The Swallow (28 page)

I turned. My father was standing just inside the door, looking at me.

“Oh,” I said. “I thought you’d left.”

“No, not quite. We’ll be off in a minute. I wanted to … have a word … before we go.”

I walked carefully to the table and sat down. He hesitated, then sat down kitty-corner from me. With an effort, I raised my eyes to look in his face, afraid of what I might see there.

The little boy was gone, thank goodness. But something had changed. He had dark shadows under his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept much, but even so, his face looked lighter somehow. As if something had lifted.

“About … Winnie,” he began, not looking me in the eye. “Your mother doesn’t know. I will tell her … someday. Soon. Probably. But for now, let’s just keep that between us.”

I nodded.

“Did you really see her?”

I nodded again.

“Then you really see ghosts?” he went on, with an effort. “It’s not … your imagination?”

I swallowed. “I really see them, Dad. It’s scary.”

He looked at me then. “I know. Winnie used to tell me about them. We talked a lot. We were close. She was good to me, Rosie. She never meant to hurt me.” He shook his head. “After she died, our family was so quiet, with everyone in their own little world. My mother went a bit strange, I think, and my
father—well, I don’t think he ever forgave himself for trying to send Winnie away.”

He sighed. “I wanted things to be different for you, Rosie. I wanted you to grow up in a happy house. But now it looks like I’ve made the same sort of family I came from, with things not talked about, and everyone keeping to themselves.”

“I get lonely,” I blurted out. “I miss you when you’re away.”

“I miss you too.” He smiled at me. “That’s going to change, Rose, when I go back to teaching. We’re not going to leave you on your own so much.”

He fell silent and started examining his fingernails for some reason. Then, as if he was gathering his courage, he looked up at me.

“About the ghosts … I think it’s better if we don’t tell your mother. I think she might … um … overreact.”

“You believe me?” I said, my voice coming out sort of cracked, like I had laryngitis or something. “You don’t think I should be locked up? Like Winnie?”

He shook his head. “No,” he said. “You’re not like Winnie. There was something dark and wild inside her that frightened everybody, including herself.” He sighed. “It was all so long ago, Rose. But it cast a long shadow. I always thought it was all my fault, what happened that night.” He passed his hand over his eyes.

“Winnie said it wasn’t. She said it was an accident. She said she was sorry, Father, about everything. She wants you to be happy.”

“Yes,” he said softly. “Yes. I know.” He looked back at me sadly.

“William!” called my mother from the hall. “Time to go!”

“I’ll be right there, dear,” he called out, getting to his feet. “Thank you for telling me, Rose, about Winnie, about the ghosts. We’ll talk more later. Maybe I can help.”

He came around the table and gave me a kiss good-bye. His fingers brushed against my shoulder.

“What a pretty shawl,” he said. “So soft. Well, I must be on my way. Lots to do at the office. See you at supper,” he said with a smile, and he left.

THE EMPTY CEMETERY

Rose

I turned back to the window and gazed out at the gray day. I felt like a huge weight was lifting off my shoulders. My father didn’t think I was crazy. I could hardly believe it. I had told him I saw ghosts, and he had just … accepted it. How weird was that? And all because of Winnie, somehow.

And where was Winnie, anyway? I looked over my shoulder nervously. But the room was empty. Maybe she was right—maybe once my father had started to talk about her, and knew she was sorry, her spirit had been released. I wasn’t sure. All I knew about was ghosts asking for help, not what happened if you helped them.

And Polly? What did she want? Had she been asking me for help, like all the other ghosts? My eyes went back to the cemetery. For the first time I could ever remember, I wanted to go there. I tightened the shawl around my shoulders and went looking for my cloak.

It was cold and damp outside. The kind of damp that creeps through your clothes, no matter how many layers you have on, and chills you to the bone. I walked quickly, trying to get warm.
The shawl felt soft against my chin, and I had a brief vision of the old lady—my great-grandmother—in the rocking chair when I was a baby, rocking and knitting.

There didn’t seem to be anyone on the street. It was deserted. Lights gleamed faintly from some windows. It was a day to stay home, beside a fire if possible, with a good book. I huddled under my cloak and walked a bit faster.

When I turned on to Sumach Street, I walked beside the cemetery fence. This was unheard of for me. I peered through the iron railings, looking for signs of ghosts. But it was empty, except for the gravestones, and quiet.

I stopped at the gates and took a deep breath. “White light … white light,” I whispered and then stopped. I didn’t feel I needed that protection today. I wanted to see ghosts. One in particular. I walked through the wrought-iron gates, under the stone archway and into the Necropolis, the City of the Dead.

I wasn’t sure which way to go. I didn’t even know if Polly was buried here. But I thought she might come here. She’d said it was her favorite place.

I started towards the mausoleum. That took me around the little road, under the tall maple trees and down around the hillside. There were no ghosts. At one point, as I turned the last corner, I thought I heard a whispering behind me, but when I turned there was nothing. The wind had picked up a bit—that must have been what I’d heard. I looked over my shoulder a few times but nothing moved. Only me.

I came to the steps of the mausoleum, where I had been the first time I saw Polly, and I sat down, drawing my cloak tight around me. I waited for a while, watching the bend in the road, half expecting to see her striding along with her hands in the pockets of her red coat and her hair flying around her face.

But she didn’t come. Cold from the stone steps was seeping up through my cloak and turning me to ice. The shawl wasn’t keeping me warm. There was no comfort anywhere: hard ground beneath me and all around me cold stone.

I got up and headed along the road, which led back up the hill in a roundabout fashion. I glanced over my shoulder. Still no ghosts. I walked slowly past the gravestones: some with tall angels, some with crosses, some with urns draped in shrouds. All gray and lonely and still.

“Polly,” I whispered. “Polly, where are you?”

I found myself veering off the road in the direction of Winnie’s grave. It wasn’t hard to find, off in the corner by the fence. I stood looking down at it. I felt a faint stirring along the hairs on my arms as I saw my own name there. Winnifred Rose McPherson.

I turned to go back to the road, but my way was blocked. Winnie was standing there, watching me.

THE CHESHIRE CAT

Rose

Winnie was wearing a long black cloak, just like mine, and her hair was loose over her shoulders, just like mine. I had that dizzy feeling again, as if I were looking into a mirror.

“What?” I said hoarsely. “What do you want now? I did what you said.”

She just looked at me.

“Isn’t it okay with my father?” I asked. “Didn’t he … forgive you? Or forgive himself? And now you can go?”

“You need to help her,” said Winnie.

“Who? I need to help who?”

“Polly. Like you helped me. She needs you. That’s why she came to you. That’s why we all come to you. For help.”

“But you don’t understand,” I said desperately. “I don’t want to help ghosts. I don’t want to see ghosts. I just want you to leave me alone. I just want to be normal.”

Winnie laughed a nasty little laugh. “Don’t kid yourself. You’ll never be normal, Rose. You’re like me. You’ll always see more than other people do. But you need to find Polly and help her.”

“Oh, what do you care anyway? You hate her. You tried to kill her twice.”

“No. I didn’t try to kill her. I tried to show you that she was already dead.”

I stared at her. “You scared her. You scared me.”

Winnie shrugged. “The two of you were getting on my nerves. Singing in my attic. Laughing. Looking at my mother’s shoes. Messing around with my stuff.”

“You were jealous because I had a friend and you didn’t.”

Winnie’s eyes flashed. “So maybe I was. She was dead, like me, so why should she be happily carrying on as if she were alive? She needed to know the truth. And you needed to wake up out of your little fantasy.”

I clenched my fists. “I may be like you in a lot of ways, Winnie, but I hope I’ll never be as mean as you are!”

She smiled. “Ah, but you are, you know. You keep running away from all the poor ghosts who need your help. It would be so easy for you to help them, and you just turn your back.”

“I didn’t turn my back on you, and don’t you dare say it was easy!”

“Well, maybe this is the beginning of something new for you. You helped me, you helped your father. Now help Polly, if she’s such a good friend of yours.”

“But—”

Winnie raised her hand to stop me. “Do what you want. I won’t bother you anymore. I won’t bother anyone anymore. I’m going.”

And then she went. Faded away, like the Cheshire Cat, leaving me with the memory of her twisted, wicked smile.

DRIFTING

Polly

It seemed like I was drifting for a long time, floating in that white place where I couldn’t see anything or hear anything. It was like that peaceful feeling when you’re almost, but not quite, asleep. It wasn’t scary anymore. But then I started hearing voices again, all in a jumble, like a radio flipping from station to station. I strained to make out what they were saying, and slowly they started making some kind of sense.

I could hear my mother.

“I don’t know what came over me, Ned. I just completely broke down. So embarrassing. But they were very kind, and it turns out their little girl was sick last summer too, same thing as Polly. But—but—they got help in time, and she survived.”

My father.

“Don’t cry, Pat. Don’t cry. We can’t keep blaming ourselves. We’ll go mad.”

My brothers.

“I still say she’s the Ghost Girl.” (Mark)

“No, that’s the other one, the dead one. I think she’s nice.
They’re like good twin and bad twin. Rose is like me, the good twin, and the witchy one is like you, the bad twin.” (Matthew)

Some scuffling noises as they started to wrestle.

My sisters.

“Mum isn’t feeling very well so I’m making supper.” (Lucy)

“You can’t cook.” (Moo)

“Neither can you.” (Goo)

“It’s only soup. Just set the table.” (Lucy)

And then some dishes clattering around, and supper noises.

Time flowed in and out and around me and didn’t really seem to mean much. Then I heard some different voices, voices I’d never heard before.

“She needs to be around other children.” (A woman.)

“Maybe she’ll make some friends at school soon.” (A man.)

“Do you think there’s something wrong with her, Will?” (The woman again.)