The Tale of Halcyon Crane (13 page)

I kept hoping my memories would come rushing back, that the act of opening a door would somehow unlock my long-forgotten childhood. Surely I would recognize what had been my own room? But nothing looked familiar. I was seeing it all with new eyes.

Two last doors stood at the end of the hallway. I opened the nearer door and, to my astonishment, found a woman standing beside the bed. I saw her only for a second or two, because I screamed and slammed the door.

In movies you see women shrieking at the top of their lungs all the time, but I always doubted I would—or could—make a noise like that if a truly terrifying circumstance ever arose. Wrong. I screamed like a banshee when I saw that woman in the bedroom and reeled backward, after slamming the door, my back colliding with the opposite wall.

I stood there trembling, trying to catch my breath. I had assumed the dogs were my only companions in the house, so I was completely taken aback by finding someone there. In combination with her rather unsettling appearance, it made for quite a fright. She was wearing a long black dress and sensible shoes, and her wispy gray hair was twisted into a
severe bun on top of her head. Her skin was as white as alabaster.

She opened the bedroom door and scowled at me. “May I 1help you?”

“I—I—”

“I’m Iris Malone, Mrs. Crane’s housekeeper,” she said. “I’m here to go through her things.”

Oh, of course.
I was starting to get my wind back.

“And you are . . .?” she wanted to know. This woman had a haughty air about her, as though she, and not I, belonged there. Technically, I suppose she was correct in that assumption. She was the housekeeper, so it made sense if she felt a certain ownership of the place. And I was a stranger. I might have been anybody—a fan, a looter, or worse—for all she knew.

Still. Those
things
she was going through had been my mother’s, and now they belonged to me. I went from frightened idiot to indignant heir in a matter of seconds.

I straightened up. “I guess you haven’t heard.”

She squinted at me in response.

“There’s no need for you to go through Mrs. Crane’s things,” I proclaimed. “I’m Halcyon Crane, Madlyn’s daughter. I believe it’s my place to do that.”

Watching Iris’s face blanch in that moment, I saw that it really is possible for a person to turn a whiter shade of pale. She walked over to me and raised one claw, and for an instant I thought she was going to slap me or scratch my face or God knows what. But she didn’t. Placing her hand on my cheek with what I could only assume was as much warmth as she
could summon, which wasn’t much, she croaked, “So it’s true.”

I nodded, as much to free my cheek from the touch of her talons as to confirm her statement. “I was just as surprised to learn this as you are.”

I don’t know if she heard me. She was staring at my face and stroking my hair, her eyes unfocused and hazy, as though she were somewhere else, in another place and time.

“It
is
you, Hallie,” she murmured. “We thought you were dead.”

Iris wrapped her arms around me, pulling me close. Her embrace felt cold, as though she were trying to transmit her chill into my body. She smelled of decaying roses and dirt. I pulled away after a moment, a little too forcefully, perhaps. This seemed to bring her back into the moment. She shook her head and looked at me with clear pale-blue eyes.

“Yes, it is really me. I’m Hallie, and very much alive. I’ve met with Madlyn’s attorney, who read her will. She has left the house and everything in it to me, her daughter. So, please, I’d like to be the one to go through her things.”

“Of course,” Iris said, nodding in that efficient yet deferential manner I had always imagined in household servants of the very rich. We stood there for a moment, looking at each other. A standoff, of sorts. I wasn’t sure what to do next.

“So. What they’re saying is true?” Iris wanted to know.

“If you’re talking about the fact that my father has also been alive all these years, the answer is yes. If you hadn’t heard the details, we were living in Washington State, where I was a copy editor at the local newspaper and my dad
taught math at the high school. He died a few weeks ago.” For good measure, I added, “Until very recently, I had no idea that my mother was alive. I had been told she died in a fire when I was a child.”

Iris clucked. “And you believed that?”

“Of course I believed it.” Who was she to question me about my life? “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Iris—”

“Your mother was a wonderful woman,” Iris said, with fury in her eyes, as if she thought I needed convincing on that point. She fiddled with her apron, and I could see the tears she was trying desperately to conceal. She withdrew a balled-up Kleenex from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. It was a gesture so fragile and vulnerable that my anger began to subside.

“Did you work for her very long?” I asked her.

“I was here before she was born, and I was here the day she died,” she said proudly. “I took care of Mrs. Crane for her entire life, and this house for longer than that.”

I caught my breath. “You knew me when I was a child.”

Iris nodded, and a slight smile slowly cracked across her face. “I was here when you were born and I was here when she got the news that you and your father were dead. I was sitting beside her at your memorial service.”

She seemed almost gleeful. I felt an urgent need to get out of the hallway.

“Why don’t we go downstairs and have some tea, and you can tell me all about it?” I said, hurrying toward the stairs.

“Oh, no. I couldn’t. I should take my leave,” she said, and she began to shuffle toward the stairs, one pained, measured step after another.

Guilt crept in. Here was this old hen who had taken care of my mother all her life. Iris was obviously grieving the loss of her employer and, indeed, her whole way of life. I looked at her, standing there in her shabby black dress, holding the tissue every old woman seems to have up her sleeve. What I really wanted was for this creepy old bat to climb on her broomstick and leave me to my house and its secrets. But my mother had employed her all these years. (And yet, oddly enough, left her nothing in her will. I didn’t know what to make of that.) I wondered if Iris had enough money set aside to make ends meet, or if my mother’s death would put her in the breadline.

We reached the bottom of the stairs, where my bags were sitting in the corner. Iris looked at them pointedly. “You’re here to stay?”

“I don’t know,” I told her. “For the immediate future, yes. I’m going to stay for a few weeks. Long-term, I’m not sure. I don’t have any concrete plans.”

“I’ll come a few times each week to help out while you’re here, then.” This was not a question but a statement. “I’ll tend to the laundry and the cleaning, and do some cooking as well.”

“That’s really not necess—”

“It’s no trouble at all,” she said quickly. Maybe she really did need the money. Or at least something to do, a reason to get up in the morning.

I caved. “Great. I’ll be glad to have your help, and I’ll pay you whatever my mother paid you. I’m sure there are records around here somewhere?”

Iris nodded slowly as we walked into the kitchen. “It
occurs to me, Miss Crane, that given your particular circumstances growing up, you must know little to nothing about your mother and her—your—family. If you’d like, I can fill in the details for you. I’ve been here through it all.”

I looked at her carefully; her clear blue eyes blinked back. “You’re absolutely right! The truth is, I’m desperate to learn about my mother and her ancestors. The only thing I really know about Madlyn Crane is what I’ve read about her work.”

At this, Iris smiled. “I’ll be happy to tell you all I can.”

I hadn’t been sure how I was going to learn my family’s history. Pictures and records existed, names and important dates. But here was somebody who could tell me about the people themselves. “Hearing those stories will mean the world to me, Iris.”

She smiled a self-satisfied smile. “I’ll take my leave of you now, miss, so you can settle in,” she said, with an air of finality. But as she made her way toward the door, she turned one last time. “Is there anything I can do for you now, before I go?” Her eyes were oddly expectant, almost childlike.

“I can’t think of anything, no,” I said.

“All right, then. Expect me back on Monday morning.” With that, she left through the kitchen door.

It was as though she took the gloom with her and left a fresh breeze in its place. Suddenly, I was parched. I looked into the refrigerator for something to drink and found a single bottle of water. I was mid-gulp when I realized with a shudder that my dead mother had purchased it.

I left the bottle on the counter, grabbed my bags, and headed back upstairs to the master suite where I had discovered
Iris. There I found an enormous main room with a fireplace tucked into one corner. On the wall across from the king-sized bed (cherrywood headboard: antique, I assumed) hung a flat-screen television. A nice mix of old and new. It was, in a word, awesome, and I don’t use that word lightly. It was a perfect place for me, an Eden. I didn’t need any other part of the house; I could’ve lived right there. I’d had apartments that weren’t as big, and none, certainly had been as beautiful. Books were piled on the nightstand: a couple of recent best sellers, a nonfiction work about the discovery of a long-lost book of the Bible, and a crossword puzzle dictionary. I picked them up, one by one, and smiled. Her bedtime reading told me the most I had learned about my mother since I had been here.

A big bay window, bigger than the one at the Manitou Inn, looked out onto the lake. It seemed to be a feature of many of the houses here; the islanders apparently loved their views. Next, I poked my head into the bathroom. I was delighted to see a huge claw-foot tub under one of the windows—a nice view from the bath—and a tiled shower in one corner. This was an old house, but obviously Madlyn had renovated it.
I could get used to this.

The bedroom opened up to another room, a study. Bookshelves lined the walls; another fireplace stood in a corner; photos in frames were everywhere. Two big overstuffed leather chairs with ottomans stood in front of the fireplace, with a comfy chaise on the opposite wall.

Back in the bedroom, I opened a door to find a walk-in closet, with clothes hanging from long racks on both walls. My mother’s clothes. I embraced an armful of blouses and
buried my face in the fabrics; they smelled like lilac and herbs and lavender. Behind my closed eyes, I saw my mother’s face, smiling.
I love you, Hallie girl
. A memory of her at last. At the realization of this, I slumped down to the floor. I missed her so intensely right at that moment, there among her things.

“Why couldn’t you have stayed alive long enough for me to get here?” I asked her, out loud. I sat there awhile, in my mother’s closet, until it was time to get myself together and start unpacking.

I pushed some of my mother’s things aside to make room for my clothes. Seeing my shirts there, hanging side by side with hers, gave me a feeling of belonging that nothing else had. There we were, my mother and I, together. Her house was my house now, and I felt it, through and through.

I looked at the clock in her bedroom, surprised. Nearly five o’clock already. Will would be here in less than an hour. I wanted to shower and change, so I went looking for towels. I didn’t have to look far; there was a linen closet in the bathroom where I found everything I needed: fluffy white towels, shampoo (my favorite brand), body wash, and even a few extra Puffs. I smiled. My mother and I shared the same tastes.

I undressed, placing my necklace and earrings on the vanity, and hopped into the shower; the steaming water promised renewal and optimism. Afterward, I pulled on a white robe that was hanging on the back of the door. Using her things and wearing her robe made me feel so close to my mother. Maybe I could find something of hers to wear for my dinner with Will.

I wasn’t sure if the restaurant where we were going was
casual or fancy, but I knew one thing: We’d be riding in an open-air carriage to get there. No short skirts or high-heeled pumps tonight.

I stood there awhile staring into the closet. I didn’t want to give Will the wrong impression—this wasn’t a date, it was a friendly dinner. How could I convey that, exactly? I found a long black stretchy cotton dress with a scoop neckline—casual enough so I wouldn’t look like I was dressed for a prom if Will was in jeans, yet dressy enough if he showed up in a suit. I had a pair of black flats in my suitcase that would go perfectly with the dress.

I pulled on the dress and scrutinized myself in the mirror. It hugged in all the right places and camouflaged the trouble spots. As I stood there gazing at my reflection, a second vision of myself swam into view behind me. The mirror itself was vibrating and swaying, as though someone had thrown a rock into the glassy surface of a pool, and I saw another me, wearing the same black dress, brushing the same hair. Me, but not me. Older. I took a sharp breath. Was I seeing my mother’s reflection in her own mirror?

I was afraid to breathe or move or do anything to disturb the image of my mother standing behind me. I watched as, in slow motion, she raised her arms and wrapped them around my shoulders. I felt her gently stroking my hair. After a lifetime of wishing for it, it was finally happening. My mother was embracing me. Hoping to feel what the image in the mirror reflected, I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, she was gone. I turned around and looked behind me, not sure she had been there at all. How could she have been? No,
I reasoned, it was just a fantasy, brought about by standing in my mother’s house, wearing my mother’s dress, staring in my mother’s mirror.