by Liana Liu
Ella swivels in her chair and flings her arms around him. “Okay, Daddy. Next, next weekend,” she chirps.
He tenderly disentangles himself from his daughter and walks around the table to say good-bye to his son, then his father. A pat on the back for Henry, a clap on the shoulder for Mr. Morison. Then he comes over to shake my hand. His grip is surprisingly, painfully firm, just like his father’s.
Vanessa stands. “I’ll walk you to the door,” she says.
After they leave, the dining room is silent. But I am the only one who is actually eating. Ella is crumbling her bread into crumbs. Henry is sawing his broccoli into cubes. Mr. Morison is glaring at his chicken.
When Vanessa returns, she does not eat either. Her eyes are red. There is a smudge of mascara on her cheek. But her mouth is sculpted into an impeccable smile. “Well,” she says, “I just had the most fantastic idea. When we finish our dinner, how about we go into town for some ice cream?”
“Great idea, Mom!” Ella chirps, her voice louder and higher than ever. “You’ll come, right, Henry? And Granddad?”
“You know I don’t say no to ice cream,” says her brother.
“I’d be delighted, my dear,” says Mr. Morison.
Then, to my surprise, Ella looks at me. “Will you come too?”
The town is only three adorable blocks long. All the businesses occupy two-story buildings, all the houses are shingled and shuttered, all the shingles are brightly painted, and all the windows gleam. Vanessa drives and Mr. Morison points out the sights: the fudge shop and the bookstore and the art gallery and the store that sells personalized painted seashells and the family’s favorite seafood restaurant. Everything is picture-postcard perfect.
“Hello, Morison family!” sings the lady behind the counter as we enter the ice-cream parlor. She has silver hair and pink cheeks and a gingham apron, and is as picturesque as the rest of town.
She chatters merrily as she scoops cookies and cream for Ella, chocolate for Henry, espresso for Mr. Morison, and lemon sorbet for Vanessa. When I ask for a small cup of strawberry, the lady says she’ll be with me in a second, as soon as she rings up their order.
“Actually, she’s with us,” says Vanessa.
“Sorry! One cup of strawberry coming up!” Her pink cheeks get pinker.
“It’s all right,” I say graciously.
“I know! You must be little Ella’s new babysitter.”
“Her academic tutor,” I say, slightly less graciously.
“Wonderful! Enjoy your stay on Arrow Island.”
We stroll along the three blocks of town with our ice cream, and when we get to the end we turn around and stroll through again. First I walk with Vanessa as she peers into shop windows and chatters about what she likes and what she doesn’t.
Then the group rearranges itself, and I’m walking with Ella and her grandfather. Old Mr. Morison is focused on the changes that have been made since he first bought the house. He tells me, “That gourmet food shop used to be a saloon. That candy store used to be a tobacco store. That building used to be the firehouse.” Ella licks her ice cream.
Then, somehow, I end up walking with Henry. I expect him to quickly make some excuse and rejoin his sister or grandfather, or even his stepmom. But he doesn’t.
“How’s your ice cream?” he asks.
“Delicious. How’s yours?” I ask.
“Great. Can’t go wrong with chocolate, you know?”
I nod, startled by his politeness. But Henry has been polite all weekend. Subdued by the presence of his father, I thought. But now his father is gone.
“Anyway, can I ask you something?” he says.
I’m instantly wary again. “What?”
“You don’t like it when people call you a babysitter.”
“That’s not a question.”
“Okay. Why don’t you like it when people call you a babysitter?”
“What makes you think I don’t like it?”
“You got so mad at the ice-cream lady when she called you a babysitter.”
“I wasn’t mad. It’s just that I’m not a babysitter.”
“What do you have against babysitters?”
“Nothing,” I say. I know I should stop here. Yet the explanation comes rushing from my mouth: “It’s a business thing. Babysitters get less pay and less respect. I know, because I’ve been a babysitter and a camp counselor, which is pretty much the same thing, and I have two aunts and a cousin who are nannies. But I’m an academic tutor now.”
Immediately I regret telling him. I’m embarrassed to have revealed the mercenary machinery of my mind, and to jerky Henry Morison of all people. I don’t know why I did it. I’m sure he’s going to make fun of me.
But he merely says, “That makes sense.”
“Can I ask you a question? What’s the story with your graduation and how you’re supposed to be studying all day?” I figure it’s only fair for him to tell me something personal now.
“Whoa, you don’t mess around.” Henry grimaces.
Then I remember who I am. And who he is.
“Sorry, never mind. I didn’t mean to pry,” I say.
“I’ll tell you. It’s not like it’s a secret, anyway.” Henry looks uncomfortable but continues. “So my friend and I were studying for our last final, in American history, and when we were done, we decided to celebrate with a tequila shot. One shot turned into two, turned into, I don’t know . . . ten? Somehow we made it to the exam the next morning, but we were both totally hungover, or maybe still drunk, and I, uh, fell asleep during the test.”
“No!” I say.
“Yes. And because this wasn’t exactly my first offense, they’re still deciding whether they’re going to let me take the exam again. And the college I’m supposed to go to is deciding whether they’re going to rescind my admission. It’s a mess. The sad thing is, I could have passed easily. I’m not an idiot.”
I just look at him.
He grins. “Okay, maybe I am an idiot, but I promise you I could have passed that test. If I hadn’t fallen asleep.”
I grin right back. “I believe you. So what happens now?”
“Well, my father happens to be an acquaintance of the vice principal at my school and has kindly arranged a meeting so that I can plead my pathetic case. And coincidentally, my father also happens to know an administrator at my possible college, who has convinced them to hold off from making a final decision about my admission status until August. So, lucky me,” he says, his voice suddenly bitter. He shoves the pointy end of his ice-cream cone into his mouth.
“You are lucky,” I say.
“I know. That’s why I said it.” Henry scowls.
Vanessa comes over and asks if we’re ready to go. She looks tired. And so sad.
“Sure! Thanks for the ice cream. This was a great idea.” I smile at her.
She smiles vaguely in return before walking back to Ella and Mr. Morison.
I feel Henry watching me. I turn to look at him. “What?”
“You’re such a suck-up,” he says. He smirks.
Then I can’t believe that there was a moment, when he was telling his stupid story about how stupid he is, that I felt bad for him. That I thought he might not be a total jerk. That I thought we could possibly be friends, or at least friendly.
Obviously I was deluded.
But I put on my brightest face and say in my brightest voice, “What a fascinating observation.” Then I turn around and go join the others.
Although I’m tired that night, I spend an hour writing emails to my friends. The messages are the same, all bubble and bounce, yet I write each one individually. Then I reorganize my clothes. Then I cut my nails. I keep glancing at the clock. It gets later and later, and I still don’t go to sleep.
My brother, when he lived with us, would do this same thing: he would complain that he was exhausted, but he wouldn’t go to sleep. Through the flimsy walls of our apartment, I’d hear him creeping around the living room, watchi
ng television with the volume low, muttering on the phone. The next day he would complain again about being exhausted and I’d roll my eyes. I couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t just go to sleep.
Maybe I do now. Because tonight I find myself dreading it: the lying down, the closing of eyes, the darkness and the emptiness. The wilderness of dreams.
It’s midnight. It’s one. It’s two. It’s almost three.
I force myself into the bed. I lie down and close my eyes. I try to give in to the darkness. The emptiness. But I can’t. Not that I’m afraid. I’m not. I know that nightmares can’t actually hurt me.
Then the room begins to shake.
I sit up. Everything is still. I must have imagined it.
Then a voice cries out, a high-pitched wail, a song of heartbreak.
I get out of bed. Everything is silent. I must have imagined it.
Then the room shakes and a voice cries and someone is pounding on the door.
I run over to the closed door and fling it open. All sound and movement abruptly cease. I gaze at the person standing in front of me and realize how foolish I’ve been. There was an obvious explanation for my midnight disturbances, and an obvious culprit, yet I never considered it or her until now. But now here she is.
“This has to stop,” I say, as calmly as I can. “I don’t know how you’re doing it, but you have to stop. It’s okay if you’re not happy that I’m here, but please talk to me about it. We have to find a way to work together.” I pause to take a deep breath. Inhale. Exhale.
Then I ask, “Okay, Ella?”
She looks at me. Face gray and eyes glinting in the shadows. Her expression is solemn. But when she speaks, her voice is small and wobbly. Frightened.
“It isn’t me,” Ella says. “It’s the ghost.”
7
I BRING ELLA BACK TO HER ROOM AND COAX HER INTO HER BED. It’s a warm night, but she is shivering, her teeth chattering. I get another blanket from her closet and tuck it around her. Then I sit down at the edge of the mattress.
“Ella, ghosts aren’t real,” I say gently but firmly.
“I hear her. Not every night. But lots of nights. I hear her banging around. I hear her yelling.” Ella’s voice is equally gentle, equally firm.
“Her?” I ask.
“The ghost. She’s a girl.”
“How do you know that?”
Ella shakes her head. “It was worse in the pink room—that’s why I couldn’t sleep there. I’m sorry you have to. I heard her tonight, and she was so loud that I came to see if you were okay.”
“Thanks, but I’m perfectly okay,” I say. “Because there’s no ghost. The noises were just the house settling.”
“No, it wasn’t. It was the ghost!”
This is the first time, I realize, that she’s really argued with me. This is the first time, I realize, that she’s cared enough about something to argue with me. But it’s three o’clock in the morning and I’m tired and I can tell, despite the insistence in her voice, that Ella is tired too. Her head flops on her pillow. Body limp under the stack of blankets. Eyelids fluttering.
“We’ll talk about it tomorrow. We need to get to sleep. It’s late now, so late it’s almost early.” I smile at her.
Ella smiles, her smile small, back. She closes her eyes. Then she opens them again. “Will you stay here a little bit longer? If you don’t mind?” she asks.
“I’ll stay until you fall asleep,” I tell her. And I do.
We are exhausted the next day, Ella and I; we yawn all through the morning. Yet somehow our lessons go better than before. For the first time, she answers more questions correctly than incorrectly, and when I explain what she got wrong, she actually listens. But in every pause between the end of one chapter and the beginning of the next, Ella starts talking about it. About her. The ghost.
“The pink bedroom used to be her bedroom,” she says. “Back when, you know, she was alive. A long time ago. She was Lionel Arrow’s daughter. He built this house.”
“Lionel Arrow only had sons, five sons,” I say. “Your grandfather told me.”
Ella shakes her head. “He had a daughter too. She was the youngest one, but they didn’t count her. You know, in the olden days, daughters didn’t count. They couldn’t even vote.”
I look at her, half amazed, half amused, and unsure of how to respond.
“Well . . . that’s not exactly true,” I say. “I mean, yes, it’s true that women couldn’t vote back then and they didn’t have as many rights as men, and even today there’s lots of, uh, gender inequality. But families still loved and valued their daughters. Most families. I’m sure if Lionel Arrow and his wife had a daughter, they would have counted her.”
“If they had, she wouldn’t still be here, haunting us,” Ella says matter-of-factly.
I’m relieved when the library door opens and Vanessa appears.
“Girls! How are we doing in here?” she asks.
Ella widens her eyes at me, a look of panic and appeal. It’s an expression I’ve seen on many kids’ faces, though this is the first time I’ve seen it on Ella. In general, I know it means “Don’t tell my mom.” In this specific case, I guess it means “Don’t tell my mom about the ghost.”
I nod at Ella and smile at Vanessa and say, “We’re good. How are you?”
“Fantastic! Sorry to interrupt, but I couldn’t wait. I just had the most fabulous idea. What if we throw a surprise party for Daddy’s birthday this summer?”
“A surprise party?” Ella says. She sounds surprised.
“I’m thinking we’ll have about a hundred people, get a brass band, turn the pool into a dance floor. What do you think, Ellie? You think Daddy will like that?”
“I don’t know. Maybe,” Ella says.
Vanessa’s smile falters. She turns to me. “What do you think?”
I think: How do you turn a pool into a dance floor?
I say: “What a wonderful idea!”
Her smile revives. “Well, I’ll let you girls get back to your work now.”
After her mother leaves, the door clicking closed behind her, Ella says, in a voice so low it sounds as though she’s talking to herself: “But Daddy hates surprises.”
All though dinner that night, Vanessa talks about her plans for the party. She tells us she has already contacted several event planners but hasn’t yet found one she really likes. She tells us her various ideas about birthday cake. She tells us she started making the guest list and that we should tell her if there is anyone we would like to invite.
Henry shrugs. He looks bored.
Ella shakes her head. She looks tired.
Old Mr. Morison mutters, “No, no one.” He looks unwell. His complexion is ashen, his lips the same sallow shade as his skin.
Vanessa turns to me and asks if asking people to RSVP within three weeks is reasonable.
“Yes, that sounds good,” I say. I don’t mention that I’ve never been invited to a party that asked people to RSVP, much less planned a party that asked people to RSVP.
“Great.” She looks truly relieved.
“You should give them four weeks. Though I suppose you don’t have the time now,” says Mr. Morison. He lifts his water glass—hand trembling, glass trembling, water trembling—and takes a trembling sip.
“Are you all right?” I ask him.
“Fine,” he snaps.
I try not to take offense. He looks really unwell.
After dinner, the family promptly disperses: Vanessa eagerly to her office, Ella sleepily to her bed, Mr. Morison gingerly to his rooms, and Henry howeverly to wherever. I’ve successfully avoided talking to him or even looking at him all day. I’m still annoyed by how he called me a suck-up when I was just being nice to sad Vanessa. I’m still annoyed by everything about him.
Then I come out into the hallway and Henry is right there, leaning against the wall as if he’s waiting for me. “Good night,” I say, and keep walking.
“Hang on,” he says. “Want to go
for a swim?”
Of all the things I imagined he might say, this is the most unimaginable. I turn around. “Seriously?”
“I’m always serious about swimming. Pool or beach? Your choice.”
“No, thank you. I don’t swim.”
“What?” he demands. “You don’t or you can’t?”
“Both. I don’t know how to swim.” I’m embarrassed to admit it and annoyed he made me do it.
“Really? Why not?” He stares at me in disbelief.
“Believe it or not, Henry, not everyone has a summer house on an island, with a swimming pool in the backyard and the beach in walking distance.”
“I didn’t—”
“Good night! Have a wonderful swim, though you might want to wait a little while since we just ate dinner and it would be really terrible if you got a cramp and drowned,” I say.
Then I walk away, and I don’t stop, not even when he calls out after me, claiming that he was only kidding, asking if I’m mad about yesterday, telling me to come back, that he’ll teach me to swim. I roll my eyes all the way up the stairs.
Once I reach the pink bedroom, however, I shut the door and get to work. All day long my shark mind has been moving, circling around this new problem: the problem of the ghost. Not that I believe in the ghost. But Ella believes in it and is trying to convince me to believe too. And in trying to convince me, she is opening up, and in opening up, her work is improving. As her academic tutor, I really want her work to improve, so this shouldn’t be a problem, except . . . I know I shouldn’t encourage Ella’s belief in the ghost.
Yet the ghost may be the only way I can get through to her. And Ella is a girl with so few enthusiasms, I hate the idea of crushing any one of them. So I open my laptop to search for information about hauntings and the history of Arrow Island and the Arrow family.
This is what my economics teacher, Ms. Baldwin, would do. In fact, this is what she’s doing with me. It’s obvious she wants to dissuade me from pursuing a finance career. I don’t take it personally: Ms. Baldwin worked at the same investment bank for over a decade, until her company merged with another company and she was laid off. If I was her, I’d be bitter too—not that she’d ever admit to being bitter. She claims she’s happier now than ever before.
