Maisie left before Mom got out of the hospital, after getting Mom to promise that she would come to Crooked Head later that summer.
I was so excited to get there. It was more or less like it was in the dreams, except the trees were bigger and the house was more fixed up. Maisie had the whole house now, and the first floor was opened up, but she’d left both staircases in, and upstairs you still went through the long closet to get into the other side. The second day there, Mom took me and Maisie into the downstairs hall of the Mirror House and turned the fish on the staircase. The painting was still there, wrapped in a sheet. Mom unwrapped it and Maisie just stood staring at it. Little Annie grinned out at us. She was making cookies in a sunny kitchen with a china Scottie dog standing on the windowsill behind her. Maisie couldn’t speak.
Mom said, “Sorry, Maisie. I’m so sorry.” And then they hugged and everyone cried a little.
They still disagreed about a lot of things. They would have little fights, and Mom would roll her eyes and look at me when Maisie was going on about something. I’d laugh. It was okay.
Maisie yawned and stretched.
“I’m going to go in and do some work while there’s still light,” she said, getting up.
Mom and I kept lying on the blanket. The sun felt deliciously warm on my face.
“Do you believe in ghosts?” I said to Mom after a while.
She looked thoughtful. “I did when I was your age. Maybe not so much anymore. But when I lived at Crooked Head, there was a man who helped my mother out with the house. Ed. Ed told me lots of ghost stories. And I used to read a lot about ghosts. There was even a time when I was convinced my little sister’s ghost came back. That awful time just before I left Crooked Head. I thought Annie was here with me. I was sure I saw her. And she spoke to me. There was a fire…” Her words trailed off. “I guess I do believe in ghosts. What about you? Why do you ask?”
“Oh, just wondering. I found some books about ghosts in your bookcase.”
I was staying in Claire’s old room. It was weird at first, sleeping in her old bed, where we’d giggled about haunting Maisie and devoured the oatmeal cookies and the hot chocolate. It was difficult to put everything together in time, and hard to accept that I would never see the twelve-year-old Claire again. I missed her.
But I caught glimpses of her, now and then. When Mom got irritated with Maisie, or when something struck her funny, or when she got distracted and a wistful expression would appear in her eyes, then it was as if the ghost of young Claire walked into the room for a moment. I would hold my breath, hoping she would stay. But she never did. Not for long. I found myself searching for ways to bring her back.
One thing that did it was when we read The Secret Garden together. Mom confided in me that she’d never finished it because it reminded her too much of the accident. I persuaded her to read it with me. She would come and lie with me in her old bed before I went to sleep and read a couple of chapters to me. As she read her voice got younger and younger, and if I closed my eyes, I could imagine that it was Claire there with me, reading about the dead garden coming to life.
I couldn’t bring myself to tell her about the dreams. It didn’t seem right. They had cast a magic spell that brought me closer to her than I ever thought I could be. I didn’t want to break that spell.
Mom yawned and sat up. “I think I need another nap, Annie.” She smiled down at me. “I’ve never slept so much in my life. Are you coming in?”
I shook my head. “Not yet. I just want to get a little more sun.” She gave my arm a little squeeze.
“Okay. See you later.”
After she left I lay there for a while, soaking in the warmth. It felt so good to be there. I never wanted to go back to Toronto, but school started in another week or so. Mom had promised we could come back for a longer visit next summer.
Somebody was laughing, down the hill. I sat up and looked out over the blue, blue ocean. The sun dazzled my eyes, but I thought I saw someone climbing over the rocks.
I blinked. There was someone. A little girl, about four years old, with curly brown hair and a big smile. She came up to me and laughed again.
“Annie?” I said, blinking again.
She put her finger up to her lips to shush me. Her eyes danced with mischief.
“Take care of them,” she said. “They need you.” And then she turned and went skipping off behind the lighthouse, humming a funny little song.
THE END
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The story that would become The Painting came to me as a gift one sad summer after my foster sister, Marjory Noganosh, died. I worked on the novel over the next few years, during which time my mother also died. Although none of the characters in the book are based on Marjory or my mother, their spirits and their struggles infused my writing.
The painting “Ferryland Lighthouse” by the late Newfoundland artist, Gerald L. Squires, was the inspiration for Annie’s painting and for the cover. I kept his vivid Newfoundland landscapes in mind when I wrote about Maisie’s work. All the Squires family (Gerry, Gail, Meranda and Esther) shared stories with me about their time living at the Ferryland lighthouse in the 1970s, and Esther and I spent many hours talking about her childhood there. Again, none of the characters in my book are even remotely based on the Squires, but Esther’s love of Ferryland and some of her ghost stories wiggled their way into the book.
Maybe it takes a village to help an author create a book: for me I had the generous support of grants from The Canada Council, The Newfoundland and Labrador Arts Council and Access Copyright Foundation. Escape to Create, a generous artist’s residency in Seaside, Florida, gave me a month’s writing time in a warm climate in February. Heaven! Special thanks to Marsha Dowler, whose hard work, affection and friendship helped to make that month such a sweet time for me.
Sally Keefe-Cohen has been a steady support and source of clarification on my contracts. Laurie Coulter and Sean Cotter both helped with extensive edits of my first chapters, and Michael Winter, Tracey Vaughan and Leigh Borden gave me reference letters and encouragement in equal measure. Thank you Sue Crocker and Tom Whalen for help with some Newfoundland expressions, and Brian Marler for the idea to hide the paintings in a staircase. And thanks to Tom and Baccalieu Cottage for the fish swimming up the stairs, and Jon Hsy for the informative discussion about English PhDs. Thank you Trudy Ruf and Simon Cotter (and Michael, Alexander and Emilia) for sharing your home with me as I passed through Toronto. And thank you Pat Green and Margaret Gardonio for all your thoughtful advice about the story. And for opening up your house and hearts to me on my travels and always being there for me, no matter what. A very special thanks to the late Ruth Darby, who showed me true friendship and her own unique perspective on being a mother. Thanks to Barb Neis and Peter Armitage for letting me be the ghost at their house in St. John’s on many occasions. And I am grateful to Robin Cleland, whose insights gave me a much-needed boost midway through the writing process. And to Anita Levin, Camilla Burgess and Ananda Shakti, who all helped me through some very rough times while I was writing this book.
Heartfelt thanks to my editor, Samantha Swenson, for her enthusiasm, her astute (but gentle!) suggestions and her sense of humor. Thanks to Tara Walker for her ongoing support, Peter Phillips for being so cheerful whenever I ask him to do something for me, and everyone else at Tundra and Penguin Random House Canada Young Readers for their professionalism and dedication to good books. And a very special thanks to artist Jensine Eckwall for her creepy cover design. Yikes!
And big hugs and thank yous to my most ardent supporters: my sister, Cate Cotter, my father, Graham Cotter, and my daughter, Zoe Cleland. Thank you all for reading through the different versions of the book with unwavering appreciation. Thank you Cate for celebrating with me. Thank you Graham for nurturing my creativity on so many levels and for so many years! And thank you Zoe for all your love and understanding, and for the lasting insight into twelve-year-old girls you gave me long ago.
And finally, thanks to all mothers and daughters who continue to struggle to love each other and themselves. And especially to my own mother, Evelyn Cotter, whose enthusiasm, courage, laughter and love of books lives on.
“Ferryland Lighthouse” by Gerald L. Squires
ALSO BY CHARIS COTTER
Polly and Rose have nothing in common…except ghosts. Polly wants to see one, Rose wishes she could stop seeing them. But is there more to Rose than it seems? Why does no one ever talk to her? And why does she look so…ghostly? When the girls find a tombstone with Rose’s name on it in the cemetery and encounter an angry spirit in her house who seems intent on hurting Polly, they have to unravel the mystery of Rose and her strange family…before it’s too late.
The Painting Page 17