ANNIE
I SAT UP, MY HEAD whirling with images of Little Annie, Claire, the lighthouse and the ocean stretching out to the sky. Maybe it was all just a dream. Maybe I was having those hallucinations that people with narcolepsy had? And because I loved the painting so much, I dreamed about going inside it. And because I was so worried about Mom, I was dreaming about her as a little girl. Maybe none of it was true.
But it was all so real. If I closed my eyes, I could still feel the wind on my face as I stood on the point looking out at the endless ocean.
I had to find out what was going on. But where to start?
I looked at the painting of Newfoundland hanging on my wall. The red lighthouse stood stark against the sky.
The painting. When I found it, it had been wrapped in the quilt. And there had been a shabby old trunk in front of it, in the corner of the attic, under the eaves. I guess it had always been there, but I’d never given it a second thought. Till now.
I stood at the door and listened. Magda had the radio on low, and I could hear dishes clanging. I walked to the end of the hall, opened the door that led to the attic and went up.
The attic was dusty and dim, even with the light on. There were old dressers, suitcases, boxes of Christmas decorations, my picture books. And in the far corner, half-hidden behind a dismantled table, stood the trunk.
I moved the table top away and looked at it. It was about three feet long and two feet high, dark red with wooden slats across. There was a brass hasp at the front—and a padlock. It was locked.
I sat back on my heels. There had to be a key somewhere. And I thought I knew where.
I crept silently down the stairs and into Mom’s room. I sat down at her dressing table and reached for her green velvet jewelry box. As I did, I caught sight of my reflection in the three-fold mirror. My hair was all over the place, my face was deathly pale and my eyes looked wild. I looked so much like Little Annie that I caught my breath.
Not Little Annie. Her ghost. In all the images of her in Maisie’s paintings she was always cheery. She never looked this sad and desperate. I took a deep breath.
“You’re not Little Annie’s ghost,” I muttered to myself, looking firmly into my own eyes in the mirror. “You’re Annie Jarvis and your mother is sick and you’re going to get to the bottom of this.”
Then I tore my eyes away from my sad reflection and bent my head over the jewelry box.
Like my mother’s wallet, it was one of those places I never got tired of exploring. It had three tiers that came forward as I raised the lid. Little compartments for rings, brooches, necklaces, bracelets. Mom was very neat about everything, and her jewelry was perfectly organized. It was simple and modern—some silver and some gold. But at the very bottom was a larger area where she put costume jewelry that she hardly ever wore, and that was always my favorite part of the box, because it was bright and gaudy and fun to try on.
I pulled out everything that was there, and sure enough, right at the bottom was a key. I’d remembered seeing it a few times. Mom said it was just an old key and she couldn’t remember what it was for. I should have known she was lying: Mom always knew what everything was for and anything that was old or forgotten was either thrown out or relegated to the attic.
I replaced the costume jewelry in the box, closed it, and then went back up to the attic, the key clutched tight in my hand.
I knew it would fit.
CLAIRE
THE SCHOOL IN Crooked Head only went to grade eight. Once you graduated, you had to go on a forty-five-minute bus ride to Lattice Harbour for high school. It wasn’t a very good school. Maisie’s friends who lived along the coast closer to St. John’s drove their kids into the city for high school. But we were too far away to drive in every day.
There was a good high school near Nan’s: St. Brigid’s Collegiate. If I went and lived with Nan, I could go there. And I could go back to Crooked Head some weekends, or Maisie could come into town. She came in anyway once or twice a month. What would be the big deal about that?
But I knew Maisie wouldn’t see it that way. Even though she went for days without really seeing me and barely speaking to me, I had a feeling she wouldn’t want to let me go. I had to do really well this year and maybe get Mrs. Matchim on my side. If she told Maisie I needed to go to the high school in St. John’s, that might help. I knew Nan would love it if I came and lived with her, but she’d just say, “It’s up to your mother,” and try not to get involved in any conflict between Maisie and me.
I kept meaning to talk to Mrs. Matchim, but I kept putting it off. Thinking, just wait till after the Easter exams and see how well I do. I did just fine in those exams, but still I didn’t ask her. I don’t know why. So then I thought I’d wait till after the end-of-year exams and see how I did. Now they were over and I was waiting for my results. But I knew I’d done really well. I only had two weeks before the end of school. I had to ask her soon.
The longer I put off talking to Maisie about it, the harder it was to bring it up. I told myself I’d talk to Mrs. Matchim at recess Monday morning. And if she didn’t back me up, then I’d talk to Maisie myself.
And maybe I’d see Annie again before that. And she’d help me. No matter how different she was, just knowing she was close by made me feel better. I smiled. Annie.
The sun was streaming in the window, bathing me in a warm golden glow. I could almost fall asleep, here in the chair, with the soft ocean breeze on my face. And maybe if I slept, my head would feel better.
ANNIE
THE KEY FIT. I knew it would. I flipped the hasp open and raised the lid.
The trunk was full of presents. Wrapped in Christmas paper with puffins wearing bright red scarves and mittens. Wrapped in bright birthday paper with smiling whales. Presents. I picked up one and looked at it. “To Annie, on her eleventh birthday,” said the label. “From Gran.”
I didn’t have a gran. My father’s parents died before he met Mom.
I picked up a present wrapped in green paper with little Christmas trees all over it. The label read, “Merry Christmas, Annie, from Gran.” Then I pulled out the presents, one by one, and laid them on the dusty floor in two rows.
Twelve birthday presents. Twelve Christmas presents. All for me, from “Gran.”
There were other things in the trunk: a red woolen blanket and some books and papers, but I left them for the moment and turned to the presents.
I picked up the one that said “Happy First Birthday, Annie.” As I unpeeled the tape, I noticed that it had been unwrapped before, and then carefully rewrapped. I looked at a couple of others; they were the same. Mom had unwrapped these presents, looked inside, and then wrapped them up again, trying not to make it show. Why? Why hadn’t she given them to me?
I turned back to the “Happy First Birthday” present and removed the paper. There was a handmade card inside, with a drawing of a baby sleeping in a stroller wearing a red cap with yellow zigzags. I recognized the drawing style right away. Maisie’s.
Inside there was a message in purple ink:
Dearest Annie—I’ve knitted you this little cap to keep your ears warm in the cold Toronto winters. All my love, Gran.
Nestled in the tissue paper was a tiny red wool hat with yellow zigzags.
I opened another. The wrapping was covered with little puffins. Inside was another handmade card, this one of a little girl wearing bright green socks.
Dearest Annie—I’ve knitted you these socks to keep your toes cozy this Christmas.
And in the tissue paper were the bright green socks.
I opened present after present. They all had handmade cards with a picture of a little girl who looked like me wearing whatever the present was: there were sweaters, a couple of scarves, mittens, hats. All with similar notes.
I sat there in the attic, surrounded by a flurry of wrapping paper and knitted things, most too small for me now.
Maisie King was my gran, and she was alive. And for some reason Mo
m didn’t want me to find that out. All she ever told me about her childhood was that her mother had died when she was a little girl and her grandmother brought her up. Then she came to Toronto to university, and her grandmother died before she graduated, and she never went back to Newfoundland.
Mom never wanted to talk about Newfoundland. When I asked her where the painting came from, she said a distant cousin sent it for a wedding present.
My mother lied. She lied about a lot of things.
I thought of my mother taking each present up to the attic, unwrapping it, looking at it, and then wrapping it up again and hiding it away in the trunk. I thought of Maisie, in the living room of Crooked Head Lighthouse, knitting clothes for her unseen grandchild for twelve years. And my mother now, lying in her hospital bed with the curtains pulled shut around her, the green light from the monitors flickering over her face.
I sat there for a long time, trying to figure it out. What was my mother thinking as she hid away those presents? What could have happened that was so bad she never wanted to speak to her mother again? And why did she keep the presents instead of just throwing them away?
And what about my dad? Did he know?
I carefully wrapped each present up again, as best I could, and put them all back in the trunk. Then I went downstairs.
CLAIRE
MY HEAD HURT. I had the strangest dreams. I was floating in a green tent surrounded by machines that hummed. People were talking to me in a language I didn’t understand. There was something I was trying to remember but it kept drifting out of my reach. And my head hurt.
On Monday morning I cornered Mrs. Matchim at recess, after she had led our class through a mind-numbing review of algebra.
“Yes, Claire?” she said, not cracking so much as a smile.
“Can I talk to you for a minute? About next year?”
She glanced at the clock, then motioned to the chair beside her desk. “Certainly. Take a seat.”
I sat down and stared at her. No words came.
“Claire?”
“Uh, well, I was wondering if maybe you could help me out with something.”
She nodded, waiting.
“It’s my mother,” I blurted out. “I need help because…well, because…” I faltered.
Mrs. Matchim frowned. “Is she having second thoughts about you going to high school?”
“No, no, it’s not that. It’s just…just…just where I go to high school.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Where?”
“I want to go to school in St. John’s. To St. Brigid’s. I heard it’s a good school, and my nan lives there, and I could stay with her and—”
Mrs. Matchim was studying my face. “It certainly has a very good reputation, Claire. It’s one of the best high schools in St. John’s.”
I jumped on this. “Yes, that’s one of the reasons I want to go there. I want to get a scholarship so I can go away to Toronto to university.”
Mrs. Matchim nodded her head slowly. “Yes, you would have a better chance at St. Brigid’s. Better teachers. More students of your caliber to keep you up to the mark. I think it’s a wonderful idea.”
Phew. So far so good.
“But what was the help you needed, Claire? With your mother?”
“I haven’t asked her yet. I was hoping you could talk to her and persuade her it’s a really good opportunity for me. She’d listen to you.”
Mrs. Matchim frowned again. “I’m happy to discuss this with your mother, Claire, but I think you need to tell her yourself. It’s a family decision. It will be hard for your mother to have you live away.”
I shook my head. “No, it’s not like that. She doesn’t need me around. She’s working all the time. But she doesn’t understand how important this is to me. She never did well at school so she doesn’t get it…” I trailed off.
Mrs. Matchim was shaking her head. “Your mother will miss you, Claire, and it’s a very big decision to send you away when you’re still so young. I do think it would be a good idea, but she may want to wait a year or two—”
“No. I need to go now. I don’t want to wait. I—”
The bell for the end of recess rang out. Mrs. Matchim stood up, gathering her books and notes.
“I need to go to my next class, Claire. Once you’ve told your mother, you can let her know that I support your idea, in theory, and I’ll be available to discuss it any time.”
I was dismissed. She nodded briskly to me and left the classroom.
So I was still more or less on my own. I’d have to tell Maisie myself.
ANNIE
I LAY DOWN on my bed and stared at the painting. Maisie King. My grandmother. And as of my twelfth birthday, December 5, just before Christmas last year, still living in Crooked Head, Newfoundland, according to the postmark on the last package. And thinking of me. And knitting me an emerald-green pullover shot with strands of lighter greens, with buttons made of sea-glass. My grandmother.
I never had a grandmother. Or uncles and aunts. Or cousins. It was just Dad, Mom and me. But now there was Maisie. A famous artist. Someone who would understand the way I looked at the world. Someone who saw it the way I did. I closed my eyes.
I must have fallen into a deep sleep. When I opened my eyes, the light had changed. I felt like I had floated up from a long, long way down. I couldn’t remember any dreams: only a warm blanket of darkness.
I sat up. I could hear voices downstairs. A woman and a man. Mom? I staggered to the top of the stairs and stopped to listen.
“Do you think we should wake her?” It was Magda, not my mother.
“Certainly,” answered my dad.
I walked slowly down the stairs.
“I’m awake,” I said, stopping by the kitchen door.
The table was set for two, and Magda had her purse over her shoulder, as if she was about to leave. My father stood leaning against the counter, as if he didn’t have the strength to hold himself up anymore. His face was pale.
“There you are,” said Magda. “You slept the afternoon away.”
“Is Mom—?” I asked Dad. He shook his head.
“No change.”
“Come and have your supper, it’s all ready,” said Magda. “I’m on my way. I’d stay, but I’ve got my Italian class tonight.” Magda was learning Italian for a trip she was going to take next spring with her sister.
Dad smiled. “That’s fine, Magda,” he said. “You’ve been very good to us. We’ll be all right on our own now, won’t we, Annie?”
I nodded my head and sat down. Magda gave me a kiss, and then left. She’d made us baked chicken breasts coated in crispy bread crumbs, mashed potatoes and corn. Another one of my favorite dinners. I was surprised by how hungry I was. Dad made his way steadily through his full plate, then had seconds.
The book of Newfoundland painters and Through the Looking-Glass still sat at the end of the table, where I’d left them this morning. They were where Mom’s plate would have been if she was there.
“Dad?” I asked, eyeing the books.
“Mmm?”
“Dad, how come Mom never talks about Newfoundland?”
He shrugged. “No reason. She left there when she was young and never really went back.”
“But what about her family?”
“She doesn’t have any family. She’s told you. Her mother died when she was about twelve and her grandmother brought her up. Then her grandmother died while she was away at university. There was nothing left for her there.”
“She was twelve? When her mother died?”
“Yes, I think she was twelve. Twelve or thirteen. It was very sad. She doesn’t like to talk about it.”
No kidding. Because it didn’t happen. “And her name was Morrow, right?”
“Annie,” said my father with a sigh, “you know all this. Her maiden name was Morrow and she kept it as a middle name when she married me.”
“And she didn’t have any sisters or brothers?”
“No.
Nobody.”
“But that painting in my room, and the quilt—”
“Some distant cousin sent them to us for a wedding present. She told you.”
“Then she does have family there.”
Dad put down his knife and fork and rested his head in his hands for a moment. Then he looked up at me. I’d never seen him look so tired.
“Look, Annie, I don’t know why you’re asking all these questions now. But take it from me, your mother has no more family connections in Newfoundland. There was just the one cousin who sent the painting and your mom hasn’t been in touch with her for years. Can we drop it now?”
“Sure,” I said, and looked away.
Dad didn’t know about Maisie. Or Little Annie. Mom had lied to both of us.
CLAIRE
EVERY TIME I looked up from my desk for the rest of the day, all I could see at the window was the blank white fog. When I stepped out of the school at home time I couldn’t see farther than about fifteen feet in any direction. The other students pushed past me and went chattering off, some to the bus, some to walk home. I sighed, hoisted my knapsack and trudged along the road.
I went over and over it in my mind. How to tell Maisie. It had to be tonight. I couldn’t put it off any longer. There was a knot in my stomach that wasn’t going to go away till I got it settled. I walked through the thickening fog, barely noticing anything around me.
When I walked into the kitchen, Maisie was sitting at the kitchen table with an open bottle of wine and a big grin on her face.
“Claire!” she called out happily to me. “I’m so glad you’re home. I have some big news for you.”
The knot in my stomach tightened and I was immediately on alert.
“Oh?” I said as nonchalantly as I could, putting down my knapsack and peeling off my damp sweater.
“Sit down, we need to talk,” said Maisie. Her face was flushed. She didn’t usually drink wine in the daytime.
I sat down, trying to ignore the fluttering in my stomach.
The Painting Page 7
