Amber House: Neverwas (25 page)

a sensuous mouth, eyes both blue and dark.

“Deuced lucky,” the man on the floor agreed.

“But deuced brilliant too, to do so well. They say of him that

his ships always come through, even when all others are lost.”

“Jus’ lucky,” the drunken man sneered. “He makes every

decision on a coin toss.”

“A coin toss?” the younger said, sitting beside the other.

“Surely not.”

“Swear to God,” the other slurred. “He calls it . . . ’s lucky

coin. Always tells him true. And so it does.”

“His lucky coin,” the young man repeated thoughtfully, and

smiled. And I thought irrationally:
What big teeth you have.

I jumped when I felt a touch on my shoulder, but then heard

Jackson asking, “You all right, Sare?”

I looked up at him, squinting a bit in the sudden full daylight.

“I’m fine.”

“Echo?” he guessed.

I nodded, but did not elaborate.

“Come on back. I’m in here.” He entered a stall and finished

forking fresh hay across the floor. I stood at the siding and

watched him work. “Can you grab a square of alfalfa?” he asked,

gesturing behind me.

I turned to where he pointed, went and broke a few inches

off the green bale I saw there, and handed it over the siding. He

tossed it into the feed bin. “You do this every day?” I asked.

“Even holidays?”

144 O

He smiled tolerantly. “I tried to persuade the horses to be

more reasonable, but they still insist on getting hungry every

day.” He shrugged. “I don’t do it three hundred and sixty-five

days a year. If I can’t come over, I have a buddy who’ll come in

and cover for me.” He set his pitchfork outside the stall in the

corridor, then opened the exterior door to lead the roan back

inside. She moseyed over to the feed bin. He rubbed and patted

her neck as he unclipped her lead. “I kind of like doing this today.

Making the animals comfortable and warm. Feels Christmasy to

me — Christ was born in a stable, you know?”

I’d forgotten it was actually Christmas Eve. Somehow slipping

through time made ordinary hours and days harder to keep track

of. I took a moment to breathe in the smells, this other scent of

Christmas. It was a very Jackson-ish kind of observation —

practical, but sort of poetic too. I noticed he was watching me

again. “Look,” I said, “can we talk some more about — the stuff

we were talking about yesterday?”

“I kind of think we have to.”

“I told you I see pieces of a different past — do you have an

idea
why
?”

He leaned on the fork’s long handle. “I figure, Sare, that

someone did something in that other time that changed what

happened — that made events turn out differently.” He looked

at me, waiting, but I didn’t leap in. I was busy wrapping a stray

piece of twine around a finger on my left hand. “You know who

that was?”

“Maybe,” I said.

“Maybe?” He seemed slightly amused. “If I had to guess, I’d

say it was you. Was it?”

“I don’t know,” I answered a little defiantly. “Maybe. I suppose

so. I woke up Maggie. She was supposed to die in a coma in that

other past, but I found her in the mirror world and I woke

her up.”

o145

“Jesus,” he said, letting that sink in. “You remember a time in

which Maggie died?”

“Just bits and pieces. Not real well.” I felt I had to explain, to

excuse myself. “I didn’t
mean
to change things. I was just trying to save Sammy.”

“Maybe,” he offered gently, “you woke her up because she

wasn’t supposed to die.”

That was oddly comforting. It meant I wasn’t Pandora. Just

someone fixing a mistake, mending a broken piece.

“So,” he continued, “you woke up Maggie, and the present

that
used
to be isn’t anymore. That’s —” He paused, marveling.

“Jesus,” he said again. “You’re kind of like a superhero, you

know? Who does something like that?”

And that was oddly
dis
comforting. I didn’t want to be a superhero. I liked being an accidental mistake fixer better. I went

back to my finger wrapping. “Maybe,” I said, “this kind of thing

happens all the time, only we don’t know it because we can’t

remember the other pasts.”

“But
you
do. Remember a different past.”

“Like I said — just little pieces.”

“Like I ‘remember’ little pieces of a different future.”

I seized on that topic. “How do you know it’s a different

future? Maybe it’s this future, the one that’s already coming.”

He shook his head. “You can’t get there from here.”

“Why not?”

“Well, for one thing,” he said, and stopped, a trace of some

kind of hesitancy in his voice. He started again, pushing for-

ward, “For one thing, I’m not scarred in that future.”

I digested that. Not scarred. A different future because it

came from a different past. A different past because Jackson’s

parents hadn’t been in an accident —

I understood then why Jackson had seemed so reluctant to

talk about this. It was because he wanted to get there. To get

146 O

to a time where his parents didn’t die and he hadn’t been scarred

and — What? He grew up to become a doctor? Who could

blame him? Who wouldn’t want that?

But the other thing I understood, in the same instant — he

thought I could make it happen for him. Because I’d done it once

already.

How could I tell him I couldn’t do that?

It gave me a sick feeling inside. I wished I could help him,

but —
No.
I couldn’t change time again. Not on purpose. Not like I had some right to do it. I wasn’t Pandora — I couldn’t be

responsible for the things that might come out of that box. “I

have to go,” I said abruptly, moving toward the door.

“Where you going? Don’t we have to talk about this?” He was

hurt. I knew it, but I couldn’t do anything about it.

“I can’t talk about it, J. This is just all crazy. I don’t even want to think about it.”

“Sare,” he said, stopping me with my hand already on the

wooden door latch. “I know you have no reason to believe this,

but this isn’t the way the world is supposed to be.”

I lifted the latch.

“Sarah,” he said again. His voice held disbelief, outrage even,

but he was trying to keep it in. “You’re the only one who can

fix it.”

I went out the door without answering.

N

The kitchen was deserted when I went inside. I was glad. There

was a chill inside me I felt I could never get rid of. I sat down on the bench by the fire, leaned back, closed my eyes, and let the

heat soak through my skin.

How could I ever make Jackson understand? He thought I

could make things better, but I was afraid that if there actually

o147

was
a way for me to change time again, I would make things so much worse.

Besides which, I didn’t think I’d made that much difference. I

saved Maggie; my family was happier. End of story. How did he

think I could go back and prevent the accident that killed his

parents?

“May I offer you a cup of coffee?” A woman’s voice, not one

I knew.

The house again. I kept my eyes squeezed shut.
Go away
, I

thought.
Leave me alone.

“Thank you, missus,” a man with a New English accent

answered.

I groaned and opened my eyes.

The light had changed again — become the yellow ochre of

an autumn dusk. Fiona set a cup and saucer on the table before a

small man with an oversize mustache, dressed in a brown plaid

jacket and trousers.

She poured him a full cup, then nudged a sugar pot and

creamer closer to him as she sat. “Tell me,” she said.

The man opened a notebook on the table and referred to it.

“The name of the child’s uncle was Josiah Burnes. A black sea-

man living in the township of Acushnet outside of New Bedford.

He owned a small house there up until the year 1877. The

records show an Amber Burnes was enrolled in the school there

from 1874 until 1876.” The man handed Fiona a loose page from

his notes. “Josiah Burnes is listed deceased, lost with all hands on the
Charles R. Morse
on January 14,1877. His house was taken by the bank. Had a hard time tracking the girl after that.”

Fiona nodded at him to continue. He smoothed the halves of

his mustache, warming to his subject. “Spent considerable time

combing the area, checking every orphanage, but most of ’em

didn’t take black children. Some places were long gone, so I was

fearful the trail might have gone cold. Went as far as Providence,

148 O

but they told me the child would have been kept in state. Finally

found her again all the way up in Boston — Sisters of Charity

school and orphanage. One Amber Burnes listed resident there

until 1880.”

“Poor child,” Fiona murmured. “My grandmother never could

learn what became of her. Better for Amber if the uncle had left

her here.”

“Don’t know how she spent the next four years, but in 1884

she married one Peter Cooke, giving birth to two children in

three years, Peter Nathan Jr. and Della Maeve.”

“Named for both of her mothers.” She teared up slightly. “Go

on,” she said.

“Death certificate for Amber Cooke dated 1889, sepsis related

to childbirth. Death certificate for Peter Cooke dated 1897, fac-

tory accident. The younger Peter was old enough to find

employment and kept his sister with him until her marriage in

1904. Peter died childless in 1923. Located one Della Cooke

Martin in Stoughton, employed as a factory worker, mother of

two.” He looked up at Fiona expectantly.

“You did well, Mr. Farnham, thank you. The daughter’s name

confirms your findings.” Her voice was low, strained.

“You want to go forward with the trust for the grandchil-

dren?” Fiona nodded. “You still wish to remain anonymous?”

She nodded again. “I’ll have the lawyer send the papers, then.”

He rose to leave. She looked up at him, a puzzled look on her

face. “And there was nothing else? Nothing strange? Nothing

worthy of remark?”

He lifted his eyebrows. “No, missus. They seemed like very

ordinary lives and deaths.”

She nodded, looking down. “Poor child,” she said. I saw two

wet drops hit the table.

Then the swinging door to the hall opened and she was gone.

o149

Sam stood in the doorway looking outraged. He held the

Advent calendar, all its little windows gaping.

“This isn’t right, Sarah,” he said. “There aren’t enough doors.”

“Yes, Sam,” I said. “You open the last door today, Christmas

Eve, because tomorrow’s the big day.”

He was almost shouting. “Nope! It’s not! You know, don’t

you? Tomorrow’s not the big day!”

“Yeah, bud, tomorrow’s Christmas.”

“That’s not it!” he shouted and hurled the calendar to the

floor. Then he ran back out the door.

CH A P T ER SI X T EE N

K

Even though the Hathaways’ estate was Amber House’s direct

neighbor — the boundary marked by a twisting rivulet that

bent and coiled down a cleft between the properties — we

drove to dinner. The distance in crow-flight terms was less than

a quarter mile, but evidently the inhabitants of the two estates

had never been friendly enough to install a gate between them.

Their house was a three-story redbrick Georgian trimmed in

black, with a columned entry and stretches of balconied porch

along its two-story, mirror-image wings. It was all very sym-

metrical and correct-looking, unlike the silhouette of Amber

House. Every window in the main house glowed golden in the

darkness, a lit candle centered in the bottom of each.

“Be good, kiddo,” Mom reminded Sammy. “Remember what

I told you about eating what’s on your plate. And always say —”

“Please and thank you,” Sammy recited dutifully. “Tell

Sarah too.”

Mom was clutching a bottle of wine with a wax seal. My

gramma hadn’t been a big drinker, but she owned a somewhat

legendary collection of wines. Dad handed me the gift-wrapped

package for Claire that Mom and I had bought in Annapolis.

Sammy was assigned to carry the family gift — chocolates

imported from a province of New England that was now home

to significant numbers of the last century’s Swiss immigrants.

Dad got the rest.

Robert ushered us in. “Welcome, welcome,” he was saying.

o151

Claire stood in the entry, her slender frame poured into the

sleek lines of a pair of black wool pants with matching tuxedo

jacket, a loosely knotted black silk tie dangling above the plung-

ing neckline of a white blouse. I gritted my teeth in envy. I was

in a dress and tights.

Like Claire, the house mixed classic lines with modern,

underplayed drama. The furniture was all antique, and vaguely

European, in impeccable, never-been-touched condition. Lots of

dark wood. The backdrop for all this polished perfection, the space

itself, was
crisp
in a way that Amber House wasn’t — recessed lighting, a palette of pale gray and faint beige and soft white.

“I love what you’ve done with the place,” Mom announced.