by John Saul
Now, surrounded by sunlight, she wondered why she had been worrying, why, when Sally Carstairs had called her last night, she had said she might not be able to go. Of course she would go. If Susan Peterson tried to tease her, she would just refuse to let it get to her.
The decision made, Michelle scrambled out of bed and put on a pair of well-worn blue jeans, a sweat shirt, and her sneakers. As she was about to go downstairs, her eyes suddenly fell on her doll, still resting on the pillow where she always kept it now at night. Picking it up, Michelle carefully propped it up on the window seat.
“There,” she said softly. “Now you can spend the day sitting in the sun. Be a good girl.” She bent over and kissed the doll lightly, as she had seen her mother kiss her baby sister, then left her room, closing the door behind her.
“Looks like somebody’s planning to help her father,” June said as Michelle came into the kitchen. She glanced up from the eggs she was frying, and, seeing the look on Michelle’s face, smiled at her. “Don’t look at me that way—I’m going right back to bed after I finish breakfast. But I have to start getting up—I need the exercise, I’ve been in bed for three days, and I’m going out of my mind up there!” Then, to prevent Michelle from protesting, she pointed to the refrigerator. “There’s orange juice in there.”
Michelle opened the refrigerator and took out the pitcher of juice. “Help Dad with what?” she asked.
“The butler’s pantry. Today’s the day the remodeling starts.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t you want to help him?” June was puzzled. Usually Michelle couldn’t be kept away from her father’s side, but this morning she sounded almost disappointed at the prospect.
“It’s not that,” Michelle replied hesitantly. “It’s just that some of us were planning a picnic—”
“A picnic? You didn’t say anything about a picnic.”
“Well, I wasn’t sure I was going. Actually, I only just made up my mind when I got up. I—I can go, can’t I?”
“Of course you can,” June replied. “What are you supposed to take?”
“Take where?” Cal asked, emerging from the stairway that led to the basement.
“There’s a picnic today,” Michelle explained. “Me, and Sally, and Jeff and some other kids. Sort of the last day at the beach, I guess.”
“You mean you’re not going to help me with the pantry?”
“Would you give up a picnic?” June divided the eggs onto three plates, and led her husband and daughter into the dining room. “Maybe I’ll take Jenny, and join in.”
“But it’s just us kids,” Michelle protested.
“I was only kidding,” June said quickly. “How about if I make some deviled eggs?”
“Would you?”
“Sure. What time’s the picnic?”
“We’re all meeting down at the cove at ten.”
“Oh, great,” June moaned. “Really, Michelle, couldn’t you have given me just a little more warning? I’ll hardly have time to make the eggs, let alone chill them.”
“You won’t make them at all,” Cal announced. He turned to Michelle. “I only let your mother get up to fix breakfast if she promised to go right back to bed again. If you want deviled eggs, you’ll have to fix them yourself.”
“But I don’t know how.”
“Then you’ll have to learn. You’re a big girl now, and your mother has a baby to take care of.” At the look of dismay in Michelle’s eyes, Cal relented. “Tell you what,” he offered. “After breakfast we’ll send your mother back to bed, you do the dishes, and I’ll see what I can do about the eggs. Okay?”
Michelle’s face cleared—everything was going to be all right after all. But everything’s different, she thought as she began to clear the table. Now that they have Jenny, it’s all different.
She decided she didn’t much like it.
Michelle hurried down the trail to the cove. It was already ten-thirty, and she was going to be the last one there. In one hand she clutched the bag containing the deviled eggs. They were still warm, as her mother had predicted. Well, maybe no one would notice.
She could see them, a hundred yards north, scrambling over the rocks, following the ebbing tide, staying close to Jeff as he moved easily over the granite outcroppings. Only one person was still on the beach, but even from the trail, Michelle recognized Sally Carstairs’s blond hair. As she reached the beach, Michelle began running.
“Hi!” she called out. Sally looked up and waved to her.
“I’m sorry I’m late. Daddy just finished the eggs. Do you think anybody’ll notice that they’re not cold?”
“Who cares? I was afraid you weren’t coming.”
Michelle looked at Sally shyly. “I almost didn’t. But it’s such a nice day.…” Her voice trailed off, and Sally saw her staring out to the shelf of granite, where Susan Peterson was kneeling down next to Jeff. “Don’t worry about her,” Sally said. “If she starts teasing you again, just ignore it She teases everybody.”
“How’d you know that’s what I was worried about?”
Sally shrugged. “I used to worry about her, too. Just because her father’s a big shot, she thinks she is, too.”
“Don’t you like her?”
“I don’t know,” Sally said thoughtfully. “I guess I don’t think about it, really. I mean, I’ve known her all my life, and she’s always been my friend.”
“That’s neat,” Michelle said. She sat down on a blanket next to Sally and picked up a Coke. “Can I have a sip of this?”
“Take the whole thing,” Sally said. “I can’t drink any more of it. What’s neat?”
“Knowing somebody all your life. There isn’t anybody I’ve known all my life.” Her voice dropped almost to a whisper. “Sometimes I wonder who I really am.”
“You’re Michelle Pendleton. Who else would you be?”
“But I’m adopted,” Michelle said slowly.
“Well, so what? You’re still you.”
Suddenly wanting to change the subject, Michelle got to her feet “Come on, let’s go see what they found.” Far out on the rocks, everyone was clustered around Jeff, who was holding something in his hand.
It was a tiny octopus, only three inches across, and it was wriggling helplessly in Jeff’s palm. As Michelle and Sally approached, Jeff held it out to them, grinning.
“Want to hold it?” It was a dare. Sally shrank back, but Michelle put her hand out, tentatively at first, and touched the slippery surface of the octopus’s skin.
“It doesn’t bite,” Jeff assured her, casting a disdainful glance at Sally.
Hesitating, Michelle took the little sea creature in her hand, and carefully turned it over. It put out a tentacle, braced itself against her finger, and righted itself.
“Won’t it die out of the water?” Michelle asked.
“Not for a while,” Jeff said. “Is it holding on to you?”
Michelle took hold of one of the tentacles and pulled gently. There was a slight tingling sensation as its suction cups pulled loose from her skin.
“Ooh! How can you do that!” It was Susan. She stood back from Michelle, her hands protectively behind her back, her face screwed up in revulsion. Grinning mischievously, Michelle tossed the squirming creature at Susan, who screamed and ducked. The octopus fell back into the water, and immediately disappeared, leaving only a trail of disrupted sand swirling behind as it fled.
“Don’t do that!” Susan glared at Michelle.
“It’s only a baby octopus,” Michelle laughed. “Who can be afraid of a little tiny octopus?”
“It’s horrible,” Susan declared. She turned, and started back toward the beach. Michelle, suddenly sorry for what she’d done, tried to apologize, but Susan ignored her. The rest of the children looked first at Susan, then at Michelle, as if trying to make up their minds what to do. Then, as Susan continued picking her way across the rocks, they all began following her. Ony Sally Carstairs hung back.
“Maybe you sh
ouldn’t do things like that,” Sally said softly. “It makes her mad.”
“I’m sorry,” Michelle replied. “It was only supposed to be a joke. Can’t she take a joke?”
“She doesn’t think things are funny when they’re on her. Only when they’re on someone else. She’ll probably start teasing you now.”
“So what if she does?” Michelle asked. Suddenly she felt very brave. “I can take it. Come on—we might as well go back to the beach.”
The sun was high in the sky, and the children were scattered over the beach, munching sandwiches and washing them down with an apparently endless supply of Cokes. Michelle was sitting with Sally Carstairs, but she was uncomfortably aware of Susan Peterson, a few feet away, sharing a blanket with Jeff Benson. Susan hadn’t spoken to her, but had kept watching her, as if sizing her up. Now she put her soda down, and stared at Michelle maliciously.
“Seen the ghost lately?” she asked.
“There isn’t any ghost,” Michelle said, her voice barely audible.
“But you saw it the other night, didn’t you?” Susan’s voice was louder now, insistent.
“It was a dream,” Michelle said. “Only a dream.”
“Was it? Are you sure?”
Michelle glared at Susan, but Susan returned her gaze unwaveringly. Michelle could feel anger begin to well up inside her. What is it? she asked herself. Why do I always make her mad at me?
“Can’t we talk about something else?” she asked.
“I like to talk about the ghost,” Susan said serenely.
“Well, I don’t!” Sally Carstairs exclaimed. “I think talking about the ghost is dumb! I want to hear about Michelle’s little sister.”
Michelle smiled gratefully at Sally. “She’s beautiful, and she looks just like my mother,” she said.
“How would you know?” Susan Peterson’s voice was icy; her eyes flashed with a gleeful malice.
“What do you mean?” Michelle asked. “Jennifer looks just like my mother. Everybody says so.”
“But you don’t even know who your mother is,” Susan said. “You’re adopted.”
Suddenly Michelle could feel all the children watching her, wondering what she would say next.
“That doesn’t make my parents any less my parents,” she said carefully.
“Who said it did?” Susan replied. “Except the Pendletons aren’t really your parents, are they? You don’t know who your parents are, do you?”
“They are too my parents,” Michelle shot back. She stood up, facing Susan. “They adopted me when I was just a little baby, and they’ve always been my parents.”
“That was before,” Susan said. She was grinning now as she watched Michelle’s anger grow.
“What do you mean, before?”
“Before they had their own baby. The only reason people adopt babies is because they can’t have one of their own. So what do your parents need you for anymore?”
“Don’t say that, Susan Peterson,” Michelle shouted. “Don’t you ever say that. My parents love me as much as your parents love you.”
“Do they?” There was a sweetness in Susan’s voice that belied the expression on her face. “Do they really?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” As soon as the words came out of her mouth, Michelle wished she hadn’t said them. She should just ignore Susan—just get her stuff, and walk away. But it was too late. All the other children were listening to Susan, but they were watching Michelle.
“Don’t they spend more time with the baby than they do with you? Don’t they really love her more? Why shouldn’t they? Jenny’s their real child. All you are is some orphan they took in when they thought they couldn’t have any kids of their own!”
“That isn’t true,” Michelle cried. But even as she spoke, she knew she wasn’t as certain as she was trying to sound. Things were different now. They had been ever since Jenny was born. But that was only because Jenny was a baby, and needed more than she did. It didn’t mean her parents didn’t love her. Did it? Of course it didn’t. They loved her. Her parents loved her!
Suddenly Michelle wanted to be home—home with her mother and her father—home, where she would be close to them, part of them. She was still their daughter. They still loved her—they still wanted her. Of course they did! Without bothering to pick up her things, Michelle turned and started running down the beach toward the trail.
Sally Carstairs jumped to her feet and started to run after Michelle, but Susan Peterson’s voice stopped her.
“Oh, let her go,” Susan said. “If she can’t take a little teasing, who needs her?”
“But that was mean, Susan,” Sally declared. “It was just plain mean.”
“So?” Susan replied carelessly. “It wasn’t very nice of her to throw that octopus at me, either.”
“But she didn’t know it would scare you.”
“She did too,” Susan replied. “And even if she didn’t, she shouldn’t have done it. I was just paying her back.”
Sally sank back on her blanket, wondering what to do. She wanted to go after Michelle, and bring her back, but it probably wouldn’t do any good. Susan wouldn’t quit—now that she knew how to get to Michelle, she’d just keep at it. And if Sally kept being friends with Michelle, Susan would start in on her, too. Sally knew she couldn’t take that.
“She sure can run, can’t she?” Sally heard the rest of the kids laugh at Susan’s question, and looked up. Michelle was almost at the foot of the trail. Sally decided that even if the rest of the kids were going to watch, she wouldn’t. Besides, she couldn’t If she did, she knew she would start crying, and she didn’t want to do that. Not in front of Susan.
Susan Peterson’s words pounded in Michelle’s ears as she ran down the beach.
What do they need you for?
Don’t they really love her more?
It wasn’t true, she told herself. None of it was true. But as she ran, the words seemed to follow her, swept on the wind, poking at her, prodding her.
She readied the trail and started upward.
Her breathing, already labored from her anger and running, came harder and harder. Soon she was gasping, and she could feel her heart pounding.
She wanted to stop, wanted to rest, wanted to sit down, just for a minute, to catch her breath, but she knew she couldn’t.
They would be back there, on the beach, watching her. She could almost hear Susan’s voice, sweet and vicious:
She can’t even make it up the trail.
She forced herself to look up, to see how far she had to go before she would be safely at the top, out of sight of the beach.
Far.
Too far.
And now the fog was coming in.
It was just a grayness at first, a slight mistiness that blurred her vision.
But then, as she forced her feet one after the other up the trail, it gathered around her, cold and damp, closing her off, isolating her, leaving her alone, no longer within sight of her tormentors on the beach, but far from home as well.
She must be close to the top. She had to be!
It was like a bad dream, a dream in which you have to run, but your feet, mired in some kind of mud, refuse to move. Michelle could feel panic closing in on her.
It was then that she slipped.
It seemed like nothing for a split second—just a slight wrenching as her right foot hit a loose rock and twisted outward.
Suddenly there was nothing beneath her foot to support her. It was as if the trail had vanished.
She felt herself starting to fall through the terrifying gray mist.
She screamed, just once, and then the fog seemed to tighten itself around her, and the gray turned into black.…
“Dr. Pendleton! Dr. Pendleton!”
Cal heard the voice calling to him. The terror it conveyed made him drop his hammer and dash into the kitchen. He reached the back door just as Jeff Benson leaped up onto the porch.
“What is it? What’s happene
d?”
“It’s Michelle,” Jeff cried, his chest heaving, his breath coming in heavy pants. “We were on the beach, and she was coming home, and—and—” His voice broke off, and he sank to the top step, trying to catch his breath.
“What happened?” Cal tried to keep from shouting as he stood over Jeff. “Is she all right?”
Jeff shook his head in despair.
“She was on the trail. We were all watching her, and all of a sudden she slipped, and—oh, Dr. Pendleton, come quick.”
Cal felt the first rush of panic, the same panic he had felt when he’d seen Sally Carstairs, the panic that was rooted in Alan Hanley. And now it was Michelle.
She’d fallen, as Alan Hanley had fallen.
Through his sudden terror he could hear Jeff Benson’s voice, pleading with him: “Dr. Pendleton, please—Dr. Pendleton?—”
He forced himself to move, off the porch, across the lawn, to the edge of the bluff. He looked down, but could see nothing on the beach except a cluster of children, gathered together below him.
Dear God, let her be all right.
He started down the trail, slowly at first, then recklessly, though every step seemed to take an eternity. He could hear Jeff behind him, trying to tell him what had happened, but the boy’s words made no sense to him. All he could think of was Michelle, her lithe body lying on the rocks at the base of the cliff, broken and twisted.
At last he was on the beach, elbowing his way through the group of children who stood, helpless, around Michelle.
Cal knelt beside his daughter, touched her face.
But it was not her face he saw. As had happened with Sally Carstairs, he saw instead the face of Alan Hanley, dying, staring at him, accusing him.
His mind reeled. It wasn’t his fault. None of it was his fault. Then why did he feel so guilty? Guilty—and angry. Angry at these children who made him feel incompetent, ineffectual. And guilty. Always guilty.
