"Al right, al right—I'l confess," Mother said in the kitchen, where she was emptying her pockets of eggs. "That lovely girl. Seeing you with her last week..."
Henry paused, his hands steadying himself against the table. Mother stil remembered Amy. That hadn't happened before—she never seemed to hold memories from previous days of the summer. Then again, when nothing changed, no one stopped by the farm, nothing was different from any other day, what would that have given her to remember?
"The girl?" he repeated, prompting, since Mother had gone silent at the sink.
She turned around to beam at Henry. "Son, it gave me such hope! I could just picture a June wedding, a honeymoon at a mountain cabin.
And I thought of Robert coming home and marrying a sweetheart of his own." She let out a sigh. "I dreamed of him last night, dear. I dreamed he was lying under the stars and thinking of us. Thinking of home. It gave me such a wonderful feeling, Henry. I woke up with joy in my heart."
Henry swal owed past the lump in his throat. "Mother, that's very nice, but there's a chance that he won't come back," he said. "The Eckingtons have already lost two sons in North Africa. Leon lost his cousin in the South Pacific. It's a dangerous war, especial y with Robert so close to the Jerries."
"Don't say such things, dear. I felt him. He's safe. I feel it down in my bones. We just need to pray harder."
"I pray every night," Henry said.
"Yes. I hear you sometimes." She put some eggs into a bowl in the sink and then pumped water over top of them to wash the straw and dirt off the shel s.
"You hear me pray?" Henry sat down at the table.
"Yes, though I don't understand the way you pray, son. Why do you ask for things to be the same, when Robert isn't here?" Mother turned to face him.
"You remember what I pray?"
"Of course, dear. I'm not senile." She laughed and began drying the eggs with a tea towel.
"But you don't remember other things."
"Such as?"
"What day of the week is it?" Henry asked.
"I'm pretty certain it's Saturday."
A glance at the calendar showed she was right; at least he thought she was. Lately it seemed he was measuring the days in terms of when he'd first seen Amy—and that had been two weeks ago Friday.
"I think I'd like to go to church tomorrow. Hopeful y you'l come along with me," she continued.
"Mother, you haven't been to church in months and months."
"Wel , I aim to go this week. I need to visit with the reverend's wife and take up a col ection for your little friend. What was her name?"
Henry sighed. "Amy. There's no need to take up a col ection, though. She won't be back." He didn't bother to mention Mother wouldn't be able to leave the farm to go to church, anyway. As far as he knew, Grandpa and Mother had never tried to leave—never needed to. Wel , except for church, and Mother hadn't talked about church in forever. He didn't know what to make of that.
"Nonsense. She came al this way to the val ey to see her relations, she can't be gone yet."
"Mother, please don't bother."
"Wel , I think I may have something for her somewhere in my closet. At least something I can tailor for her," Mother said.
"No, ma'am. You don't understand. She won't return, I'm afraid."
His mother looked at him, aghast. "Why not? What on earth did you do to her?"
"Wel , I guess you could say she doesn't like me anymore," Henry said.
"Wel , that's unlikely. You're a charming, helpful young man. A girl would have to be plum crazy to dislike you," Mother said. She cracked eggs into the bowl and began to beat them with a fork. "Now, wil you wake your grandfather, son?"
"Yes, ma'am. But, Mother, about church—you won't real y go, wil you?"
She paused at the window. "Oh, yes, I think I should," she said, turning back to Henry. "Poor dear looks like a ragamuffin out there on the path. Just standing there in the mist."
"How's that?" Henry joined his mother at the window.
"It's Amy," Mother said in a soft voice. "She's waiting for you."
***
He would have run to her if he weren't afraid that would scare her away again. Instead, he shut the back door behind him and walked up the path casual y. But when he reached her, his voice betrayed him. "I've been hoping you would come back." He couldn't hide the emotion wel ing up inside him.
Amy took a tentative step forward from the clearing into Henry's sunshine-fil ed path. "Wel , I wasn't going to, but I've been thinking about this place al week."
"I'm grateful you changed your mind," he said gently.
"Okay, so I'm coming over to your house whether you like it or not."
"Please, do," he said. "My mother saw you the other day. I'm pretty certain it's fine now. Nothing's changed, except you've got a standing invitation to dinner." He gave her a smal smile.
"Is this place haunted?" Amy moved into the sunny morning, unzipping her jacket and tying it around her slim waist. It was an odd thing to do, not ladylike in the least, but Henry didn't care. He watched her face, her eyes, for signs that she'd run again.
"I said, is this a haunted house? Are you ghosts? Answer me."
He shook his head. "No ghosts here. It's my home. And it's always summer."
"And is your brother always away at war?" Amy said.
Henry shoved his hands in his pockets. "Yes." He looked up at her and saw a flicker of something, pity maybe. "Right now—during this summer—he's over in France. As far as I know, as far as anyone here on the farm knows."
"And this farm?" Amy gestured at the house behind him, the green garden, and the lush, leafy apple tree. "What is this place?"
"I don't know. For a time, I thought it was heaven, but it's just our home. The same home. The same summer. And I'm here with my mother and my grandfather."
Amy took a step forward. "What year is it?"
"It's 1944. I tried to tel you the other day, but you ran off."
"Yeah, but it's not 1944. It's the freaking twenty-first century, Henry."
The twenty-first century. The words echoed in Henry's mind. He'd guessed Amy was from the future—but from the next century? He blinked at her, trying to comprehend what that meant. Of course, like al boys, he'd imagined what kind of world would exist in the future. Spacemen.
Wondrous inventions. But he hadn't imagined the people. He couldn't have dreamed up anyone as congenial and pretty as Amy.
"You can't be real. This can't exist." Amy moved closer. "This is crazy. I feel like at any second you're going to disappear."
"I'm not going anywhere." Henry took Amy's hand.
She stared down in wonder. "You're touching me again. You're a ghost and you're touching me. How are you doing that?"
"I told you, I'm not a ghost."
Amy stil looked fearful. "Can we go sit near the apple tree?" she asked, releasing his hand.
"Of course we can."
When they reached the tree, Amy reached up and touched one of the tiny apples sprouting from the withered cluster of blossoms.
"Those won't be ready. Ever." Henry took a seat on the bench near the tree, while Amy leaned against the trunk, watching him.
"I don't get this." She trailed her hand up and down the bark of the tree. She glanced back toward the path, toward the clearing, and Henry's heart seized. He couldn't let her run away again. He couldn't chance that he'd never see her again.
"I know it's hard to believe, but I'm as real as you. There was..." He stopped, wondering just how to explain what he hardly understood himself. "The end of June was difficult for my family. We lost my brother Robert at Normandy and then things got worse. I went to bed one night praying that life would go back the way it was before that night. I woke up the next morning and it was the beginning of summer again."
"From a prayer?"
"I never prayed before, real y," said Henry. "Never asked for anything much. There was nothing I ever needed that badly."
Amy's b
rown eyes focused intently on his face. "So this pocket of time is some kind of miracle. I don't usual y believe in miracles."
"I'm not a liar," Henry replied.
"I didn't say you were." Amy stepped away from the tree. She looked in al directions, turning in a circle to take in the farm and its surroundings. "Maybe this is al real," she said quietly. "If it's real, then it can't go away, right?"
"No, it won't go away," Henry said softly.
"Because that would real y suck." Amy's eyes held that pain again, the pain that Henry wanted to touch, to cure.
"It would suck, huh? I guess that's your way of saying you wouldn't like it."
"Yeah." Amy's expression softened. "I'm so sorry about your brother, Henry. This whole thing is total y whacked. But the craziest thing of al is that I don't want this to be over. You're my only friend." She held her hand out toward him. "That's the only reason I came back."
As Amy's fingers wrapped around his, Henry felt a swel of hope. He couldn't resist; he gently drew her into his arms. She softened against him, surrendering to the hug. He kissed the top of her head and said, "You're my only friend, too."
"And you won't disappear?" she whispered.
Henry sighed, lost in the scent of Amy's hair. "I'm not going anywhere."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Henry led me up the stairs of the back porch. The feel of his hand in mine was as real as the smel s of biscuits and fried ham wafting through the air, as real as the sun on the back of my neck. I didn't know how, but he real y was from another time. I didn't care how it was happening. I cared that he was standing next to me in that moment.
"Amy, please wait here," he said, and then he pushed open the back door and went in.
Through the window I could see a checkerboard-patterned kitchen floor and bulky white appliances. His mother, in a blue button-up dress and a flowery apron, paused from her work over the kitchen stove to speak with Henry. Then, she glanced up at me. She had the same sandy blond hair as Henry, the same blue eyes. I waved at her, and she waved back.
A second later, Henry came back out to the porch. "Amy, my mother would like you to have breakfast with us. Wel , I would, too," he said, blushing slightly.
"Sure. I mean, I ate those amazing biscuits the other day. If they were old, they didn't taste like it."
Henry dipped his head closer to me and said, "As best as I can figure, in the clearing, time doesn't exist. Whatever we bring there just is.
And now that you're on my side, it real y is 1944. My mother, wel , she doesn't quite understand what's happening here. So, when you speak to her, would you play along?"
I stared at Henry, not understanding. "She hasn't realized that this is the same summer?"
Henry shook his head. "She's a little confused lately, but she and Grandpa aren't aware of what's happening. I'm the one who set this in motion, so maybe that's the reason why."
"Oh," I said. "Um, do you think that's fair?"
"What do you mean?" Henry frowned.
"Wel , just that you made this happen and it affected al three of you."
His frown softened. "You would have done the same thing. It was for the better. Someday, I'l tel you more."
"Someday? Sure." I shrugged. "Does someday even exist here?"
He guided me toward the door. "I think so," he said.
I stopped and looked Henry in the eyes. "Because if this is real—if this is al happening—then I want to know everything," I said. "It's important."
"Amy, I promise. Now, though, my mother is wondering what's keeping us."
"I'm real y going to eat a 1944 breakfast with you?"
"Yesiree." He gave my hand a squeeze. "We're certainly not the Rockefel ers though, so don't set your hopes too high."
My hopes were up, though. And that was a little scary. I was about to meet Henry's family: a family that was long gone from the earth, but not ghosts. A family I suddenly, desperately, wanted to like me.
"Come on. Mother's eager to meet you."
Henry escorted me through the door and into the kitchen. It was as real as anything. Bright sun coming in through the spotless windows.
Ham sizzling in the pan. Henry's mother humming a sunny tune. The tink-tink of the old man at the table stirring his cup of coffee. The warmth of the oven shimmering al around us. A dizzying sense of everything hitting me at once. Henry's hand squeezing mine. This was real.
This was real. This was...
***
"There. Is that better, dear?" a woman's voice said.
I felt a coolness on my cheeks and forehead. I opened my eyes and saw friendly blue eyes.
Henry's mother dabbed my face again with the wet cloth in her hand. "Now, don't try to get up," she said. She set down the cloth and fixed the couch pil ows behind my head. "Just rest. Henry is fixing you a plate."
I peered around the room. Dark wood bookcases lined one wal . A piano, its top covered with photographs, flanked a staircase. Across from me, a large picture window looked out toward the front yard.
"You fainted, Amy. Haven't your folks been feeding you properly?" Henry's mother gave me a kind smile and smoothed the bangs from my eyes. "Oh, here's my boy now with your breakfast."
Henry paused in the doorway, a plate in his hand and a concerned expression on his face.
I sat up. "I'm fine, real y. I'l just eat with al of you at the table, ma'am." Ma'am sounded funny coming from my mouth, but I didn't know what else I would have cal ed her.
As if it was a great struggle, Henry's mom slowly raised herself up from her seat on the edge of the couch where I lay, and then offered me a hand. She seemed frail, way too frail for me to accept it.
"That's okay," I said. I got up and fol owed her and Henry to the table.
"Wel , you look a mite better," said the old man, with a little grin.
"Amy, this is my grandfather Briggs."
"Nice to meet you," I said, taking a seat opposite him at the table.
"Amy," Grandpa said. "Unusual name." He wore a light gray sweater over a blue shirt that looked homemade and round eyeglasses with metal frames. His face was kind, though his eyes held a weariness, just like Henry's mother's. "The pleasure's al mine," he added.
Meanwhile, Henry had slipped the breakfast he'd served up in front of me.
"Whoa," I said, eyeing the mountain of scrambled eggs, fluffy giant biscuit, and slice of ham piled on the china plate.
"Is there something wrong, dear?" asked Mother Briggs. She was shaking her napkin out and placing it on her lap.
I fol owed her example and did the same with the white linen cloth under my fork.
"I'm sorry," I said. "It looks delicious, seriously. Normal y I just eat a bowl of cereal for breakfast. Or maybe some toast."
"Wel , no wonder you're skinny as a rail," said Henry's grandpa with a wink.
Mother shot him a look. "Dear, what Grandpa means to say is that you must have a good meal first thing in the morning. Out here in the country, we're lucky to have enough to go around. Please, eat as much as you wish."
I eagerly took a bite of the biscuit. As flaky and buttery as the one Henry'd brought to the creek, this had to be the best baked anything I'd ever had. I set it back down on my plate and noticed everyone staring at me.
"Sorry, do I have crumbs on my face?"
"No," Henry said. "You had a giant smile," he said with a laugh.
Everyone started eating after that, or at least seemed to stop watching me eat, anyway. I piled a scoop of the scrambles onto the second half of my biscuit and took a generous bite. I washed it down with a sip of coffee. At least, I thought it was coffee. It was brown, anyway.
Henry noticed the sour look on my face. "We use the grounds several times," he said. "Coffee's rationed."
"Sil y boy, of course she knows that," Mother said with a shake of her head.
"Right. Rations," I said, vaguely remembering that a lot of things were scarce back in wartime.
"Ah, but the first cup of the first brew
is heaven," Grandpa said. "When it gets too weak, we resort to the burned carrots, or ground chicory when we can get it. Is that what you city folk are doing, too?"
I tried not to look too shocked. "Um, yeah, I guess. Burned carrots, though?"
"Tastes a bit like coffee," Henry said. "It's for the war effort. We've got to conserve whatever we can," he added with a nod to me.
"Oh, right. Yeah, I remember now."
"Amy, how could you forget?" Mother said. "I don't mean to rib you, but everyone's been on rations for the last few years. Surely your family has had to make do like the rest of us."
"Yeah, I mean, yes. I know, ma'am." I took another bite of biscuit, just so I wouldn't say anything else too stupid.
Grandpa Briggs saluted me with his cup. "How is your family? Henry's mother tel s me you're staying with an auntie not too far away."
I glanced nervously at Henry, but he just nodded at me.
"Yes, sir," I said, wiping at crumbs with the linen napkin. "She's al the family I have here."
"What's her name, dear?"
"Mae."
"And her family name?" Grandpa said, his eyes alight with interest.
"Um, Johnson," I said.
"Johnson... Johnson... hmm..." He scratched the sides of his faintly stubble-covered cheeks. "I guess I knew a Vern Johnson who lived over on Jordan Creek once, but that's quite a ways away."
I didn't say anything. I knew from what Mae had said that her father didn't come to the val ey until after the war, so it made more sense just to take another bite of eggs.
Mother got up from the table and returned with a glass jar. "Peach?"
"Um, sure," I said. "Please."
She scooped one glistening gold half onto my plate and then doled out one each to Grandpa and Henry. Capping the jar, she set it back on the counter.
"You're not having one?" I asked.
Mother wistful y smiled and took her seat. Her plate, which had been just half ful , was stil nearly half ful . "No, dear. After canning that many last summer, I lost the taste for them, and of course, there'l be more to put up soon. Does your aunt can?"
"Can? Wel , actual y, yeah. I mean yes."
"That's wonderful. Canning is another way to help conserve," Mother said. "You know, Amy, speaking of conserving, new clothes are surely hard to come by during these times." Her voice dropped to almost a whisper as she leaned toward me. "But I may have some things for you upstairs, dear."
The Clearing Page 10
