My mouth was pressed against that silky dress, the smell of camphor so strong I could feel it burning my nostrils and my throat.
Celine took a few steps across the room and opened the closet door. “You have to come out.” She was breathless. “Stuart is here from the telegraph office. He has a telegram. It’s for you.”
She had to know what it said, but I couldn’t open my mouth to tell her that.
“Don’t worry about the vase,” she said.
The vase?
“It was only almost genuine. It wasn’t important, after all.”
Celine being kind. It made it all worse somehow.
I stood up, rattling the hangers; the dress slid to the floor in a puddle of gray.
I went past her down the stairs to the hall, where Stuart was standing in the midst of broken china.
“I’m sorry, Jayna,” he said, and handed me the beige envelope.
I ripped it open. Yes, someone was regretting about Rob. He was missing, but they’d let me know further details as soon as they were available.
Just words, each one pasted on the telegram paper. Not even kind words.
Stuart ran his hand over his bald head; then he was gone.
Celine came down the stairs toward me, her arms out. She held me against her pillow body, both of us rocking back and forth.
Celine.
It was hard to believe.
I stepped back and shrugged into my jacket, which was on the stair post.
“Let’s have tea,” she said. “A nice cup of tea always helps.”
“I have to go home,” I said.
“But there’s no one there.”
No one.
I listened. Did the voice say, “He’s still alive?”
But it was only the sound of my own footsteps going down the street.
Chapter 6
I went back to the pond, to Theresa, who was swimming lazily with only her head and her dark eyes above the water.
What was I going to do?
How long would it take Celine to realize that she might have me there forever?
I’d have to live with her.
It was unthinkable.
Theresa lumbered up on the other side of the pond, a smear of mud across her beautiful golden brown shell.
I could picture what might have happened: A small, dark speck in the sky, a plane coming closer. I could almost hear it diving, the noise of it high, whining, sailors looking up, firing. The plane hits the deck with a tremendous explosion. A ball of fire rises, spreads, sparks.…
“Stop,” the voice said from behind the willow tree. “That doesn’t do any good.”
“Do you think he’s alive?”
She sighed. “I don’t know.”
Did I see her shake her head?
I stood up and brushed dirt off my socks. Then I went up to the house. I wandered around downstairs: the kitchen where we’d had dinner, the living room with the big radio.
I started up the stairs.
“Yes,” said the voice. “You know where you’re going.”
I didn’t pay attention to her. I wandered in and out of my bedroom, stepping over a slipper, then headed down the hall to Rob’s room.
“The closet,” she said.
I closed my eyes. “There’s a box,” he’d said. “My baseball glove.”
I opened the closet door. Sneakers and a coat. A jacket.
“On the shelf,” she said.
I dragged a chair over and stood up, pushing aside his hats. A couple of books clunked down to the floor, just missing my foot.
I reached for the box, able to touch it with one finger, and edged it toward me, steadying it with my other hand. It came slowly and then teetered on the edge of the shelf. I grabbed it and slid off the chair.
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” said the voice.
I slid it open. A peacock feather lay across the top. Just under it was a picture of a man and a woman who had to be my father and mother. My mother wore a hat with a feather—the peacock feather, of course—and my father looked down at her, smiling with even white teeth under his mustache.
Rob stood next to them, a little boy. He looked so much the way he did now, except that his hair was longer then.
I held the picture to my face and cried for my parents, who were really strangers, and for Rob, who was so far away, who might not even be alive.
“Ah, no,” the voice said. “Don’t do that.”
I wiped my eyes on my sleeve and went through the rest of the box. I patted the baseball glove, tried on a pair of woolen mittens that must have been Rob’s, and looked at the picture of a baby in lace. The baby was probably me, certainly not very pretty.
“She has a lot of curls,” the voice said, and I almost smiled. That was about the best you could say about that baby.
At the bottom of the box was a book. I pulled it out, running my hands over the faded blue cover; it was soft under my fingers. I opened it, looking down at the handwritten recipes.
At first the words were large and loopy, but by the middle of the book the letters were smaller, firmer. I could picture the writer growing older. I couldn’t read a word. It was all in French.
Sometimes she sang French songs.
My mother’s recipe book?
What had Rob said? A bakery? A grandmother?
So long ago, did it even matter?
But there was an address inside the cover—Carey Street, Brooklyn, New York—and a name—Elise Martin. I went through the pages. Somewhere in the middle was an old black-and-white photo. It showed a girl with braids wrapped around her head, not smiling, but squinting into the camera. I didn’t think it was my mother, but who was it?
I liked her face, her serious eyes staring out at me.
I held the photo to the light. She was standing in front of a bakery. I held the photo one way and then another. A striped awning shaded the shop window. A name was written above the scallops. I could only just make it out, but I couldn’t believe what I saw.
I went down to the kitchen, opening one drawer after another, searching for the magnifying glass. I finally put my hand on it, in with rolled-up balls of string and can openers.
I hurried upstairs again and took the picture to the windowsill. There it was, the name stretched out across the awning: GINGERSNAP.
“A coincidence,” I said aloud.
“No,” the voice said. “I don’t think so.”
I sat back on my heels. The time was going. Celine would be waiting.
Gingersnap!
“You’re going to Brooklyn,” the voice said. “We’ll find that bakery, and a family for you.”
“It may not even be there anymore,” I said.
“Yes, it is.”
I shook my head. “I can’t do that.”
“I’ll be with you.”
I kept shaking my head, but I didn’t want to go up the hill to Celine’s. I wanted to …
“Go to Brooklyn,” the voice said. “I think it’s in Mexico, or Canada. People wear leis.”
What nonsense, Celine would have said. “It’s only a few hours away.”
Did I see her smile? Was she teasing me? “Well, there we are,” she said. “Ready to go.”
I went back to Celine’s. Of course, I wasn’t ready to go. I wasn’t ready to do anything. I let myself in the door and heard Celine talking on the phone.
“I can’t come,” she was saying. “I have to be here for Jayna. It sounds like a wonderful trip.…” Her voice trailed off. “Someday I’ll have my life back.”
Yes. That was what I wanted, too. I remembered Rob’s hands on my shoulders. Jayna the strong; Jayna the brave. And somehow, as impossible as it seemed, I was going to Brooklyn. Maybe I’d find the bakery with my name. I’d find the woman with her hair in braids.
“Yes,” the voice said.
Chapter 7
The next day I went back to our house, to plan, to think, to decide. Could I really do this?
I had mon
ey. Rob had left me piles of it to get through until he got home. So that was all right. But skipping school? That was a little scary, but so was all of it.
I went into my closet and pulled out a few things. I packed them into my old suitcase.
“Put the blue book in your pocket,” the voice said behind me.
“There’s room in my suitcase.”
“You’re going to lose that suitcase.”
“I am not.” I was angry now, angry at everything. I put the book in a nest of socks in the case and heard the voice sigh.
“You do a lot of sighing,” I said.
“That’s what ghosts are supposed to do. I’ve been practicing.”
I paid no attention; I stood there, turning slowly. What else did I need?
“Theresa,” the voice said.
Theresa! That was impossible.
I looked over my shoulder to glimpse a pointed nose, a strand of hair across an apple-round cheek, teeth crowded together, almost like mine.
Then nothing was there.
I crossed my hands over my shoulders, chilled. I glanced out the window. How could I leave Theresa to dry up in that swampy pond?
“You can’t,” she said.
I went back down the hall to the spare room. I remembered seeing a carrying case, probably for a cat. But it would have to do.
I went back to Celine’s house for one more night.
Where was Rob?
Was he just gone?
Celine met me at the door. “Are you all right?” she asked. Maybe she was still thinking about her phone call and wanting her life back.
I nodded. Still she looked worried.
“I’ll make soup,” I said.
“Use the stove? Suppose you burn yourself? Suppose you spill …”
“I told you,” the voice whispered. “We have to get out of here. We have to go to Brooklyn.”
I walked into the kitchen and opened Celine’s icebox. It was packed with food, jams and jellies, carrots, and a wedge of cheese. I moved things around, pulling things out.
Behind me Celine pattered around, sighing almost as the ghost had sighed, wondering, I guess, what she was ever going to do with me in her life.
I wanted to say, I’m leaving. I’m going to Brooklyn. I’m going to find a bakery. Of course, I didn’t say that, but I felt a small thread of … almost happiness.
“Yes,” I heard the ghost say. Was she humming that French nursery rhyme “Frère Jacques”?
Feel-Better Vegetable Soup
INGREDIENTS
Whatever is in the icebox. Maybe:
Carrots
A green pepper
An onion
String beans or peas
Some of that meat stock
And a fistful of rice
WHAT TO DO
Throw it all in and let it simmer. You don’t have to pay much attention. Stop cooking when you get sick of waiting.
Breathe it in as you sip. Think of the steam, the saltiness, the warmth.
Chapter 8
I left Celine’s house as soon as it was light, tiptoeing down the stairs, past the empty table where the almost-genuine Ming vase had stood. A small shard lay on the wooden floor.
For the first time, I felt sorry for Celine, and sorry about the vase.
I stopped at our house, then went out the door with my suitcase in one hand and Theresa in her case in the other. All of it was heavier than I’d realized. At the last minute I’d packed my reader, Children of the World, and my geography book, which had a picture of New York State with its major products on the front cover.
I patted my pocket; a box of dried food for Theresa was there, and deep inside was the funny little stone girl Rob had found for me. It made him seem closer, and maybe it would bring me luck.
Remember that day at the pond, I told myself. Don’t think about enemy planes. Don’t think about orange flames and explosions.
Celine slept late every morning. I had scribbled a note to her about visiting relatives. Would she believe it? At the bottom of the page, I’d written, Someday I’ll buy you another almost-genuine Ming vase. Please have your life back.
I turned left toward town, already worn out. I’d been awake in the middle of the night, tears on my cheeks, staring up at the ceiling. My eyes were swollen, and it was hard to think. I kept looking over my shoulder, but there was no one on the street, not a teacher, not Breslin the cop, not my friend Diane, who bicycled to school every morning.
The walk to Rosemont for the bus was far, but it was safe. No one would see that I wasn’t on my way to school.
I turned right and walked along Front Street to the end of town. I’d have to cross the highway. I stood there, looking down at the embankment.
How steep it was!
I left Theresa in her case on top, and I began to slide with my suitcase.
Gravel scraped my wrists, tore the edge of my purse, and dented the suitcase. I tumbled to a stop at the bottom, full of dust, and glanced back up. My heels had made indentations all the way down, like a small pair of twisted roads.
I left everything behind a large rock and went back for Theresa. I looked at her in the cat case, but as always, she was calm, blinking her heavy lids, staring at me. “We’re all right,” I whispered.
Was it really true?
A trailer truck hurtled by with its horn blaring as I zigzagged to the other side of the highway. For a moment, I sat at the edge. Both my elbows were skinned, and there was a cut on my ankle.
A school bus passed, and a boy I’d never seen before looked out the window at me, surprised.
He wouldn’t know Celine. She’d never find out he’d seen me sitting at the edge of the road.
I slung my purse over my shoulder, picked up the cases, and followed the river south. The sound of bubbling water cascading over the rocks was cooling, but the walk was endless; my feet burned.
I remembered reading about a woman who walked forty-three miles every day. I hoped her shoes were better than mine; it wasn’t long before blisters rose on the backs of my heels. Still, there was no help for it. I couldn’t get the bus in town. People knew I was supposed to be in Mrs. Murtha’s room.
I sank down at the edge of the river and bent over to scoop up water. Not to drink. Rob had taught me better than that. I splashed it on my face and neck and ran my wet hands over my head, patting down my hair, which never wanted to stay straight.
I wanted to take off my shoes and socks. How cool that water would feel on my feet. I’d never get the shoes on again, though.
Don’t cry, I told myself.
I stood up and kept going. The sun was over the trees now. I limped, my socks sticking to my raw heels, but the bus stop was right there, two blocks into Rosemont.
The ticket seller punched out a ticket to New York City, yawning, hardly looking at me.
I waited for the bus, slurping down an orange soda and then a second one. I didn’t see anyone I knew, only a few soldiers talking and a woman on a bench knitting khaki socks. No one paid attention to a girl climbing onto the bus with scraped hands, a suitcase, and a turtle.
I sat as far back as I could and leaned against the window, watching Rosemont disappear as we pulled onto the highway.
Even though the road was uneven and my head kept bumping against the glass, I slept, dreaming of endless green water with dark shapes underneath.
I missed the rest stop in Montrose and barely woke when the bus driver announced a second stop.
It must have been an hour later when I opened my eyes. I was just about awake now, dying for something to drink, something to eat, a sandwich, a bag of chips.
All this was like a strange dream: the bus, the woman who sat across from me turning the heel of the sock, the world outside.
And I was taking this long trip to find a bakery with my name.
When I awoke again, I saw a bridge up ahead, a beautiful span with blue-gold water underneath and a tugboat pushing a barge with a white wake of water behind it
. The skyline of Manhattan rose in front of me.
But it wasn’t Manhattan I was there to see. It was Brooklyn. I’d loved the sound of it, Brook-lyn, listening to Rob as we played our game. “Someday we’ll go there, you and I. We’ll have a restaurant. No one cooks soup like you do.”
I was almost there, but I was alone.
Chapter 9
The bus pulled into a gloomy station in Manhattan. I climbed off, blinking in the darkness, to ask my way to the subway. I was amazed at myself. I sounded as if I traveled around every day.
“Where are you going, girlie?” a policeman asked.
“Carey Street,” I said. “Brooklyn.”
He pointed, and I made my way to an entrance on the corner. Below me, a train whooshed in, loud and grinding. Wind and dust rose up the steps, and people rushed around me, almost throwing themselves down the stairs so they wouldn’t miss it.
I didn’t know whether to rush, too, but who knew if it was the right train? I asked the station master and did exactly as he told me. I waited for the next one to come in.
At least, I thought that was what he’d said, but it was all wrong. I got off at a stop marked Coney Island.
“We’ll see the ocean,” the voice behind me said. Her finger was raised, pointing.
I nodded and crossed the street, my arms aching from carrying Theresa and the suitcase. I climbed up on the boardwalk with sand stinging my eyes and heard music from a merry-go-round: “Pop Goes the Weasel.”
Can you imagine? I told Rob in my head. I’m here in Brooklyn.
But where was Rob, and was he as hungry as I was now?
Feeling guilty that I could eat, I bought a hot dog, then brought Theresa out of the case for a little exercise. I tossed small chunks of meat into the air, and she stretched her neck to snap at them.
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