She held the cat until she was breathing normally again. Then she set her gently on the bench and got up to wash her face. Ivy was halfway across the room, with her back to the piano, when she heard the same three notes again. This time the identical set of three was struck twice.
She turned back to the cat, who blinked up at her. Ivy laughed through a fresh trickle of tears. “Either I’m going crazy, Ella, or you’ve been practicing.” Then she descended the stairs to her bedroom.
She wanted to pull the shades and sleep now, but she didn’t let herself. She didn’t believe the pain would ever lessen, but she had to keep going, keep focusing on the people around her. She knew that Philip had given up on her. He had stopped asking her to play with him three weeks ago. Now she’d go outside and ask him.
From the back door she saw him performing some kind of magic cooking ritual beneath two large maples and his new tree house. Sticks were arranged in a pile and an old crockpot sat on top.
It’s only a matter of time, Ivy thought, before he decides to light one of these piles and sets fire to Andrew’s landscaped yard. He had already done chalk drawings on the driveway.
She watched him with some amusement, and as she did the six notes floated back into her head. The repeated triplets were familiar to her, from some song she had heard long ago. Suddenly words attached themselves to the notes. “When you walk through a storm …”
Remembering the words slowly, Ivy sang, “When you walk through a storm … keep your head up high.” She paused. “And don’t be afraid of the dark.” The song was from the musical Carousel. She couldn’t recall much about the play except that at the end, a man who had died returned with an angel to someone he loved. The title of the song floated into her mind.
“‘You’ll Never Walk Alone,’” she said aloud.
She put her hand up to her mouth. She was going crazy, imagining Ella playing certain notes, imagining music with a message. Still, Ivy found some comfort in remembering that song.
Across the lawn Philip was chanting his own soft song over a pot of weedy greens. Ivy approached him quietly. When he looked up and waved a wand at her, she could tell he was making her a character in his game. She played along.
“Can you help me, sir?” she said. “I’ve been lost in the woods for days. I’m far from home, with nothing to eat.”
“Sit down, little girl;” Philip said in a quivery old-man voice.
Ivy bit her lip to keep from giggling.
“I will feed you.”
“You’re not—-you’re not a witch, are you?”-she asked with dramatic caution.
“No.”
“Good,” she said, sitting down by the “campfire,” pretending to warm her hands.
Philip carried the pot of leaves and weeds to her. “I’m a wizard.”
“Eiii!” She jumped up.
Philip exploded with laughter, then quickly assumed his serious, wizardly look again. “I’m a good wizard.”
“Phew!”
“Except when I’m mean.”
“I see,” said Ivy. “What’s your name, wizard?”
“Andrew.”
The choice took her aback for a moment, but she decided not to say anything about it. “Is that your house, Wizard Andrew?” she asked, pointing to the tree house above them.
Philip nodded.
The other Andrew, the one who did magic with his credit cards, had hired carpenters to rebuild the tree house Gregory had played in as a child. It was more than doubled in size now, with a narrow boardwalk leading to the maple next to it, where more flooring and railings had been hammered into place. In both trees, upper levels had been added. A rope ladder dangled from one maple, and a thick rope that ended in a knot beneath a swing seat hung from the other. It was everything a kid could want, and more—Gregory and Ivy had agreed on that after climbing around in it one day when Philip was out.
“Do you want to come up to my hideout?” Philip asked her now. “You’ll be safe from all the wild beasts, little girl.”
He scampered up the rope ladder and Ivy followed, enjoying the physical effort, the hard rub of the rope against her palms, and the way the wind and her own motion made the ladder sway. They climbed up two levels from the main floor, then stopped to catch their breath.
“It’s nice up here, Wiz.”
“It’s safe,” Philip replied. “Except when the silver snake comes.”
Fifty yards beyond them was the low stone wall marking the end of the Baines property. From there, the earth dropped away steeply into a landslide of jagged rocks, tangled scrub, and spindly trees that bent in odd ways to keep their hold in the rocky ground. Far below the Baines property was Stonehill’s tiny railroad station, but from the tree house one could hear only the whistles of the trains as they ran between the river and the ridge.
Farther to the north, Ivy could see a twisting piece of blue, like a ribbon cut from the sky and dropped between the trees, and, next to it, a train crawling along, flashing back the sunlight.
She pointed to it. “What’s that, Wizard Andrew?”
“The silver snake,” he replied without hesitation.
“Will it bite?”
“Only if you stand in its way. Then it will gobble you up and spit you out in the river.”
“Ugh.”
“Sometimes at night it climbs up the ridge,” Philip said, his face absolutely serious.
“It couldn’t.”
“It does!” he insisted. “And you have to be very careful. You can’t make it angry.”
“Okay, I won’t say a word.”
He nodded approvingly, then warned, “You can’t let it know you’re afraid. You have to hold your breath.”
“Hold my breath?” Ivy studied her brother.
“It will see you if you move. It watches you even when you don’t think it’s watching. Day and night.”
Where was he getting this stuff from?
“It can smell you if you’re afraid.”
Was he really frightened of something, or was this just a game? she wondered. Philip had always had an active imagination but it seemed to her it was becoming overactive and darker. Ivy wished his friend Sammy would return from summer camp. Her brother had everything he could want now, but he was too isolated from other kids. He was living too much in his own world.
“The snake won’t get me, Philip,” she told him, almost sternly. “I’m not afraid of it. I’m not afraid of anything,” she said, “because we’re safe in our house. All right?”
“All right, little girl, you stay here,” he said. “And don’t let anyone else in. I’m going over to my other house and get some magic clothes for you. They will make you invisible.”
Ivy smiled a little. How would she play invisible? Then she picked up a battered broom and began to sweep off the flooring.
Suddenly she heard Philip yelp. She spun around and saw him tottering on the edge of the narrow boardwalk, sixteen feet above the ground. She dropped the broom and rushed toward him, but knew she couldn’t catch him in time.
Then, just as suddenly, he was balanced again. He dropped down on all fours and looked back over his shoulder. The rapt expression on his face stopped Ivy in her tracks. She had seen that look on his face before: the wonder, the glow of pleasure, his mouth half open in a shy smile.
“What happened?” Ivy asked, moving toward him slowly now. “Did you trip?”
He shook his head, then picked up the loose end of aboard.
Ivy leaned down to study it. The bridge had been constructed like a miniature boardwalk, with two long, thin boards secured between the two trees and a series of short planks laid across them. The short planks overhung the boards a few inches on each side. This particular plank was nailed loosely on one side—Ivy could pull the nail out with her hands; on the other side there was a hole, but no nail.
“When I stepped here”—Philip pointed—“the other side came up.”
“Like a seesaw,” said Ivy. “It’s a good thing you
didn’t lose your balance.”
Philip nodded. “Good thing my angel was right here.”
Ivy sucked in her breath.
“’Cause sometimes he isn’t. Though he usually is when you’re around.”
Ivy closed her eyes and shook her head.
“He’s gone now,” said Philip.
Good, thought Ivy. “Philip, we’ve talked about this before. There are no such things as angels. All you have is a bunch of statues—”
“Your statues,” he interrupted. “I’m taking good care of them.”
“I told you,” she said, her throat tightening and her head starting to throb, “I told you that if you wanted to keep those statues, you must never speak to me about angels again. Didn’t I tell you that?”
He lowered his head and nodded.
“Didn’t you promise?”
He nodded again.
Ivy sighed and pulled up the piece of wood. “Now slide around behind me. Before you go any farther, I want to check each board.”
“But, Ivy,” he said, “I saw my angel! I saw him catch the wood on the other side and push it down so I wouldn’t fall. I saw him!”
Ivy sat back on her heels. “Don’t tell me. Let me guess. He was wearing wings and a nightgown, and had a little saucer of light on his head.”
“No, he was just light. He was just shining. I think he has sort of a shape, but it’s always hard for me to see it. It’s hard for me to see his face,” Philip said. His own young face was earnest.
“Stop it!” said Ivy. “Stop it! I don’t want to hear any more about it! Save it for when Sammy gets home, okay?”
“Okay,” he said, the corners of his mouth stiff and straight. He slipped past her.
Ivy began to examine the boards and could hear her brother sweeping the tree house behind her. Then the broom stopped. She glanced over her shoulder. Philip’s face was happy and bright again. He still clutched the broom, but he was standing on his tiptoes, stretching upward. “Thank you,” he mouthed silently.
P2-4
That evening Ivy wandered from room to room in the house, feeling restless and edgy. She didn’t want to go out or call up a friend, but she could find nothing to do at home. Each time she heard the clock chime in the dining room, she couldn’t stop her mind from turning back to the night Tristan died.
When Maggie and Andrew went to bed, Ivy went up to her room to read. She wished that Gregory were home. In the last few weeks they had watched a lot of late-night TV together, sitting quietly side by side, sharing cookies, laughing at the dumb jokes. She wondered where he was now. Maybe he had helped Eric clean up after the party, then the two of them had gone out. Or maybe he had gone to Suzanne’s. She could call Suzanne and say—Ivy caught herself before that thought went any further. What was she thinking? Call up Suzanne in the middle of a date?
I depend on Gregory way too much, Ivy thought.
She crept downstairs and took a flashlight from the kitchen drawer. Maybe a walk would make her sleepy; maybe it would get rid of that prickling feeling in the back of her mind. When Ivy opened the back door, she saw Gregory’s BMW parked outside the garage. He must have brought back the car at some point and taken off again. She wished he were there to walk with her.
The driveway, a continuous curve down the side of the ridge, was three quarters of a mile long. Ivy walked it to the bottom. After the steep climb back, her body finally felt tired, but her mind was still awake and as restless as the tossing trees. It was as if there was something she had to remember, and she couldn’t sleep until she remembered it—but she had no idea what it was.
When she arrived back at the house, the wind had changed and a sharp, wet smell swept over the ridge. In the west, lightning flashed, casting up images of clouds like towering mountains. Ivy longed for a storm with bright lightning and wind to release whatever it was that was pent up inside her.
At one-thirty she climbed into bed. The storm had skirted their side of the river, but there were more flashes in the west. Maybe they would get the next big gust of rain and wind.
At two o’clock she was still awake. She heard the long whistle of the late-night train as it crossed the bridge and rushed on through the little station far below the house. “Take me with you,” she whispered. “Take me with you.”
Her mind drifted after the lonely sound of the whistle, and Ivy felt herself slipping away, rocked by the low rumbling of thunder in the distant hills.
Then the rumbling became louder, louder and closer. Lightning quivered. The wind gusted up, and the trees that had been slowly swaying from side to side now lashed themselves with soaked branches. Ivy peered out through the storm. She could hardly see, but she knew something was wrong. She opened a door.
“Who is it?” she cried out. “Who’s there?”
She was outside now, struggling against the wind and moving toward a window, with lightning streaking all around her. The window was alive with reflections and shadows. She could barely make out the figure on the other side, but she knew something or someone was there, and the figure seemed familiar to her.
“Who is it?” she called out again, moving closer and closer to the window.
She had done this before, she knew she had, sometime, somewhere, perhaps in a dream, she thought. A feeling of dread washed over her.
She was in a dream, caught in it, the old nightmare. She wanted out! Out!
She knew it had a terrible end. She couldn’t remember it, only that it was terrible.
Then Ivy heard a high whining sound. She spun around. The sound increased till it drowned out the storm. A red Harley roared up to her.
“Stop! Please stop!” Ivy cried. “I need help! I need to get out of this dream!” The motorcyclist hesitated, then gunned his engine and sped off.
Ivy turned back to the window. The figure was still there. Was it beckoning to her? Who or what could it be? Ivy put her face close to the window. Suddenly the glass exploded. She shrieked and shrieked as the bloody deer came crashing through.
“Ivy! Ivy, wake up!”
Gregory was shaking her. “Ivy, it’s just a dream. Wake up!” he commanded. He was still fully dressed. Philip stood behind him, a little ghost in pale pajamas.
Ivy looked from one to the other, then sagged against Gregory. He put his arms around her.
“Was it the deer again?” Philip asked. “The deer coming through the window?”
Ivy nodded and swallowed hard several times. It was good to feel Gregory’s arms strong and steady around her. “I’m sorry I woke you up, Philip.”
“It’s okay,” he said.
She tried to still her trembling hands. Gregory’s home now, she told herself, everything’s okay.
“I’m sorry this keeps happening, Philip. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“I’m not scared,” he replied.
Ivy glanced up sharply at her brother’s face and saw that, in fact, he wasn’t.
“The angels are in my room,” he explained.
“Then why don’t you go back to them?” Gregory told him. Ivy felt the tightening muscles in his arms. “Why don’t you—”
“It’s all right, Gregory. Let Philip alone,” she said with soft resignation. “He’s dealing with this the best way he can.”
“But he’s making it harder on you,” Gregory argued. “Can’t you understand, Philip? I’ve tried a million times to—”
He stopped, and Ivy knew that Gregory saw it, too: the brightness in Philip’s eyes, the certainty in his face. For a moment the little boy’s will seemed stronger than both of theirs put together. It was impossible to argue him out of what he believed. Ivy found herself wishing that she could be so innocent again.
Gregory sighed and said to Philip, “I can take care of Ivy. Why don’t you get some shut-eye? We’ve got a big day tomorrow—the Yankees game, remember?”
Philip glanced at Ivy and she nodded in agreement.
Then he gazed past her and Gregory in such a way that she instinctive
ly turned around to look. Nothing.
“You’ll be okay,” he said confidently, and trotted off to bed.
Ivy sank back against Gregory. He wrapped his arms around her again. His hands were gentle and comforting. He brushed back her hair, then lifted her face up to his.
“How are you doing?” he asked.
“All right, I guess.”
“You can’t shake that dream, can you?”
She saw his concern. She saw how he searched her face for clues about what she was feeling.
“It was the same dream but different,” Ivy told him. “I mean, there were things added to it.”
His frown of worry deepened. “What was added?”
“A storm. There were all those mixed-up images on the window again, but this time I realized it was a storm I was seeing. The trees were blowing and lightning was flashing and reflecting off the glass. And there was a motorcycle,” she said.
It was hard for her to explain the nightmarish feeling the motorcycle gave her, for that part of the dream was simple and ordinary. The motorcyclist had not harmed her. All he had done was refuse to stop to help her.
“A red motorcycle came rushing by,” she continued. “I called out to the rider, hoping he would help me. He slowed down for a moment, then kept on going.”
Gregory held her face against his chest and stroked her cheek. “I think I can explain that. Eric just dropped me off. He has a red Harley—you’ve seen it before. You must have heard the sound of it while you were sleeping and woven it into your dream.”
Ivy shook her head. “I think there’s more to it than that, Gregory,” she said quietly.
He stopped stroking her cheek. He held very still, waiting for her to go on.
“Remember how it was storming the evening your mother ki—died?”
“Killed herself,” he said clearly.
She nodded. “And I was in the neighborhood then, making a delivery for the store.”
“Yes.”
“I think that’s part of the dream. I had completely forgotten about it. I had thought my nightmare was just about Tristan and the accident, with the deer crashing through the glass, crashing through our windshield. But it’s not.”
Kissed by an Angel/The Power of Love/Soulmates Page 18
