A Curious Tale of the In-Between
Read A Curious Tale of the In-Between Online
Authors: Lauren DeStefano
For
Riley, who believes in things
before the rest of the world can see them
Nothing
comes to us too soon but sorrow.
—Philip James Bailey
CONTENTS
P
ram died just before she was born. It was a brutally hot August, and the dogwood tree was parched. Its white blossoms had gone weary and brown without rain. The nurses pitied it. In fact, that was how Pram’s mother was discovered. A nurse filled up the janitor’s mop bucket with fresh water, and she went outside to water the dogwood tree, as unconventional as that might have been.
Instead, the bucket fell at her feet, and the water spread around the parking lot, never quite reaching the grassy island that contained the tree. For there was a woman hanging by the only branch that looked sturdy enough to support her weight. She was almost too unreal to be a woman at all, if not for her pregnant stomach.
In
the next instant, there was a gurney and shears severing the rope, hands easing the woman down with great care as though she could be saved. Pram was inside her, already dead. But doctors aren’t put off by the finality of death. They believe it can be negotiated. If they can pull the right strings at the right time, they can make dead things breathe again. So Pram lived after all.
Pram, orphaned right at the start of her life, was inherited by two very practical aunts. They ran the Halfway to Heaven Home for the Ageing out of their two-hundred-year-old colonial house. According to Pram’s books, “aging” was misspelled, and Pram noticed only when she first learned to read. She climbed on a chair and scratched the unwanted
e
from the sign with a black crayon and was promptly scolded. The crayon mark was scrubbed down to a dull scar.
Pram wasn’t told the story of her birth. But even as a very small girl, she felt deep in her chest that she was alive and dead at the same time.
Pram’s aunts had no idea what to do with a little girl, much less how to love one. They did give her the very best things they could think of: a name, for starters. Pram was short for Pragmatic, because after much deliberation, they agreed it was a sensible name for a young lady. It was also a trait her mother had lacked.
They
gave her a bedroom in the attic. It overlooked the pond where her mother had liked to swim, and had bright daisy wallpaper, and teddy bears that wore dust hats and dust sweaters. For dessert she was often permitted slices of cake with whole strawberries inside. They gave her a plaid jumper, and Aunt Dee ironed the pleats while Aunt Nan starched the white blouse that went under it. They shined the pennies in her loafers, and they gave her stacks of books to read. Sometimes the books had missing covers or torn pages because they had come secondhand from the charity store in the church or they had been left on the doorstep. It was a small town and everyone knew that Pram liked to read. Before she was six, she had reenacted the great works of Shakespeare with her button-eyed dolls. She would recite Ophelia’s final words aloud and pretend to drown herself in the old claw-foot tub.
It was all this reading that made Aunt Dee and Aunt Nan overlook Pram’s eccentricities. She was just imaginative. Plus, she entertained the elders. She performed for them, and always with a flair for the dramatic. The elders treated her as a sort of pet, asking her to sit with them and read, brushing her hair, offering her cough drops (as that was the closest thing they had to candy). They shared their watercolors with her during arts and crafts, and asked the aunts to tape her pictures on their bedroom walls.
It
wasn’t until the boy came around that the aunts began to suspect something was wrong.
Pram first spoke about the boy during an evening bath. She was five at the time.
Aunt Nan dumped a cup of water over Pram’s white hair, caramelizing it. “I’ve made a friend,” Pram said. “A boy named Felix.”
“Have you?” Aunt Nan said, lathering Pram’s hair more roughly than Pram would have preferred. “A grandchild of one of the elders, then?”
“I don’t think he is,” Pram said.
“Where was he?” Aunt Nan asked.
“In the pond,” Pram said.
“In the pond?”
“At first. Then the wind picked up a bit, and the light on the water changed, and he came out of it.”
“Is this something you’ve read about in one of your books?” Aunt Nan asked.
“No,” Pram said, scowling as her hair was scrubbed by her aunt’s chubby fingers. She could sense that she wasn’t going to be believed.
“If you see this boy again,” Aunt Nan said, “tell him that pond’s not for swimming. It startles the fish.”
“What is it for, then?” Pram asked.
“Thought. Out of the tub with you now. It’s bedtime.”
Pram
dutifully performed her evening rituals and climbed into bed.
The attic had one small, circular window that seemed to align with the moon on clear nights. The daisies on her wall had gone silver; the button eyes of her bears and dolls stared with astonishment as the shadows of trees bounced across them.
There was something about trees that made Pram especially sad.
E
very September, there came a knock at the front door that carried a certain authority. Pram knew who it was. So did the elders—some of them, at least. The others merely played along when she hid at their feet, thinking this was another of her games.
When the knock came late in the morning, Pram hid under Edgar Frump’s wheelchair. It was a gamble, she knew, as Edgar was not especially lucid. But he was closer than the dining room table, which wasn’t crowded enough to hide her. The tablecloth had been removed after a prune juice accident just moments before.
“I’m not a dog house, child,” Edgar said. “And you’re not a poodle.”
“
Please,” Pram said. “If I’m caught, I’ll be taken away. Please.”
Edgar straightened his blanket across his legs, hiding her. “Since you said ‘please’ more than once.”
Aunt Nan’s steps were thunderous as she came down the hall.
Aunt Dee was lighter on her feet, but she fidgeted. “Of all the mornings,” she said. “The house looking the way it does.”
Aunt Nan opened the doors of the china cabinet and retrieved the pile of textbooks and notebooks. She hastily spread them on the coffee table, nearly spilling a cup of tea that sat near the edge.
The knock came again, and the aunts stood shoulder-to-shoulder and drew a deep breath in tandem. Pram watched them through a part in the blanket, and in their nervous gestures she could see that they loved her.
The door was opened by Aunt Dee’s bony fingers—fingers that went about smoothing her apron an instant later. In came a gust of chilled fall air. Three leaves—a red, a brown, and a spotted yellow—swirled across the scuffed floorboards. The schoolmarm’s polished black shoes crushed all of them with their first steps into the house. Pram held her breath.
“Can we fix you some tea?” Aunt Dee said.
“
Let me take your coat,” Aunt Nan said.
The schoolmarm, Ms. Appleworth, grunted in response. For a woman who taught so many children the English language and put such emphasis on proper enunciation, she spoke very little. The aunts fussed and stumbled as they led her to the coffee table.
“We were just about to sit with Pram for her morning lesson,” Aunt Dee said.
“You only give lessons in the morning?” Ms. Apple-worth said.
“No, no, lessons all day,” Aunt Nan said. “It’s toast with jam, lessons, a break for lunch, and lessons until dinnertime.”
This was a lie. Pram’s lessons were scattered throughout the day. She often did her schoolwork alone by the pond. Sometimes she didn’t do it at all; she read things that were not on the lists, things that weren’t supposed to be for young girls, things that were frowned upon and long out of print.
“Pram, dear,” Aunt Nan called. “Ms. Appleworth is here.”
Pram could feel her heart within her ears. She thought it strange that she had one heart capable of filling two ears with noise. She often thought the extra heart belonged to her late mother. She knew that the dead hid pieces of themselves in the world. They buried organs in the living. They stuffed memories into trees and clouds and other innocuous
things.
It wasn’t very often that Pram accompanied her aunts into town, but when she did, she could sense these sorts of things. In shop windows she would see the laughing reflections of the dead. She heard whispers in automobile engines. She could never see these memories clearly, and they disappeared when she blinked, but their existence comforted her. She knew that death was not truly the end and that there was always something left.
“Pram!” Aunt Dee called, a little too hysterically. She cleared her throat. “Don’t be shy now.”
“Shy?” Ms. Appleworth said. “If she’s unaccustomed to visitors, some time in a classroom would do wonders.”
The aunts presented a hasty argument. It was guilt and pity that brought Pram out of hiding. She adjusted the pleats of her plaid jumper and hoped it was neat enough to make up for the calamity that was her morning hair.
Ms. Appleworth was as gray as her skirt and vest and hair. She was a drawing that hadn’t been colored.
“Hello, Pram,” she said.
“Six times twelve is seventy-two,” Pram blurted. “I can spell ‘arithmetic’; would you like to hear?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Ms. Appleworth said. “Though I’d be interested to hear about your lessons. Do you enjoy learning?”
This question felt like a trick, and Pram wasn’t sure
how
to answer. “Sometimes,” she said. “When it’s something in which I’m interested.”
Ms. Appleworth raised her eyebrows. “Most children wouldn’t know not to end their sentences in a preposition. How old are you now, dear?”
“Eleven years and twenty-six days,” Pram said.
“She’s very bright,” Aunt Dee said. “She can recite the balcony scene of
Romeo and Juliet
from memory.”
Pram would have added that she knew all the multiplication tables, but she could see that it wouldn’t matter. Ms. Appleworth was looking at her the way others had looked at her in the past, when they realized she wasn’t quite normal.
It was the preposition, Pram thought, angry with herself.
“Thank you, dear,” Ms. Appleworth said. “You may run along and do your chores.”
Pram didn’t have any chores, but she went and collected the breakfast plates and brought a soapbox to the sink so that she could wash them.
Her aunts were having a long discussion with the schoolmarm, and Pram had washed the dishes twice before she heard the front door open and close.
Hands dripping, she walked down the hallway, clenching and unclenching her fists, splashing the walls.
“
Boo,” Edgar whispered as she passed his wheelchair. He was no longer lucid.
Pram stood before her aunts for a few seconds and then raised her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I tried.”
“You haven’t done anything to be sorry about,” Aunt Dee said, but she was wringing her apron. Aunt Nan was frowning.
“I’ll have to go to school,” Pram said. “Won’t I?”
“For now,” Aunt Nan said.
Pram felt sick. “Why?” she asked.
