The Clearing (12 page)

She took a sip of chamomile. "No. I think you're creative. You taking up ghost hunting?"

"No, I guess not." I shut Mae's album and reached for my tea.

Mae set down her mug. "You know, you've been awful y quiet since your mom and Pete were here the other day."

"Meh, it's fine. Whatever," I said. I stirred some sugar into my tea. "I mean, it's not like they were around much, anyway."

"You say that, but I saw the look on your face that afternoon," Mae said. "I know you wish they weren't moving away, sweetie."

"Yeah, I thought I would go back home at some point."

Mae nodded. "It would be good for you to go back there, anyway. Someday, when you feel ready. If you avoid places or people, you give them power."

"Maybe."

Mae got up from the table, yawning. "I'm going to hit the hay. You going to be al right?"

"Yeah."

"Cal Katie-dog up on the bed. She's an antidote to ghosts and nightmares. She wouldn't let anyone harm a hair on your head."

"'Kay. Thanks."

Mae shuffled off down the hal , and I opened the album on the table again. I final y found another picture of the house. This time the place was in ruins, scorched by fire. And there was the apple tree where I'd stood with Henry. I touched the picture, the edges curled and barely held down by the little black glued corners. I thought of him touching me. Holding me. And me feeling so safe.

"Why can't you be real?"

I shut the book and cal ed Katie to bed. The ghosts in my life had haunted me enough for one night.

***

"Hey," Jackson said, sliding into the seat next to me in Mr. Planter's room for the homecoming meeting. "What's up with you? Tired or something?

You've been yawning al day."

I shrugged. "Haven't been sleeping much."

"That I can tel . Bags under your eyes. Cute bags, but bags nonetheless," he said, winking.

I gave him a shut-it look and opened my notebook.

"Okay, let's get this meeting started. So, first of al , can we please do something cool for once?" Lori banged her fist on the table, silencing the other kids. They al stared at her.

Mr. Planter cleared his throat. "Cool is relative. What did you have in mind?"

"I know we usual y do a theme at homecoming, but this year, since it's so close to Hal oween, it should also be a costume bal ."

"I like it," Mr. Planter said, nodding.

"That sounds fun," said Jackson.

Mr. Planter moved to the whiteboard. "Okay, any ideas for the theme?"

"Total y eighties!" Melanie, who'd come late to the meeting, piped up.

"That was last year's winter tolo theme," Lori said, rol ing her eyes.

"Groovy disco seventies?" said the girl sitting next to me.

"The seventies is pretty overdone," Jackson pointed out. "And for the record, I'm not wearing polyester anything."

Mr. Planter chuckled. "I think you're on the right track. Let's keep thinking." He went to the whiteboard and started writing down al the suggestions in bright red pen.

Famous couples

Red, white, and blue

Greek mythology

Love through the ages

Literary characters

It was al clichéd. I didn't have anything new to contribute, but these weren't good. I tried to think back to school in Seattle—we'd done a seaside theme once, and another time something about a jungle. Lame and lamer.

"Movie scenes," cal ed out Jackson.

"Uh, what? What's that supposed to mean?" Melanie said, giving him a withering look.

"You know—like we do some classic movies? Decorate the place like Hol ywood, dress up. Have the paparazzi photograph us."

"You mean dress up like at a
Star Wars
convention?" offered Mr. Planter.

"Uh, no." Jackson held up two hands. "I was thinking like
Indiana Jones
or
Casablanca
."

"Or
Breakfast at Tiffany's
" I said, looking up from my doodling.

"Or
Legally Blonde
," said Lori. "Yeah, that's cool."

Mr. Planter looked pleased. "Okay. So, do we have a consensus, team? The movies?"

Melanie groaned. "Oh, this is gonna suck."

Lori's smile faded.

"It's going to be fine," I said.

Melanie turned her annoyed glance to me. "I suppose you're going to do
Sex and the City?
" she said with a snarky laugh.

"Uh, what?"

"Never mind. Just something I heard," she said under her breath.

Mr. Planter capped his pen. "We'l meet again next week—how about next Tuesday, same time? Come prepared, and let's try to bring better attitudes," he said, giving Melanie a pointed look.

On the way out to the hal , I stopped Melanie. "What's your deal?"

"I'm not stupid," she said. "My friends told me they saw you drinking with Quinn on the back porch at Lori's party last Friday."

"Boy, your spies are everywhere," I said, shaking my head.

"I know what you're up to," she said.

"No, you don't. I'm not after Quinn. You don't have to worry about me."

"What? What do you mean by that?"

I saw something pained in her expression that almost made me feel sorry for her. How many other girls had she had to warn away from Quinn, since obviously he wasn't faithful? "Melanie, are you real y happy with him, anyway? I mean, is he even nice to you?" I asked.

Her expression hardened. "Why are you even asking that? Look, I could make your life hel , so watch out and stay away from him. I know what girls like you are al about."

I bit my lip, wanting to say much more, but Jackson and Lori had caught up to us.

"Everything okay?" Jackson said, slipping an arm around my shoulder.

I didn't flinch. "Yeah."

I didn't flinch. "Yeah."

Melanie raised her eyebrows and sashayed off down the hal .

"She's a one-woman rumor mil ," Lori said. "I mean, not that she's starting anything about you. Just, you know..."

"No, I don't."

"Wel ," Lori said, sucking in a breath, "I heard Quinn's friends said some stuff about you and Quinn, but they make crap up al the time."

"What did they say?"

"They were talking about stuff you did at the party."

"Amy left the party early," Jackson said.

"I remember that, I think," said Lori, shouldering her bag. "Just watch your back. These rumors get started and have a life of their own."

"Wel , maybe you could be a friend and help end them," Jackson said. He glared at Lori, and her cheeks flushed pink.

"No, it's fine. I don't even care," I said. "Real y. It's not worth it."

Jackson shook his head. "I know you don't think much of this place," he said. "But I can't stand people making stuff up about my friends."

"You can always count on rumors in a smal town," added Lori.

As we walked out in the parking lot toward Jackson's car, I saw Quinn getting into Melanie's hatchback. He gave me a sheepish smile as if to say,
I can't help it,
and then they drove off in a spray of gravel.

My stomach felt sick, but I held it together until I got to the safety of my room, where I buried myself under the covers. Why did people have to be so lame? Why did boys have to lie and start stuff? I hugged my pil ow and missed home. And missed Mom. And truthful y ... missed my ghost.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The chicken coop was warm that Saturday morning. Henry rol ed up his sleeves and reached under the fat white hen, pul ing out two bluish-tinted eggs. Things were starting to feel normal again. He'd thought about Amy less and less over the last few days as he fel back into the daily routines of the farm. He was trying to appreciate each moment they were given.

Next to him, Mother slipped another prize into her apron pocket. "That was a big one," she said, giving Henry a smile.

He nodded and moved down the line of nest boxes, placing more eggs into his basket, adding to the jumble of colors and sizes he'd col ected.

"Isn't this marvelous? We have so many this morning," Mother said. Her pockets fil ed, she handed him one last egg. "Here, darling, you take this one. I'm al ful up and I'd best go start breakfast. Grandpa wil be up and grumbling any minute." She gave him a happy glance and for just a second, Henry glimpsed the Mother he'd known before the war, before his brother had shipped out. She hadn't always been as tired or sad as she was these days.

Henry moved toward the coop door, opening it for her.

"Such a gentleman," Mother said, with a bit of a bow. There was almost a giggle in her voice.

"What's got into you, Mother?" Henry asked.

"I don't know," she said, strol ing out of the hen house. "I have a hopeful feeling today. Maybe we'l get one of Robert's letters in the post. We haven't had one in months. Since he was in England, I recal ."

Henry knew that no letters would be coming. Not anymore. They'd stopped long before the day everything had changed.

"Yes, maybe a letter today," his mother said.

As Henry turned to latch the coop's door, he tried to remember if Mother had said those words before this summer began. Yes, but she hadn't been nearly as optimistic.

"Don't get your hopes up, Mother. It's hard for the men to write often," Henry said, catching up to her.

"Yes, that's true, dear." She reached up to touch a cluster of tiny apples on the tree. "Hmm ... early for these yet," she said with a sigh.

And of course it was early for the apples, being that it was just toward the end of June. The immature apples, as much as the birthday cake the other day, were an early summer marker that came around each time. It was al part of the calendar that started over again, fresh and empty as a clean sheet of paper.

Henry fol owed his mother across the yard. He hadn't heard her humming in a while, and this morning it was a lofty Irish tune he remembered from his early years, something about springtime and green hil s.

She mounted the porch steps jauntily, and in the yard behind them the rooster crowed. "And I bid good morning to you, sir," Mother said.

"Giddy. It's as if you're giddy," Henry muttered. And then he instantly thought of Mother's pil s. Usual y they didn't have this effect, but perhaps in the wrong dosage...

"Al right, al right—I'l confess," Mother said in the kitchen, where she was emptying her pockets of eggs. "That lovely girl. Seeing you with her last week..."

Henry paused, his hands steadying himself against the table. Mother stil remembered Amy. That hadn't happened before—she never seemed to hold memories from previous days of the summer. Then again, when nothing changed, no one stopped by the farm, nothing was different from any other day, what would that have given her to remember?

"The girl?" he repeated, prompting, since Mother had gone silent at the sink.

She turned around to beam at Henry. "Son, it gave me such hope! I could just picture a June wedding, a honeymoon at a mountain cabin.

And I thought of Robert coming home and marrying a sweetheart of his own." She let out a sigh. "I dreamed of him last night, dear. I dreamed he was lying under the stars and thinking of us. Thinking of home. It gave me such a wonderful feeling, Henry. I woke up with joy in my heart."

Henry swal owed past the lump in his throat. "Mother, that's very nice, but there's a chance that he won't come back," he said. "The Eckingtons have already lost two sons in North Africa. Leon lost his cousin in the South Pacific. It's a dangerous war, especial y with Robert so close to the Jerries."

"Don't say such things, dear. I felt him. He's safe. I feel it down in my bones. We just need to pray harder."

"I pray every night," Henry said.

"Yes. I hear you sometimes." She put some eggs into a bowl in the sink and then pumped water over top of them to wash the straw and dirt off the shel s.

"You hear me pray?" Henry sat down at the table.

"Yes, though I don't understand the way you pray, son. Why do you ask for things to be the same, when Robert isn't here?" Mother turned to face him.

"You remember what I pray?"

"Of course, dear. I'm not senile." She laughed and began drying the eggs with a tea towel.

"But you don't remember other things."

"Such as?"

"What day of the week is it?" Henry asked.

"I'm pretty certain it's Saturday."

A glance at the calendar showed she was right; at least he thought she was. Lately it seemed he was measuring the days in terms of when he'd first seen Amy—and that had been two weeks ago Friday.

"I think I'd like to go to church tomorrow. Hopeful y you'l come along with me," she continued.

"Mother, you haven't been to church in months and months."

"Wel , I aim to go this week. I need to visit with the reverend's wife and take up a col ection for your little friend. What was her name?"

Henry sighed. "Amy. There's no need to take up a col ection, though. She won't be back." He didn't bother to mention Mother wouldn't be able to leave the farm to go to church, anyway. As far as he knew, Grandpa and Mother had never tried to leave—never needed to. Wel , except for church, and Mother hadn't talked about church in forever. He didn't know what to make of that.

"Nonsense. She came al this way to the val ey to see her relations, she can't be gone yet."

"Mother, please don't bother."

"Wel , I think I may have something for her somewhere in my closet. At least something I can tailor for her," Mother said.

"No, ma'am. You don't understand. She won't return, I'm afraid."

His mother looked at him, aghast. "Why not? What on earth did you do to her?"

"Wel , I guess you could say she doesn't like me anymore," Henry said.

"Wel , that's unlikely. You're a charming, helpful young man. A girl would have to be plum crazy to dislike you," Mother said. She cracked eggs into the bowl and began to beat them with a fork. "Now, wil you wake your grandfather, son?"

"Yes, ma'am. But, Mother, about church—you won't real y go, wil you?"

She paused at the window. "Oh, yes, I think I should," she said, turning back to Henry. "Poor dear looks like a ragamuffin out there on the path. Just standing there in the mist."