and Eva’s. She shivered. It would be amazing if she could have a picture of the three of them together. And of Deborah and herself! Everybody said they looked so much alike.

  “Were you having any dreams?” she asked.

  Ethan rubbed his eyes. “Why’s it such a big deal? I was only sleeping.” He squinted at the clock. “It’s five in the morning — why wouldn’t I be asleep?”

  Alyssa sighed and put the picture back in the padded envelope.

  Across the room, the computer dinged, while the red screensaver kept spilling itself across the dark screen. Ethan got up and clicked the mouse. “What were you doing in my message box?”

  “I was in my message box, not yours.” As he started typing, she wished she could shake her brother. “Something happened,” she insisted. “Remember how the air changed and Marigold freaked?”

  Uncertainty flickered in Ethan’s face. “Are you sure?” His fingers kept typing.

  “Yes!”

  Again the computer dinged. Ethan leaned forward. “Cripes,” he muttered. “Denmark’s going to the playoffs?”

  “Ethan. Alyssa to planet Ethan.”

  “Shh. I’m busy.”

  Alyssa stamped her foot. “Ethan. Just tell me what happened. Please? I’m supposed to be at Rachel’s right now. At the sleepover, remember?”

  “So?”

  Alyssa gritted her teeth. “You’re so in love with that computer. Nothing else matters.”

  Ethan shrugged.

  On the floor by his desk, the power bar switch glowed like a little red eye. She nudged it with her toes; at an irresistible impulse, she pressed it. There was a satisfying click and the screen went blank. Ethan yelled.

  Heavy footsteps sounded above them.

  “Now look what you did,” Ethan said.

  “You yelled, not me!” But it was too late; Dad had already tromped in.

  His face was a dull brick colour. “Your mother and I are trying to sleep.” Each word was a small explosion.

  Alyssa cringed. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled.

  “You made all that noise?” Dad looked at her in surprise.

  “I did.” Ethan stood up and stared right at Dad. Alyssa noticed that he was almost as tall as their father. “And I apologize for waking you up.”

  Dad glared right back. “I would hope so. Get to bed. Now. Both of you.”

  Alyssa dropped the padded envelope safely into her backpack and scuttled up the basement stairs. “… Turn … computer off!” Dad’s voice followed her. “… Last I knew, I’m paying … bills … Alyssa!” She froze at his yell. “Not so fast. You’re grounded until further notice.”

  Grounded? As she stumbled past the baby’s room on the way to her bedroom, Alyssa clutched the backpack against her. It would serve them right if she disappeared forever. She could do it too and nobody would know what happened. Except Ethan, maybe. And who’d believe him?

  She crawled into bed without changing. Would Mom notice her missing pajamas? Probably not. But if Mom got on her case about it … well she’d just have to go back to Iowa to get them.

  The green LED numbers on her clock radio said 5:37. She heard the gentle thump of the newspaper being placed in the mailbox. It wasn’t long ago that Ethan had been doing their paper route. She shuddered, thinking of the little photograph of Charlotte’s lifeless face — and thinking of Martha Clayton, who’d looked so sick and bloated. After Charlotte, Ethan sometimes didn’t get up in time, and people complained. And then he quit, just like that.

  She pulled her covers up to her chin. Ethan was so different, now. Standing up to Dad. And — why’d he have to brush her off like that? As if some sports playoff was more important! In a surge of frustration she flung her pillow toward her closet. There was a thud. A cat yowl. Marigold fled from her room; his feet were tangled in something. Alyssa lay there and couldn’t sleep.

  The next morning she had a sore throat and gritty eyes. Except for a dream about lying in bed while the rooster walked all over her, she was positive she hadn’t slept at all.

  When Dad called her out to the kitchen, Mom was actually at the table for once. Alyssa poured herself a bowl of wheat squares. Sitting there — while Ethan slept in — she wished she were at Rachel’s place.

  Instead, Dad was interrogating her. “Alyssa,” he said. “Let’s hear what happened last night. You say that nobody abducted you. So why did you leave Rachel’s house? Do you have even the faintest idea how worried everyone was? We were on the verge of calling the police.”

  “Honest! I never —” Helplessly, Alyssa looked to Mom, who sat there stirring her coffee. Clink, clink, clink — the spoon kept circling, hitting the sides of the mug. Alyssa clenched her teeth. “Quit it!” she muttered under her breath.

  “Then how do you explain your absence?” Dad persisted. “Lori Lowell was frantic. Did she and Rachel go out for a while and leave you there alone?”

  How could Dad think that about Lori? These days, Rachel’s mom paid more attention to her than her own parents did. Agreeing with Dad would get her off the hook, but how could she tell that kind of lie about her best friend? Alyssa jammed some dry cereal into her mouth to put off answering.

  Dad waited for a moment. When she didn’t answer, he said, “I see. I guess we’ll have to have a talk with the Lowells.”

  “No!” It came out in a splatter of food. Alyssa wiped her mouth. “It wasn’t them. I told you, I looked at a picture of the Claytons — and suddenly I was in Iowa. By accident.” There was no point in adding the part about 1931.

  Mom’s clinking hesitated. Dad gave Mom a sour look. “Say something, Jennifer,” he said. “Do you accept Alyssa’s explanation? It’s about time you took some responsibility for our children.”

  The spoon clanked against the side of the mug and stood there. Mom’s dirty hair dangled in her face. There was a heavy silence.

  Alyssa’s stomach twisted. She felt like dumping her uneaten cereal on the table, and spilling her milk and juice. Would Mom notice that?

  Mom started smoothing her paper napkin. Her hands looked naked without her wedding ring. She’d taken it off when her hands got swollen, when she was pregnant. Did it bother Dad that she wasn’t wearing it now? Mom’s mouth trembled. “You don’t know what it’s like.”

  Dad sighed. “Leave everything to me. Like always. Alyssa, just tell us …”

  After a while it was more than Alyssa could take. “You’re just asking me to make something up!” she yelled. “To tell a complete fib.” She extended her arms; orange marmalade on one of the plastic mats globbed onto her elbow. “Look.” She pointed to the scratches. “That’s where the rooster got me. And see?” She shoved her blistered hand in front of her parents. “That’s from when I took the burnt toast out of the oven.” Mom drew in a sharp breath. So — even with all that fuss, nobody had gone to the trouble of actually looking at her.

  The phone rang. Alyssa lurched to get it, but Dad was closer. “I’m sorry, Rachel,” he said after a moment. “Alyssa can’t talk right now. She’s having some quiet time at home.” There was a pause. “She’ll phone you in a few days.”

  “That’s not fair!”

  But Dad was still on the phone. “Ethan?” he said. “As far as I know, he’s asleep in his room.”

  Heat flooded her face, even her ears. Rachel had received her message and was calling back—just like she’d asked. “Let me talk to her!
Please?”

  But Dad had already hung up.

  Something made her remember how Mrs. Fraser asked them to role-play strong emotions. Tristan and Kai were wrong. “Murderous rage” wasn’t about pretending to stab people. There was a kind of exploding meanness inside that made her feel like throwing poison in Dad’s face. And maybe poking him with something burning hot. He’d look surprised, and then …

  She couldn’t imagine Deborah ever wanting to do something like that. But Herbert had been happy about the rooster. Tears slid down her cheeks. Again. George Clayton had said, “Thee’s too big to blubber.”

  Mom looked up at her. “What picture are you talking about, Alyssa?” she asked. “Your Great-Grandmother Newlin was a Clayton.”

  “I’ll get it!” Alyssa ran down the hall to her room.

  Her bright blue backpack wasn’t on the floor, not even buried under dirty clothes. Her closet? She couldn’t remember putting it there, but she’d been so frustrated she might’ve done it without thinking. No luck. She couldn’t see it under her bed. Alyssa’s heart pounded harder. Had Ethan taken it?

  She ran down the basement stairs. Her brother was sprawled across his bed, the covers halfway up his chest, and he was snoring with a faint, whispery sound. There was no sign of her backpack.

  Upstairs, Mom would still be sitting there in her nightgown and dirty bathrobe. Probably Dad was tapping his fingers impatiently; pretty soon he had to teach his Saturday class. Maybe he’d tap the smeared butter and marmalade where his knife had fallen off his plate.

  Her parents were exactly as she’d imagined them. Except the butter smear had been cleaned up. She hoped Dad got it all over his arm.

  “I can’t find it!” she said. And suddenly, she knew exactly what “despair” felt like.

  Ethan was still asleep when Dad left to teach. Alyssa banged the leftover breakfast things onto the kitchen counter, not caring when silverware clattered across the floor. She slammed the empty cereal bowls into the sink and felt a mutinous satisfaction when a big chip split off one of them. Then she remembered a bowl of oatmeal dropped on steep stairs, and a teacup with its handle broken. She stood there, shaken. “Mom?” she called.

  “Just a minute.” Her mother’s muffled voice came from the living room. “I found some pictures of Great-Grandmother Newlin’s family.”

  “Really? Let me see!” Alyssa barged into the living room. Mom was sitting on the couch with a few photos spread out in front of her on the cluttered coffee table. She flopped down beside her mother and looked at one black-and-white photo, then another, with a growing disappointment. “These are too old,” Alyssa said. She considered going to her room — but Mom had actually paid attention to what she’d said, and even went to the trouble of finding these pictures. “Thanks, Mom,” she said. It came out sounding icky-polite, in a sucking-up kind of way. Mom would know they weren’t what she wanted.

  Mom was too quiet. Alyssa had the sudden feeling that she’d better keep talking. “Maybe I can write about these people for my report,” she said. She looked at the back of one of the photos. 1914. Only a few were Claytons, and nobody looked familiar. There were Goodens and Standings, and Hocketts and Cooks. The oldest men and women sat on benches; those men all had bushy beards. Gathered around them were families with children of different ages. Alyssa squinted as she studied the faces. Should she tell Mom more about what happened?

  Her mother straightened unexpectedly. “There’s an album somewhere. I could look for it.”

  “No —” Alyssa caught her mother’s sleeve. Don’t leave me! she almost said. But that was wrong; she, not Mom, was the one who’d been missing. Mom was just … gone from being her usual self. Ask questions, something inside her prompted. “Um … Do you know of George and Martha Clayton?”

  “They’re your …” Mom counted on her fingers. “Your great-great grandparents. Their ancestors came over from England sometime in the 1800s.” Mom looked straight at her, then at her burned hand. “That must really hurt,” she said, reaching and carefully not touching the reddened places. “What have you put on it?”

  Alyssa chewed her lip. “Butter,” she mumbled. “They put butter on it. And when I got home, I put on some Vitamin E.”

  “Maybe we should take you to the clinic.” Again Mom held her eyes. “Is there anything else I need to know? That a doctor should know?”

  “What?” Puzzled, Alyssa looked at her blistered burns, and at her scratched arms. “It doesn’t hurt all the time. Not anymore.”

  Mom fidgeted with a pile of papers on the coffee table. “That’s not what I meant, Alyssa.”

  “The Claytons were really nice to me,” she said in a rush. Didn’t Mom understand? After all, one of the Clayton sisters was Mom’s grandma!

  “Alyssa.” Mom’s voice was very tense. Suddenly Alyssa didn’t want to look at her. “Were you molested?”

  “What?” Alyssa jumped to her feet. Photographs slid to the floor. “The Claytons? They’re nicer than —”

  Mom sagged back on the couch.

  It seemed like a poisonous grey cloud settled in the living room, filling up every particle of space. Alyssa’s eyes stung. “And now you won’t even let me see Rachel,” she shouted. “It’s not fair!” When she took a step to leave, her foot slid on something.

  It was two pictures. Something in her felt like ripping them into tiny pieces and throwing them at Mom. But if they were the Claytons …

  Alyssa sat sideways in the reclining chair so she wouldn’t have to see Mom. One picture was of an older teenager. She had clear eyes and she was smiling. Something about her was familiar — but it wasn’t Deborah. Holding her breath, Alyssa looked at the back. 1915, the inscription read. Martha Gooden. Suddenly she knew, without any doubt. This was Martha Clayton! Alyssa’s hands shook as she looked at the last photo.

  They were outside their house. The date on the back was 1926. George and Martha were seated on chairs, and standing beside them were a much-younger Wilfred and Deborah, who was probably about six. The little boy in George’s lap had to be Herbert. Martha was holding a child too, a toddler who had Eva’s serious expression.

  But there was another girl in the picture. She was smiling right at the camera, and she and Deborah were holding hands. Deborah was a little bit taller, so they probably weren’t twins. Alyssa’s breath caught. Her skin prickled, especially at the roots of her hair. Was it her? It almost looked like her class picture from kindergarten. But that was impossible. She turned the picture over to read the back. There were their names: George and Martha Clayton. Wilfred, George, Herbert, Martha, Eva, Deborah, Bertha.

  Bertha Clayton? There was no Bertha in the 1931 picture. And nobody had said anything about a Bertha. That must mean …

  Alyssa’s throat clenched. She looked over at her mother, on the couch, with her dirty hair and clothes. “Can’t you even take a bath?” she screamed. Holding the pictures, she ran out of the living room.

  Chapter Eleven

  Rachel and her mother didn’t come to Quaker meeting the next morning. Mom came, though. Emptiness filled Alyssa as she sat in the quiet room, looking at chairs where Rachel might have sat. Were Rachel and Lori mad? Did they think she ran away? Or had Dad said something that upset them?

  Warren Stanley’s face looked peaceful as he sat there with his eyes closed. The sun coming through the window shone on his white hair. When Alyssa shut her eyes halfway, his head seemed to be shining, like a light.

  She wiggled in her squeaky chair. Mom looked at her. Not with a frown or a smile, but at least she looked. Her hair wasn’t dirty! Alyssa had been sure something was different at breakfast, but in the busyness of getting ready to go, she hadn’t paid much attention.

  One of the newer women started talking about the war — how whole families were homeless, with relatives killed or missing because of the bombing. This lady often spoke in meeting for worship, and sometimes she cried. Don’t cry! Alyssa thought, over and over. It was too embarrassing when grownup
s got weepy. At last the talking stopped. Alyssa sighed and felt the silence settling through the room again.

  Was there going to be another peace march? That made her think of Rachel. Alyssa stared at the calendar by the photocopier. Now it showed a picture of a red farm machine.

  There was too much to think about. Rachel. The Claytons — and, now, that other girl, Bertha. Yesterday she’d searched for the Claytons in the big blue family book. Deborah was born in 1920. Bertha was born in 1921, and died in 1929. It didn’t say what happened, just that she was buried in the Friends’ Cemetery in Dallas County, Iowa. Everyone must have been so sad. Bertha had looked like a happy little girl, not just a baby who …

  Alyssa shivered. Charlotte’s ashes were in Mom and Dad’s bedroom. Sometime, they would be buried. In Iowa, Martha Clayton had seemed so sick. Was her baby going to die too? Below Charles’s name in the book, there was an entry for Alice Emma Clayton, born in 1931. While everybody else had something written after their names, the space beside the baby was blank. It was too spooky!

  Warren Stanley was looking at her. He had such a nice expression on his wrinkled face, and the sunlight was still in his hair. Alyssa tried to smile. He smiled back.

  She didn’t know where to look next so she focused on the calendar and the red machine with all the spiky things. It looked like it was for plowing fields. But … the April page had been a picture of a tractor. It was May already. The genealogy project was due soon!

  Why couldn’t she have famous ancestors like Thomas Alva Edison, or Alexander Graham Bell? Or Henry Ford? Then her report would be easy. It would be interesting to write about the Claytons — but what had they contributed to today’s way of life? The Underground Railroad idea came back so strongly that it made her look over at Mom and Dad. They’d never find out.…

  The room grew quieter. Ethan sneezed in a big splat of sound. Somebody laughed in a quiet, friendly way. Alyssa traced her feet in swirls on the rug. Dad glanced at her and his mouth got tight. Alyssa sighed and slumped back in her chair. The wall clock said there was still twenty minutes left before meeting ended. Why did it have to go for a whole hour? Tick, tick, tick. She watched the second hand jump ahead and circle its way around the clock face.