Dad turned on the ignition, and I settled back for the ride into Baton Rouge, tucking my book into a pocket on the back of the front seat. But we all jumped as someone tapped at Mom’s window and a craggy face with a lopsided smile appeared.
Mom quickly rolled down the window, and the man leaned in. “Not leaving, are you?” he asked.
“Yes, we are,” Mom said.
“But you can’t … at least not until we’ve come to some kind of an understanding,” the man said.
“Who are you?” Mom asked, spacing the words slowly as though she were trying extra hard to be patient. “And what kind of understanding are you talking about?”
The man grinned and pulled off the sweat-stained Panama hat he was wearing. “Sorry about that. I should have introduced myself right off. I’m Homer Tavey.”
Dad remembered the name. “The antiques dealer,” he said.
“You heard of me?” Mr. Tavey beamed.
“Yes. From Mrs. Lord.”
Mr. Tavey’s happy expression quickly disappeared. “Don’t pay any mind to anything Hannah told you. She’s scared you’re gonna sell some of your furnishings to me, and she wants to get her hands on them for that little historical society of hers.”
“We’re not selling anything, Mr. Tavey,” Mom said.
He looked surprised. “You can get a nice price for the house and property from Ray Merle, and I’ll give you the best offer you can get for the furnishings. I know a lady upriver who’s been dying to get her hands on a genuine antique tester bed. She’d probably go for a highboy, too.”
“I’m sorry to spoil your hopes, Mr. Tavey,” Mom said, “but I repeat, nothing in this house is for sale. My husband and daughter and I are going to live in Graymoss.”
Mr. Tavey looked shocked. “I seriously doubt that,” he said.
Mom spoke through clenched teeth. “I don’t want to hear one more story about evil things in the house or ghosts haunting the place.”
“You haven’t been here at night—” Mr. Tavey began, but Mom cut him off.
“Have you?”
“No, but everybody knows that—”
“Goodbye, Mr. Tavey,” Mom said, and jabbed at the button that rolled up the window. “Let’s go,” she said to Dad. “Right this minute. If one more neighbor shows up I’m going to scream!”
We took off and drove through Bogue City without stopping. When we reached the highway, Mom finally began to relax.
“Do you realize,” she asked, “that everyone who has told us about ghosts has an ulterior motive for wanting us to leave? Mrs. Lord wants us to donate the house to her historical society. Mr. Merle wants the property for a housing development. Mrs. Phipps wants to be left in peace. And Mr. Tavey wants our antiques.”
“What about Mr. Boudreau?” I asked. “He talked about the hauntings, too.”
“If we moved in, Mr. Boudreau would have a great deal more work to do. Plus the fact that he and his wife would lose their vegetable garden. I’m sure he’d be glad to keep the status quo.”
It was now or never. I was ready with my zinger. “You know what you have to do, Mom,” I said. “You have to prove to all of them that you’re right and they’re wrong. We have to go back to Graymoss tonight.”
For a while Mom didn’t answer. Then she said, “Maybe you’re right, Lia. Maybe I do. I’ll give it some thought.”
I hugged my arms and tried to keep from grinning, just in case Dad glanced in the rearview mirror and saw me. At that moment I knew how Mom felt when she clapped her hands in excitement and happiness, because—dorky or not—I would have liked to do the same thing.
I was sure that if Mom spent the night at Graymoss, it would be the last time she’d want to set foot in the house. She’d been scared once, but talked herself out of it. She wouldn’t be able to do that if the ghost let go and gave her a night filled with horror. We wouldn’t move, I’d still see Jolie every day, and I could read in my room in peace without a dozen noisy kids driving me crazy. Thanks to the haunts who frightened everyone away from Graymoss, I was going to win—not Mom!
By the time we slipped into a booth in a fast-food restaurant in Baton Rouge, Mom was cranky, Dad’s sense of humor had vanished, and I was starving. But it’s amazing the magic that hamburgers and Cokes can do.
Dad leaned back, sipping his Coke, and began making up silly For Sale signs for Graymoss. “ ‘Three floors of loveliness. Creeps in the cellar, ghosts in the garage—’ ”
“There isn’t a garage,” Mom said, and giggled.
“Don’t spoil my ad,” Dad said. “ ‘Haunts in the hallways, bats in the bedroom—’ ”
“And no bats,” Mom interrupted. “You can be prosecuted for fraudulent advertising.”
They both laughed. Dad took Mom’s hand and said, “Then we’d better not try to sell the house. We’ll just have to live in it.”
The joy in Mom’s face made me feel terrible. I looked away. I hated to spoil her dream, but there were ghosts no one could live with, and the sooner she found out about it the better.
“What are we going to do now?” I asked. “Go home and come back to Graymoss this evening?”
Mom and Dad gave each other one of those secret looks that kids aren’t supposed to see. It meant that they had something in mind for me. Probably something I wouldn’t like.
Mom smiled at me and said, “We’ll drive home in a little while, but we have a stop to make first.”
I had a look of my own. I rolled my eyes sky-ward, sighed, and said, “Am I supposed to guess where?”
“Lighten up,” Dad said good-naturedly. “Give your mother a chance to tell you.”
“Through my job I’ve often been in contact with the director of the Adelaide Barker Home for Children in Baton Rouge,” Mom said. Eagerly she leaned across the table toward me. “I’ve visited the children, and the director knows about our dream. Lia, honey, you’ve made it clear that you have reservations about what your father and I want to do. We think if you meet the children you’ll become as enthusiastic as we are about moving into Graymoss with a large family—children no one has wanted to adopt. Do you want me to tell you how the adoptions work?”
I hedged. “Right now?”
“Now’s as good a time as any,” Mom said. “This is the situation. We’ll visit the home a number of times. We’ll get to know the children, and they’ll get to know us. We’ll begin to figure out which children will join us—”
“They have more than a dozen? How many kids live there?”
“Usually around sixty to seventy-five. The home has a very low rate of adoption—something like only twenty-seven percent—because most people want babies. They don’t want older children, or an entire family of brothers and sisters who hope to stay together, or children with physical or mental handicaps.”
“I know. You already told me all that,” I said. I slumped against the back of the booth. Mom was making me feel worse.
“All right. Next step,” she said. “We’ll sign up and begin the paperwork that will result in a license to be adoptive parents. We’ll have to take parenting classes—”
“But you are parents. You have me!”
“Of course we do, honey, but the rules and regulations don’t take that into consideration.”
“That’s all I am? Just something that doesn’t count under a rule and regulation?”
Dad took one of my hands. “Not to us,” he said. “You’re the most important part of our lives, Lia.”
Then think about what you’re doing to me, I thought, but I didn’t say anything.
Mom waited a moment, then went on explaining. “We’ll go through a police check and a visit from one or more social workers. They’ll all prepare reports on us. The reports will be given to the children’s caseworkers. If all goes well, by the time the workers have finished putting in electricity, and digging a new water well, and adding a modern kitchen and bathrooms to Graymoss, our new family will be ready to be adopted.”
“
That could take months and months.” I tried to keep from sounding hopeful.
Dad sighed and said, “There are so many kids who badly need homes, but unfortunately, there’s a lot of time-consuming red tape and paperwork to get through.”
Both Mom and Dad looked at me expectantly. I knew they were still waiting for me to say something cheerful and encouraging. But that wasn’t the way I felt, and I couldn’t fake it. “Why do you want to go there and get the kids’ hopes up until you’re positive that … that …”
Mom sat up straight. “Don’t start with that evil-in-the-house business. I don’t want to hear another word about ghosts. Your father and I will go to Graymoss tonight and prove to everyone that we’re not going to be intimidated by a lot of stupid stories, and that will be the end of that.”
I grabbed at the first thought that came into my mind. Trying to look indignant, I said, “I was going to point out that the structural engineers haven’t even been to the house yet. You don’t know that Graymoss can be lived in.”
Dad smiled. “Don’t let it worry you. I did some checking on my own while we were there. The house was built to last. I’m sure the engineers will agree.”
“Were you down in the basement?” I asked. “I know there’s a basement, because I could see the little windows at ground level.” I eagerly slid upright. “You know, sometimes a basement can develop rot and mildew.”
Dad laughed so loudly that the people in the next booth turned around to see what was so funny. “Give it up, Lia,” he said. “The door to the basement was locked, so I didn’t go down to examine it, but I’m not worried. I’ve been in enough of these old plantation homes to know how solid their basements and foundations are—”
It suddenly dawned on me what Mom had said. “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “Mom, you just told me that you and Dad were going to Graymoss tonight. What about me? I want to go, too.”
Dad shook his head. “I think it will be much better if you and your vivid imagination stay home. Talk on the phone to Jolie. Watch a good movie. We won’t be long.”
“But I have to be there with you,” I insisted.
“After the way you frightened yourself today in broad daylight? What would your imagination do to you in the dark? We’re not going to find out,” Mom said.
“I’m not a child,” I argued. They couldn’t go without me! I had to be there to see what the evil would do in its full fury. “Look, I’m fifteen,” I said. “I’m not going to be afraid.”
“It’s been decided,” Dad told me.
Mom picked up her purse and slid out of the booth. “Let’s go visit the Barker Home,” she said. “I can’t wait to begin finding our kids.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Adelaide Barker Home for Children didn’t look like a home. It was a large redbrick building on a busy street. The front door opened into a large, bright room that looked like the lobby of a business office, with vinyl-covered sofas and chairs and fake plants. But no public lobby would have eight kids draped all over two big sofas or lying on their stomachs in front of the TV, watching noisy cartoons.
At one side of the room was a glassed-in office. A tall, gray-haired woman popped out of the door that was labeled OFFICE OF THE DIRECTOR and strode toward Mom with outstretched arms. “I’m so glad to see you, Anne,” she said, raising her voice over the sound from the television. She briefly hugged Mom and shook hands with Dad.
“Barbara, this is our daughter, Lia,” Mom said. “Lia, this is Mrs. Lane.”
A couple of the kids had twisted around to stare at us, and I felt awkward and uncomfortable as I shook Mrs. Lane’s hand.
“What an exciting venture this must be for you, Lia!” she said with a smile.
All I could do was nod at her and wish Mom and Dad and the kids who were staring would get interested in something besides me. I could feel myself blushing, and I hated it.
Without pausing for breath, Mrs. Lane called out, “Dillon, turn down the volume, please. Anne, Derek, why don’t you come into my office where we can talk?” and “Lia, you’ll probably want to meet some of the other children. Just feel free to look around.”
Other children? Oh, sure. As Mom and Dad followed Mrs. Lane into her office, I angrily clamped my teeth together and sat down on an empty chair away from the others and close to the front door.
A little girl, who didn’t look any older than seven, detached herself from the group that had turned back to watching the cartoons. She walked directly to me and leaned closer to study my face with huge black eyes. “How do you do that?” she asked.
“Do what?” I mumbled.
“Make your face get all red, like it was a minute ago.” She shook her head, the ends of her braids bouncing. “Do it again,” she said.
“I can’t,” I told her, trying to keep a straight face. “It happens when I get embarrassed.”
Her nose wrinkled. “Like when you get called on in school and you lose your place? Or when you wait too long to run for the bathroom and you don’t make it?”
I laughed. I couldn’t help it. But she didn’t seem to mind. “My name’s Lia. What’s yours?” I asked her.
“Demetria,” she said. “I’m nine years old, and I’m here with my brother and sister. How come you’re here? Did you get kicked out of your foster home?”
I shook my head, and Demetria said, “We did. But it wasn’t my fault. It was Robbie’s fault. He couldn’t take our foster mother yellin’ at Delia anymore, so he threw her best china platter on the floor and it broke. Our foster mother yelled some more and said that was the last straw and she didn’t want such bad kids in her house one more day. So Mrs. Lane came and got us and brought us here.” Demetria shook her head sadly. “We aren’t really bad kids,” she said. “Robbie just didn’t like all that yellin’. And Delia makes lots of mistakes, but not on purpose.”
“How old is Robbie?” I asked.
Demetria brightened. “He’s seven,” she said, “and Delia is four. Mrs. Lane said she was gonna try to keep us together. Do you have any brothers or sisters to keep together with?”
“No,” I said, “but I have a mother and father.”
For just an instant I could see a terrible longing in Demetria’s eyes. But she gave a shake of her head and stood up as tall as she could. “We had a mother and father once,” she said. “That counts for somethin’.”
“That counts for a lot,” I answered,
“Do you want to just sit here doin’ nothin’?” Demetria asked. “Or do you want to come and see my house?”
“What house?”
“C’mon. I’ll show you.”
Demetria held out a hand, so I got up and walked with her down a hallway to what looked like a kindergarten room. “This is where I built my playhouse,” she said, and she led me to one corner of the room behind an upright piano where some blocks were piled to make a low wall.
A small girl sat inside the enclosure, sucking her thumb. Her dress was stained and smelled of urine.
Demetria sighed and shook her head. “Delia, how come you didn’t go to the bathroom?” she asked.
Delia tugged her thumb out of her mouth with a pop. “Don’t know where it is,” she said, then thrust her thumb back like a cork in a bottle.
“You gotta show Delia things over and over again,” Demetria said in a low voice, as if she were one adult talking to another. “Our foster mother before last said Delia drove her right up the wall.”
Holding out her hands to Delia, Demetria said, “C’mon, Delia. I’ll take you to get cleaned up.”
As Demetria gathered her sister into her arms she gave me a desperate look. “Don’t you go away, Lia,” she said. “I haven’t showed you around yet.”
I found a roll of paper towels on a nearby cupboard and wiped up the puddle Delia had left. Then I went in search of the bathroom Delia couldn’t find, so that I could wash my hands.
Farther down the hallway was a door with a cow painted on it. I pushed it open, and a boy about
ten years old called out, “Hey!” He limped out of the bathroom and stopped to face me.
“Whatcha doin’ in the boys’ bathroom?” he demanded.
“I didn’t know it was the boys’ bathroom,” I said. “I thought it was for girls. It has a cow on it.”
He snickered. “The cow’s on that door across the hall,” he said. This one’s a bull. You sure are dumb.”
I blushed again. “I wasn’t paying attention. It looked like a cow to me.”
I stepped back into the hallway so he could get past me. He seemed to be having a lot of trouble when he walked.
“Are you gonna work here?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “I just came to visit.”
His eyes lit up. “You gonna take a kid to adopt? Maybe you want me. I’m smart. I get good grades in school, and I know a lot of jokes.”
“I’m too young to adopt a child,” I told him. “I’m only fifteen.”
“Uh-oh,” he said. “They can’t keep you in a foster home either, huh? What did you do to get in trouble?”
This kid had a big mouth and he was a little bit of a smart aleck, but I couldn’t help liking him. “What’s your name?” I asked.
“Jimmy,” he said. “What’s yours?”
“Lia. And I didn’t get in trouble. I’m here with my parents on a visit.”
“You got parents?” he asked, and there was such longing on his face that I wanted to hug him. “I never had any—just an aunt and her boyfriend. After he kicked me down the stairs and the police took me to a hospital, I got sent to foster homes.”
“Why couldn’t you stay in the foster homes?” I asked.
“Sometimes I have bad nightmares, and I cry out, and it wakes people up so they don’t get their good night’s sleep.” He looked down at the tips of his shoes. “And in the daytime I need more help than other kids do.”
Then he looked up at me with a lopsided grin. “I forgot. You need help, too. You need help findin’ the right bathroom.” He pointed at the other door, the one with the cow painted on it. “There it is.”
He turned and limped down the hallway. It hurt to watch the terrible effort he was making. Tears blurred my eyes, so I shoved my way through the door and scrubbed my hands as hard as I could in the low washbasin.
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