Upstairs, Polly and Claire are trying to keep Amanda’s fever down. Amanda has strictly forbidden her father’s and grandfather’s presence in the room when she’s undressed, and as soon as she sees Ivan she tries to grab the sheet to hide herself.
“Charlie has a message for you,” Ivan tells Amanda. “You won last night.”
Amanda smiles and holds the sheet tighter.
“Out of here,” Claire tells Ivan. “No men allowed. Isn’t that right?” she says to Amanda.
Amanda nods and Ivan backs out of the room.
“This always helps,” Claire says. She soaks a washcloth in a basin of water, then runs the cloth along Amanda’s bare arms.
“Ooh,” Amanda says, and she shivers.
Claire and Polly look at each other across the bed. Claire didn’t have time to pack the way she usually does, and she’s borrowed a dress from Polly that pulls across the front where it buttons. As soon as they’re done sponging her down, Polly and Claire quickly pull the covers up over Amanda. Polly is fine until she thinks of a time, long ago, when she had a fever and her mother sponged her down all afternoon; she never once left the room, except to get more cool water.
“Go lie down for a few minutes,” Claire tells Polly. Polly nods and goes to her room, but she doesn’t lie down. When Ivan comes looking, she’s still sitting on the edge of the bed. Ivan sits down next to her and runs his hand down her back. Polly looks at him as if she didn’t know him.
“Come downstairs,” Ivan says. “Your mother’s made coffee. You know your father always says she makes the best coffee in the world.”
Polly shakes her head; then she gets up and goes to the closet. She rummages on the shelves, behind the shoes, until she finds what she’s looking for. Her old Polaroid. There are two boxes of film cartridges beside it.
“Polly,” Ivan says.
She ignores him. She flips open the flash.
“The last good picture I took of her was before the summer. I don’t have time to develop film, so this way I’ll have the photograph right now. What if it was happening and I didn’t have a picture of her?”
“It is happening,” Ivan says.
“I haven’t taken one picture of her with her braces off, but you don’t give a damn,” Polly says. “Nobody gives a damn.” She rips open the box of film and slides it into the Polaroid. “Stop looking at me,” Polly says to Ivan when she’s loaded the camera. “I’m not insane.”
Ivan tries to laugh, but his voice cracks. He gets up and starts to walk to Polly.
“Stop where you are!” Polly says.
Ivan stands in the center of their room. His hands reach down as though gravity were claiming him. He’s wearing a blue shirt, a pair of brown corduroy pants, an old sweater that has leather patches on the elbows. Polly lifts the camera and takes his photograph. There is a flash of light, then a wrenching sound as the Polaroid spits out the photograph.
“There you are,” Polly says.
She walks to Ivan and hands him the photograph. As his photograph develops, from a blank white space to his image, Polly holds Ivan tightly. He smells good, and he feels good, too, the way he always has; this could be years ago, this could be the first day they met. She has never told anyone, but she knew as soon as she saw him that she’d marry Ivan. It was less love at first sight than some deep knowledge that he was the man she would someday fall in love with.
Polly goes out into the hall with her camera. She stops outside Amanda’s room and looks in. Al is sitting on a chair by the bed. He’d been reading the comics to Amanda, but she’s fallen asleep and the Globe is open on his lap.
“Hi, kid,” he says softly to Polly when he sees her.
Amanda’s hair is fanned out on the pillow. She’s curled up, knees to chest, and her breathing is thick and loud. When Polly leaves this room she will phone Ed Reardon and ask him to meet them at the hospital. But right now she lifts the Polaroid and takes her daughter’s photograph. The night Amanda was born there was lightning. Polly could feel the air pressure pushing down inside her body, and the first thing she thought when her water broke was, “Oh, no. I don’t want to lose this baby,” because that’s what it felt like. Giving birth, no longer having her child within her seemed like a terrible loss. And when they held Amanda up and Polly saw her for the first time, she burst into tears. All these years later she can still remember what that moment felt like, she can still remember the lightning in the sky.
Polly stands beside her father, her hand on his shoulder, until Amanda opens her eyes.
“Hi,” Amanda says when she sees them watching her.
“We’re going to the hospital,” Polly says.
Amanda nods and sits up a bit. “I just want to do one thing,” she says. “I want to make out a will.”
“Absolutely not,” Polly says quickly. “That’s ridiculous.”
Amanda looks at her grandfather, and she’s relieved when he nods.
“Dad!” Polly says when he gets up and goes to Amanda’s desk.
Al gets a notebook and a Bic pen. He comes back to Polly and puts his arm around her.
“Let her do this,” Al says, softly, so Amanda will not hear.
Polly bites her lip and nods. She has to turn away when Al sits down and opens the notebook, but she doesn’t leave the room.
“I want Jessie to have all my jewelry,” Amanda says. “Most of it’s in my jewelry box, but I have some hidden in my top drawer. I want you and Grandma to have my art folder.”
“Ah,” Al says. “An art folder.” All he has to do is write down the words and not think about them.
“I want Laurel to have all my cassettes and my cassette player.”
“Laurie?” Al asks. He knows how important it is for him to get this right.
“Laurel,” Amanda corrects him. “I don’t have too much that Charlie would want, but he can have my gym bag, for collecting specimens. I want my mom and dad to have everything else.”
“I’ve got that all down,” Al says. He finishes writing and puts down the pen.
“I think I have to sign my name to it,” Amanda says.
“You’re right,” Al says. He brings the notebook over to the bed and puts the pen in Amanda’s hand so that she can sign her name. That’s when Polly turns to look, so she can always remember Amanda as she is right now, straining to sign over everything she owns, still finding something worth giving.
Charlie and Al and Claire stand in the front yard for a long time. Across the street there are still pumpkins on the porches and black cats taped to the windows. After she’d been carried into the Blazer, Amanda looked out her window and waved to them. Charlie can’t stop remembering that, the way her hand moved like a piece of white paper.
“It’s cold out here,” Claire says.
“You’re right,” Al agrees.
They start for the house, then stop.
“Charlie?” Al says.
“I’m not going in there,” Charlie says. He’s still looking at the place in the driveway where the Blazer was parked.
“Charlie,” Claire says.
“Let him be,” Al tells her.
Charlie stands on the lawn while his grandparents go inside. In a little while the door opens again and Charlie winces. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone, but it’s not his grandmother, it’s just Al. Al comes up behind him and stands out there with him.
“Amanda left something for you,” Al says. When Charlie doesn’t answer Al asks, “Did you hear me?”
“I heard you,” Charlie says.
“I think she’d want you to have it now.”
Charlie faces Al, and when he sees his sister’s gym bag he takes it and walks into the house. He goes down to the basement and gets the Minolta, the light meter, the flash, and a new box of film, puts them all into the gym bag, then goes back upstairs.
“I know what we’ll do,” his grandmother says when she sees him. “We’ll play canasta.”
“I’m going to go for a ride,” Charl
ie says.
“Does your mother allow you to do that?” Claire asks, worried.
“Of course she does,” Al says. “Give the boy a break.”
“I want you back here in one hour,” Claire tells Charlie. “Don’t stay out any later than that.”
Al squeezes Charlie’s shoulder, then lets him go. Charlie runs out to his bike, gets on, and pedals as hard as he can. He rides for a long time. He goes past the marsh, and out on the road to the beach where he’s not allowed to go. The salt air here makes his eyes sting; it hurts his lungs when he breathes too deeply. He goes farther than he’s ever gone alone. By the time he circles around to the pond, more than an hour has passed. His grandmother is probably going crazy, but he doesn’t care. The path he follows is covered with wet leaves; last night’s rain has made the path slick, it’s dangerous for bike riding, but Charlie just goes faster. This is the time of year when it’s easy to see deer. The time, too, when there are likely to be fresh bullet holes in the DEER CROSSING signs.
Charlie gets off his bike and crouches down next to it. No matter what, there will always be two kids in their family. Even if everything she owned is thrown away, even if her closets are empty, her room will always belong to her, and whenever he’s asked, at school or by a stranger he meets, he’ll always say, “I have one sister, Amanda,” because he always will. He’ll have her long after his parents have grown old and died, and if he ever has children of his own he’ll tell them everything about her, what her favorite music was, the names she used to call him, everything, so they’ll remember her, too.
He sits there by his bike for more than an hour. He doesn’t care what his grandparents think, he’s not going home. When he finally gets up to walk closer to the pond, his sneakers sink into the mud. He carries his camera equipment in the gym bag and he sits down. He doesn’t care if his jeans get all muddy, but he’s careful with the gym bag and puts it down on some pine needles. There is a lone dragonfly with blue wings skittering over the water. A fat green frog, who will soon disappear for the winter when the pond begins to freeze over, sits in the last of the sunlight. Something larger than a frog is moving in the center of the pond, and Charlie quietly edges closer. He opens the gym bag with one hand, lifts out the Minolta, and holds it to his eye. He hears a swishing noise and a moment passes before what it is registers: it’s the sound of a bike riding on damp leaves. Charlie lets the camera down and turns to see Sevrin dropping his bike down. Charlie quickly turns back to the pond and raises his camera again. Whatever had been moving is motionless now.
“Your grandmother’s calling your friends to find you,” Sevrin says. “I figured you’d be here.”
“Brilliant deduction,” Charlie says.
“Yeah,” Sevrin says with a laugh. “What are you photographing?”
Sevrin walks a little closer to the pond and almost loses his balance on the slick leaves.
“Does your mother know you’re here?” Charlie says.
“No,” Sevrin says defensively. “And neither does yours. Or your grandmother, either.”
“That’s different,” Charlie says.
Sevrin sits down a few feet away.
“The kids in my new school are assholes,” Sevrin says. “One kid brings his homework to school in an attaché case. I swear to God.”
“Oh, yeah?” Charlie says.
He focuses on the center of the pond. If Amanda were here she’d probably want to go swimming. Cold water never bothered her. It’s getting dark fast and Charlie reaches into the gym bag for the light meter.
“That’s Amanda’s,” Sevrin says.
Charlie turns to Sevrin and glares at him. “What if it is?” he says, daring Sevrin to say something nasty about the gym bag because it’s pink.
“Neat dinosaur patch,” Sevrin says.
Charlie turns back and refocuses. He recognizes the sound of Sevrin tapping his foot. Sevrin always does that when he’s nervous.
“Look, I don’t care if you hate me,” Sevrin says. “You’re still my best friend.”
Through the camera, things look more yellow than they are. Shadows seem darker, more permanent. Charlie will never let himself forget her. Not in a million years.
“Hand me the flash,” Charlie says.
Sevrin scurries over to the gym bag and gets the flash attachment for him.
“Maybe you’d better go home,” Charlie says. “Your mother’s going to be worried about you. You’ll just be wasting your time. I haven’t even seen that turtle since the last time we were here.”
Sevrin thinks this over carefully. “That’s okay,” he says. “If anyone sees him, it’ll be us.”
The author wishes to thank Tom Martin for untold kindnesses during the writing of this book. She would also like to thank the members of her writers’ group for their continuing support; Perri Klass for her generous and careful reading of the manuscript; the late Joseph Savago for his advocacy and his invaluable comments; and Faith Sale for her encouragement and her friendship.
About the Author
Alice Hoffman was born in New York City and grew up on Long Island. She wrote her first novel, Property Of, while studying creative writing at Stanford University, and since then has published more than thirty books for readers of all ages, including the recent New York Times bestsellers The Museum of Extraordinary Things and The Dovekeepers. Two of her novels, Practical Magic and Aquamarine, have been made into films, and Here on Earth was an Oprah’s Book Club choice. All told, Hoffman’s work has been published in more than twenty languages and one hundred foreign editions. She lives outside of Boston.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
These are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Property Of copyright © 1988 by Alice Hoffman
The Drowning Season copyright © 1979 by Alice Hoffman
Fortune’s Daughter copyright © 1985 by Alice Hoffman
At Risk copyright © 1988 by Alice Hoffman
TRUE BLUE
Words and Music by MADONNA CICCONE and STEVE BRAY
© 1986 WB MUSIC CORP., WEBO GIRL PUBLISHING, INC. & BLACK LION MUSIC
All rights on behalf of WEBO GIRL PUBLISHING, INC. Administered by WB MUSIC CORP.
All Rights Reserved
Cover designs by Tracey Dunham
ISBN: 978-1-5040-0201-1
This edition published in 2016 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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