Livvy’s gone. “We need to go. We can come back for the tests tomorrow.” By tomorrow, we’d be in Cincinnati, with or without Jim.
“Where are her shoes and pajamas?” I was ready take her out in the hospital gown if I had to, but the nurse handed me a plastic bag with Abby’s clothes.
“I am not a Little Piggy,” Abby said.
“That’s it.” I pushed Jim aside, and Abby and I walked out of the exam room.
• • •
THERE WAS PAPERWORK. There was always paperwork. Jim took care of most of it while I took Abby into the bathroom to change into her own clothes.
“Button your pajama top,” I said.
“No more cool tools.”
“Shoes.” I handed her a sneaker.
“I am not a Little Piggy.”
“No, you are not.”
“I am a banana.”
“You are, and I love bananas.”
“The Ceiling Man says bananas bruise easy.”
I would have left without signing anything, but Jim had the car keys. I signed the paper he stuck in front of me without reading it.
“Let’s go.”
While we were inside, it had begun to snow. Not a lot, but big, lazy flakes floated down and stuck to the car and parking lot. Late snowstorms were the worst. One spring, at the end of April, two feet of snow fell overnight. It was seventy degrees the next day, and Abby and I wore T-shirts while we built snowmen. We built a dozen. We had plenty of time since we couldn’t get out of the driveway. The snow—and the snowmen—were gone by sundown. Abby and I would be gone before sunrise.
Jim told us to wait. He’d get the car and pick us up at the door, but Abby wasn’t having any of it.
“We need to go home now,” she said and headed for the parking lot.
Jim grabbed her arm. She pulled away.
“No. We need to go home now.”
“We will. The car is this way,” he said.
Abby let her dad lead her to the car.
Evelyn and I followed. Abby slipped once in the snow, but her father caught her before she went down.
“We need to get out of here before this gets worse,” I said.
“What did Jim say about leaving?”
“Not much.” It didn’t matter what he said, and I wasn’t waiting until the next day to discuss it.
Abby and Evelyn settled into the backseat while I helped Jim brush the snow off the car.
“Did you hear a weather report?
“Lake-effect warning,” Jim said.
Lake-effect warnings meant either a whole lot of snow or nothing. I never counted on the nothing.
“We need to take Abby and go to my parents.”
“We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
“No. Tonight. Before we get snowed in.”
“I’m not in any shape to drive that far tonight. Neither are you. When was the last time you had any sleep?” Jim had been up for over twenty-four hours.
“I had a nap this afternoon. Your mom can help drive. You can sleep on the way.”
“We can’t just up and leave. There’s too much to be taken care of.”
“Fine. Abby and I will go. You can stay here and do whatever you need to do.”
“You’re not driving anywhere tonight. Besides, you don’t have a car.”
“Go by the house. I’ll get my Jeep. Give me your key.”
“Not tonight. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”
I knew I was arguing with a rock, but I also knew where Evelyn kept her keys. One way or another, Abby and I were getting out of Port Massasauga. And soon. The snow was picking up, and Evelyn’s Lincoln didn’t have four-wheel drive.
“No. We need to talk about it now.” We didn’t, but if I gave in too easily, Jim would know I was up to something. I badgered him the entire drive.
• • •
THE DRIVEWAY WAS an unbroken expanse of white. Maybe an inch of snow, but it had come quickly.
Jim stopped by the back door. “You all get out, and I’ll put the car away.” Evelyn never left the Lincoln out in the snow.
“I don’t have keys.”
“Neither do I,” Evelyn said.
I knew where her spare keys were.
Livvy’s quilt was where we left it, a small white mountain in the grass. Evelyn picked it up and shook it out, and I wondered if we should take it with us. Livvy was beyond comfort, but I had a feeling Abby and I would need a lot—if the quilt still held any comfort.
Jim unlocked the door. Sami waited inside. No barking. She just whimpered.
“You can leave the car in the driveway,” Evelyn said.
“No. You like it in the garage. He can put it away.” If it sat out, I’d have to clean the snow off before we left. The longer it took to get away, the better the chances of Jim stopping us.
“Gramma’s car always goes in the garage. Mom likes the heated seats,” Abby said. “Livvy doesn’t need her blanket now. It won’t help.”
“I’ll put the car in the garage,” Jim said.
We need to leave.
• • •
“I’M SLEEPING IN Abby’s room.”
Jim didn’t attempt to talk me out of it. Whether he’d forgiven me for trying to hurt her or was just too tired to fight, he helped me settle Abby in and left for the spare room. From the looks of him, he’d be asleep as soon as he crawled between the covers. I hoped so, and I hoped Evelyn wasn’t a light sleeper.
My last cup of coffee was hours before, but I was too much-caffeine-woman, painfully alert and exhausted at the same time. My plan was simple. It wasn’t as if we had anything to pack. I would give Jim and Evelyn time to fall asleep, really asleep, take Abby, and leave. We would take Sami with us. I couldn’t risk her waking Jim before we were well on the road—or even out the door.
“Daddy is the Woodsman.” Abby sat up.
“Lay down. Go to sleep.” I didn’t intend for her to sleep long, but it would be easier to get her quietly to the car if she was groggy.
“We need to read,” she said.
“You need to go to sleep.”
“We need to read.”
“Only if you lay down and close your eyes.”
Little Women was gone, along with everything else. Most of the books on Jim’s shelves weren’t Abby-fare. Mysteries, horror—books from his high school and college years. No wonder he became a cop. I found an old Hardy Boys tucked into a corner. The mystery wouldn’t be gruesome. If it didn’t put Abby to sleep, maybe it would lull her into drowsiness.
“Lay down and we’ll read,” I said.
“I do not want to be a Little Piggy.”
[42]
Abby
I THINK THE CEILING MAN IS HERE, but I cannot find him. He does not talk to me, but he is here.
My mom says, “Abby, go to sleep.” I think she is wrong. I think I must stay awake. I think I should not leave my mom alone. I think I should not sleep when the Ceiling Man is here.
My mom is reading, but I do not like this book.
“Jo and Amy are better,” I say. She is reading about Joe, but it is not my Jo. My Jo is very brave. I think I should be like Jo.
“I’ll huff and I’ll puff.” The Ceiling Man talks to me, but I cannot find him.
I do not want to be a Little Piggy.
“Abby, you’re making me seasick,” my mom says.
That is what Ms. Colley says. I do not answer my mom. I do not stop rocking. I cannot find the Ceiling Man.
“Now’s as good a time as any,” my mom says.
The clock by my bed says 1:07. I do not know why 1:07 is a good time.
My ceiling clock that makes blue numbers is burnt up. The clock by my bed shows me red numbers. I hate red.
Gramma Evelyn says, “Do not say hate. It is a very strong word.”
“I love bananas,” the Ceiling Man says. He should not say that. Only my mom should say that.
“I do not want to be a banana,” I say.
“I like
grapes,” my mom says. “Where are your shoes?”
“Bananas bruise easy,” I say.
“Abby, get up. We’re going for a ride,” she says.
“I think we should sleep now.” I close my eyes. I do not want to sleep, but I think we should not go for a ride. I think a ride is what the Ceiling Man wants.
The Ceiling Man laughs. I hear him, but I cannot find him.
“We’re going to go see Gramma and Grampa,” my mom says.
“The mother of your husband is in bed. I do not have a Grandpa Evelyn.”
“No, honey, Gramma Bev and Grampa Lou.” My mom laughs.
The Ceiling Man laughs too.
I do not know what is funny.
“We’ll have an adventure,” my mom says.
My windows rattle. The wind is crying. It is too loud and I put my hands over my ears.
“This night is too noisy. We should stay inside,” I say.
“It’s just the wind,” my mom says.
“He will huff and he will puff and he will blow our house down,” I say. My house is burnt down. I do not want Gramma Evelyn’s house to blow down.
“It’s just the wind,” my mom says. “We need to go before the snow gets bad.”
“The Ceiling Man is bad,” I say. I think my mom will say Abby, who is the Ceiling Man? I will try not to say Idunno, but I think that I will say it anyway.
I do not want to go outside.
My mom does not say Abby, who is the Ceiling Man?
“Put this on,” she says and gives me Gramma’s coat.
Sami sticks her cold nose in my lap. She whines. I scratch behind her ears but she does not wag her butt.
“We should take Sami on the adventure,” I say. If I cannot take Sami, I will not go on the adventure.
Sami yips. A yip is a small bark. I think maybe she is saying please because she wants to go with us.
If Sami barks loud she will wake up my dad.
Maybe he will say, “Abby, you do not have to go outside.”
Maybe he will say, “Carole! What the hell are you doing?”
I will not wake up my dad. I do not want him to yell at my mom.
Sami yips again.
“Hush,” my mom says. She is not talking to me. She is talking to Sami.
“I guess we’ll have to,” she says to me.
My mom sounds funny. I think she has a headache.
The Ceiling Man is laughing.
“Where is Daddy? He should come with us,” I say.
“Daddy’s asleep.”
“Daddy is the Woodsman,” I say.
“Come on, Abby. It’s time to go.” My mom’s words sound like tears but her face is dry.
If I wake Daddy up, I think he will yell at my mom and hurt my ears. I think Daddy should wake himself up and come on our adventure but no yelling.
The red numbers say 1:14. It is time to sleep. I think 1:14 is a bad time for an adventure.
“I think we need the Woodsman,” I say, but I get up and follow my mom downstairs. I do not want my mom’s face to get wet like her words.
The kitchen is almost dark. Gramma Evelyn has a Man in the Moon nightlight. The nightlight smiles at me, but I do not smile back. My mom takes Gramma Evelyn’s keys out of the green teapot cookie jar. It has a face, but no cookies. Gramma keeps her spare keys and exactly one hundred dollars in it.
My mom takes her husband’s mother’s money out of the teapot.
“Five twenties,” I say. “Exactly one hundred dollars. Gramma says, ‘for emergencies only.’”
“Shhhhh. Indoor voice,” my mom says.
The green teapot cookie jar smiles at me, but it does not make me want to smile. Gramma’s kitchen is full of smiles but my mom and I are not.
My mom puts the money in her pocket. Stealing is bad, but my mom is not bad.
The Ceiling Man is bad. He is not in the kitchen. I do not know where he is.
“Are we in an emergency?” I say.
“Come on.” My mom is whispering.
I think we are in an emergency.
Mrs. Livvy’s quilt is on the floor. I pick it up. It is wet, but I will take it on our adventure. It is an emergency and I think we need comfort.
I think we are having too many emergencies lately.
“Hurry. We need to get out of here before the snow gets worse,” my mom says.
She is whispering. Maybe she does not want the Ceiling Man to hear her.
I cannot find the Ceiling Man.
• • •
WE DO NOT get out of here before the snow gets worse. The driveway is disappeared.
“March storms are the worst,” I say.
My mom does not answer. I am wearing my pink sneakers but no socks.
“My ankles are cold. We need to go in,” I say.
“Hush,” my mom says. “It will be warm in the car.”
Gramma’s car has heated seats. I do not care. I stand still. My feet are in the snow and they are cold. The snow is sticking to Sami. Her black fur is turning white. I do not think she likes it.
I do not think we should go to the garage.
“Sami is cold. We should go in the house,” I say.
My mom pushes the button on Gramma’s keychain. The garage door opens.
“When Gramma opens the door the light comes on,” I say. The garage is dark. The wind is loud and cold. My ears hurt outside and inside. I do not want to go into the garage.
Sami is growling. I think she does not like the dark garage.
“We should not go into the garage,” I say.
“Since when are you afraid of the dark?” My mom uses her perky voice.
Daddy says, “Uh-oh. Perky. We’re in trouble, kid.”
I think my mom is afraid. I think we are in big trouble.
“We should take Daddy with us,” I say.
“Come on. The sooner we get in the car, the sooner we can get warm and get out of the garage,” she says.
I stand still. My feet are cold.
“Daddy is the Woodsman.”
I do not know what time it is.
“Where are you going?” my mom says.
“I need my watch.”
“There is a clock in the car. It has blue numbers.” My mom grabs my arm. I almost drop Mrs. Livvy’s quilt but I do not.
My mom pulls me and I try not to move my feet but I do not want to fall in the snow.
I smell dirt and pennies and I cannot get away.
[43]
Carole
TIME SLOWED TO A CRAWL, yet things happened too fast to absorb. Sound was muted by the swirling snow, yet reverberated in the cold air. The sky was moonless, yet the falling white reflected light.
I felt as if I was inside a snow-globe. Just so nobody picks it up and shakes.
Heavy, wet snow covered the driveway. More than when we got home, but I couldn’t tell how much. Shin-deep drifts bordered spots of bare pavement. I couldn’t tell if the snow still fell, or if the wind picked up and rearranged what was already there.
“March storms are the worst,” Abby said.
Yeah. And driving is going to be a bitch. I considered going back to the house. Waiting for morning. Talking Jim into going with us.
If we stay in Port Massasauga, we won’t make it through the night. I didn’t know where the knowledge came from, but I believed it more than I’d ever believed anything. I didn’t want to leave Jim behind, but with him or without him, Abby and I were gone.
A gust of wind cut through my thin jacket, and I shivered. Somebody shook the snow globe. I grabbed Abby’s arm, afraid she would disappear into the white. Or that I would.
When I was young, my father scared me with stories of people vanishing in snowstorms.
“They’d head for the outhouse and lose their way,” he said. “They weren’t seen again ’til spring, when the snow melted and revealed their frozen corpses. True story. Happened to my grandfather’s cousin.”
Sometimes it was his uncle’s neighbor. As a ch
ild, I couldn’t decide if he was telling the truth or trying to make me appreciate indoor plumbing, but at that moment, I believed his story.
Like many of the older homes in the area, Evelyn’s garage was built well after the house. Attached garages were a modern invention. A barn once stood in the garage’s place, but it wasn’t all that far behind the house, maybe sixty feet. We had to be halfway there, but I couldn’t see it through the swirling white. If I got turned around, we’d end up in the backyard instead of the garage. My sense of direction wasn’t great in the daylight.
The sudden whiteout died down. Sami’s black coat was covered in snow. The poor dog leaned against Abby’s legs and whimpered. Abby didn’t move.
“We need to go,” I said and pulled her forward. We both slipped and nearly went down.
The corpses weren’t found until the snow melted.
I fumbled with the Lincoln’s key fob. I didn’t want to hit the panic button. The alarm would wake up Jim. I must have hit the lock button first. Tail-lights flashed. At least we still faced the dark garage. I found the unlock button, and the inside of the car lit up. Bless you, Evelyn. The white leather interior made the Lincoln a beacon. I aimed for it.
“Come on,” I said.
Abby didn’t move.
“The sooner you get in the car, the sooner we can get out of the garage.” I used my syrup-voice.
Cajoling didn’t do any good. Fed up, I dragged her to the garage. She didn’t fight, but her passive resistance was as good as a fight. We slid and slipped our way forward and somehow managed not to end up on our rear-ends in the snow.
The Lincoln’s passenger door wasn’t quite shut. Jim must have left it unlatched. It was unlike him not to make sure everything was securely locked up, but after the hospital, understandable. If someone tried to open it, the alarm would have gone off.
Abby stood next to the car and swayed. Sami growled—I assumed because I grabbed Abby. She was protective of all of us, but Abby was always her first priority. I resisted shoving Abby into the car—the last thing I needed was a dog bite—but my patience was used up.
“Get in the freaking car.” Sami’s growl had nothing on mine.
[44]
Abby
“GET IN THE FREAKING CAR,” my mom says. It is not her perky voice. It is her fed-up voice.
I get into the freaking car. It smells like dirt and pennies.
The Ceiling Man Page 21
