Summer of Fear

by Lois Duncan

  “Of course not,” I said. “That was a dumb thing to say. I’m being insensitive.”

  Mike didn’t contradict me. He broke off a piece of his sandwich and gave it to Trickle, who slurped it down as though he hadn’t been fed for a week.

  “I’ve got to get going,” he said. “I promised Professor Jarvis I’d cut his grass for him this afternoon. You want to go to a movie or something tonight? There’s a new sci-fi film at the Lobo.”

  “I guess so,” I said. “But I hate to leave Bobby rattling around by himself. Pete’s usually got a rehearsal or something in the evening and with my parents gone—”

  “Bring him along,” Mike said. “I’ll pick you both up at seven thirty.”

  He went home, not bothering to go around to the front but putting both hands on the top of the fence and vaulting over. A moment later I heard the creak of his garage door as he opened it to get out the lawn mower. Professor Jarvis’s house was next door to the Gallaghers’ on the other side, so he didn’t have to go far to cut that lawn.

  Suddenly the yard was empty and the world was very still. I picked up our Coke cans and carried them across the yard and into the kitchen. The house was so quiet I could hear the clock ticking on the kitchen wall.

  It occurred to me how seldom it was that I was alone in the house even for a few hours, much less a whole afternoon. Mom was almost always there cooking or sewing or printing photographs in the little darkroom Dad had rigged up for her in the storeroom in the garage. Mom disdained digital cameras and thought Photoshop was a cop-out. She loved the challenge of doing her lab work by hand.

  I set the cans down on the counter and went to the phone and called Carolyn. She answered on the second ring.

  “Hi,” I said. “Want to do something? Pete’s at work and Bobby’s out on his bike with his friends somewhere and I’m about to go crazy.”

  “Great,” Carolyn said. “Come on over.”

  “What are you doing?” I asked suspiciously. I had heard that tone in her voice before.

  “Washing walls,” Carolyn said brightly. “Mom’s idea, of course. You can sit and talk to me.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks.” I knew Mrs. Baker. When she went on a cleaning spree nobody in the house was spared. All you had to do was walk in the door and you found yourself with a sponge in one hand and a bucket of sudsy water in the other.

  “When are your parents coming home?” Carolyn asked.

  “They’re on their way now,” I said. “They didn’t stay long, because there wasn’t a funeral. They decided to have a memorial service later. They left yesterday morning, so if everything goes well, they ought to be home tonight.”

  “That’s good,” Carolyn said. “Look, I’ve got to go. The wall’s drying in streaks and my mom will kill me. No—worse than that—she’ll make me do it over. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I said. “Have fun. See you later.”

  I put the phone back in its cradle and then just stood there, wondering what to do next. I was so used to having people around me that I hardly knew where to begin with entertaining myself. I wondered if Julia was friendly, somebody you could really talk to. I wondered what her interests were.

  If only I could remember the things Aunt Marge had written in that last Christmas letter. I should have read it more carefully, but at the time I didn’t think it was important. Where is it now? I wondered. Long gone with the Christmas wrappings and dried pine needles, or was it possible that it was still around somewhere? Mom often kept Christmas cards, especially the ones that contained photographs or personal messages. Maybe she’d saved Aunt Marge’s letter.

  With a feeling of relief at having thought of something to do, I went upstairs and opened the door of the linen closet. We had the sort of house where things weren’t always where they should be. Our sheets were kept in a spare chest in Bobby’s room, and the linen closet was used to store things we didn’t know what to do with. Mom kept her negative file there and Dad his National Geographic magazines, and there were boxes of things that didn’t work anymore, like broken hair dryers and flashlights without switches and board games with missing parts.

  On the second shelf I found a cardboard box labeled “Christmas Cards.” When I opened it, the card from Aunt Marge and Uncle Ryan was right on top.

  It was a homemade card, not a glossy, commercial one, and the painting on the front was one that Aunt Marge had done herself. It was a picture of an angel singing on a mountaintop. I had seen the card when it had arrived, but hadn’t paid much attention. Aunt Marge had always made the family cards. Now, because I knew it was the last card we would ever receive from her, I sat down on the floor at the base of the closet and really studied it.

  Aunt Marge had talent, that much was apparent. The sweet face of the angel glowed with a special sort of joy; her hair fluffed out around her head in a dark brown halo and the blue eyes seemed like an echo of the sky. Even I, who knew little about art, could tell that the hand that had held the paintbrush had moved with love.

  I opened the card. There was no printed greeting. Aunt Marge had filled the space with a handwritten message:

  Dearest family—

  Christmas again and joy abounds! Our angel, Julie, is home for the holidays and the house is filled with singing! What a contrast to the last few months with Ryan deep in the rewrite of his novel and no one to talk to most of the day except Sarah Blane. Sarah’s a local who has been working for us since last fall—pleasant to have another female in the house but hardly a replacement for  J. Hopefully things will be different next spring. Once Ryan’s book is finished he has agreed to come back to civilization so that we can have  Julie with us for her senior year. And the first thing on the agenda will be a visit with you! I can’t believe that Peter has graduated and Rachel is in high school, and I have never even seen Bobby. How life does manage to get away from us! Have a beautiful Christmas. The photo of the children is gorgeous, Leslie. You must take some of  Julie when we are together again.

  Much, much love—Marge

  The line that stopped me was “How life does manage to get away from us.” In view of what came after, it seemed so ironic. But I forced myself past it to the final loving words, and when I finished them I found myself with tears in my eyes and a tight feeling in my throat. How could a person be this vitally alive one minute—writing, painting, making joyful plans—and be gone the next? The love and closeness that must have existed between mother and daughter showed plainly in every line. How lost Julia must feel now, how incredibly lonely!

  She’ll need us, I thought, more than anybody’s ever needed anyone before. How could I be so selfish, worrying about something as insignificant as sharing my room? I’ll like Julia—in fact, I’ll love her. I’ll be a real sister to her, not just a cousin. I’ll do everything I can to see that she’s happy here. If only I—

  I was startled from my thoughts by the sound of a door opening in the hall below. It must be Bobby, I thought—and then, through the emptiness of the house, a familiar voice called, “Hello! Is anybody home?”

  “Mom!” I scrambled to my feet, the Christmas note still clutched in my hand. “I’m here—up here!”

  I went down the stairs two at a time. Mom was standing in the downstairs hallway, and Dad was coming through the door with two suitcases in his hands. My eyes took in the weariness of my mother’s face, and I threw my arms around her in a hard hug.

  “We didn’t expect you until tonight.”

  “We made good time,” Mom said, hugging me back with an intensity that showed the strain the past few days had put on her. “How are things here? Has everything been all right? Where are the boys?”

  “Pete’s working,” I said, “and Bobby’s off biking. Everything’s been fine, but we’ve missed you. I’m so glad you’re home.”

  “We’re glad too,” Mom said. She loosened her arms from around me and stepped back to reach out a hand to the girl who was standing behind her, a girl I hadn’t even seen, shadowed as she
was by my father’s form in the doorway.

  She was a plain, thin girl with long, black hair that hung halfway to her waist. Her brows were heavy, her face narrow and sallow, but her eyes—even now, thinking back on that moment, I can’t begin to describe my first impression of her eyes. They were deep and dark and filled with secrets. Haunted eyes. They were the strangest eyes I’d ever seen.

  “Rachel,” Mom said with a special gentleness in her voice, “this is Julia.”

  “Hi,” I said. “I’m Rachel.” And I thrust out my hand.

  It wasn’t the way I’d meant to greet her. Instantly I wished I could go back and redo the greeting and at the very least turn it into a hug. It was just that she was so far from what I had expected.

  “Hello,” Julia said and, after an instant’s hesitation, put her hand in mine. It was a thin hand but surprisingly strong.

  “Call me Rae,” I said awkwardly. “That’s what my friends call me. I’m so sorry about your parents. It’s so awful. I just don’t know what to say.”

  “I know,” Julia said. “Thank you.”

  “You’re going to be sharing Rachel’s room,” my father said, setting one suitcase on the floor and putting his free arm around Julia’s shoulders. “Let me take your bag up and you can start getting settled.”

  “I’d like that,” Julia said. “I am a mite tired.” Her voice was low-pitched, more like a woman’s voice than a young girl’s. And she had an accent. When she said “like” it sounded more like “lack,” and “tired” like “tarred.”

  “Of course you are, dear,” Mom said warmly. “It would be a miracle if you weren’t. Why don’t you go up and lie down for a while? There’s no rush about unpacking.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Dad said. “A little rest never hurt anybody. Come on, honey, I’ll show you the way.” With Julia’s suitcase in one hand and with the other arm still protectively around her, he steered her up the stairs.

  Mom and I stood silent, listening to the sound of their footsteps in the upstairs hall. Then Mom sighed.

  “Oh, it’s good to be home!”

  “I’ll bet it is,” I said. “It must have been horrible.”

  “Painful,” Mom said. “That’s a better word. It was so painful, seeing that home for the first time, and Marge not in it. It was a lovely home, Rae, small and simple and rustic but perched on the side of a mountain where the breeze blew straight through one set of windows and out another. Marge had flowers planted everywhere, and her paintings were on all the walls. Her easel was set up in the bedroom with a canvas half finished, and her work smock was tossed on the bed as though she’d just run out for a moment and would be right back. A page of Ryan’s new novel was still up on his computer screen.”

  We went into the living room and Mom dropped her purse on the coffee table and sat down on the sofa. I sat on the chair across from her.

  “You said there wasn’t a funeral?” I asked.

  “There was nothing to bury,” Mom said. “The car had burned. There was only a metal shell left. At least it must have been fast, it fell so far. Those winding roads—the sheer drop-offs—it’s incredible. And Julia wanted to leave as soon as possible. She said there was nothing to stay for.

  “Dad went down to Lost Ridge and listed the house with the man who runs the little grocery store. He seemed to be the one who handles all real estate sales in that area. And we left the furniture in it. We packed all the personal things into boxes and left them in Springfield to be shipped. I think Julia will want to have them someday when the grief has had time to process.”

  “How is she taking it?” I asked.

  “Surprisingly well. Almost too well, actually. I think she’s still in a state of shock.” Mom shook her head worriedly. “It was a shattering experience for her. Her parents had left for what was only supposed to be a couple of hours, just long enough to drive the girl Sarah back to the village for the weekend and to pick up some groceries and the mail. Julia had decided against going with them because she had a little headache and wanted to take a nap. She says that when she woke up it was getting dark and her parents weren’t back. She started dinner, and when it was cooked they still hadn’t returned. She sat up waiting for them all night.”

  “Wasn’t there somebody she could call?” I asked, horrified at the thought of the lonely vigil. “Weren’t there neighbors?”

  “They didn’t have a house phone,” Mom said. “There wasn’t any reception for a cell in that area. And there were no neighbors for miles. That was the reason Ryan moved to the mountains, to be away from distractions. No, Julia just sat there all night long, becoming more and more frightened, and the next morning when the sun came up she started walking to the village.

  “She said she had walked about five miles when she saw a car coming up the road, and it was the sheriff from Lost Ridge. The wreck had been discovered. Some fishermen had been following the creek back through the valley and had come upon it and looked up and seen the passage it had traveled from the top of the ledge.”

  “Then that’s why you weren’t notified sooner.”

  “Yes. By the time they took Julia to identify the car and then back to the house to find our address and phone number, it was afternoon. The sheriff drove back to Lost Ridge to call us. He wanted Julia to go with him or at least to let him call in some of the women from the village to stay with her, but she refused to see anybody. She just stayed alone in the house and waited for us to come.”

  “Poor thing,” I breathed.

  “Seventeen is such a vulnerable age,” Mom said. “The adjustment will be hard. She doesn’t even know us. I hope so much we can make her happy here.”

  “We will,” I said. “Albuquerque’s a nice place to live.”

  “But to make a whole new life, to start from scratch with people who must seem like strangers! How lost she must feel! I’m afraid a lot of the responsibility will fall upon you, Rachel. You’re the one closest to her age, the one she’ll be best able to relate to.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll take care of her. I’ll introduce her to my friends and take her to the pool and—everything. It’ll be all right, Mom.”

  “I hope so.”

  There were footsteps on the stairs and my father’s voice called, “Leslie?”

  “In here, dear,” Mom called back, forcing a little smile as he appeared in the doorway. “Did you get Julia set up in Rae’s room?”

  “Well, she’s up there, if that’s what you mean,” Dad said. “I didn’t know where to tell her to put things. As usual, the place looks like a cyclone hit it.”

  “I was going to get it straightened,” I said hurriedly. “I didn’t know you were coming home so soon. I’ll go up now and clear out some drawers in the dresser.”

  “We’ll get a second one,” Mom said, “as soon as possible. Take up some hangers too.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  I went to Bobby’s room for the hangers, because they seem to breed in his closet, and carried them upstairs and paused before the closed door of my room. I wondered if I should knock. I decided I should and rapped softly, and immediately Julia’s voice said, “Yes?”

  “It’s Rae,” I said. “I’ve got some hangers for your clothes.”

  “Come in.”

  I opened the door. Julia was not lying down, as I had expected, but was seated on the edge of one of the twin beds, looking around. Automatically I found myself following her gaze, seeing the room through the eyes of a stranger—the pale yellow walls, the posters from the concerts I’d been to, the crowded bookshelf, the cluttered dresser top, the pile of clothing tossed on the wicker chair.

  “It’s kind of messy,” I said.

  “That’s all right.”

  “I’m not very neat. I’ll try to be better now that you’re here.”

  I went over to the chair and picked up the clothes. It wasn’t that much, really, just my pajamas and the shirt I had worn the day before and my sneakers. I moved to the dresser and
realized I didn’t know where to cram this stuff since I would have to rearrange the contents. I dropped the clothes back on the chair and then stood wondering which drawers I should empty.

  “Mom says we’ll be getting another dresser.”

  “I didn’t bring a heap of things,” Julia said. “I won’t need much room for ’em.”

  “Then I’ll give you the two drawers at the bottom. That is, unless you want the top ones.”

  “I don’t care.” Julia was still gazing about her, those strange eyes moving in a slow, careful path, missing nothing. “Who’s the boy in the picture?”

  “Mike Gallagher,” I said. “He lives next door.”

  “Is he your solid feller?”

  “My boyfriend, you mean? No—yes—I guess you could call him that. We hang out together.”

  “He’s good-looking.”

  “Yes,” I agreed with a touch of pride. Mike was good-looking, with his broad shoulders and easy grin and that mop of blond hair. “You’ll meet him tonight. We have a movie date. At least, we did.” It occurred to me that it was not the politest thing in the world to take off with a date on the first night Julia was with us. “Maybe you’ll want to go. It’s early, and we’d planned on taking Bobby.”

  “No, thank you.” Julia turned to look at me directly for the first time. It was the same way in which she had looked at the room, with a deep, penetrating gaze that took in every detail as though making a mental photograph that would be stored forever in the files of memory. Those eyes bored into me with such intensity that they gave me a feeling of having been caught and pinned in place by a physical force. I could almost feel them laser-beam past my light skin and the sprinkling of freckles, through the hard bones of the skull, into the absolute core of my being. It was a strange feeling being studied so intently. I shifted uncomfortably and turned my own eyes away.

  “How do your folks feel about having me here?” Julia asked.

  “They want you here wth us,” I said. “Very much. Almost the first thing Mom said after she got the phone call was ‘We’ll have to go get Julia.’ ”