I scanned the room. A colorful braided rug covered a dirty warped floor. I stepped around chunks of plaster and dirt. Dust swarmed and floated in drafty gusts, sticking to my clothes and face. I wiped it away with my scarf and sneezed.
A thick iron chandelier dangled crookedly from the ceiling. I was careful not to walk under it, worried it might drop at any second. A stone fireplace took up most of the back. Next to it, a large black watermark stained the wall from floor to ceiling. Floorboards buckled along its edge. A comfy green couch and a rocking chair faced the fireplace.
No moon rocks.
I stepped over pieces of ceiling plaster. A crocheted blanket draped across the couch and spilled onto the floor. I don’t know if it was Cecy’s voice in my head, but I started folding it. Birdseeds and mouse droppings poured out. I placed it on a cushion and wiped my palms on my jeans.
A book rested facedown on the coffee table: Tuck Everlasting. I leafed through its yellowed pages. Some fell loose in my hands. I stuffed them back inside and set the book near a mug with a dark stain.
Next to the couch, puzzle pieces and plaster chips dotted a felt-lined table. The outside edges of the puzzle were finished. The rest of the pieces, sorted by color, sat waiting to be fitted into place. The box cover showed the completed image: the solar system.
I moved in front of the fireplace and lifted a framed picture from the mantel. I wiped off dust to reveal the image of a woman with long hair and a very short skirt. She stood in front of a computer that almost filled the room. Next to her, a stack of papers reached higher than her head. I peered closer and realized it was Abigail. But the photo showed a different Abigail, not just because of her age and styled hair. It was how she looked. Her eyes seemed to smile the way they had that day we went flying in the snowstorm. I put the photo down.
There was another picture, of a man with a girl about my age and a dog that looked like Bob. I couldn’t see the girl’s face because her long brown hair covered it. They stood by a pond, the girl holding a fish. I immediately liked this girl. I liked the way she held that slippery fish as if it was a treasure.
That’s when I saw the newspaper. It was yellow and crinkled in my hands. The headline read: CAR PULLED FROM SIX MILE LAKE. It showed a photograph of a car being hauled out of a large body of water.
FORTIN, VT. Two months after the disappearance of Charlie Jacobs and his daughter, Lillian, divers were able to locate their car, which, it is believed, slid down an embankment during the February nor’easter. Abigail Jacobs, Charlie’s wife and Lillian’s mother, had initially been identified as a person of interest as the intensive search dragged on with no leads. It appears the heavy snowfall had quickly filled in any tracks the car made when it left the road and slid into the lake. The car’s discovery ends months of speculation and panic among Fortin residents anxious to explain the victims’ sudden, unexplained disappearance. The deaths have been ruled accidental.
I couldn’t take my eyes off the image of the car being dragged out of the lake. My body felt as frozen as the ice spilling from its windows. I placed the paper down. I needed to find something, anything, to get that nightmare scene out of my brain.
I walked over to a wall of framed pictures. The girl with brown hair and dark eyes stared back at me. Lillian Jacobs, Sixth Grade, was written across the bottom of a school photo. The girl was in every photo: Lillian with her dog, Lillian reading a book, Lillian feeding the chickadees. I swallowed hard.
I didn’t care about the moon rock anymore.
Threads of light began to pour into the room as if a switch had been flicked. They came from tiny holes in the kitchen’s boarded-up windows. I walked toward the light. But when I entered the kitchen, a chill ran up my spine. The table was still set from a meal—two cups, two plates, silverware, dried-up bits of food. A yellow flowered apron hung from a cupboard door. A calendar pinned to the wall advertised FORTIN BANK—ALWAYS HERE WHEN YOU NEED US and was open to February 1976. I read the pencil notes scrawled on various days—Mom in Boston, Lillian—Wax Museum—don’t forget the Betamax!, Ginger to Dr. Barrett for shots.
My hand brushed a bouquet of dead flowers and they disintegrated. A bowl held apples that had shriveled to the size of golf balls. Suddenly, my whole body shuddered as I realized what was really bothering me.
Besides the dead flowers and broken plaster and dust, this could have been our home in Washington, DC, on a day we were late and dashed out—dishes waiting to be cleared, blankets waiting to be folded, books waiting to be read, puzzles waiting to be finished.
Only here, none of that would happen.
Right then, I knew this was the heavy weight that Abigail carried. There had been no murder. No crime. Abigail’s secret was that she was trying to keep everything exactly the way it was so she could pretend her family was coming back.
People knew she murdered them. It’s her conscience that keeps her outside. Stories made up to explain why a person would abandon their home and live in a shed when the truth was much simpler. And sadder.
Stay out.
It was the one thing Abigail had asked of me. The one thing the house had asked.
Stay out.
I had ruined everything.
I moved back to the coffee table. I picked up the book, trying to find the page where its reader had left off. I placed it facedown where it had been. I undid the blanket and let it spill onto the floor. I adjusted the photos on the mantel. Was that how they had been? I wasn’t sure anymore.
Stay out! Stay out! Stay out!
It was like the house was waking up. I backed away from the mess I had made, tripping and stumbling into the tool room. I knocked the scarf off its hook, letting it fall to the floor. I tried to open the front door but it was stuck. I panicked, pulling hard on its knob. The door flung open. I ran, tripping over the frozen barricade. The sun was above the horizon now, and its brightness blinded me. The door slammed shut behind me. I sat up, digging my hand into my pocket for the key. But my pocket was empty. As I stood to go back inside, I heard a voice.
CHAPTER
14
“You’re here early!” I spun to see Abigail snowshoeing toward me. My mind raced as I practically leaped onto the seed can.
“I—I just got here—I came to—” I took the lid off the can to show her that I was really there to feed the birds. I carried the scoop, spilling with seeds, to the feeders. It didn’t help that my hand was shaking. I pulled the wire down and emptied it into the Chock full o’Nuts can. Seeds spilled onto the ground.
“Didn’t Bob come with you?” Abigail asked.
I dropped the scoop.
“B-Bob!” I barely choked out his name. “BOB!”
“Calm down, Ruby.” She clapped her hands. “Come, Bob!”
I listened for the clink of his tags. But the only sound was the rustling of chickadee wings.
“He—He was—” I started. “I—I—”
“You just got here. He couldn’t have gone far. Bob!” Abigail called, clapping. “He probably chased a squirrel up a tree and doesn’t want to let him down. Come on, put on your snowshoes. We’ll find him.”
I stood frozen in place.
“What’s the matter with you today?” she asked.
My brain shouted, Move! Go! Find Bob! But the weight of my crime pressed down on me like a stone.
“I’m going to head out. You catch up when you’re ready.” Abigail snowshoed into the forest. Her words from when we first met suddenly popped into my head: Hunters leave traps by the pond.
I tried to fasten the snowshoes but my fingers wouldn’t work. The name LILLIAN JACOBS stared up at me like an accusation. I gave up on the shoes and tried running, but the snow was so deep I ended up crawling onto Abigail’s path. That’s when I heard a howl. Long and thin and desperate. In a flash, Abigail veered toward the pond.
I followed, half-running, half-falling, my mind thick with worry. “Bob!” I shouted.
“Shush,” Abigail said sharply. “If he’s trapped, calling hi
s name will make it worse.”
That’s when I saw my puppy. Lying at the edge of the pond. Covered in blood.
I stifled a sob. “Bob!” I slapped my hands over my mouth. Bob’s leg was caught inside the metal jaws of a clamp. He was panting heavily, but managed to smile his goofy-dog smile when he saw me. He started to get up, then yelped and fell down.
The trap was dirty and rusted. Bob licked his paw, but the blood wouldn’t stop. It stained his face red and pooled in the snow beneath him.
“Easy, boy, easy.” Abigail spoke calmly. She removed her gloves. Bob yelped as she pulled on the jaws of the trap. They didn’t budge. Abigail swore.
I stroked Bob’s fur and whispered in his ear, “It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.”
Abigail removed one of her scarves. “Get me a stick. We have to stop the bleeding or he’ll go into shock.”
I found a stick and handed it to Abigail. She had tied her scarf tight around Bob’s leg, above the wound. She inserted the stick into the scarf and spun it like a pinwheel, making it tighter. Bob whimpered.
“We need to find another stick or something to pry open the trap,” she said.
I dug a branch out of the snow. Part of it had rotted.
“Not strong enough.”
She pulled out a knife and severed a skinny branch. “Hold him so he can’t move. Tighter!”
Bob bit at my hand.
She quickly whittled one end and jammed it into the jaw of the clamp. She held one side down with her foot and tried to pry its teeth open, but the branch bent.
“Too green, no good.” I watched her scan the woods. Bob seemed to fight for each shallow breath. “I need something stronger. It can’t bend.”
That’s when I remembered the tools I had seen inside the house.
“You have something, Abigail,” I whispered.
Abigail looked around frantically. “What? What do you see?”
I bit my lip. If I said it—if I said it out loud—she would know.
“Inside your house.”
“What do you mean? The ax is too big. It won’t—”
“Not … not in the shed. The tools inside your real house.” I kept my eyes trained on Bob so I wouldn’t see her reaction. “One of those iron poles. That would work.”
A sound came from Abigail. Like a balloon had been pricked, the air slowly escaping. The tiniest noise like a mouse might make. And then she was gone.
* * *
“Do not cry. Do not cry. Do not cry,” I said, holding Bob. Shaking him awake.
I didn’t know what to do. If I walked away, Bob would die. If I stayed, Bob would die. I watched his eyes close.
“No! No, Bob!” My nose was running and I felt it freeze on my face. I didn’t care.
Don’t let me down, Ruby. I’m trusting you to take good care of Bob.
“Bob,” I whispered in his ear. “You have to keep your eyes open.” I couldn’t feel my fingertips anymore, but I tried to open the trap’s teeth again. Its rusted jaws would not budge.
Then I took a deep breath and I made the loudest noise I’d ever made—the loudest sound ever made in the history of the world. A sound so loud that astronauts could hear it from space: “PLEASE, ABIGAIL. PLEASE HELP ME!”
I listened to my voice echo across the frozen pond: ME … Me … me. Until the forest sucked up every last vibration. I didn’t think I’d ever feel as alone as I did right then.
“I’m here.”
I spun around to see Abigail dragging her sled. But instead of wood, it was filled with tools.
I wiped my nose with the back of my hand.
Abigail carried an ax and the long skinny pole I’d seen hanging on the wall. “Turn his body so I can get at that chain.” Her voice was sharp and cutting.
Bob winced as I adjusted him.
“Hold him still. I don’t care if he cries, he can’t move.”
Abigail raised the ax and it fell hard, splitting the chain. But the clamp still bit into his foot. Bob yelped as he tried to get up.
“Down, Bob!” Abigail barked.
Bob cowered.
“Hand me the crowbar and stand here on the trap. Put all your weight on it.”
I stepped on the bottom half of the trap as well as I could. Abigail inserted the skinny pole. Heaving and crying, she pried the trap’s teeth open just enough. Bob’s mangled foot fell out. He tried to stand, but stumbled back.
“Bob!” I hugged his neck.
“He’s not out of the woods yet. He’s lost a lot of blood.” She cleared the tools from the sled. We put our arms under Bob and lifted him onto it.
“This will be difficult. We are going to have to pull together.”
We pulled that heavy sled through the snow to Abigail’s camp. Up her driveway. Up Specter Hill Road. My shoulders strained and my arms tingled under the weight. Neither one of us spoke a word the entire way.
When we were in front of my house, I let go of the sled’s rope and stepped onto the front porch. The door was locked. I pounded. Abigail pivoted on her heel and began walking away.
“Where are you going?” I called.
Abigail lifted a hand and swatted the air like she was swatting away my words. Or me.
“Abigail!”
She slowly turned to face me, her eyes flashing.
“You.” Her voice cracked with anger. “You had no right.”
I fell back as if she’d hit me.
She narrowed her dark eyes and raised a crooked finger. “Stay off my property,” she said. “I don’t ever want to see you again.”
I opened my mouth, “Ab—” I started, but the peach pit was making my throat tight and dry. “Ab—” I tried to cough. Tears lined the rims of my eyes.
The front door burst open. “Ruby? What’s happened to Bob?” Mom flew outside in her bathrobe and slippers.
Abigail turned and shuffled away, hunched and small.
“Ruby,” Mom said sharply. “I told you to stay away from that lady. What did she do to Bob?”
“Abigail,” I whispered after her.
But Abigail was gone.
“We’ll talk about this later,” Mom said. “We need to get Bob to the vet.” We lifted him onto the backseat of the Fiesta. I climbed in after him. The engine roared.
As we drove, Mom’s eyes darted between me, Bob, and the road. When we got to the Fortin Animal Hospital, two men carried Bob in on a stretcher. Mom and I stepped into the waiting room. No one seemed to notice that she was still wearing her bathrobe as she filled out paperwork. I sat on a wooden bench. I was suddenly so tired. But when my eyes drooped shut, all I could see was the dark look on Abigail’s face.
Mom slid next to me. “Are you okay?” She wrapped an arm around me. I leaned in to her, breathing her mango-shampoo scent. It seemed like forever since I’d smelled it. I let her warmth seep into me. It seemed like forever since I’d felt it.
The clock on the wall ticked loudly.
Mom kissed the top of my head. “Remember when Dad brought Bob home from the shelter?”
Do not cry. Do not cry. Do not cry.
“You were so excited,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a smile that big.”
I remembered how much I had begged for a dog. But at first Dad shook his head. Not yet, Ruby, he had said. Taking care of a dog is a big responsibility.
So, when he finally, finally, put that furry bundle in my lap, I was so happy I didn’t think I would ever stop smiling. But Dad’s face stayed serious. He looked me square in the eye. This is Bob Van Doodle, he had said. Don’t let me down, Ruby. I’m trusting you to take good care of Bob.
“I wish I could do something to bring your smile back,” Mom said, her voice cracking. “I would do anything to see it again. I seem to keep doing the opposite.”
I wanted to tell her it was okay, but my tight, dry throat wouldn’t let me.
“The trial should be over next week.” She took a deep breath. “If going back to DC is what will bring my Ruby bac
k, I’ll do it, Ruby. We’ll go home.” She pressed her moon charm against her lips.
Home, I thought. It’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted.
But no matter how hard I closed my eyes, I could still see Abigail’s face, dark and angry. And I could still hear her voice saying she never wanted to see me again.
Do not cry. Do not cry. Do not cry.
* * *
Hours passed before a tall, thin lady with silver hair stepped out. “Mrs. Hayes?” she called. The name DR. LISA BARRETT was stitched into her blue scrubs.
We followed the vet into a room. Bob lay on a metal table, his leg shaved and in a cast. When he saw me, his tail started thumping.
“Oh, Bob!” I buried my face in his neck.
“He’s not going for long walks anytime soon,” Dr. Barrett said. “But he’ll be okay.”
“Thank you so much,” Mom said.
“My pleasure.” Dr. Barrett looked at me. “Really, it was your quick thinking that saved him. Without that tourniquet, he would have bled to death.”
But it hadn’t been me.
They carried Bob outside and gently slid him onto the backseat, where he could rest his head on my lap. He looked at me with his big brown eyes, sad and confused. I took a deep breath, fighting back the tears. It’s not your fault, Bob. I let this happen.
When we got to the house, I grabbed a blanket and made a bed for him in front of the woodstove. I filled a bowl with fresh water. Mom warmed last night’s beef stew and handed me the dish. “I think Bob earned a treat, don’t you?” she said. I knew he must’ve still been hurting pretty bad, because he only licked at it, then lay back down.
“You’ve been through a lot today, Ruby. I didn’t want to get into it earlier, but what you did was wrong.” She took a deep breath and I knew she was trying not to cry. “I told you not to go down there and you disobeyed me.”
I kept my eyes focused on Bob.
Mom knelt next to me. “We need to start talking to each other, Ruby. I know it’s my fault and I know you don’t always like what I have to say but…” She took a deep breath. “We need to talk about Dad.”
Ruby in the Sky Page 13
