by Isobel Bird
The front door opened again, and this time a man came out. He had thinning silver hair that was cut short, and he had a goatee. When Annie saw him she cried out, “George!”
“Hey, Annie Bananie,” the man said, picking her up and swinging her around. When he put her down again he rubbed his back and said, “You’re a little bigger now than you were when you were six.”
“George used to baby-sit me when Mom and Dad went out,” Annie told Aunt Sarah.
“I know,” her aunt replied. “And he tells me that you never went to bed when you were supposed to.”
“That’s because he let me stay up to watch old movies with him,” Annie protested.
“No child should be allowed to grow up without seeing Casablanca,” said George.
“Do you still make movies?” asked Annie as they took their bags and walked up the steps to the house.
“Sure do,” George said. “I’ll show you the latest one later on.”
When they got inside George showed them to their rooms on the second floor of the house. Annie put down her bag and went downstairs, where everyone had gathered in the living room.
“What do you want to do while you’re here?” Riza asked Annie as she set out some chips and salsa for them to snack on.
“I hadn’t really thought about it too much,” Annie said. “I guess just sort of look around.”
“I think we can manage that,” Riza said. “And maybe one night we’ll go see the show I just did scenery for.”
“Great,” Annie said. “I think right now I’d like to go walk around. Is that okay?”
“It’s fine with me,” Aunt Sarah replied. “Do you want me to come with you?”
Annie shook her head. “Thanks,” she said, “but I’ll be okay by myself.”
“Just be back by six,” Riza told her as she rose to go. “Dinner will be ready then.”
Annie left the house and walked down the street. She went in the direction the van had come from. Aunt Sarah had said that her old house was only a few blocks away. That’s where she was going. She’d turned down her aunt’s offer of company because she wasn’t sure she would actually go through with it. This way, only she would know if she wasn’t able to do what she’d come there to do.
She reached the park and stopped. Which way was her old house? She tried to remember. She knew she must have walked there hundreds of times with her parents, but at the moment she was completely lost.
She closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of the city. It was different from Beecher Falls. She liked it. The warm air felt good on her skin, and despite her anxiety at being back in the city she’d grown up in, she felt good.
Suddenly she had an image of herself walking with her parents down the very street she was standing on. She opened her eyes and looked to her right. Their house was that way. She knew it for certain. She had walked down this street with her mother and father.
She walked in the direction she’d seen in her mind. She passed three streets before coming to a sign that read SALINGFORD ST. That was it. Her street. She looked at the houses. Did she remember any of them?
She was surprised to find that she did. There was number 65, where old Mrs. Wilkins had lived. Was she still alive? Annie wondered as she walked past, thinking of how in the summer Mrs. Wilkins always gave her and her friends lemonade. Then there was number 88. Her best friend, Milly Lefcourt, had lived there until she’d moved away, right before the fire. What would Milly think of my being a witch? Annie thought. She and Milly had dressed up like witches many times, pretending they had magical powers. Annie smiled as she thought about her old ideas of what witches were like.
She passed the houses slowly, looking at each one. Many of them had been repainted since she’d lived there, and now their multicolored faces looked back at her placidly. Others, like number 133, where her piano teacher, Mr. Gilman, had lived, looked almost the same but had faded from their former glory. But as she walked, the feeling of going back in time grew stronger. It really was as if she were simply walking home from the park or from school. She’d walked down that street countless times during her six years in San Francisco. Now, ten years later, she was doing it all over again.
As the house numbers entered the 200s, she began to slow down. She knew her house was coming up. Was she ready to see it? What if it had been completely changed? That would make her really sad. But if it looked the same, that would be even worse. It would be as if she and Meg had simply been plucked out of it and dropped somewhere else.
Annie was almost there. She passed 267, 270, and 273, then paused as she came to 277. That was the house she and Meg had been taken into right after the fire. The house where they’d sat in the kitchen and waited for their parents to come get them. The house where they’d been told that their parents were never coming to get them again.
She came to 279 and stopped. There was her house. It had changed, at least some, yet it still looked basically like she remembered. But she also knew that the fire had done the most damage to the inside of the house, so she wasn’t too surprised. She stood on the street, looking up at the round room on the left-hand side, the gabled roof with its gingerbread house–like decorations, the porch that stretched across the front. The house was a different color, the pink paint replaced by violet and blues, but it was still the house she remembered.
Even the garden was the same. Whoever lived there had added some purple flowers to match the new paint, but the big pink rosebushes were still there, winding around the porch railing and covering the fence that ran along the edge of the sidewalk. Looking at the flowers, Annie thought about all of the time her mother had spent in the yard, carefully tending the plants.
“We can’t get rid of them,” said someone behind her.
Annie turned and saw a girl standing on the walk. The girl was about her own age. She had light brown hair that had been pulled into two pigtails. Her battered leather jacket was covered with stickers for all kinds of bands and protest groups, and she was wearing what looked like a Catholic school skirt with a T-shirt featuring a picture of a big can of Crisco. In her hand was a comic book, but Annie couldn’t tell which one it was.
“This is my house,” the girl said.
Annie realized that she was staring at the girl. “Sorry,” she said. “I was just looking at it.”
“That’s okay,” said the girl, smiling. “It’s pretty, isn’t it?”
Annie nodded.
“We moved in about nine years ago,” said the girl. “There had been a fire here or something and nobody wanted to spend the money to rebuild the place. But my father thought it would be fun to fix it up, so we took it.”
Nine years ago, thought Annie. So the house had sat empty for almost a year before anyone had bought it. For some reason that made her feel sad.
“I’m Becka Dunning,” the girl said.
“Annie Crandall,” replied Annie.
“Did you just move here?” Becka asked her.
Annie shook her head. “I’m just visiting some friends,” she said. For some reason she didn’t want to tell Becka that she had once lived in the house. It was Becka’s house now, not hers, and she didn’t want the other girl to feel weird about her standing there staring at the place.
“Too bad you don’t live here,” said Becka. “We could use more people our age around. It’s lots of old people and people with babies.”
Annie laughed. “At least you have a beautiful house to live in.”
“Very true,” Becka said. “Do you want to see the inside? My dad did an amazing job on it.”
Annie hesitated. Becka was inviting her to go inside the house. Part of her was ready to jump at the chance. But was she ready to do it? She’d been in San Francisco only a few hours. She had the whole weekend to think about going in there. But what if Becka wasn’t around when she made up her mind? What if this was her only chance?
“Okay,” she said. “I’d like to see it.”
Becka opened the gate, and the
two girls walked to the front door. Becka took a key out of her skirt pocket, inserted it into the door’s lock, and pushed the door open. She stepped inside, and after pausing a moment to try to compose herself, Annie followed her.
Almost instantly Annie was overcome by a rush of memories and emotions. To her left was the living room where the fire had started. For a second she thought she could still see the blinking lights of the Christmas tree, but she closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them she saw that the living room was filled with furniture that she didn’t recognize. It was also a different color, the once-white walls having been painted a cheery yellow color.
Annie turned around, looking at everything. Becka was right—her father had done a beautiful job. He’d restored all of the house’s original details, and it looked much the way it had when Annie lived there.
“Come on,” Becka said. “I’ll show you around.”
Annie followed her from room to room, only half listening as Becka pointed out the things her father had done. Annie was lost in her own memories, as each room made her remember more and more things about her life in the house. There was the kitchen, where she had spent hours watching her mother prepare food; the big room on the side, where her mother had often set up her canvases to catch the strong morning light; and the staircase that turned in on itself in the middle before going to the second floor. As Annie passed through each room she touched the doorways, ran her fingers over the walls, and remembered.
“This is my room,” Becka told Annie when they reached the second floor. She pointed to what had been Annie’s own room.
Annie stepped inside. This is where I slept, she thought as she looked around. Covered with Becka’s stuff, the room looked nothing like it had when it had been Annie’s, but she still felt a twinge of jealousy that it no longer belonged to her.
Becka resumed the tour, walking past Meg’s old room, which had been turned into what looked like a library with shelves of books lining the walls. Then they reached the large bedroom at the end of the hall.
“My dad’s room,” Becka said. “It’s a mess.”
Annie peered in briefly. She wasn’t ready to spend a long time in what had been her parents’ bedroom. Thankfully, Becka was already on her way to the third floor.
“This is my dad’s office,” said Becka as they reached the top of the stairs. “He writes his books in there.”
Annie looked inside. She saw a desk with a computer on it. The screen was on, and what looked like a page half filled with typing was displayed on it. Stacks of papers were piled on the floor, and there were more shelves of books. On the walls were framed posters of what looked like book covers. Annie looked at them more closely.
“Your father isn’t Grayson Dunning?” she said to Becka.
Becka nodded. “That would be him,” she said.
“As in Grayson Dunning, the author of the Changeling series?” Annie asked.
Becka laughed. “I take it you’ve read them?”
“I love those books,” Annie said. “I think I’ve read them all at least twice.”
Annie had first discovered the Changeling series a few years before in the school library. They were all about a girl who found out that she was part faerie and that it was her destiny to help prevent an evil faerie from using some rune-stones for evil. Only unlike the plain old f-a-i-r-y fairies of children’s stories, the faeries in Grayson Dunning’s books were the real kind, powerful beings originally from Ireland who possessed very strong magic. Annie had fallen in love with the books, and she eagerly awaited the release of each new one. She couldn’t believe that the author of her favorite books was living in what used to be her house.
“He likes to write in here because of the ghosts,” said Becka.
Annie whirled around and looked at her. “Ghosts?” she said.
Becka nodded. “The house is haunted,” she said. “That’s one of the reasons my dad wanted it. But don’t worry, they won’t hurt you. The ghosts, I mean.”
Annie could feel herself shaking. Ghosts. Becka was telling her that there were ghosts in the house. She needed to get out. She couldn’t stay. She’d made a mistake even coming to the house—she knew that now.
“I have to go,” she said suddenly. “I have to get back to where I’m staying.”
“Are you sure?” Becka asked. “My dad should be back soon. Don’t you want to meet him? He’d love to meet a fan.”
Annie didn’t answer. She was already walking down the stairs to the second floor. She was finding it hard to breathe, and she needed to get outside. No, she told herself. You need to get away from this house.
She’d reached the second floor when suddenly the smell of smoke overwhelmed her. The house was on fire. She could smell it downstairs, and she was sure she heard the sound of flames climbing the stairs.
“Annie.” The voice was clearer than it had ever been before.
“No,” Annie said. She turned one way and then the other, suddenly confused and disoriented. “No. Go away.”
“Annie.”
“I said go away!” Annie cried out.
“Hey, are you okay?” Becka asked her.
Annie clutched at her, feeling as if she might collapse. “I need to get out,” she said. “I need to get away from them.”
“Them?” Becka said. “Them who?”
“The ghosts,” said Annie. “My parents.”
CHAPTER 9
Kate was trying very hard to remain calm. She was sitting in the chair in Dr. Hagen’s office. But this time she and the therapist weren’t alone. Kate’s parents had joined them for the session, and they were sitting on the couch looking very uncomfortable.
Good, Kate thought. Now maybe they’ll realize what it’s like to have someone grill you about your feelings. She knew that wasn’t entirely fair. She actually liked Dr. Hagen a lot. But she couldn’t help but be a little bit pleased that on this occasion her parents were the ones who had to answer the therapist’s questions.
“Joe, why don’t you tell Kate some of the things about her that you admire,” said Dr. Hagen.
Kate squirmed. This wasn’t exactly what she’d had in mind when Dr. Hagen had suggested bringing her parents in. She’d thought maybe the doctor would tell them that she was completely well emotionally and that they were being way too harsh on her. Instead, she was waiting for her father to tell her what he liked about her.
What if he doesn’t come up with anything? Kate thought, her stomach tightening.
Her father looked over at her. He looked as if he would rather be anywhere else but on the therapist’s couch.
“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “I think she’s a great ballplayer.”
“Tell her, not me,” Dr. Hagen instructed him.
He looked at Kate. “I think you play ball really well,” he said.
Kate looked at Dr. Hagen. What was she supposed to say? “Thanks” would sound really dumb, but she couldn’t really think of anything else.
“Now, Kate, why don’t you tell your father something you admire about him,” said the therapist.
This was worse than having to say thank you. Dr. Hagen wanted her to compliment her father? That felt really weird. For a minute Kate just sat there, looking at the floor. What did she admire about her father? She wasn’t about to say he was good-looking, or could sing well, or anything like that. That would be too embarrassing. So what could she say?
“I like that you always made time for me and Kyle when we were growing up,” she said. “Even when the store was really busy.”
Mr. Morgan nodded. “I haven’t been able to do that so much lately,” he said, sounding sort of sad.
“Don’t respond to what Kate says,” Dr. Hagen told him. “Just listen. Now, Teresa, why don’t you tell Kate something you admire about her.”
Kate’s mother looked at Kate and smiled. “I admire the fact that she isn’t worried about fitting in with everyone else.”
Kate blushed. Her mother soun
ded so confident. But Kate wasn’t sure that what her mother had said was really all that true. She did worry about what people thought of her. Not as much as she used to, but she still worried. Still, it was really nice to hear her mother say something like that.
“And what do you admire about your mother, Kate?” Dr. Hagen asked.
“I really admire how she’s made her business a success,” Kate said. That was an easy one. She was incredibly proud of the way her mother’s catering business had taken off. She knew it made her mother happy, and that made Kate glad, too.
Kate looked at her parents. Hearing them say nice things about her made her a little less anxious. She wondered if hearing her say nice things about them had helped them at all. Her father’s hands were still clasped in his lap, but her mother seemed a little more at ease.
It was funny, she thought, how her father picked something physical about her to be proud of while her mother had chosen something more emotional. Just like a guy, Kate thought. Why did guys have such a hard time saying what they felt? Tyler doesn’t, she reminded herself. That was true, but she hadn’t spent any time with Tyler in quite a while, and she didn’t know when she would be able to see him. So far her parents were still refusing to let her out of their sight.
“Let’s try something else now,” said the therapist, bringing Kate back to the moment. “Kate, I’d like you to tell your parents something you wish were different about your relationship with them.”
That one was easy. Kate had been complaining to Dr. Hagen about this subject since day one. “I wish they didn’t expect me to be just like them,” she said.
“Tell them,” said the doctor gently.
Kate sighed. She didn’t want to have to repeat her statement. But she did as Dr. Hagen asked and looked at her parents. “I wish you didn’t expect me to be just like you,” she repeated.
She felt better almost instantly. She’d wanted to say that to her father and mother for weeks now, but she hadn’t been able to because she’d always been too angry at them. Now, though, sitting there with Dr. Hagen nearby, she was able to do it, and it felt good.
