All the Way Home

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  At least, that’s what Molly desperately wants to believe.

  That Ozzie was terrified of a harmless, smiling mural of Old Mother Hubbard.

  Because there’s no such thing as ghosts, right?

  “Don’t worry, Ozzie,” she had said soothingly, rubbing his trembling little body through his thin summer pajamas. “I’ll be right downstairs. I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise. I’ll be right there if you need me.”

  She walks over to the window. It’s dark out now, but she’s reassured to see lights on in her own house next door. She can even make out her mother’s silhouette in the upstairs bedroom window, behind the lace curtain. And Rory must be in the kitchen. A little while ago she heard the faint, reassuring sound of pots and pans clattering through the open screen.

  It’s nice to know that if anything happens, Molly can just scream and Rory will hear her and come running over.

  What’s going to happen? she asks herself suspiciously, turning away from the window. What’s going to make me scream for help?

  She can’t help being on edge, thinking about Rebecca. There’s still been no sign of her.

  Did someone actually creep into the Wasners’ house in the middle of the night and take her from her bed? Why didn’t she scream for help?

  She must have. But nobody heard.

  How is that possible? Molly wonders uneasily.

  Her parents and her brother were home, asleep in their beds. Besides, if anyone screamed in the middle of the night the whole block would hear. It’s summertime. Everybody’s windows are open; none of the big old houses in this neighborhood have central air-­conditioning.

  Whoever took Rebecca must not have given her time to scream.

  Molly walks over to the couch and sits on the edge of the cushion, staring idly at the television screen, where Drew Carey is dancing against a backdrop of Cleveland.

  I wonder what Rory’s doing?

  The thought has just crossed her mind when she hears it.

  A loud, distinct thump, and then a scraping sound.

  And it’s coming over the baby monitor.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” Michelle says plaintively, standing, doubled over, in the middle of the hospital room.

  Lou’s hands are under her arms, supporting her as she waits out another vicious contraction.

  “About getting the epidural?” he asks.

  “No.” She doesn’t want a needle in her back. No way. Not even if it really does numb the agony of labor. “No, I changed my mind.”

  “About what?”

  “About having another baby,” she pants, sweat drenching her blue hospital gown. “I changed my mind.”

  Is Lou laughing?

  Laughing at her?

  She hates him.

  Hates everyone.

  “Leave me alone,” she snaps, straightening, trying to walk, as the nurse suggested, saying it would speed the labor along.

  Another contraction swoops in, taking her breath away, and she groans, clutching at Lou.

  “Breathe with it, babe. Don’t tight it.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Breathe.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Come on, Michelle.”

  “I want to go home. I want . . . Ozzie,” she whimpers, needing desperately to see her beloved little boy, to know that he’s all right. “He needs me.”

  “Ozzie’s fine.”

  “No . . .”

  “Come on, Michelle, this walking is crap. Get back into bed. I’ll get the nurse. You can’t take much more of this.”

  Lou hurries out of the room.

  Rory slides a glass baking dish of brownies out of the oven, taking a deep whiff of the warm, chocolatey scent. Perfect. This is just what she had in mind.

  A good, old-­fashioned pig-­out to take her mind off her troubles. Maybe Molly will come home soon and want to have some, too.

  She remembers how she and Carleen used to bake brownies once in a while. They never came out very good, though—­they were always too thin and too crisp.

  Probably, Rory acknowledges, because we ate most of the batter raw, and didn’t have enough to pour into the baking dish. Carleen always hogged both of the beaters, too. She’d give me the bowl to lick, but there was never much of anything left in it by that time.

  Tonight she had gotten to lick the bowl, the spatula, and both beaters, savoring the rich, sugar-­gritty chocolate batter and wishing, nonetheless, that Carleen was here to share it with her. Carleen, or Molly.

  Well, she thinks now, as she carefully sets the hot brownies on top of the stove, when Molly comes home I’ll give her some. Or maybe I’ll even run some next door, if she doesn’t show up soon.

  That would be nice, she realizes. To pop over to the Randalls’ with some brownies, just to make sure everything’s all right. Molly had been so freaked out the other day when she was baby-­sitting there.

  But I won’t put her on the defensive, Rory promises herself. I won’t let her know I’m checking up on her. I’ll just say I thought she’d want some brownies. And that I’ve got nothing to do, so I thought maybe I could stay awhile, and we could play cards, or something.

  Does Molly even play cards?

  It astonishes her, sometimes, how little she knows about the girl who was raised as her own sister.

  Carleen had played cards. She’d insisted that she and Rory play for each other’s allowance. She’d won every time, of course. She’d been a major cheat.

  If I play cards with Molly, it won’t be for money, Rory decides. And of course, I’d never cheat. I’ll be the kind of big sister who’s helpful and fun.

  She breaks off a corner from the sheet of rich, dark chocolate, pops it into her mouth, and promptly burns her tongue.

  She grabs a knife then, and begins cutting the brownies into squares, even though they’re still much too hot.

  She’s anxious, suddenly, to go next door to see her sister.

  What do I do? Molly wonders frantically, leaping up from the couch, Carleen’s enormous earrings jangling in her ears.

  She stares at the baby monitor, now ominously silent.

  Somebody—­or something—­is up there. In Ozzie’s room.

  Her first instinct is to get the hell out of here . . . just bolt for home as fast as she can.

  But she can’t leave little Ozzie behind.

  She just can’t.

  Don’t worry, Ozzie. I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise. I’ll be right there if you need me.

  He’s just a little kid, and he’s scared, and he’s counting on me. I can’t leave him.

  Maybe, she thinks wildly, nobody’s up there. Maybe it was just Ozzie turning over in his crib. She knows from experience that the tiniest movement can sound deafening when magnified over the monitor.

  But a little boy changing position on a mattress can’t sound like thumping and scraping, can it?

  Well, can it?

  She hurries into the hallway, stops, torn between the staircase leading up into darkness, and the front door leading to safety.

  Ozzie.

  I can’t leave him.

  I’ll just run up there, grab him out of his crib, and run out of here as fast as I can.

  I’ll run home.

  Rory’s there.

  She’ll know what to do.

  Taking a deep breath, her heart pounding violently, Molly starts slowly up the stairs.

  “Please, Lou, make it stop . . .” Michelle begs, her voice hoarse.

  “I can’t make it stop, Michelle. Isn’t there something you can do?” he asks the nurse.

  “Not at this point. It’s too late for an epidural. She refused it when we offered it earlier, and now—­”

  “Well, isn’t there something else? Some kind
of drugs you can give her?”

  Michelle sees the woman shaking her head as she places a Velcro blood pressure band around her upper arm. “It won’t be long. She’s almost fully dilated now.”

  “I need drugs,” Michelle moans, feeling like an enormous fist is mercilessly squeezing her stomach. She’s barely aware of the band tightening on her arm as the nurse takes her blood pressure. There’s a whoosh as the pressure is released, and then the nurse is walking briskly out of the room.

  “Lou,” Michelle bites out, seized by yet another contraction.

  They’re coming in a fast and furious tide now, one excruciating wave of pain barely giving way before another washes over her. She’s given up on the breathing, given up on any hope of getting through this torture without being ripped asunder by the pressure that’s building relentlessly within.

  “I’m sorry, babe,” he says, holding her hand, stroking her fingers with his thumb. “It won’t be long now.”

  “Ozzie . . .”

  “Don’t worry about him, Michelle. Not now. He’s fine. We both know he’s fine.”

  No, we both don’t know that.

  I don’t know that, Lou.

  “Owww . . .” She sobs, clenched. “Make it stop, Lou.”

  “I can’t, babe. God, I wish I could, but I can’t.”

  In a fog of pain, she sees that there are tears in his eyes.

  He loves me, she marvels, just before another contraction hits. He really does love me.

  Rory puts the last brownie on the small Corell plate, deciding they do look better with powdered sugar sifted over them. She almost didn’t bother.

  Now she hunts through the drawers for a roll of plastic wrap, shoving aside loose measuring spoons and shish kebab skewers and almost cutting her fingers on the exposed blade of a butcher knife. She tells herself that she really should organize the kitchen one of these days—­sort through the piles of junk in the drawers and cabinets. And what about painting, fixing up the place a little? She’d been so gung ho about it when she first arrived . . . was it only a little over a week ago?

  It seems like she’s been here for months, so long that she’s already exhausted by the prospect of redecorating the place.

  And what about the ­people?

  What about Mom and Molly?

  Have I given up on them, too?

  No, she tells herself firmly, finding a roll of foil and tearing off a sheet to put over the plate of brownies. I’m going next door to see Molly, aren’t I? I’m making an effort to build a relationship with her, aren’t I?

  And Mom . . .

  Well, her mother is a different story. Her mother, while she allowed Sister Theodosia to drag her to the doctor today, has clearly lost her grip on reality—­thinking Kevin was here earlier, making her a sandwich?

  It’s like she can’t accept that ­people come and go, Rory muses, then amends, No, she just can’t accept that ­people go. Forever, like Daddy, or temporarily, like Kevin.

  Did she go around acting like I was here when I was living in Santa Cruz, and Aspen, and Miami? Probably. She’d probably tell Kevin and Molly that I ate breakfast with her, or that I was next door playing with Emily.

  Or maybe not.

  Maybe her mother’s descent into insanity had been much more recent.

  Maybe something had triggered it.

  Rory’s coming home, perhaps?

  Had that launched her into the past again, seeking other ­people who have been gone for years?

  Rory tucks the foil around the bottom of the plate of brownies, picks it up, and starts for the door. She’s almost there when the phone rings.

  She hesitates, wondering whether to answer it.

  There’s no one she particularly wants to talk to. It’s probably for Molly, anyway.

  She continues toward the door.

  Molly reaches the top of the stairs and stands absolutely still, listening.

  There’s not a sound but Ozzie’s quiet, even breathing coming from the room a few feet away. The door is cracked, a shaft of night-­light spilling out into the dark hall.

  Molly stares at it, wondering if she left it closed that much. Hadn’t it been halfway open before? She could have sworn she left that cast-­iron pig doorstop holding it open.

  Is she losing it?

  Or is someone here, prowling around the house.

  Calm down.

  At least Ozzie’s okay.

  She can tell by his breathing.

  He’s there, and he’s okay.

  All she has to do is tiptoe into the room, pick him up, and run right down the stairs and out the front door toward home.

  So what if I look like an absolute fool? So what if Rory thinks I’m out of my mind? I can’t help it.

  I can’t be alone in this house another minute.

  “Hello?” Rory asks, snatching up the phone on second thought, just in case it’s . . .

  Who?

  Barrett?

  But it isn’t. “Hey, Rory, is everything all right there?”

  “Kevin?”

  “How’s it goin’? Can you hear me okay? I’m on a cell phone.”

  “Are you kidding? I can hear you just fine. Like you’re right next door.” She sets the brownies on the counter, leans against it, glad she came back to answer the phone. The sound of her brother’s voice is reassuring.

  “Good. Sorry I haven’t called—­it seems like every time I want to, I realize it’s the wrong time there. I don’t want to wake the whole house up in the middle of the night.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Paris.”

  “Isn’t it incredible?”

  “Amazing.”

  “Have you gone up the Eiffel Tower?”

  “Not yet,” he says hurriedly. “Listen, this is going to cost me a fortune, so I’m not going to stay on long and tell you everything I’ve been doing. I just wanted to make sure everything is all right there. With Mom, and Molly.”

  “They’re fine, Kev. Don’t worry about them. Please. You’ve spent your whole life taking care of them.”

  And it wasn’t fair, was it? For me to leave you alone with the burden. It’s amazing you aren’t bitter and full of resentment by now. Amazing you aren’t totally screwed up, instead of being this totally great kid.

  “I never minded taking care of them, Rory,” he says.

  “I know, but it’s my turn now, Kev. You deserve to just enjoy Paris. Have a great time. And don’t worry about us, because we’re all fine.”

  “Okay, Rory, I’ll try not to. Give Molly my love. Mom, too.”

  “I will.”

  Fighting the nearly overpowering instinct to turn and run, Molly approaches Ozzie’s bedroom, pushes the door open gently, hearing the faint creak it makes as it swings toward the bookcase on the interior wall.

  She steps inside, looks down at the sweetly sleeping face of the little boy. He’s lying on his back, a stuffed Barney cradled in his arms. A rush of protectiveness sweeps over her, and she knows she could never have left him here alone.

  Molly bends over, starts to slip one hand beneath his knees and the other beneath his shoulders to lift Ozzie carefully into her arms.

  And then there’s a sound.

  The slightest sound, a mere whisper of a movement.

  But in that instant, she senses with dread that she’s not alone.

  And she knows, even before she spins around to see the hauntingly familiar face staring at her with strange, hate-­filled eyes, that she was right about somebody creeping around upstairs.

  Only one coherent thought makes its way through Molly Connolly’s mind before the intruder slams something into her head.

  It’s you. But that’s impossible . . . What are you doing here?

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Rory kn
ocks again, impatient, carefully balancing the plate of brownies in one hand.

  There’s no answer.

  How can there be no answer?

  She’s been standing here for at least five minutes, knocking, calling Molly’s name.

  She knows there’s someone inside. The lights are on, and she can hear the television set blaring through the screen.

  An uneasy feeling has stolen over her.

  What if something’s happened to Molly and Ozzie?

  She glances next door, at Rebecca Wasner’s house, and feels sick inside. She should never have let Molly stay here alone all day and all night. The minute she came home and found that note about baby-­sitting next door, she should have come right over and insisted on staying until the Randalls came home.

  Maybe, she thinks hopefully, they’ve already come back from wherever they were, and Molly went out instead of coming straight home.

  That would make sense, given the way she’s been staying out until all hours with her friends this past week . . . Except, if the Randalls were home, wouldn’t they be answering Rory’s knocks?

  Well, maybe they came home, let Molly leave, and then took Ozzie and went somewhere, Rory thinks, grasping for any possible explanation.

  And that one makes marginal sense.

  Except that the television set is still on.

  Wouldn’t the Randalls have shut it off if they went out?

  Something isn’t right.

  Still, Rory hesitates, uncertain what to do. If she goes home and calls the police and it turns out that there’s a logical explanation for this—­say, Michelle is here, but sleeping, or Molly is here, but in the bathroom or something—­she’s going to look like a complete idiot.

  But if she goes home and does nothing, and something has happened to her sister, she will never forgive herself.

  What do I do? What do I do?

  Her gaze falls on the window overlooking the front porch. It’s one of those old-­fashioned types, with an expanding wooden screen you pop into the frame, instead of one of those built-­in vinyl ones.

  The same kind of screen the Connollys always had on their windows.

  Once, when Carleen snuck out of the house and forgot her keys, she had climbed in a living-­room window to get back in, bragging later to Rory about how easy it had been. Naturally, Rory had tattled to her father, who had been enraged that Carleen would pull what he had called “a stupid stunt. What are you trying to do, get yourself killed? If I happened to wake up and hear you crawling in a window in the middle of the night, I’d think you were a burglar, come downstairs with my baseball bat, and brain you.”