The dust settled. A blue metal roof of a small log house emerged above a wide-board fence. Made smaller by the vastness of the woods, the house cringed inside a dark fist of green.
Brandy sat, her limbs stiff with fear. Could she really pull this off? She’d made a big mistake by not calling Detective Radhauser. She should have told him where she was headed. She would go back, but she didn’t have time. Couldn’t take the chance. Maybe if she kept saying the mantra, Emily would stay safe until Brandy found her.
If Althea had met Brandy’s mother in a mental hospital, there was a good chance Althea was crazy, too. Brandy had no experience dealing with a crazy person. But she was an actress. She could play any role. Again, she breathed, determined to remove the personal and take on the identity of someone else.
She slipped the packet of talc from her purse and dusted the inside of the Tigger head so it would slide on more easily. You can do this. You can convince Althea that Tigger found Emily’s Pooh and wants to return it. It might not lead to anything, but it was worth a try. She opened the car door, got out, and stood quietly beside the vehicle for a moment.
She adjusted the head so that she could see through the eyeholes, then checked her backpack to make certain Pooh bear was inside. She re-zipped the pack and slipped the straps over her shoulders. Straightening her back, she took a deep breath and moved toward the cabin, a swing to her steps.
Brandy slid the gate bolt aside, then jerked on the handle, but the gate didn’t open. She kicked at the bottom and then stood on her tiptoes. A shiny new brass bar bolted the gate closed at the center. Wood shavings littered the ground. She kicked it again. “Dammit. Open.” She grabbed a stick and pried the center bolt aside. The gate opened. Somewhere, hidden in the weeds beneath it, a cricket chirped.
In the front yard, a rope dangled from a wide oak branch and a child-sized picnic table was set with two plates of soggy cookies, and tiny teacups filled with curdled chocolate milk. Mr. Pivorotto said the woman who’d bought the giant Pooh bear had a little girl. Maybe she’d taken Emily as a playmate for her daughter. Brandy relaxed a little. Emily loved tea parties. It had to be a sign Althea was taking good care of Em.
A yellow-jacket circled a plate, then landed on a gingersnap. Emily was afraid of yellow-jackets. Wind caught the gate, which made a groaning sound as it swung and slammed back into place. Brandy startled. She fought the urge to call out Emily’s name.
One moment, the scene—like a vacant day care center—felt distant; one of those desert mirages she’d read about. The next moment it was all so real she expected the yard to come alive, like those animated dancing elves in Macy’s Christmas display. Children stuffing cookies into their mouths as towers of ABC blocks tumbled.
Brandy tapped on the front door. Beneath her Tigger paws, her fingers were stiff as twigs.
No answer.
She tapped again.
Still no answer. Brandy turned the door handle. It didn’t budge.
She hurried to the back of the cabin and searched for another way to get inside. The bottom half of the back door was wood. The top had three rows of glass panes, each one about six inches wide and nine tall. Brandy peered through one of them into the kitchen. The counters were piled with dirty dishes—a wooden highchair, small enough for a doll, was nestled up to the round wooden table.
Last summer, after a neighbor boy slammed a baseball through a pane in the French doors leading out to their patio, Brandy had helped her father replace the glass. But she needed something to pry the mullions away. She rummaged through her backpack, found a metal nail file, and tried to slip it under the wood and lift up. The file snapped in half.
Brandy pulled herself together for another try. She raced around the house, cautiously checking every window, found one on the west side that was raised about an inch. She clawed at the screen, trying to make it pop out the way she did with her bedroom window at home. Her index fingernail broke off. The screen remained intact.
She hurried to the back door, searched the ground for the broken tip of her nail file and, when she found it, she slashed the screen, lifted the window, and climbed into a small bedroom. She searched under the bed and in the closet, hurried down the hall to the bathroom. No sign of Emily, but the room had a familiar smell—like cinnamon and eucalyptus. Like the smell in Emily’s room after the ransacking. Inside the Tigger paws, Brandy’s hands sweated. This woman had Emily somewhere. The question was where.
She tiptoed down the hallway to a closed door. The latch clicked and the knob seemed to jump inside the cage of her fingers like a living thing. She pushed the door open and slipped inside a big living room. Kenny Loggins sang about Christopher Robin—a song from his House At Pooh Corner Album.
Brandy glanced around. A tall, slightly disheveled woman stood to the right of a massive river rock fireplace and stared out the window into the woods. She wore a pair of wrinkled linen slacks and a red blouse with a dark stain on the sleeve. In midair, her fingers moved with the notes of the child’s song, as if she played an unseen piano.
Tigger, Finder of Lost Things topped a stack of children’s books on the coffee table. She had a fleeting memory of Emily on her lap at bedtime, fresh from her bath, smelling of apple shampoo and baby powder. Her sweet little voice, “Read Tigger one more time, Band-Aid.” Brandy’s arms ached with longing to hold her sister. For the first time in nearly forty-eight hours, she dared to believe she’d again read that story to Emily. Brandy’s plan had to work.
A canopied baby crib had been tucked into the room’s corner. As quietly as she could, Brandy started across the room. Hold on, Em, I won’t stop until I find you.
The woman turned, stiffened. Her dark hair was stretched straight back into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. Her red lipstick bled into the tiny wrinkles around her mouth, like Joan Crawford in the old classic movie, Mommy Dearest. She raced over to the crib and stood in front of it, arms out to her sides like a crossing guard. Her cheekbones were sharp as scissor blades beneath her pale skin. “Stay away from her.” There was a high pitch to her voice.
Beneath the Tigger mask, Brandy smiled. She’d been right. This woman had Emily. Her jaw relaxed. She sucked in two deep breaths and let them out slowly, squared her shoulders and took a step toward the crib.
“Get out,” the woman said, holding up her hands and pushing the air as if she could shove Brandy back outside.
Brandy froze.
The woman’s eyes went so big Brandy could see white all the way around the irises. She flapped her right hand in front of her face, her head jerking like a bird’s. “Who are you?”
Forget the fear. Forget yourself. Forget everything except the role. Tigger in the Disney movie she’d watched fifty times with Emily. Cheerful. Flamboyant. Happy. Bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet, Brandy sang as she skipped closer. “Who am I? It’s easy to see. I’m Tigger with a capital T and two little g’s.”
The woman took a step forward. “No, you’re not.”
“Of course I’m Tigger. Who else could I be?” As if hopping on a spring, Brandy jumped up and down. “The little girl missed her Pooh bear and I…” She drew out the word and pounded herself on the chest. “I…being a world-renowned sleuth…found him.” Fully into her role now, she gave a sharp nod toward the crib. “You know as well as I do, madam, that little girl is crying for her Pooh bear.”
The woman stuck her fingers in her ears. “You’re not real. The devil sent you.” She stomped her foot, her voice soaring.
Don’t panic. Brandy drew a trembling paw to her Tigger mouth, then dropped it to her chest, feigning shock. “Don’t be ridickerous. Tiggers are God’s messengers. It’s a conflict of interest to make deals with the Dark Ones.” She crossed her orange-striped Tigger arms over her chest like a genie. “Don’t you want to make your little girl happy?”
The woman blinked and glanced at the ground, her body swaying back and forth. “Yes. But the doctors said sometimes I see things that aren’t really
there.”
Brandy flipped off the music. “Tigger is here and real. But I’m at a slight disadvantage because I don’t know your name.”
The woman laughed a deep-throated laugh that seemed to come from her belly. The muscles around her eyes crinkled. “Althea. It means healer. And the baby’s sick.” She touched the side of what Brandy had believed to be an empty crib and gazed, lovingly, into it. “She has a high fever.”
Emily was in that crib. But why was she so quiet? She must be asleep, drugged, or really sick. There’s no way she wouldn’t be climbing over the crib rail at the sound of Brandy’s voice.
Brandy headed toward the crib again.
“Stop. No one goes near my baby,” Althea screamed, her voice harsh and threatening.
Brandy backed up. She had to be careful. Althea could go postal and Emily could be hurt. “Tigger has come all this way to deliver Emily’s Pooh bear. Why are you being so rude?”
“Tepid water is what you do for fever.” Althea smiled and puffed out her chest—all proud as if she’d just discovered a cure for cancer. The woman was loony tunes.
“You’re a wonderful mother,” Brandy said. “You take such good care of your little girl.” Please, God. Make that be true.
“Yes,” Althea said. “That’s what healers do.”
Brandy bounced up and down again. “Well, Tiggers have a job, too. They find lost friends and return them to children.”
Althea smiled and held out her hands.
“Oh no,” Brandy said, still bouncing. “I have to deliver the Pooh bear myself. It’s part of the Tigger code of ethics.”
Althea tried to jerk the backpack from Brandy’s shoulders. “Good mothers don’t break promises to their little girls.”
Brandy had to calm her down, to gain Althea’s trust. “Tiggers are non-violent, but amazing and compassionate creatures. Maybe I can make an exception in your case, since you promised, but I need you to answer some questions first.”
Althea stood with her legs apart, both feet firmly on the ground. Her eyes bore into Brandy. “Black questions make the sun go away.”
Brandy did another little bounce. “Tiggers don’t ask black questions. Just bright yellow ones.”
“I never get them right,” Althea said, her voice soft now.
To Brandy’s surprise, a lump grew in her throat. She swallowed, pushing it down. “Don’t worry. There are no wrong answers in Tiggerland.”
Althea cocked her head. “She wouldn’t stop crying.”
Brandy’s uneasiness was growing as if she were on a dark street with footsteps behind her. Althea must have done something to silence Emily.
“It’s why I’ve come,” Brandy said, fighting to remain optimistic. “To stop your little girl from crying.”
“I don’t trust you,” Althea said.
“Why don’t we just talk for a few minutes? Just the two of us. Healer and Tigger.”
“Okay, but don’t go near my baby.”
“Have you ever known anyone named Rose?” Brandy asked.
Althea dropped her hands to her sides, her gaze drifting toward a small, drop-leaf desk. “Rose is dead.”
Brandy felt her diaphragm lift, heard her breath as it expelled. All at once the air grew smoother, easier to breathe. Her father had told the truth.
Althea hurried over to the desk. While she rummaged around in the top drawer, Brandy inched closer to the crib. Emily wasn’t more than ten feet away now.
Althea turned from the desk and moved toward Brandy, then handed her a small, framed photograph—a smaller version of the photograph of Rose Michaelson holding three-year-old Brandy up in the air.
She clamped her eyes shut in a feeble attempt to keep tears from falling. Her mother had saved that photo of the two of them. Brandy had been right. Rose had shown this woman a picture that looked a lot like Emily.
Brandy took another step toward the crib.
Althea grabbed the fireplace poker. “I told you. Stay away from my baby.”
Brandy backed up until her knees hit the sofa. She sat.
Althea’s face was shut off from expression now, as if she were the one wearing a mask. “I used to be Rose, but they crucified me for my sins. Now I’m born again. Just like Jesus.”
Stunned, Brandy was speechless. Had this crazy woman stolen the photograph and the pendant? Had she taken on Rose’s identity?
Brandy sucked in a breath, pretended she played a role in a play—a part she’d memorized. Althea played another role—a quirky off-centered character. Everyone knew mentally ill people had trouble knowing what was real.
“Did you know Rose Michaelson in the hospital?”
“Oh yes,” Althea said, the poker still in her hand. She sat in the rocking chair beside the crib. “But she got better and they let her leave. She tried to take her dream-stealing pills, but they bring clouds. It’s hard to outrun the voices. They told me to change my name so I could be a healer.” Her eyes jerked repeatedly away as she spoke.
Brandy attempted to regulate her breathing—tried not to overreact. Revise your role. Think like a playwright. This whacko woman believed she used to be Rose—used to be Brandy’s mother.
Brandy took a chance and whipped off the Tigger head. Her hair was wet, beads of sweat rolled off her chin, and her ears felt as if they were ready to ignite.
“I know who you are,” Althea said, raising the poker above her head. “You’re Brandy, the scarred teenager from the park.” Althea stood and lunged toward Brandy.
Brandy leapt up. “I’m not here to hurt you or your baby. You’re right, I am the teenager from the park. And I’m also the little girl in the picture you just showed me. I’m Rose’s daughter, Brandy.”
Althea stared at Brandy for what seemed like a long time. “Oh no. That’s not true. You’re too old. You can’t be my daughter.”
Brandy couldn’t find words. Think about Emily. Only Emily.
“I was three years old. I’m grown up now. I had surgery on my face.” She spoke too fast, but couldn’t slow down. She grabbed Althea’s free hand and lifted it to her scarred cheek. “It was an accident,” Brandy said, her voice shaky and too high. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“The voices said it was my fault,” Althea said.
Again, Brandy swallowed back tears.
Althea stared at Brandy for a long moment, then dropped the poker. It made a loud clanging sound against the stone hearth. Before Brandy could reach her, Althea turned to the crib and gently lifted a dark-haired porcelain doll in a frilly dress, its left cheek covered with gauze and surgical tape. “This is my daughter.”
Brandy couldn’t move. She faltered, inched back against the wall. She’d been so certain Emily was in that crib. Brandy trembled so hard her teeth banged together as if she were freezing. Please, God, don’t let my baby sister be dead.
Althea pointed to the bandages. “God called her up the silver staircase. I didn’t mean to let her go. But she climbed out of her carriage. She got hurt really bad. Doesn’t her little cheek look awful?” A tear rolled down Althea’s face. “It’s all right, baby. Don’t be afraid. I’ll take care of you this time. I’ll be careful.”
Brandy’s heart hammered in her ears. Something curved around her brain like when she was a little kid and hung her head over the edge of her bed and saw everything upside down—that weird dizziness and lack of orientation. In spite of her need to pretend this woman into someone else, she knew the truth now. Althea was her mother—the beautiful woman turning a cartwheel in the wedding album.
Trembling, Brandy ripped open her backpack. No matter what, she wouldn’t give up, wouldn’t stop searching until she’d found Emily. Brandy tossed the Pooh bear onto the coffee table, hoping Althea would finish caring for her doll, then pick up the bear and lead Brandy to her little sister.
Grabbing the Tigger head, she stumbled outside and ran into the woods—ran until she had no more breath, then sat, her back against a big-leaf maple tree. Her hands fluttered in her l
ap as if pieces of her mother’s craziness had stuck to them.
The air around her smelled like Christmas. And then Emily was behind Brandy’s eyes again, running into the family room in her footed Winnie the Pooh sleeper, squealing and freaking out as she scrambled onto the new tricycle with hot pink streamers on the handlebars she’d found under the tree.
Brandy swallowed. Who loves you, Em? She thought about the life she’d had before Emily disappeared—before she’d found her crazy mother. In spite of Brandy’s efforts to call it back, that life didn’t seem to belong to her any more. She thought about her father’s lies. She now understood the truth wasn’t always simple. And she considered the possibility there were times when we needed someone to lie. That lies could be gifts. She understood something about her dad and the past he wanted to forget. Hanging her head, she sobbed for her baby sister—for everything they’d lost.
Brandy wiped her face on her sleeve. She had a mission and she couldn’t give up now. She had every reason to believe Althea would take Pooh bear to Emily. If she wasn’t still alive, why had Althea been so determined to get her hands on the bear?
Brandy drove Kathleen’s car over the rise where the road turned to gravel and Althea couldn’t see it, then tossed the Tigger head into the backseat and ripped off the costume. Twilight approached and the tree shadows lengthened over the road. In the quiet, she heard the soft tick of her wristwatch, the sound of time passing.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Brandy found a spot where she could see both the back door to the cabin and the Volvo. She hunkered unseen in the bushes and waited for Althea to lead her to Emily. Who loves you, Em?
Ten minutes later, Althea emerged with Pooh bear tucked under her left arm. In her right hand, she carried what looked like a gasoline can, the kind her dad used for his lawnmower.
Brandy breathed. Thank you, God. Thank you. Her plan was working. Maybe Emily was still alive.
When Time Is a River Page 28
