“Thank you, Rachel.”
As I hung up the phone I felt much better. The spooky box was so full of ghosts, bad thoughts, frustration and ill feeling. It was so full of things left unsaid. I might not be able to heal all of Grace's wounds, but at least with Yvonne I had healed one.
It was quiet again. Quiet and empty. But if it hadn't been so quiet, I might have missed something—something special.
I'm eighteen and I know a great many things but I don't know everything (for example, “A stitch in time saves Nine,” what does that mean? My whole life, I've never known what that means. With what sort of needle does one stitch time? Who's Nine?). But I am learning.
Grace was in her chair by the window. I moved her chair so it faced the back garden. I thought she could watch the birds that have moved into the mulberry tree. They have chicks, and the parent birds are always flying in and out getting little grubs for them. Grace was in her chair looking out the window.
I wasn't playing any music. I usually play music in the afternoon, jazz, or blues, but not today. I could hear the birds chirruping and squabbling in the mulberry tree. I could hear the occasional car as it passed in the street, trains in the distance. I could hear all the sounds of suburbia on a sunny afternoon. Then, very faintly, I could hear another sound. I stood very still and listened. I had my eyes closed, my hand cupped behind my ear.
I could hear Grace.
I moved very quietly toward her, tiptoeing across the wooden floor. I knelt down behind her chair on the floor. Nothing. No sound but the birds and the cars. I shut my eyes and listened.
There it was again!
She was sitting perfectly still. I knelt down behind her. I could hear something.
Grace was singing.
Ever so gently, ever so softly. No words, just a tune, breathy. “La, la, da, da.”
I sat there on the floor behind Grace's chair listening. Listening to Grace sing. Sat there, on the hard wooden floor, with my eyes squeezed shut, listening to Grace sing.
Never before had I heard a single sound from Grace that was voluntary. Never before had I heard her voice.
I sat there on the floor behind Grace's chair, a tear rolling down my cheek, and listened as Grace sang.
When I opened my eyes, I could see her finger ever so slightly tapping the arm of the chair, tapping to the beat, “La, la, da, da.” Tap, tap, tap.
I don't know how long I sat there, but I heard her. I heard Grace.
When there is nothing, there is always music. I know what that means now.
She's in there. I know she is.
about the author
Alyssa Brugman was born in an elderly people's home in the Australian city of Lake Macquarie (it was the closest medical facility). She attended five different schools before completing a business degree at Newcastle University. She now lives in Sydney and is a full-time writer. Her previous novel, Walking Naked, was published by Delacorte Press.
Published by Laurel-Leaf
an imprint of Random House Children's Books
a division of Random House, Inc.
New York
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2001 by Alyssa Brugman
All rights reserved.
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RL: 5.5
eISBN: 978-0-307-48483-3
v3.0
Finding Grace Page 17