by Marina Cohen
“I’m going to get dressed and go outside,” said Hadley, nudging her mother. She had to get away to think.
“Fresh air is good for you. I want you to be healthy, of course. Your health and happiness are all that matter.” She began picking strands of Hadley’s hair out of the brush. “Shall I come with you?”
“No,” said Hadley, pushing her gently away. “I’d rather go alone.”
“Of course. Whatever you say. I’ve got to finish painting your room anyway.” She pointed to the half-puce walls. “I’m sorry I didn’t get it done for you yesterday.”
Hadley watched as her mother laid out the strands of her hair in a neat row on the bed. “What are you doing?”
Her mother smiled. “You know, silly. My special hobby.” She held up her arm.
Hadley took a closer look at the bracelet around her mother’s wrist. It was a tight coil of braided human hair. Her gaze then traveled to the necklace her mother wore. It was also made from braided hair. And dangling from it weren’t pearls. They were Hadley’s baby teeth.
Eighteen
“Puce, often misspelled as P-U-S-E or P-E-U-S-E, is French for flea,” said Gabe. “A bedbug is a kind of flea.
“Are you even listening to a word I’m saying?”
Hadley sat on a giant rock that jutted out over the ravine. She held the eye in her hand, turning it over and over between her tingling fingers.
Gabe was hoisting up an old log. He wore a yellow plastic hard hat with a light, like he was some kind of miner. He was looking for slaters—commonly known as pill bugs—and which he happily informed Hadley were, in fact, crustaceans.
“Anyway, my walls are now puce,” she said. “And not because I asked for them to be—because at first I thought I might have—but now I’m sure I didn’t. They’re puce because I wished it. And there’s more—”
“The color puce is not actually named after the insect, but the rust-colored stains left on bed linens after the bedbug has been squashed.”
Hadley waved her hands in frustration. “That’s disgusting! And totally irrelevant!” She sighed and leaned back onto the rock. “Gabe. Listen to me. Please.”
Gabe stopped. He looked at Hadley, his headlight glaring in her eyes. He let the log fall, turned off the light, and joined her on the rock.
Other than the buzzing flies, the woods were quiet. Hadley inhaled the fresh scent of the wild plants and mossy trees.
A billion questions torpedoed through her mind—and Gabe was the first person she could aim them at. Did he remember Ed and Isaac? What did he think happened to them? Where did they go? Did he believe wishes could be granted? If so, how? Did he think she was crazy?
A chorus of birds chirped loudly.
“Gabe, I…”
“They’re attracted to the insects.” He pointed to the trees. “All those birds.”
Hadley nodded. “Great. Listen, Gabe…”
“It’s not time for them to migrate, so I couldn’t figure out why so many are gathered, but I think it’s the insects. The flies,” he continued.
Hadley sighed. Gabe was now a bird expert as well.
“The insects attract birds and rodents. The birds and rodents attract snakes. It’s like a strange micro ecosystem just beyond your house. Only I can’t figure out what the flesh flies are attracted to. They usually lay their eggs in rotting flesh. That, or dung.”
“Gabe!” Hadley shouted. “Will you listen to me? Ed and Isaac—my stepdad and stepbrother. Do you remember them?”
The tiniest of glimmers lit in the far depths of Gabe’s green eyes, and for a moment Hadley was sure he remembered. Then his expression clouded over and his thoughts seemed to drift backward, disappearing into themselves. “Who?”
Tears prickled at the backs of Hadley’s eyes. “Please, Gabe. Try and remember. Isaac? The boy who sprained his ankle? You carried him up the ravine?”
Any spark of recognition had been extinguished. Gabe shrugged and shook his head.
Hadley dropped the eye. She let her head fall into her hands. How could this be happening? Was she losing her mind? She glanced over her shoulder. The house’s Cyclops eye was staring at her.
“Gabe—who lived in the house before me?”
He thought about it for a moment. “Well … the main house was empty for quite a while, but I’ve heard things. Rumors.”
Hadley grabbed him by the shoulders. “What kind of rumors?”
“Well … like … the family who lived here before you … one day—they were just gone.”
Hadley nodded. She knew that. They had abandoned the place. That’s what the realtor had said. That was why the bank had sold the house and her mother and Ed had gotten it so cheap.
“Some say they couldn’t pay their mortgage so they up and left. Others say … they kind of … disappeared.”
“Disappeared? As in poof?”
He nodded.
She looked down at the glass eye lying in the dirt. She picked it up and carefully cleaned it off. “Poof,” she repeated.
“Everyone says the house is haunted. That’s why people keep abandoning it. They leave the furniture—even the food in the cupboards.”
“Haunted?” Hadley gulped. “Why didn’t you tell me all this before?”
Birds chirped louder. Gabe stared up at the trees for a moment, then rubbed his forehead, leaving a dirt smudge. “I don’t believe in ghosts. And people can’t disappear…”
Hadley tucked the eye into her pocket. Yes they can, she thought.
“Hey,” said Gabe. “Wanna help me build a berm to stop the erosion of soil?” He pointed to the edge of her yard. “If not, your house will disappear. Down into the ravine.”
Nineteen
The entire house had been painted puce—the color of squashed bedbugs.
Hadley’s mother was putting the finishing touches on the walls in the foyer. She looked at Hadley and grinned. “Do you like it? Because if you don’t, I’ll paint it another color.”
“It’s fine,” said Hadley, though it made her feel like she was standing in an insect slaughterhouse. She couldn’t imagine what she had ever liked about the hideous shade.
“I’ll get cleaned up and make you some lunch,” said her mother, dropping the roller in the tray, splashing droplets of puce on the dark hardwood. “What would you like? Your wish is my command.”
Hadley flinched. Her eyes arced from floor to ceiling, as though something might magically happen, like the walls shifting or the ceiling caving in. “It doesn’t matter,” she mumbled. “Just pick something.”
“But, darling … I wouldn’t want you to be disappointed.”
Hadley rolled her eyes and sighed out loud. “Fine. Jam and bread.”
“Wonderful,” said her mother. “Strawberry? Raspberry? Peach?”
“I don’t care!” Hadley yelled.
“Don’t shout, dear,” said her mother, patting Hadley’s forehead. “Stress causes wrinkles. I’ll get the bread and you get the jam. There are plenty of preserves in the root cellar.”
Hadley had never been in the root cellar. Isaac had tried to get her down there several times, but she had refused. She had no desire to go there now, but if she didn’t, they’d be arguing all day. About jam.
“When you get back,” said her mother, “we’ll do each other’s nails, and…”
Hadley sighed and headed outside.
At the back of the house were two nearly horizontal wooden doors leading down to the cellar. Hadley tugged hard, and they swung open with rickety squeals, revealing concrete steps descending into darkness.
The cramped space was lined with wooden shelves that stretched from floor to ceiling. Each shelf was packed with jars of all shapes and sizes. On the ground were baskets and bushels filled with fruit and vegetables—potatoes, onions, carrots, turnips, and the famous apples Granny used for her crumble.
Hadley reached for a jar labeled Strawberry. At the same time the doors above her slammed shut. The jar she was holding s
mashed at her feet.
She clambered to the top of the steps and pushed as hard as she could, but the doors were stuck. “Help!” she screamed. “Somebody—help! Mom! Gabe!”
Then, one by one, the doors creaked open, and a dark silhouette stood against the bright blue sky.
“What on earth are you doing down there?” said Granny de Mone.
Relief steadied Hadley’s trembling hands. “I was getting some jam, and—”
“Jam?” she said. “Heaven knows there’s plenty down there. Did you find what you need?”
“Well, yes, but, the doors slammed, and the jar broke, and…”
“That’s happened to me a few times. A good strong wind can knock them over. Nearly gave me a heart attack once.” She held out a hand and pulled Hadley out of the clammy darkness into the bright sunlight.
Good thing Granny wore her glasses, thought Hadley. The sun was particularly blinding. “Granny—I need to talk to you,” she whispered.
Althea de Mone nodded. “Of course. Let’s go have a chat.”
Together they walked from the cellar to the garage. They climbed the metal steps and entered her apartment. Hadley lowered herself into the sofa cushions, feeling suddenly exhausted, as though she could sink into the floral foam and disappear forever.
“Are you all right? You don’t look well. Can I get you a cup of tea?”
Hadley shook her head. “Something’s wrong. Things have, well … changed.”
“Changed?” asked Althea de Mone. “What do you mean changed?”
Hadley wanted to tell Granny everything, but she didn’t know where to begin. “Nothing’s right. Nothing’s the same.”
Althea de Mone frowned. She patted Hadley’s shoulder. “Now, now. Just because something’s not the same doesn’t make it not right. Sometimes, change can be a good thing. Think of caterpillars.”
Hadley wrinkled her brow.
“Caterpillars change, don’t they? They become beautiful butterflies.”
Hadley pictured a blue butterfly—a Morpho peleides—resting on a lower shrub in the understory of a tropical forest in Colombia. Somehow, it made her feel better. It also made her think she’d been spending far too much time with Gabe.
She wanted to ask Granny about Ed and Isaac—she’d made their dolls. She might remember them. She sat up straighter and eyed Granny steadily, looking for any sign of recognition. “Do you, er, know who I live with?”
“Is this a trick question? Or a riddle?” Althea de Mone smiled. “Because I love riddles … Now let me think…”
“It’s not a riddle. Please, Granny. Just answer the question.”
“All right, dear. No need to get upset. You live with your mother. Is that the answer you’re looking for?”
Hadley sank back into the cushions. There was no point in pressing Granny. The old woman’s response would be the same as Gabe’s. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Thanks for rescuing me from the cellar.”
“Anytime,” said Althea de Mone. “And try not to worry so much. I’m sure whatever is bothering you isn’t as bad as you believe.”
Hadley stood, gave the old woman a hug, and left the apartment.
Her mother was waiting at the front door, still wearing her hair bracelet and tooth necklace. “Did you find some jam?”
“I changed my mind,” said Hadley.
“Of course,” her mother said. “You’re entitled to change your mind. Now, what would you like to eat? I’ll make you whatever you want.”
Hadley sighed. She said she’d just eat the rest of the peach breakfast—no whipped cream this time.
After they ate, her mother insisted on doing Hadley’s nails. She brought a set of clippers, a file, a few shades of polish, and a large, ornate wooden box to the table. She trimmed each of Hadley’s nails perfectly. Then Hadley watched in horror as her mother gently scooped up all the clippings, lifted the lid of the ornate box, and placed them inside.
Hadley stood. “I’m going to my room. Don’t follow me!”
“Of course,” said her mother. “You need your rest. Call if you need anything.”
Hadley backed away slowly. She spun on her heels and headed up the stairs.
The walls of the dollhouse were now the color of squashed bedbugs as well. Hadley’s mother had painted them puce to match the rest of the house. She bent down and sat beside the small structure.
“This isn’t what I wanted,” she said out loud. “What I wanted was the perfect family. What I wanted was…”
Hadley froze. Why hadn’t she thought of it earlier?
Slowly, carefully, she reached a trembling hand into her pocket and pulled out the eye. “This is crazy,” she whispered, staring at the eye that stared right back at her.
One simple wish … one wish … and everything would be perfect.
Twenty
Papa comes home early from the glasshouse. His head is wrapped in cloth, and two of his workers carry him inside. Doctor Fenton arrives on their heels. There is a terrible, frightening commotion as Frau Heinzelmann and I rush to help.
The men order me quickly out of the way, and though I retreat a few steps, I linger close enough to watch and listen. They place Papa on the sofa where the doctor attends to his wounds.
There has been a terrible accident at the glasshouse. One of Papa’s dog-boys tripped while holding a hot piece of glass. It flew into Papa’s face and he was badly injured.
Frau Heinzelmann rouses Mama, and for the first time in over a week she is dressed and out of bed. She and I weep uncontrollably as Doctor Fenton removes the cloth, then cleans and bandages Papa’s face. He tells Mama that Papa may lose his right eye, but it is too early to say for certain. Papa will be home for several weeks—perhaps months—while he heals.
Frau Heinzelmann is in a tizzy. She bustles about getting fresh bed linens ready, scrubbing down the bedroom, boiling water for cabbage soup.
That same evening, with Papa tucked into bed, resting, a letter carrier arrives with a telegram for Mama.
She opens it carefully. Before she has finished reading, the paper flutters to the floor. More tears flow down her already red and salt-stained cheeks. She turns to me and says softly, “Pack a bag, little bird. We must head back to Boston. Aunt Cordelia has died of pneumonia.”
Twenty-one
The house was suddenly so bright it glowed. Hadley slipped the eye back into her pocket and drew the drapes. Soon she’d need to wear dark glasses—like Granny de Mone.
She stepped into the hall and paused in front of Isaac’s room. She held her breath as she pushed open the door. The room was still bare.
As she descended the steps, she became aware of the now-familiar tingling feeling that had traveled from her arm up to her shoulder and down her leg. What was wrong with her? Was she suffering from some kind of strange illness that caused both numbness and hallucinations? It was the most frightening and yet the most plausible explanation.
Hadley’s mother stood facing the stove. She had changed clothes. She now wore a floral sundress Hadley had never seen before. And an apron. She rarely wore dresses and she never wore aprons. She looked like she’d walked straight out of an old black-and-white movie—the kind where everyone always looks perfect, even when the world around them is crumbling.
She retrieved a casserole dish from the oven and placed it on the stovetop. At first Hadley worried it was more caramel-peach French toast, but the room didn’t smell the least bit sweet.
The table was draped with a starched white tablecloth. Three white plates sat in a perfect triangle. Three sets of cutlery had been placed on white napkins folded precisely and crisply on a diagonal.
Hadley’s mother turned slowly. As she drew close, Hadley got a clear look at her face. A polished layer of makeup gave her skin a flawless appearance. Her eyebrows were plucked into thin lines that arched high above her eyes. Pale pink shadow colored her lids and black mascara coated her lashes, making them seem extra thick. Extra long. Her lips were
lined and painted to perfection with a muted red lipstick. She looked beautiful. And yet … fake.
Hadley cleared her throat. “What’s the occasion?”
Her mother smiled. “Just the usual.” Her face was porcelain perfect. Hadley was afraid if she smiled too wide it might crack.
Hadley glanced around the kitchen anxiously, and then lowered herself into a seat. She picked up a knife. She could see her own reflection in the clean, cold steel.
“It’s not dinnertime,” said her mother, steadying Hadley’s hand, gently forcing the knife back into place. “We eat at six p.m. sharp. Not a second earlier.”
Hadley cast her a curious look. “What is that?” she said, motioning her chin toward the dish on the stove.
“You know. Quinoa with toasted pine nuts, barley, and vegetables. Your father’s favorite side dish.”
Hadley barely managed enough spit to swallow. “You mean … Ed?”
Her mother’s eyebrows frowned—though her forehead remained eerily frozen. “Ed?”
Hadley’s eyes flitted from her mother to the three plates and back again. Her lips parted and moved, but she couldn’t manage to form words. She tried harder, but all that came out was an unintelligible squeak.
Her wish. It had come true.
She scanned the kitchen more carefully. The walls were no longer puce. They were pure white. She wasn’t sure why she hadn’t noticed right away. Something else about the kitchen had changed, too.
The entire room was spotless. Nothing—not one single thing—was out of place. The jars containing sugar and tea and oatmeal were neatly lined on the countertop from largest to smallest. There were no crumbs under the toaster oven, and the cord of the kettle was curled neatly around the handle. The empty steel sink gleamed. The countertop shone. The floor sparkled.
Her mother picked up the knife with the napkin and polished away Hadley’s fingerprints, as though getting them out was the only thing that mattered in the world.
“What are you doing?” said Hadley.
