Abby stretched happily and yawned. With her big toe she opened the drapes a crack. Sunlight streamed into her little bedroom under the eaves. Sam had driven her home in the red truck last night after the rehearsal. He’d put her bike on the flatbed with Cody. She’d recently earned her driver’s licence, but her parents preferred that she didn’t drive while they were gone.
Sam, she thought. Sam was wonderful. She closed her eyes and relived the kisses that they’d shared as he dropped her off. Goosebumps shivered down her spine. She could’ve stayed in the cab of that truck all night, held in Sam’s gentle arms, kissing Sam’s kissable lips. Is that bad? Abby wondered briefly. At least I’m happy. She grinned as she twisted her pyjama-clad legs out of her warm bed and sprang to a standing position.
Noticing the blue sparkles on her dressing table, Abby vividly recalled the strange events at the theatre the night before. As well as the firecrackers, there were coyote tracks everywhere, and there were signs that a car had had trouble getting out of the ruts beside the driveway.
Interesting, Abby mused as she brushed her teeth.
Later that afternoon Abby arrived at the theatre and headed straight for the shower. That morning Leggy had learned to drop her head comfortably while being lunged, and Dancer and she had had a wonderful hack. It had been an altogether satisfactory day so far, and Abby was feeling good.
Towelled dry and sitting at the dressing table ready to apply her Blue-Winged Fairy makeup, Abby sensed a presence. Her backbone prickled.
“Ambrose,” she said nervously. “Tell me that’s you.”
“Today is the anniversary of my death,” he solemnly stated.
“Really?”
“Yes. Twenty years ago today.”
“I’m so sorry. What did you die of?”
Ambrose Brown slowly began to appear. Today, he looked like the Tin Woodsman from The Wizard of Oz.
“It would be romantic to say that I died of a broken heart,” he said. “But I died from an overdose of sleeping pills.”
Abby was dumbfounded. “You committed suicide?”
“I prefer not to put it like that. I had no intention of dying, I merely wanted attention.” He began to pace as he spoke, clanging slightly when tin met tin. “I was in love with someone who didn’t love me, couldn’t love me the way I wanted. I foolishly imagined that he would find me dying. I envisioned it all. He would panic, get help, sit with me, hold my hand, fix me up, and ultimately realize how important I was to him.” He stopped pacing and looked at Abby. His voice went flat. “It was a romantic notion. And deadly, as it turned out.”
“Holy,” said Abby under her breath. She wondered how to take all this information. “Mr. Pierson says that suicide is the most selfish way to die.”
Ambrose looked at her thoughtfully through his silver makeup. “It is. But I only knew that later, when I saw the devastation and guilt I’d caused. People I loved thought that they’d let me down. They worried endlessly that they should’ve seen the signs, that they should have done more for me, been nicer to me. But none of that was true. I was desperate to reach one special person, and managed to destroy myself and hurt everyone else around me.”
“And you didn’t think it would happen that way?”
“No! Otherwise I wouldn’t have done it, now, would I?” he snapped.
“I don’t mean to upset you, Ambrose. I guess I think it’s only logical that people would be hurt by suicide.”
“You’re hard, Abby, very hard.” Ambrose began to pace again. “Firstly, I didn’t have any idea how much people cared about me. Secondly, my reasoning was skewed by a slight drinking problem. And thirdly, I had no intention of actually being successful. I thought I’d calculated exactly how many pills would make me sick enough to look like I’d tried, but not enough to do me in. I was wrong. So shoot me.”
“Ambrose, stop pacing, please. I’m getting dizzy.” Ambrose glared at her, but perched on the edge of the dressing table. “Thank you, that’s much better.” Abby stood and faced him. “I’m not hard, Ambrose. I’m really very sympathetic. My mother has a drinking problem, too. She doesn’t always make good decisions when she’s had a snoutful, so I understand, I really do. And I know it’s horrible when your feelings are one-sided.” She was thinking of Sam. “If you didn’t mean to commit suicide, it’s extremely sad that you shortened your life for nothing.”
“Thanks, Abby,” the ghost responded, softening.
“The person who you loved, who couldn’t love you, was that person hurt, too?”
“Yes, indeed. I don’t think he had any idea, though.”
“Of what?”
“That it was his attention I was trying to get. I loved him with all my heart, still do, but I don’t think he ever knew.”
“Really? That’s sad, too.”
“No. I don’t think it is. You see, if he knew he’d think it was his fault, and it wasn’t. He was married. He couldn’t become what he wasn’t.”
“You mean he was straight, and you weren’t?”
“To put it bluntly, yes.”
“You must have thought you had a chance, though. I mean, for you to love him so much, you must have had some encouragement.”
Ambrose sighed. “The mind is a curious thing, Abby. We see what we want to see, we hear what we’re hoping to hear. The one thing we all do well is fool ourselves.” He tried to cross his legs, but the tin wouldn’t accommodate the movement, and clanked loudly. “He was a dear friend, and treated me well. It was all in my head from there.”
“Oh, Ambrose, it must have been awful for you. To be so desperately in love, with no chance of fulfillment.”
“If I’d had more sense, I would have gone away. Made a new life for myself. But I didn’t. And here I am.”
“Why are you here, Ambrose?” asked Abby. Hoping not to offend him again, she quickly added, “I’m glad you are, but why are you?”
“To be near the one I love.”
“The one you love is here?”
“It’s been twenty years,” Ambrose said, evading the question. He shook his head and smiled. “Twenty years of haunting this place. I’m getting tired. Maybe I’ll be allowed to rest soon.”
“Who decides that, Ambrose?”
“There’s not a rule book, no matter what the occult ‘experts’ say. It drives me nuts, cuckoo, crazy in the head to hear what those crackpots say.” Ambrose was on another rant. “As if they have any idea!”
“Ambrose, I’m sure you’re right. Unless you happen to be dead yourself, how could you know how it is on the other side?” Abby felt she’d sufficiently appeased him. “Then how is it decided when a ghost gets to rest?”
“It’s individual. Different in every circumstance. Each ghost decides for himself, on his own terms, for his own reasons.”
“If it’s up to you, then, what’s the problem?”
“You make it sound so easy!” he flared. Immediately, he calmed. “I’ll rest when I’m assured my love is happy. And the way it’s looking now, that will be soon.”
Abby was itching to ask the logical question, but she didn’t want to pry, or seem too presumptuous. Ambrose had a mercurial temper.
Suddenly the answer came to her. “It’s Robert Wick, isn’t it?” she blurted out. “It’s Robert Wick whom you love!”
Ambrose said simply, “Of course.” And he disappeared.
14
THE HOMECOMING
ABBY CONTINUED TO STARE AT THE PLACE where the Tin Woodsman had stood just seconds before. Robert Wick? This was heavy stuff. What would he think if he knew? How tragic, that Ambrose had mistakenly killed himself trying to make Robert love him.
Abby’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the stairs. She pulled herself together, turned back to the mirror, and began smoothing foundation makeup on her face.
“What are you doing here?” asked a chilly voice.
Abby looked at the mirror. It was Margaret Small. She turned. “Hello, Miss Small! Are y
ou feeling better?”
“Yes, and I’m here for the rehearsal.” Her eyes were bloodshot, and her nose was all stuffed up. Her voice sounded hoarse. She didn’t look well.
Abby blushed. “Oh! Wonderful. I didn’t know, so I came to stand in for you today.”
Margaret continued to look down her nose at Abby. “So it would seem.”
The woman was intentionally making Abby feel uncomfortable, and Abby knew it. She said, “I came because Mrs. Featherstone asked me to help you out, not because I’m trying to steal your role.”
“That’s not what I hear, Abby Malone.”
Abby stood and faced Margaret Small. She was getting upset.
“I’ve heard that you’re acting your heart out for Robert and Joy, who’s living in your house, by the by. You want them to think you’re better than me so they’ll give you the part.” Margaret spoke harshly. “I see your plan.”
“I’m doing my best because it’s more fun that way, and so the other actors have something to work with. So shoot me.” She borrowed Ambrose’s line. “But there’s no great plan. I was your stand-in while you were sick, and that’s all I ever expected to be.”
“Good. So you can go.”
“You’re welcome! No thanks necessary! So glad to have been of assistance! Any time!” Abby was furious. She felt insulted and wronged. Gathering her things as fast as she could, she ignored the other actors who were streaming into the dressing room. She couldn’t trust herself to speak.
“Hi, Abby! Hey, what’s eating you?”
“You got here early again, Abby. Abby?”
“What’s wrong with the Blue-Winged Fairy? She turned her tongue into a toad?”
Abby rushed up the stairs, pushing people aside until she was safely outside and alone. She hoisted her knapsack on her back and pedalled away from the theatre as fast as she could, shadowed reassuringly by Cody.
When Abby got home, she unlocked the kitchen door and threw her knapsack on the floor. By force of habit, she checked the answering machine. There were four messages.
She pressed PLAY and the first one began. “Abby! It’s your dad. It’s noon on Saturday. Your mother is doing so well that they’re letting her go home next week. We should be arriving for dinner on Saturday night, so throw another couple of shrimps on the barbie. I love you, sweetheart. Say hello to Joy from us, and keep up the training. We can’t wait to see you ride Dancer next Sunday. Joy told me that you’re an actress, too! Hope you’re having fun. Love from us both. Bye.”
Abby wiped a tear from her eye. The sound of her father’s voice created a lump in her throat. What a baby I am, she thought.
The second message began. “Abby, it’s Hilary. Mom says you’re doing great things with Dancer. I’m so excited. Sandy and I are coming home for the Invitational, so I’ll call when we get in. See you next week. Bye for now.”
The next one was Christine James, for Joy. “Hi, Mom. Just checking in. Call me about when you want to move over here. Hilary and Sandy are coming home next Friday night. I never see you anymore, you’re so busy!”
When the hushed last voice began to play, Abby’s ears pricked up. “Abby, it’s Sam. What happened? Margaret Small says you ran out mad because she came back, but I know you wouldn’t do that. I’m coming over after rehearsal.”
Sam had been whispering. Abby guessed that he’d used the hall phone outside the dressing room, and he hadn’t wanted anybody to hear. She looked at her watch. Two thirty. Rehearsals would’ve started by now.
Should she go back to the theatre and explain that she wasn’t angry? But what would she say? That Margaret was insulting and rude? Abby slumped down at the table and rested her forehead on her arms. The day had been perfect until now, she thought.
She heard a scratch on the kitchen door.
“Cody,” Abby said fondly as she opened the door for the worried little coyote. “You came to comfort me.” She knelt down and rubbed behind his ears. He liked that. He rolled over onto his back for a tummy tickle, then stood and shook. His intense grey eyes stared at her.
“Yes, Cody, I feel much happier. You’ve cheered me up.” Cody wagged his tail and put a paw up on Abby’s knee. “Thanks, little guy.”
On the floor beside them lay her knapsack. Abby pulled out the script. There’s no doubt about it, pondered Abby. I’ve become stagestruck. Margaret’s right. I really want to act in this play. And if I’m honest with myself, I did want people to think I was better than her.
When did it happen? When did acting turn from a way to join the herd to something she felt bereft without?
One rehearsal! That was her whole acting resumé. Her entire experience.
Abby took the script over to the chair by the window and curled up her legs. Cody found a comfortable spot on the rug for a nap, and Abby began to read. She read very carefully this time, watching for clues to character development and relationships, exits and timing, suspense devices. She realized that there was a definite shape to the play. A beginning where you meet the main characters and get involved in their lives. The story buildup with gathering events and necessary tension. The ending that tied all the strings together.
Abby started reading all the parts aloud, stressing different words to get different effects. She tried accents on some of the characters, just for fun. She played with funny voices.
Cody slept, content to be with his Abby as she amused herself in an imaginary world.
That was the scene that Sam came upon when he looked through the pane in her door three hours later. He smiled, then caught her startled eye.
School was out. By Wednesday at noon, the teaching staff had had enough and declared that the summer recess was officially started. Caledon High was a beehive of activity as lockers were cleaned out, the lost and found box rummaged. Kids exchanged summer addresses and hugged their friends goodbye. The graduating class could be identified either by a triumphant look or a tear in the eye. Music was played loudly in the halls until angry teachers stopped it. Then it would start again down another hall. Finally, hands over ears, the teachers conceded and packed their desks, ready for a well-earned, much-needed vacation.
Sam had offered to drive Abby home. Lucy had her grandfather’s truck and other kids were going her way, too, but Abby wanted to bicycle home on this last day of school. Everybody was going to rehearsal. She felt totally left out again. She wanted to be alone.
Her parents would be home in three days. She was eager to see them after all the time they’d been away. Four days from now was the Grand Invitational. Shivers ran down her spine, and her stomach churned.
Today was Dancer’s last jumping day before the event. It was very important that all went well. He needed perfect confidence going into the show.
As she cycled, Abby rode a practice course in her mind. She would concentrate on each jump, setting him up just right then leaving him alone to let him find his balance, look for the next jump and do it all over again. She practised keeping her heels down to retain the correct seat and keep her calf muscles tight. She reminded herself to focus ahead, over the jumps, and not to look at the ground. She remembered the tip she’d been told about water jumps. She’d ride it like it was five feet high, to get Dancer’s arch wide enough for the twelve-foot spread.
Sam had been driving alongside her for several seconds before she saw him.
“What are you laughing at, Sam?”
“You! Are you in another world again?”
Abby grinned. “Actually, I’m riding Dancer over a course. Am I clearing the jumps?”
“I don’t see any poles on the ground,” answered Sam. “You’ll start to worry me soon, Abby,” he warned. “The last time, you were acting all the parts in Pinocchio.”
“Well, stop creeping up on me, then,” she said, laughing. “Are you going to rehearsal now?”
“Yes. Everybody wants you back. Margaret Small is horrible to people, and she’s not nearly as good as you.”
Abby considered this for a momen
t as she rode along beside Sam’s truck. “That might be her problem, Sam. Maybe she’s insecure. Be nice to her. Tell her she’s fabulous. If she relaxed, she’d probably be a better Blue-Winged Fairy and become easier to live with.”
“I’ll try. And I’ll tell Lucy. She’s really bugged by her. She can’t forgive her for saying you were a sore loser.”
“She said I was a sore loser? It wasn’t a contest!” Abby said, dismayed.
“Water under the bridge, Abby. Everybody knows the truth.” Sam looked at the clock on his dashboard. “Are you free for a movie tonight? A bunch of us are going to the eight o’clock.”
“Sure! Have fun at rehearsal, and see you later. Oh! What time?”
“I’ll pick you up on the way back, around seven fifteen, and we’ll get something quick to eat before the show.” Sam waved out his window all the way down the road until he disappeared from view.
He did it again. Abby smiled. He completely restole my heart.
On Saturday afternoon when Abby finished riding Dancer, she started organizing things for the horse show. With great anticipation, she opened Hilary’s polished oak tack box. She took out the contents, washed the insides, then started shaking out bandages and dusting off brushes. The box had not been opened in five years.
Abby considered what she’d need. Grooming tools. She put aside hoof-oil, a hoof-pick, curry, mane comb, stiff body brush, soft brush, and a towel for the final shine. She’d need a cooling sheet and perhaps a light blanket. Leg wraps and trailer boots. Spare reins, crop, chin chain, lead shank, halter. The halter, lead shank, boots, and cooler she placed in readiness for tomorrow’s trailer ride. The other things she rearranged in the trunk.
Abby looked up and watched Dancer graze beside Henry. She made a wish. Crossing her fingers she said aloud, “Please let us win.” Then she touched the wooden trunk in case she’d jinxed herself.
Tomorrow morning she’d bathe him and shine him up.
His mane had already been pulled short, ready to braid. His whiskers had been shaved and he had a new set of shoes. The cuts and scrapes from his pit adventure had healed well. He looked like he did in the old days when no horse could outjump him. He was a beautiful sight. Abby got goosebumps.
Stagestruck Page 18
