Some Kind of Happiness

by Claire Legrand

  I do not answer him. I crawl through the branches of the oak and escape into the open backyard, but not even fresh air can get rid of this fear living like bugs underneath my skin.

  This fear that I have no reason to feel.

  There is no reason for the heaviness I can feel pressing down on me. Like when you step outside before a storm and the air feels heavy and damp, like you’re drinking it instead of breathing.

  Like that, but worse.

  It seems wrong to feel these things while standing in front of this poor, broken Bone House.

  I ought to be able to get rid of these feelings—right?

  Shouldn’t I be able to live in my beautiful, clean house (which is not burned) with my family (who are still alive) and be happy about it?

  I ought to be able to get rid of these feelings.

  I will get rid of these feelings.

  I walk circles around the house, close my eyes, and listen for the sounds of the Everwood trees, back in the thick part of the forest. I focus on pushing these feelings down to a place where they cannot touch me anymore.

  I will push on them, and push on them, until they have nowhere else to go but out of my head entirely.

  17

  IT IS WEDNESDAY MORNING. THE house is quiet because Kennedy, Dex, and Ruth stayed over last night, but they are still asleep.

  I did not fall asleep until four in the morning.

  Since exploring the Bone House and cleaning off the Travers family gravestones, I have had trouble sleeping. Once my head hits the pillow, my thoughts start spinning and spinning. I think of being buried, and being buried alive, and being burned alive, and Hart House falling down around me, and what my parents are doing, and what the Travers family looked like, and what the Bone House will look like once we clean it, and what the upcoming school year will be like, and what story I will write next about the Everwood, and how quiet the house is around me, and how everyone else is sleeping, and why I can’t seem to sleep, and

  and

  and

  My brain just will not stop.

  I creep out of my bedroom, my mouth dry and my head heavy. Soft, cheerful music and the smell of pancakes drift up the stairs. In the kitchen Grandma stands at the stove wearing her pearls; her white apron is spotless.

  “Grandma? I have a question.”

  Grandma clucks her tongue. “How about, ‘Good morning, Grandma’?”

  “I mean, good morning. Sorry.”

  “Did you sleep well, Finley?” asks Aunt Dee, passing me a bowl of strawberries, ones I picked out with Grandpa.

  Aunt Bridget swirls her glass of orange juice in one hand. “I hope Dex and Ruth didn’t keep you up too late. You all seemed to be constantly whispering last night.”

  I am quite certain Aunt Bridget’s orange juice has alcohol in it. Aunt Bridget hardly ever drinks something that does not have alcohol in it; her drinks smell bitter and sour, even drinks that are supposed to be sweet, like orange juice.

  Even though Aunt Bridget smiles a lot, her eyes are thorny, like she is always picking apart everything she sees, to make sure nothing is hiding from her. Maybe she knows this, and matches her drinks to her eyes.

  “I slept fine,” I lie.

  Uncle Nelson looks up from his newspaper. He is working on a crossword puzzle before leaving for work, so I scoot closer to see.

  “Kennedy hasn’t been able to stop talking about these games y’all have been playing,” says Uncle Nelson. “I told her she was too old for that kind of thing, but she told me I was being ridiculous. She’s probably right.” He frowns at the puzzle, appearing to be stumped.

  Eight-letter word for “family tree subject.” I have to think about that one.

  “They call it the Everwood.” Aunt Bridget looks at me over the top of her glass. “Isn’t that right?”

  The word sounds so strange coming from Aunt Bridget that I consider denying it, pretending that Dex and Ruth are silly eight-year-olds.

  Aunt Dee starts folding a pile of fluffy, cream-colored hand towels. “What’s the Everwood, sweetie? Is it some kind of code word?”

  “No,” I say. The crossword puzzle is distracting me. “It’s a forest full of witches and trolls and things. Ancestry.” I tap the newspaper. “The word is ancestry.”

  Uncle Nelson smiles. “Hey, you’re pretty good at this, kiddo.”

  “I collect words. Dad does crossword puzzles all the time. I help him.”

  “Does he? Tell me, Finley,” says Aunt Bridget, “did your dad ever tell you he felt bad for keeping you away from your family all your life? Did he ever mention that?”

  I freeze.

  Aunt Dee stops folding.

  “Bridget,” says Grandma, her back to us. “That’s enough.”

  The pancake batter sizzles in its pan.

  “I’m sorry,” says Aunt Bridget, although she doesn’t sound it. “I just think it’s ridiculous that this is the first time I’m seeing my niece. You know, if he and Gwen weren’t having problems, I don’t think they’d have ever brought her—”

  Grandma slams down her spatula. “Bridget, that is enough!”

  The sound is an explosion. No one in this house yells, unless it is to call someone in from another room, and even then Grandma makes whoever it is stop at once.

  She leans heavily against the countertop, her face pale.

  “Mom?” Aunt Bridget sets down her drink and hurries over, Aunt Dee right behind her. They hover around her like birds.

  “What is it?” Aunt Dee puts her hand on Grandma’s forehead. “Your skin’s clammy. Have you eaten yet?”

  Grandma waves her away. In a flash she looks like herself again. “I’m fine. Just a little dizzy.” She tugs her apron straight and smiles at my aunts. “Good thing it’s almost breakfast time, I suppose. I had such a light dinner last night.”

  Aunt Dee smiles too, but Aunt Bridget looks pulled too tight, like she’s waiting for something to crash. Aunt Dee grabs her hand, squeezes. Uncle Nelson returns to his newspaper.

  In the span of ten seconds we are all back to where we started. I want to say something about how uncomfortable I feel, and about how something is obviously very wrong, even if they do not want to admit it, but I am not brave enough to do it.

  “You had a question, Finley?” Grandma says.

  Aunt Dee is back in her chair, peering at Uncle Nelson’s crossword puzzle. Aunt Bridget sips her drink.

  “Finley?” Grandma looks up, shoots me a bright smile. She holds a plate of pancakes. “You had a question?”

  I could go ahead and ask Grandma to take me to the library. That’s why I came in here, and everyone is acting normal now, so why not?

  (Ask away, Finley.)

  But I don’t want to ask Grandma anything. She was just shaking, a few seconds ago. She needs to eat; she needs to sit down. She needs something. Why does no one else say that?

  I want to hug her, but if I touch her, she might break.

  “No, never mind,” I tell her. “I figured it out.”

  18

  THINGS I KNOW ABOUT THE EVERWOOD

  • The Everwood

  ■ The Green (Grandma and Grandpa’s backyard)

  ■ The Great Castle (Hart House)

  ■ The Tower (our tree patio)

  ■ The Pit (the pit)

  ■ The First Bridge (the sewer pipe)

  ■ The Wasteland (where the Bone House is)

  ■ The Bone House (the Travers house)

  ■ The Troll’s Keep (the Bailey house)

  ■ The Post Office (our mailbox)

  • The Baileys

  ■ Cole (thirteen), Jack (twelve), Bennett (eight)

  ■ Captives of the Fellfolk troll (obviously not true, but I must accept this explanation until I find more information)

  ■ Jack’s dad (Fellfolk troll, I assume) did something bad when Dad was a teenager, can’t be trusted. Why???

  ■ The “something bad”—don’t ask Grandma and Grandpa about it. Why???
<
br />   ■ Jack’s mom—where is she?

  • The Bone House

  ■ Severely burned. Lots of fire damage.

  ■ Once home to Frank, Joy, and Cynthia Travers (we think). All deceased.

  ■ What happened? What started the fire?

  I STARE AT MY LIST for a long time. Aunt Dee is taking me to the library instead of Grandma, because when I finally felt brave enough to ask her, she said she was too tired.

  Grandma says that a lot, and I understand. I am always tired too, and I don’t do half the things she does—Friends of the Library meetings, A Pack for Every Back, the WIC clinic, baking for the neighbors.

  (So get it together, Finley.)

  (WAKE. UP.)

  According to the note Jack left at the Post Office, he and his brothers want to meet us at the Tower after dinner.

  I must show up with answers of some kind—why the fire happened, and how it happened, and how the Travers family died, and if that really is their house, or if we have somehow gotten it all wrong. Not because my cousins expect me to find answers, but because maybe if do find some, I will be able to sleep better.

  Luckily, the library is about a thirty-minute drive because Hart House is so far out past the edge of town, so I have time to look over my list a few times.

  Aunt Dee, however, is distracting. I watch her from the backseat. She offered me the front, but I wanted to sit back here, where she couldn’t read my list. She chews on the inside of her lip, and her knuckles are white on the steering wheel.

  “Aunt Dee, are you okay?”

  “Oh, sweetheart, I’m fine.” She reaches back to pat my knee. We ride in silence for a minute. “Aunt Bridget shouldn’t have said those things about your parents. I’m sorry she did.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “It was out of line.” Aunt Dee keeps looking back at me in the rearview mirror, like she is afraid I might fly away. Her hair is soft and gold, curled right above her shoulders. Her face is soft; her voice is soft. I often find myself thinking I would like to snuggle up in her lap and read, because it looks like a cozy place to do such a thing.

  “It’s only that she loves you so much, Finley,” she says. “We all do, and it’s hard to accept that you’ve been away from us for so long.”

  “But how can you love me? You only met me, like, three weeks ago.”

  We stop at a red light, and Aunt Dee turns around in her seat to look at me.

  “Finley, it isn’t about when we met you, or how long it’s been, or anything as complicated as that. It’s about family. You’re a Hart. You’re ours, and we’re yours. It’s in the blood, okay? It’s in the bones.”

  I cannot find any words to say after that, so instead I reach toward the front seat and take Aunt Dee’s hand. “Gretchen told me that. About Hart blood.”

  Aunt Dee smiles. “Gretchen’s a smart girl, like you. I knew you would be. Lewis was always the clever one.”

  Aunt Dee’s eyes look like Kennedy’s, but older. Crystal-clear blue. “Do you love Dad, too? Even though . . .”

  (Even though what?)

  (Why?)

  (Why?)

  “Even though,” Aunt Dee says firmly, squeezing my hand. “He’s my brother. You can’t get rid of that kind of love.”

  “Then how come he stayed away?”

  A car horn honks behind us; the light is green.

  “Shoot.” Aunt Dee starts driving again.

  I think she has forgotten my question. Then she says, “That’s his question to answer, Finley. Not mine.” Aunt Dee taps her fingers on the steering wheel for a few seconds. “Well. How about some music? What do you say?”

  Aunt Dee looks at me in the rearview mirror. I’m not sure what else to do, so I smile. Her eyes crinkle back at me, and she turns on the radio.

  I do not press the issue. I am a smart girl.

  • • •

  Downtown Billington is four streets running from north to south, and four streets running perpendicular to them from east to west, and a courthouse in the center square, and tiny shops that look like they have existed there since the beginning of time.

  The library is across the street from the courthouse, in a pale purple building that used to be a movie theater, according to Aunt Dee.

  “I’ll be next door at the Grind, okay?” Aunt Dee kisses my cheek. “Here’s my library card. Come get me when you’ve finished.”

  Watching her disappear into the café, I get the sense she is relieved to not be in the car with me anymore.

  The feeling is mutual. Aunt Dee is nice, but I need some space to think.

  The library is exactly what it should be: lots of dark wood and winding bookshelves, and a smell of computers and old books in the air.

  I stand in the middle of the room and consider where to begin.

  “Can I help you?” A librarian peeks around her computer to smile at me.

  “Perhaps.” I set down my notebook on her desk. “I’m from out of town. My name is Finley Hart—”

  “Oh! Are you the granddaughter who’s visiting for the summer?”

  Who is this woman, and how does she know about my life? “Excuse me?”

  “Hi! I’m Pam.” She holds out her hand.

  Cautiously, I shake it. “Finley.”

  “Your grandma’s been talking about your visit for weeks now. She’s the president of the Friends of the Library and comes around all the time. I’m so happy you’re here! Your grandparents are just the sweetest people. They’ve done so much for Billington.”

  But why would Grandma have been talking about me? I suppose she must have been excited. Or maybe she was pretending to be excited?

  Or maybe, once I arrived, she realized what a disappointment I was, that I am too much like my dad, and felt her excitement drain away.

  “They’ve done a lot for Billington?”

  Pam beams at me. “You bet! Can I show you?”

  Pam leads me to a glass display in the library lobby. She points to an old photograph, and sure enough, there are my grandparents, standing in front of the library. They look like themselves and not like themselves at the same time. Grandma’s hair is golden instead of white; Grandpa’s face has fewer wrinkles. Beside them stands a man in a suit holding a giant pair of scissors.

  “That’s Mayor Calvin,” Pam explains. “He’s ancient now, but isn’t he handsome here?”

  “I guess?”

  “See, they’re opening the new library. Your grandparents put a lot of money into renovating it. You should have seen this place before they donated. We had such a sparse collection. There was mold, the roof was leaking, mice had chewed through the wiring. Without your grandparents’ help, we might not be having this conversation today.” Pam sighs happily. “And it’s not only the library. I guess—oh, what was it? A couple decades ago?—they started really pouring a lot of money into downtown. Restoring buildings, planting trees . . .”

  I stare hard at the photograph. The three teenage girls standing beside my grandparents are unmistakably Aunt Bridget, Aunt Dee—who looks so much like Avery that I wonder if it is Avery, somehow having traveled back in time—and Stick.

  A teenage boy stands a little apart from them, looking away from the camera, as if he is wishing he were somewhere else.

  I know that look. It’s how I look in photographs.

  I touch the glass. “That’s my dad. He looks . . . weird.”

  Pam laughs. “You mean young?”

  No, not quite. What I mean is, I know my father met my mother in their first year of college. That could not have been very long after this picture was taken. And thinking about my father meeting my mother, both of them looking so young, makes my chest tight and uncomfortable, like I am seeing something I should not see.

  I wonder if Mom and Dad knew, in those first moments when they met, that they would get married and have a daughter named Finley. That they would start working too much and ignoring each other and fighting with each other, the whole time pretending ever
ything was okay.

  I wonder if they knew that when they started to pretend, their daughter would be able to tell.

  “Anyway, I’m probably boring you,” says Pam, leading me back to her desk. “What can I do for you, Finley?”

  “I’m trying to solve a mystery.”

  “Oh, that sounds fun! How can I help?”

  I glance down the list in my notebook, playing with the curly strips of paper from where I ripped out my Favorite Words list.

  “I’m looking for information about a man named Frank Travers, and his wife, Joy, and his daughter, Cynthia,” I say at last. “And also about the Bailey family. I don’t know the parents’ names, but I know the kids’ names. They live across the river from my grandparents. And . . .”

  I pause. I do not want to say this part out loud, but I must. “And also, about any fires in the area. About twenty-five years ago, maybe?” (Stay cool, Finley. Stay casual. Pretend you know nothing about those gravestones.) “When my dad was a teenager.”

  When Mr. Bailey was a teenager too.

  He did . . . bad things.

  He’s not safe to be around, and if he has kids now, I bet they’re not much different.

  But Dad’s wrong about that last part, at least. Jack’s safe, and Cole and Bennett are too. They wouldn’t do anything dangerous.

  Would they?

  “The Travers fire,” Pam says quietly, nodding. “I remember hearing about it from my dad.”

  I have read about out-of-body experiences, but I have never had one myself until now. My mind seems to drift out of my head and float there, observing, while my body stares at Pam.

  The Travers fire. Hearing it said like that makes it feel real, like before now it was just this story in the Everwood, and now it is more. It has a history, a past.

  Pam places her hand on mine. “I’m not sure you want to hear about it, Finley. It isn’t a happy story.” She tilts her head. “I’m surprised your grandparents haven’t told you. If they haven’t, then maybe I shouldn’t—”

  I slip my hand away from hers. “Please, I’d like to know. I like all kinds of stories. I’ll tell Grandma about everything when I get home, and we’ll discuss it together. I promise.”