The Swallow

by Charis Cotter

  My head still hurt, but it was a faint, whispering headache, not a bad one. Funny that I’d forgotten all that stuff about being sick and being in the hospital. It must have been after I got better and came home that I fell asleep in the loft, and the twins were looking for me, and I went up to the attic and met Rose. Weird. I’d have to tell her about it and see what she thought. Maybe that bad headache and whatever I had made me lose my memory.

  Rose had to be home by now. I let myself out the front door and went silently down the steps. When I entered the circle of light on the sidewalk, the one I’d been staring at for so long, I stopped for a moment and looked up at my sitting room window. It was still dark, but for a moment I thought I saw the figure of someone sitting in the chair, looking out at me. Probably just a shadow, but for a second or two I thought I was seeing myself, looking out at myself. A little shiver went down my spine.

  The porch light was on at Rose’s house, and a faint light glowed from the hall, but their living room was dark.

  I’d lost my nerve about ringing the bell. Her parents might be home by now. I walked up the dark path beside their house on the cemetery side and opened the gate to the backyard.

  The path was lined with uneven paving stones, and I had to walk slowly in the shadows, feeling my way carefully. On my left the ground fell off steeply, and then the hill in the cemetery reared up, gravestones silhouetted against the dark sky. I rounded the corner and slipped behind some bushes so I could look into the back of the house without being seen.

  Light poured out from the French doors that led to—to Rose’s father’s study, I guessed. I’d never been in there. I could see bookcases lining the walls, a big desk and … people. They were there. Rose, her father, her mother—and Winnie.

  I took a couple of steps closer, taking care not to step inside the light. It was strange, watching them through the window, as if it were a movie. The glass must have been dirty because I couldn’t see through it really clearly. It seemed to ripple a bit. Their voices were muffled, so I had no idea what they were saying.

  Rose’s mother was pretty, but she didn’t look at all like Rose. She was normal-sized, not tiny, and her hair was blond, softly curled around her face. She looked very tired.

  I couldn’t see her father very clearly, mostly just his back. He looked tall too, with broad shoulders, but his hair looked like Rose’s—dark and thick and curly.

  Winnie stood behind Rose’s mother, staring at Rose’s father. She looked different from the wild, angry girl I’d glimpsed in Rose’s attic. She looked sad—and longing. Like she wanted something so badly but didn’t know how to get it.

  I moved a bit to the left so I could see Rose, who was partially blocked by her father. Her expression made me catch my breath. She looked angrier than I had ever seen her. I think she was shouting. She looked—like Winnie. And Winnie looked like Rose.

  I turned my head from one to the other. Both dressed in black. Both with white faces. I started to wonder if I had been wrong, and it was Rose who was staring longingly at her father and Winnie standing in front of the fire, shouting at them. Which was which? And which was the ghost? Or were they both ghosts?

  Rose

  My mother smoothed her skirt and exchanged looks with my father.

  “It happened last winter,” she said, trying to gain control of her voice, which wobbled. Not something I often heard from my mother. She cleared her throat. “I was—pregnant. Only a few months. We didn’t tell you because—well, there were complications, and we weren’t sure the baby was going to make it. And—she didn’t. She died.”

  Her voice started wobbling again.

  “She?” I said. It came out as a raspy croak.

  “Yes,” said my mother. Her eyes filled with tears. “A sister. You would have had a sister. I was five months pregnant when I lost her.”

  “Five months? And you didn’t tell me?”

  “It was always a risky pregnancy. We didn’t tell anyone, except my parents.”

  She fumbled in her purse for a handkerchief and wiped her eyes.

  “Is that why you were in the hospital? Is that why you’ve been so sad all this time?”

  She nodded, unable to speak. My father went to her and put his arm around her shoulders.

  “Mary,” he said. “Don’t.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I cried. “You always treat me like I’m not here! Like I’m not important! I have a right to know what’s happening.”

  “We talked about telling you,” said my father. “But—well—your grandmother died not long after, and we decided it was all a bit too much for you to take in.”

  I felt the anger rising up again inside me: a hot red wave.

  “You don’t know what I can take,” I said through gritted teeth, trying to hold the wave back. “You don’t know what I have to live with every day.”

  My father started looking nervous again. I knew he was afraid I was going to start talking about Winnie and ghosts.

  “We made the decision not to tell you,” said my mother, rallying. “Perhaps we were wrong. It’s been a difficult year, Rose, for everybody. There have been a number of grown-up things going on between your father and me, and the business, that you can’t possibly understand. We have tried to protect you from that.”

  I opened my mouth and the wave swept out.

  “I understand this,” I said. “You don’t love me. You don’t see me. You don’t want to see what’s going on inside me. You’re afraid of me. You think there’s something wrong with me and if you just keep ignoring me it will go away.”

  “No, Rosie, that’s not true,” protested my father.

  “Don’t call me Rosie!” I yelled at him. “That’s a baby name. I’m not a baby.”

  “You are certainly acting like a baby,” said my mother sharply. “A baby having a temper tantrum.”

  WE LOST HER

  Polly

  “Polly!” whispered a voice out of the darkness.

  I jumped and gave a little yelp.

  Mark and Matthew materialized beside me.

  “What are you doing here?” I whispered back. “You nearly scared me to death.”

  “We don’t want you going near the Ghost Girl,” said Matthew, pulling at my sleeve.

  “Come home,” said Mark, pulling at my other sleeve. “Come back to the attic where you’re safe.”

  “Not this again,” I said, shaking them off. “What’s with you two? Rose is my friend. If you want to see a real Ghost Girl,” I said, pushing Mark in front of me, “look in there. Can you see her?”

  “Who?” he said.

  “Winnie.” I pointed to the one with the old-fashioned white collar. That had to be Winnie, no matter what the expression on her face. “She’s standing behind Rose’s mum. She looks just like Rose, but she’s a ghost. A real ghost.”

  The boys stood in front of me, staring into the room.

  “That’s the Ghost Girl,” breathed Mark. I could feel him beginning to tremble. “That’s the one we’ve been seeing, the one in the window. The one that’s after you, Polly.”

  “The one that wants to steal your soul,” said Matthew.

  “Well, that’s Winnie, not Rose. Rose is my friend, and she’s the one you’ve been seeing and calling the Ghost Girl. She’s over there, in front of the fire.” I pointed my finger.

  “Two Ghost Girls?” said Matthew. “There’s two of them? Twins?”

  Suddenly the door behind Winnie started to open, and she ducked out of sight. A shadowy figure stood at the door, holding it open and saying something, then someone else walked into the room.

  “What’s Mum doing there?” said Matthew.

  Rose

  Winnie smirked at me over my mother’s shoulder. She was enjoying this.

  Before I could respond to my mother, the door opened and Kendrick stood there.

  “Mrs. Lacey from next door wants a word,” she said, giving me a pointed look. As if she knew I was about to get into big trou
ble.

  Polly’s mother walked in. She looked much as she had earlier that day—she was still wearing the red coat and her glasses were slipping off her nose. But she looked upset, almost as if she had been crying.

  “I’m so sorry to intrude,” she said, looking at my mother, “but something rather upsetting has come to my attention, and I think I should clear it up right now before it goes any further.”

  My mother and father had both got to their feet as she came in.

  “Is it about the library?” said my mother quickly. “I had a phone call today from Mrs. Gardner. Something about an overdue book, and some silliness with the children.”

  Mrs. Lacey swallowed. “Yes, but it’s gone a bit beyond silly, I’m afraid. Can I speak to you alone, please?” she continued, deliberately not looking at me.

  My mother pulled her businesswoman attitude round her like a cloak.

  “If it’s something to do with my daughter, Mrs.—Mrs. Lacey, is it?”

  Polly’s mother nodded.

  “I think we should get it out in the open, and I’m sure Rose can help us straighten it out.”

  “Well …” said Mrs. Lacey looking from my mother to me. “If you think it’s best.”

  My mother nodded. Mrs. Lacey stood up a little straighter and continued.

  “At first I thought it was some game the twins were playing with your daughter. I know they tease her. But I’ve spoken to them, and they swear they don’t know anything about the book. They’re very mischievous but they don’t lie, as a rule. Somehow your daughter got that library book from inside our house. And that’s not all.”

  Mrs. Lacey held up the striped shopping bag.

  “This afternoon I found your daughter hiding this. It’s one of my shopping bags. I made them myself, so there’s no mistaking it. I’d like to know where she got it. And there have been other things. Missing food. Missing cake, missing cookies. Things being moved around. I’ve been accusing the twins, but now, with this book—well, I think somehow your daughter has been coming into my house and taking things.”

  She looked at me, a little breathless. My parents’ mouths had dropped open.

  “Are you accusing my daughter of stealing?” said my mother in her very quiet, you’re-about-to-be-fired-so-be-very-very-careful tone of voice.

  “I don’t like to,” said Mrs. Lacey. “She seems a very … very … well … nice girl,” she said a bit uncertainly, glancing at my wild hair. “But I don’t know what other explanation there could possibly be. And as I’m sure you understand, the book is particularly upsetting, because it was one my daughter took out of the library, before she—”

  Here Mrs. Lacey stopped and took a deep breath. She seemed to be struggling with tears.

  “Before—before she died,” she went on with an effort. “And we’ve had a couple of notices from the library, but we’ve never been able to find it.”

  I had been waiting to get a chance to speak and tell them to just ask Polly and she’d explain everything, but something started ringing in my ears and I couldn’t say a word. Everything in the room slowed and I felt like I was underwater. The grown-ups’ voices were coming from far, far away.

  “Your daughter?” said my mother, her briskness falling away. “I’m very sorry, I didn’t know. You say the book was your daughter’s? You had a daughter who—died?”

  Mrs. Lacey nodded dumbly, and her eyes overflowed again.

  “I’m sorry,” she gasped, putting out her arm to my mother, as if she were going to fall over. “This book business has brought it all back. You think you’re past the worst and then it just—it just—”

  My mother was at her side in an instant, guiding her to the chair, sitting her down.

  “Can I get you anything?” offered my father. “Some water?”

  Mrs. Lacey shook her head and tried to smile through her tears. The smile made her look even more like Polly.

  “No, I’ll be all right in a minute. It was all very sudden, you see. Last spring. The meningitis epidemic. We lost her. Polly. I thought you knew.”

  COLD

  Polly

  Everyone was on their feet now and I couldn’t see their faces. Rose was hidden behind her dad. Winnie was nowhere to be seen. The twins and I stood rooted to the spot, as if we were watching a movie. There was a flurry, and people moved, and Mr. and Mrs. McPherson were bending over someone in the chair, and Rose was standing like a statue in front of the fire, her face white. She moved slowly past them and out the door, as if she were sleepwalking. Then the person in the chair got up. It was Mum, and she was clutching a handkerchief to her face, and Mrs. McPherson had her arm around her shoulder and was leading her from the room.

  “Mum,” said Mark in a broken voice.

  “See, now she’s upset again,” said Matthew. “It’s all your fault, Polly.”

  “My fault? What did I do?”

  “Nothing,” said Mark. “Shut up, Matt.”

  “Well, it is her fault. If she hadn’t—Hey!” Mark pushed him over.

  “If I hadn’t what?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Matt. “Let’s go home.”

  For the first time, I realized I had come out without my coat. I was very, very cold.

  Rose

  The world spun around me. Everything was dropping away. I felt sick, like I was going to throw up. In a blur I saw my parents bending over Polly’s mum. Winnie stood on the far side of the room, watching me with a strange expression on her face.

  I felt completely detached from all of them, as if they were on television and I could turn them all off by walking away. I felt more like a ghost than ever.

  I walked past them all and out the door. Nobody saw me go.

  The hall was dark, full of shadows. A haunted house, Polly said.

  I picked up the box from the hall table and slowly walked up the stairs. Each stair could have been a mountain—it was hard to lift my feet, as if they were weighed down by bricks. I felt dizzy, as if the staircase and the walls and the furniture in the house and my parents and Mrs. Lacey had all been thrown up into the air and were spinning madly around. Nothing was solid, except my heavy feet and the thick pain in my throat, like I’d swallowed something too big and it was caught there, making it difficult to breathe.

  I moved through my grandmother’s room, where the faint smell of roses whispered to me. The rug with the flowers seemed to stretch on forever. I finally made it into the closet and climbed up the endless ladder to the attic. The house still spun around me, like a spinning top, with all the colors whirling together, around and around.

  I put the box on the floor and pulled myself up into the old stuffed chair in the dark. I took a careful breath. Something fluttered in my throat.

  Polly. Polly was the ghost, not me.

  PART FIVE

  THE SWALLOW

  O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying South,

  Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves,

  And tell her, tell her, what I tell to thee.

  ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON, “O SWALLOW, SWALLOW”

  UNDERWATER

  Polly

  I looked back into the study. The glass was even more ripply now, and it was a lot harder to see in. But I could just make out Mr. McPherson, sitting in the chair, staring into the fire. He buried his face in his hands.

  “Come back with us, Polly,” said Mark, tugging at my sleeve again.

  I shook my head. I felt as if I were deep underwater, and everything was thick and slow. I didn’t want to move or think. I just wanted to keep watching what was happening in that study, like I was watching a show on TV and needed to know how it turned out.

  Winnie appeared again, behind Mr. McPherson. She stretched out her hand and softly stroked his hair. It looked like she was saying something, but I couldn’t hear. He didn’t move for a minute. Then he raised his head.

  He was crying. I’d never seen a man cry before. His face was collapsed on itself. He rubbed his eyes like a little boy. />
  Winnie knelt by his side and stroked his arm, looking up into his face and speaking to him.

  It was obvious that he didn’t see her. But somehow, I felt he knew she was there. It made me feel good. Rose must have given him the message, and now they could say good-bye.

  Rose

  How was it possible? I’d hugged her, I’d felt her warm hand on mine, I’d seen her devouring shortbread, I’d heard her laughing. How could Polly be dead?

  But then I remembered the sight of her pale white hand on the floor of the attic after Winnie attacked her, and her pale face, and Winnie screaming at me, “She’s dead!”

  The very first time I met her, when I heard her voice in the attic, I did think she was a ghost. An invisible ghost who was trying to trick me. But she had also tricked herself, because there was no way Polly knew she was dead. She was going to school, eating dinner, talking to her brothers and sisters. But were they talking back?

  I tried to think, sitting there in the dark with my world spinning out of control, tried to remember if I had ever seen anyone talking to Polly. Mrs. Gardner at the library? No, she had just yelled at the twins and ignored Polly and me when we were there. The kids at her school? No, Polly had walked behind them, all by herself. The twins? I’d never seen Polly and the twins together, but they always talked about her to me as if she were alive.

  Or did they? What if they could see ghosts, the way I could? That would explain why they were so worried about me spending time with Polly. They thought I was a ghost, and they were afraid I would tell her she was dead, and then she would disappear.

  It was true. Polly was dead.

  I couldn’t bear it. I felt a scream of “NO!” rising inside me, but nothing could come past the huge lump stopping up my throat.

  I slipped off the chair to the floor and curled into a ball. Everything hurt, but my throat worst of all. It felt as if a bird were trapped in there, struggling to get out, and every time it flapped its wings they scraped against the inside of my throat, cutting me.