Picturing Alyssa

by Alison Lohans

  There was instant silence. Then Dad stood up and went to the kitchen. “What, exactly, do you mean, Ethan?” His voice had an edge to it.

  “What do you think?” Ethan said.

  Alyssa heard the refrigerator door close. “It could mean several very different things,” Dad said.

  “And maybe I intend all of them.” Ethan sounded defiant.

  The website was horrible enough. Now, both Ethan and Dad were trying to help her. But why did they have to argue? She looked over at Mom, who seemed to be reading. Do something! she wanted to say. Mom used to be good at calming people down and helping them solve problems. Not anymore.

  “What proof do you have, Ethan?” Dad asked. “You’ve suggested some drastic steps. A private discussion and a public accusation are two very different things. What if you’re wrong? Things could get extremely messy for all of us — particularly Alyssa. Now that the website’s been taken down, we’d have a hard time proving this even happened. And think about the consequences for the Bayne family. They’re prominent people in this city.”

  “All the more reason to expose what their monster of a kid’s been doing to my sister.” A plastic bag rustled as Ethan spoke. “Besides, I’ve got proof.”

  Alyssa went out to the kitchen. Ethan was pouring himself a huge glass of milk. Dad was slicing cheese. Right now they didn’t seem mad at each other.

  “I saved everything,” Ethan continued. “I printed it out from the actual site. All of it, including the links. I got the web address and the dates. It’s in the computer history. Want me to email it to you at the college?”

  Alyssa felt sick.

  Dad must have felt something too, because he leaned against the counter with his face averted. She looked at his back, long and smooth in a dark blue shirt. When he turned around again, a muscle in his jaw was twitching. “Jennifer!” he called. “What do you think about this?”

  Mom’s slow footsteps approached the kitchen. She was still wearing Dad’s clothes, and her hair was dirty again.

  Alyssa held onto a chair back and took a deep breath. “Why isn’t anybody asking me? Don’t I have any say?”

  A knife clattered onto the kitchen counter. Ethan ran his finger along the blade, wiping off peanut butter, which he licked from his finger.

  “What do you think we should do, Lyssa?” Dad smiled at her. Alyssa had the feeling he didn’t think she’d come up with a solution.

  She nudged her foot against some onion skins that had fallen onto the floor. “Call the library,” she said. “I had to sign up to use the computer. Probably they have a record of who goes online. Maybe they’ll ban Brooklynne from the computers.”

  Dad’s fingers tapped on the counter top. “Actually, I already phoned the library. I did it after Brooklynne sent that message.”

  “What message?” Mom and Ethan asked.

  “I told you.” Dad’s voice was curt. He was looking at Mom, not Ethan. “They said they’d talk to her

  if she wants to use the computers again. I’m sure they’re worried about what could happen if Wes and Crystal Bayne took it wrong. City council could easily vote to reduce library funding. The library’s already had to cut back on staffing and the number of hours they’re open.”

  What did any of that have to do with the website? Alyssa opened the refrigerator. The cool smell of food washed over her. There wasn’t much in there. Supper had been skimpy, just the macaroni and cheese she’d made and salad. There was a little bit of macaroni left. She stuck her hand in the casserole dish and pulled out a clump of cold noodles.

  Alyssa ate all the leftover macaroni, and started shaking. Again. It had happened several times since that awful day. Like always, the terrible words and pictures flooded her mind. Probably everybody was laughing at her. Did she have bad breath?

  Alyssa’s teeth chattered. She went to her room and put on her sweatshirt. KENNDEY SCHOOL PATRIOTS stretched across the blue front. Like almost everything else, it was tight. The pink tennis shoes lay on the floor by her closet. She hadn’t worn them. They seemed to laugh at her, as if Brooklynne were right there in her bedroom.

  A huge feeling surged through Alyssa. She didn’t know what to call it. It wouldn’t let her hold still, not with those shoes in her room. She gave them a hard kick. They banged against her closet door. There was a cat yowl. Marigold hissed, and ran out of her room.

  She kicked the shoes again. It felt good. Except, all that happened was that Brooklynne’s old-new shoes bounced off the closet door, and lay there.

  Alyssa picked up a black marker from the pile scattered on her bedside table. She wrote the most horrible thing she could think of to call Brooklynne on the clean pink side of one of the shoes. The ugly word made her feel all dirty inside, the same way the website had. Ethan used his own money to buy those shoes, and then wrote her name in them over Brooklynne’s.

  Her teeth were still chattering. “Mom,” she whimpered.

  Something made her think of Warren Stanley’s kind face and the way the sunlight made his white hair shine in meeting for worship. She crawled in bed and pulled all of the covers over her head. After a while the crying and shivering stopped.

  The shoes were still in her bedroom, and now one of them had a word that made her just as bad as Brooklynne. Alyssa wiped her eyes and got up. She stuffed the pink shoes in her wastebasket, underneath the clothes that were already there.

  But that word was still in her bedroom. Nobody else might look in her wastebasket, but it was there just the same. If she threw the shoes in the garbage, they might fall onto the street when the garbage truck came. Even at the dump, somebody might find a pair of new pink shoes with that awful word — and her name inside.

  She retrieved the shoes. They still smelled new, but now they also smelled like marker. Alyssa felt sick at the sight of the ugly black writing. “I’m sorry,” she said. She didn’t know exactly why she said it, but it helped. Biting her lower lip, she used the black marker, and then a green one, and a blue one, to make a design. It sort of hid the word. Probably nobody could tell anymore. She drew a different design on the other shoe and felt better.

  She looked at her collection of ceramic horses on the shelf and at her books. She used to love reading. On the wall there was the picture of Stardancer that she’d cut out of the girls’ magazine that came in the mail every month. “Remember your gift,” the words of the song went, “now let your life shine.” Except it was “light,” not “life.”

  She glanced at the photo of herself holding Marigold. He must feel under attack, awakened by shoes flying through the air. “Here, kitty kitty,” she called. She kept her voice soft. “Marigold.…”

  There was a faint answering “mrrauu” from another room. Alyssa tiptoed into the hall. “Marigold? Where’s my kitty?”

  “Mrrauu.”

  It came from the baby’s room. Alyssa flicked on the light. The room had a stale smell now, as if Mom had polluted the air, sitting there so much without taking showers or changing her clothes. Alyssa opened the window. The usual cardboard box was on the floor, but only a few things were packed. Little sleepers and shirts, dresses, blankets, bonnets, and bibs, sat folded in stacks on the floor. In one place they were rumpled and scattered. Probably Marigold ran over them when he escaped. A colourful crocheted afghan had been dumped in the rocking chair. “Marigold?” she said again.

  “Mrrrt?” It came from under the crib.

  Alyssa got down on her hands and knees. Huddled against the wall amidst dust bunnies, crumpled tissues, and plastic bags, she saw Marigold’s furry shape and round, glowing eyes. “Come here,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  Marigold stood up and came to her. One of his hind feet was caught on something; there was a swish of something dragging behind him.

  “Marigold, what have you got there?” Then Alyssa’s heart pounded. Familiar blue straps … orange tassel on the zipper.… “My backpack!” She yanked it out from under the
crib, covered with golden cat hairs and other fluff.

  Marigold’s foot was still tangled in one of the cords. He gave an eerie cat moan that turned into a growl, then a hiss. He glared at her with irate green eyes. His striped tail twitched.

  “I’m sorry.” She extended her hand. Marigold sniffed the fingers that had held the macaroni, then rubbed against her. He arched. Purring, he took possession of her lap.

  His simple, forgiving warmth almost made Alyssa cry again. But her backpack … Stroking Marigold, she reached inside. There it was, the bubble envelope containing the picture of the Claytons and the magnifying glass.

  She didn’t need both hands to pet the cat. With her free hand, she reached into the envelope for the old photograph. Then she picked up the magnifying glass.…

  Marigold rubbed against her cheek. Laughing, Alyssa snuggled against him. The magnifying glass showed her an enlarged Deborah.

  It happened so quickly there was no avoiding it — the intense, paralytic tingling. This time a yowling, struggling presence went with her.

  Gasping, she landed on cool grass. It was evening. With a hiss, Marigold launched himself off her stomach and disappeared into the dusk. Soon afterwards a dog barked excitedly. It sounded like Flossie.

  “Marigold!” Alyssa screamed.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Faint sunset colours lit wispy clouds overhead. The sky was darker in the east where a bright star twinkled. Just above the grass, little lights darted and blinked. Fireflies, something in her head announced.

  “Marigold!” Her voice sounded puny. Where would a terrified cat go in all this open space? Alyssa looked around to get her bearings. There was the house, with a few windows lit, the barn, the silo. There was the chicken coop. The windmill. Nearby, the fireflies continued to dance and dart. For a moment she watched them, fascinated.

  There was Flossie, barking and jumping beneath a tree with wide, spreading branches. Marigold had to be there. When she hurried to it, the dog recognized her, sniffing and wagging. A plaintive cat moan came from above.

  Two figures came running. “Alyssa!” one of them cried. “Thee’s back!”

  It was Herbert and Eva. They were wearing night clothes, and each of them had a jar. Herbert skidded to a stop and looked at her expectantly.

  After wrecking the pink shoes and after all that horribleness about the website … What was real? Here, or at home? What happened to all her cells and molecules when she went back and forth? Now Marigold was here too. She hadn’t even brought Deborah’s dress.

  Flossie resumed her barking.

  “My cat’s up there,” Alyssa said. “How can we get him?”

  “Thy cat came?” Herbert set his jar down and scrambled up the tree.

  Why hadn’t she thought of that? Alyssa’s stomach smarted where Marigold had scratched her. Beside her, Eva was twisting the lid of her jar. “What’s in there?” she asked.

  “We’re catching lightning bugs.” Eva held it out.

  Intrigued, Alyssa stared at the beetle trapped behind the glass. Every now and then its abdomen flashed with a cool, yellow-green light. “We don’t have those at home,” she said.

  “Here, puss, puss,” Herbert said overhead. There was a hiss, followed by the sound of Marigold retreating even higher. “Ow!” Herbert slid back down and licked a scratch on his hand. “He’ll come when he’s ready.”

  “But …” Marigold wasn’t an outside cat; he wasn’t used to other animals. She vaguely remembered seeing a scrawny striped cat hanging around the barn. That cat wouldn’t want Marigold on his turf.

  “I’ll get Debbie,” Eva offered. When she ran toward the house, Alyssa noticed that she held her nightgown away from her legs.

  “We’re sleeping outside,” Herbert said. “Daddy and Wilfred and Debbie are setting up a bed for Mama on the porch.”

  The air felt soft and humid. Her school sweatshirt definitely wasn’t the right thing to have on. Alyssa peeled it away from her t-shirt underneath. Why couldn’t she have come in the morning? Now, like last time, she’d have to go to bed. Then somebody would find the picture, and she’d be yanked back to her messed-up life.

  As Herbert ran around chasing fireflies, a hot feeling grew in her chest. She could stay here. She could be another girl in the Claytons’ family and help out. There’d be extra work when the baby came.

  Her throat tightened as she remembered how things were when Charlotte didn’t come home. All the phone calls, the people dropping by to say how sorry they were. The meals that didn’t get cooked, the way the fridge and the shelves grew empty and stayed that way except when Grandma Hadley or Auntie Deb was there. The trash that didn’t get carried out, the dirty dishes and dirty clothes. All the new baby presents that sat there like a fake celebration.

  Alyssa thought of the blank space in the book beside Alice Emma Clayton’s name and shivered. Was there a reason why she’d ended up here, in 1931? She remembered what Warren Stanley had talked about in meeting for worship — something about everybody carrying God’s light in their own little ways. Could she help make a difference?

  At the house, a door banged. “Alyssa!” A moment later, Deborah stood beside her.

  Alyssa felt a smile burst across her face. “Hey!” she said.

  “It’s good to see thee!” Deborah clasped her hand. “I’m so glad to be out of that hot house. Poor Mama isn’t well, but sometimes I wish that baby would just hurry up and come so I don’t have to work all the time.” Then she drew back, looking ashamed. “I shouldn’t have said that. It makes me seem ungrateful. Really, I’m not.”

  “Her name’s going to be Alice Emma,” Alyssa said impulsively.

  Deborah gasped. “How does thee know? But of course — thee’s from the future.” She brushed sweaty brown hair out of her face. Her feet were bare, and her dress was faded.

  “It’s in a family book.” Alyssa didn’t dare tell about the blank space beside the baby’s name — or about Charlotte.

  It was getting darker. The fireflies darted like bright little exclamation marks above the grass.

  Deborah touched her arm. “If it’s in a family book, how does thee fit? How are we related?”

  “You’re not my grandmother. Her name is Anne Hadley.” Should she have said that? What if something changed? “I think you’re my great-grandmother,” she added.

  Deborah burst out laughing. “Thy great-grandmother? I’m eleven years old, and thee says I might be thy great-grandmother! This is so … peculiar!” She looked over her shoulder at the house. “I really should go back, but Daddy and Wilfred can move that bed without me. If only it weren’t getting dark. We could go down to the brook to talk.”

  The air was sweet with smells of grass and other growing things. “How’s the crop?” Alyssa asked. “After the hail, I mean. Is it going to be okay?”

  “There was some damage, but not …”

  “Debbie!” a voice shrieked. “Susannah wants thee to sing.”

  Deborah sighed. “Frances really thinks that doll is alive. But I suppose I did too, when I was small. I hope this new baby is quiet!”

  Alyssa couldn’t help smiling. “Want me to sing? I could do more ‘la-la somethings.’”

  Deborah shouted with laughter and then clapped her hands over her mouth. “Wouldn’t she be cross then! Oh, Alyssa, I’ve figured out words for thy song! Thee must hear them. Come!”

  She turned and ran toward the house; Alyssa had no choice but to follow. Running felt so good. Without even realizing it, this was something else she’d missed ever since their lives got turned upside-down.

  Frances stood on a blanket spread on the grass. In her pale nightgown, she looked ghostly in the dim light. The big doll lay at her feet. “Sing, Debbie!” she screeched. “Susannah can’t sleep.”

  Deborah settled the doll on a pillow. “Thee’s making so much noise, Frances. Is it any wonder Susannah can’t sleep?”

  Frances shook her head stubbornly. “Susannah doesn’t mind me. She ne
eds thee. Or Mama.”

  Deborah repressed a sigh. “Thee knows Mama mustn’t be disturbed. The doctor says …” Frances plopped into Deborah’s lap, and whatever she’d meant to say became an “umph.”

  “Frances, couldn’t thee sit down more gently? Thee knows I’m not a chair.”

  The little girl giggled. “Thee is so a chair. Debbie, the rocking chair.” She looked up at Alyssa, and bounced in Deborah’s lap.

  “Frances! Hold still! If thee doesn’t, I won’t sing.”

  Alyssa sat on the blanket. There was another one spread out nearby with a pile of folded sheets and quilts and several more pillows. Flossie padded over to settle beside them. The dog scratched its ear for moment, then lay there contentedly. Was Marigold still up in that tree?

  Eva approached. “Charles is on the davenport,” she said. “Should he just stay there?”

  Deborah sighed. “He’ll be sweltering. Thee should bring him out here.”

  Eva’s lower lip trembled. “He might fuss.”

  Deborah was beginning to look flustered. “Then get Herbert to help thee. This little missy —” she clamped her arms around a giggling Frances “— is far more of a handful than thy little brother.”

  “I’ll go.” Alyssa stood up. “I can carry him. Maybe he won’t wake up.”

  The house was stifling. Heat wrapped around Alyssa like a smothering blanket. In the warm kerosene light, she noticed that the windows were open. No wonder the family had decided to sleep outside. Loud thumps came from another room.

  Eva tugged at her hand. “He’s in here,” she said.

  Alyssa followed her into the living room. Lamp light glanced off photos of people in old-fashioned clothes. Charles lay on the couch, his face flushed and glistening with sweat. Alyssa felt a tug in her heart as she picked up the hot little boy.

  “Mama?” he asked sleepily. His arm came around Alyssa’s neck.