by Cat Winters
Michael, still squatting, lowered his elbows to his thighs and plunked one knee against the rug beneath him. “What is it that Janie has always asked for since she could first speak? Where is it that she’s wanted to visit for as long as you can remember?”
Rebecca nudged the girl behind her. “I don’t like this. What are you getting at?”
“Mrs. O’Daire . . .” I inched forward, hating the sensation that she considered us both threats. “We’re here because I’ve received a letter from a woman in Kansas—a woman named Eleanor who once had a sister named Violet Sunday.”
Rebecca’s eyes veered straightaway to Tillie, who blanched.
“I wrote to the postmaster of Friendly, Kansas,” I explained, “identifying myself as a school psychologist who’s working with a girl who insists that she knows a family named Sunday. I enclosed a second letter and asked him to forward it to the Sundays if they, in fact, exist. And”—I nodded toward Michael and the letter—“apparently they do. Show her Mrs. Rook’s correspondence, Mr. O’Daire. Please.”
Michael passed the envelope to the pale and freckled hands of his former wife.
Rebecca held the paper an arm’s length away and gawked at it without saying a word. The Friendly, Kansas, postmark sat on prominent display, and she stared at the ink with bulging emerald eyes, as though gazing at the seal of the devil. A clock chimed the half hour from the nearby living room, bonging with a bellow that rumbled across my stomach.
“Open it,” said her sister in a whisper. “Please open it. What does it say?”
Janie peeked around her mother and studied the envelope, her lips parted, her breathing unsteady. The house itself seemed to tremble around us.
Rebecca slid her fingertips inside the envelope and tugged the letter out. She then cleared her throat. “It says, ‘Dear Dr. Lind, As you can probably understand, I was quite taken aback when your letter arrived, and I’ve spent the past several days gathering the courage to . . .’” She trailed off, reading the following two paragraphs in silence. Both the paper and her lips quivered. “Then she . . .” Rebecca swallowed. “She then says, ‘I did, in fact, once have a sister named Violet. She was born and raised right here in Friendly, Kansas, and she died tragically one cold winter in 1890 at the age of 19. Her married name was Jessen, but our maiden name . . .’” Rebecca blinked in an obvious attempt to stave off tears. “‘Our maiden name was Sunday.’ Oh . . . my Lord.” She dropped down to a bottom step on the staircase, pressed a hand over her eyes, and broke into tears.
“Mommy?” Janie perched beside her on the step. “Are you all right?”
Both Michael and Tillie looked to me, as though I might help the woman to cope with her emotions.
I tiptoed toward Rebecca. “Mrs. O’Daire . . . ?”
She leaned forward and bawled, and everything leaked—her eyes, her nose, her mouth. Her fingers squeezed a top corner of the letter, and I worried she might tear it.
“What are you feeling right now?” I asked her. “How can I help?”
Rebecca pushed the letter against her stomach and buried her whole face into the palm of her right hand. I heard gasping and slurping and sniffing and watched tears rain down on the pale-blue stationery.
Janie clasped her arms around her mother and pulled the woman against her small chest. “Why are you crying, Mommy? Why does the letter make you sad?”
“Because . . .” Rebecca reached out and cupped the back of the girl’s head. “I’ve been waiting for this letter for years. I didn’t think it would ever come.”
Michael released a breath he might have been holding ever since Janie first spoke as Violet at the age of two. Tillie placed the back of her right sleeve against her lips and broke into tears, too. I nearly almost cried myself.
“As you read,” I said, “Violet’s sister, Mrs. Rook, wants to speak with Janie. I believe a visit to Friendly would be beneficial for both her and the child. We could compare notes. We could see if this is truly more than just a fantastical coincidence.”
“Would you like to go to Friendly, Janie?” asked Michael.
Janie lifted her head and nodded. “Yes. Yes—please.”
“This is all so sudden,” said Tillie with a hiccup. “It’s almost Christmas.”
“What better gift to give Janie,” asked Michael, “than a chance to see the place she’s been pining for since the age of two? No toy can ever compare to this.” He turned back to his ex-wife on the stairs. “What do you think, Bec? Should we give her Friendly for Christmas? I’ll pay for everyone’s tickets. I’ll make the arrangements this afternoon and telegraph kind Mrs. Rook, who’s been so generous about reaching out to us.”
“I need to think about this.” Rebecca dabbed at her nose with the left cuff of her sweater.
“We don’t have much time,” said Michael. “Miss Lind would need to accompany us, and she can only travel during Christmas vacation.”
Rebecca sighed and peered back down at the letter. More tears leaked down her cheeks and chin.
Michael stepped forward and held his cap against his chest. “Come on, Bec,” he said with an intimacy to his voice that prompted me to look away from the two of them. “Janie has needed this opportunity for a long, long time. You know that as well as I. We can bring Tillie with us. You don’t even have to travel in the same railway car as me or sleep in the same hotel.”
“She makes me nervous.” Rebecca peeked at me and fussed with the letter, folding it along the crease lines. “I’m still worried . . .” More tears flowed. “There’s that whole situation with Mother . . .”
“This letter proves that there’s nothing wrong with Janie.” Michael kneeled down in front of her. “It proves that something spiritual, not psychological, is happening here. The girl is as sane as can be. Isn’t that marvelous?”
Rebecca wiped at her eyes. “Then why do we need a psychologist accompanying us?”
“Because,” he said, “Mrs. Rook only felt brave enough to write when she learned a psychologist was involved. We can’t show up without Miss Lind. We need a professional to be there, to make Violet’s sister feel safe.”
Rebecca sniffed and clasped the letter with both hands between her knees. “If I agree to this, then you’ve got to swear to me, Michael O’Daire . . .” She clenched her jaw and steadied her voice. “Swear to me you won’t take Janie away from me afterward. Swear you won’t parade her around in front of scientists, or journalists, or anyone else who might want to lay their hands upon her. If I lose her, if anyone harms her, so help me God . . . I’ll kill you.”
He drew back. “Rebecca . . . Janie’s sitting right there . . .”
“I swear, Michael, I’ll kill you.” She glared at him out of the sides of her eyes with a stare that could have slain him then and there, and I knew there was no way on earth that this poor broken family would ever be mended, no matter what we discovered in Friendly.
CHAPTER 21
Michael drove me to a larger depot to the north—a proper railway station that consisted of more than just a sign and an overhang. An agent in spectacles and a blue cap showed us timetables and the route from the coast to Portland, then to Utah, where we would switch trains and join the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe to travel southeastward to Kansas. Michael paid for five tickets, including mine. I sent a telegram to Mrs. Rook, and then one to Bea to explain that my work would prevent me from visiting at Christmas. The O’Daires, Tillie Simpkin, and I would be departing early the following morning. Our arrival at our destination would occur on the morning of December 23. Everything seemed to be rushing forward, like a motion picture propelled into fast motion, everyone walking and tipping their hats at twice their normal speed.
“Well, it’s done, then,” I said outside the station while watching Michael tuck four of the tickets into his billfold. I folded my own ticket into my coin purse. “Thank you for buying my fare.”
“You’re the reason this trip is happening.” He crammed the billfold into a back trouser pocke
t. “I’m in awe of your ability to accomplish the impossible.”
“Oh, I don’t think I’ve quite accomplished the impossible.”
“You don’t . . . ?” He leaned forward. “Are you joking? You convinced a skeptical stranger in Kansas to consider that my daughter may have been her deceased sister. You convinced stubborn Rebecca O’Daire to reexamine her former belief in reincarnation and allow Janie to travel halfway across the country.” He pulled his cap farther down over his ears, which were brightening in color from the cold. “If those two feats aren’t examples of accomplishing the impossible, then I don’t know what are.”
“I’m just so relieved that Janie’s mother agreed. I feel we’re so close to stumbling upon something absolutely extraordinary right now. My heart’s been beating like mad ever since I first laid eyes upon that letter.”
“Mine, too.” He rubbed his gloved hands together. “Is there anything else I should be doing right now?”
“I’m planning to check myself into a hotel here.” I glanced down the street, where I believed I had spotted some sort of inn. “Tomorrow morning I’ll join the rest of you on the train, but for now, I’ll leave you to go tend to your obligations and to pack for the journey. Do make sure to bring the journal along with you, as well as any other documented proof of Janie’s Violet Sunday stories. Miss Simpkin showed me a recent essay that Janie wrote at Halloween time. Let’s be sure that comes along, too.”
“Sure, I’ll take care of all of that.”
I stuffed my hands into my coat pockets. “Shortly after we arrive at the Rooks’ house, I would like to take Mrs. Rook into a separate room and ask her questions about Violet—questions that Janie has already seemingly answered. I’ll investigate more about the number eight and this Nel, the ‘Man in the Other House,’ as well as all of the other little details Janie has given throughout the years. Comparing notes before Mrs. Rook and Janie start blending their stories together will be crucial in determining whether this is a genuine case of reincarnation.”
“As long as Janie gets to experience whatever she needs to be happy”—he shrugged—“I honestly don’t care what happens in Friendly.”
“I’ll do my utmost to ensure that she’s happy.”
“I’m sure you will. I’m going to be forever in your debt, you know.”
“I’m simply doing what I was hired to do—assisting a child in need.”
He shook his head. “You’re going much farther than that, and we both know it.”
“Anyone else in my position would do the same were he or she to receive a letter such as Mrs. Rook’s.”
A sudden flake of snow drifted past my eyes. A reverential hush—the type of ear-ringing silence that precedes a full-fledged snowfall—had stolen all birdsong and breezes from the trees around us, I realized, and the stores and restaurants across the street slept as soundly as those of Gordon Bay.
I lifted my face and witnessed a flurry of flakes careening toward us from the sky. “I never imagined it as snowing out here on the coast. I hope it doesn’t slow down our travels tomorrow morning.”
“What was it that you wanted to speak to me about?” he asked.
“How’s that?”
“Back at the hotel, you asked me to join you for dinner so you could speak to me about something.”
“Oh.” My heart stopped. “That.”
“What was it?”
“Hmm . . .” I drew my hands back out of my pockets and massaged the exposed skin of my neck between the woolen collar of my coat and the hat. I imagined the disappointment—the absolute horror—on Michael’s face if I confessed my preoccupation with the coincidence between my childhood nickname and the name of the Man in the Other House. And, honestly, as I stood there in the stark white light of the day, I found it difficult to imagine that Violet Sunday’s potential killer, in his new life, would just so happen to obtain a position as a traveling school psychologist in Oregon . . . and would just so happen to get assigned to the schoolhouse in which the reincarnated version of Violet—also now in Oregon—studied as a seven-year-old child.
Michael took a step closer. “Is something troubling you? Is it what my mother said about people assuming that the two of us—”
“No.” My cheeks warmed. “The psychologist side of me is simply still wrestling with this puzzling, burgeoning parapsychologist side. I’m starting to reexamine another case of a child who experienced queer nightmares and behaviors when she was young.”
“Do you mean yourself?”
I flinched at his astute guess, and then I laughed off his accuracy and fussed with my hat. “I beg your pardon?”
“When we parted ways before Thanksgiving, you described yourself as having ‘quirks’ and ‘terrible nightmares.’”
“Now that I think about it, I do worry about those rumors circulating about us,” I said—an obvious turn in the conversation, but a necessary one if the fellow was to maintain any semblance of respect for me. “We should sit separately on the train to avoid the risk of Rebecca rethinking her decision. I’m going to see if I can find some books to help pass the time. Or”—I raised my eyebrows—“if you want to perhaps bring along some of the novels that you’ve written . . .”
He reddened. “No. I won’t subject you to that.”
“Oh, come now. They can’t be that bad.”
He pushed his fingertips against his forehead, as though appeasing a sudden headache.
“Are you all right?”
“Just a little overwhelmed.”
“That’s quite understandable.” I swiveled in the direction of that potential inn down the way. “Well, in any case, I’m going to check myself into a hotel and sort myself out—ensure that I have enough warm clothing for Kansas and all that. I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow morning.”
His lips formed a small smile. “Apparently you won’t, if we’re supposed to pretend we don’t know each other.”
“I’ll at least make sure everyone made it onto the train.”
“And then you’ll sequester yourself in a corner and bury your nose in books for three days and nights?”
“That sounds about right.” I brushed snow from my sleeves. “I’m rather boring, Mr. O’Daire. I’m surprised you haven’t already realized that.”
“You’re boring like I’m a teetotaler.”
I couldn’t help but snicker.
Michael offered to help me with my bags, which were still sitting in the backseat of his car, and then he escorted me to the steps of the nearest hotel, a two-story structure, a porridge sort of beige, with empty flower boxes attached below each window. The building tilted slightly to the left and emitted the tantalizing aroma of Dungeness crab.
“Here . . .” Michael tugged Mrs. Rook’s envelope out of a coat pocket and handed it to me. “I’ll give you this so I don’t have to worry about forgetting it tomorrow. Take good care of it—please.”
“I will, I promise.” I pocketed the letter inside my own coat. “Well . . . until tomorrow, then,” I said, crisp and businesslike, and I gave his right hand a shake. “Here’s to our upcoming adventure.”
I moved to leave him, but he kept hold of my hand and tipped his face close enough that I could observe every fleck of green in his blue eyes, as well as a twin pair of minute moles that dotted his left cheek.
“I’m so impressed with you, Alice,” he said, his voice far more natural, more relaxed and affectionate, than I’d ever heard it before. “Whatever happens in Friendly, know that to me you’re a psychology miracle worker.”
Before I could formulate any sound, he let go of my palm and turned back for his car. The clapping of his soles against the pavement echoed across the dormant shops and the porridge walls of the hotel behind me, and I just stood there, my hand stretched wide open, snow melting against my glove, while the words psychology miracle worker played through my head as a rich string sonata.
I NOW FIND myself on a journey to Friendly, Kansas, I wrote from the plush seat of an
eastbound passenger train the following evening. I do not know how I transformed from a woman who scoffed at the very idea of past lives to one who boarded a railcar to pursue the wild, uncharted frontier of reincarnation. And yet here I am, an eager investigator, thanks to a beguiling seven-year-old child. My entire way of viewing life and death, memory and behavior, violence and sanity, is tipping rapidly on its head.
I plan to approach the coming days with caution, however. Above all else, I am a woman of psychology; an intelligent woman, hired to ensure the well-being of schoolchildren. I must not let my emotions, as well as unanswered questions about my own past, interfere.
CHAPTER 22
December 23, 1925
We rolled into the Brighton, Kansas, train station at 9:35 in the morning, two days before Christmas; three days after the O’Daires, Tillie Simpkin, and I boarded the first train of our excursion. During the connection in Utah, I had dispatched a telegram to Mrs. Rook, in which I passed along our approximate arrival time. I also asked if her husband might still pick us up.
The locomotive slowed to a stop, and I peeked out my window, finding a dozen or so people waiting beneath the overhang of a depot a bright canary yellow. They were all bundled in layer upon layer of winter clothing, and only their eyes and their noses peeked through heaps of wool. Even if I knew what Mr. Rook looked like—which I most definitely didn’t—I might not have recognized him in the small crowd.
He had one of those lines in his chin, Janie had said of her Mr. Rook. And he carried a pocket watch with an etching of a castle on the back.
I stepped off the train and landed in a prairie world imbued with far more color than what L. Frank Baum had described in his writings of Dorothy’s “gray” Kansas. Snow powdered the slanted rooftops of a row of red brick storefronts, and the scents of clean air, of winter wheat and horses, blended with the grease and steam of the locomotive. No mountains blocked the view of the white earth in any direction, and yet the land stretched to the horizon in gentle, rolling hills, not with the ironed-bed-sheet flatness I’d expected.
