Double Spell (12 page)

“Why, he means this house.” She looked at the house, curiosity for the moment getting the better of fear. “I wonder what it looked like?” Then it occurred to her, “I suppose it looked like all those other houses we’ve been looking at. When was it built first, anyway?” She picked up the book and leafed quickly back through it. “Here it is,
‘The first log house was constructed in 1833 to be replaced in two years by a more substantial brick structure of the kind fashionable at that time.’ ”

“Well I know what that was,” said Jane, and began trying to puzzle out the old house inside the shape of the new.

“There’s the peak, just below the tower over our door,” she murmured holding up her forefinger and tracing its outline as though she were drawing a sketch. “There’s the roof line, no trim though – yes, it must be under the ivy.”

The outline of the little house was beginning to show itself to her, like the cat or the teacup in the pictures where it says, “find the hidden whatever it is.”

“Then Porridge’s pigeon hole and that other one across from it must be part of the decoration,” she said staring at the back of the house in deep concentration. Suddenly, it was all there, the complete outline of the “substantial brick structure.” She could see the whole thing, hidden though it was by so many years of entwining ivy – a small, red brick house with a low door, a window above, and, at either side of the door, white wood lace trim twirling and curving to make two circular designs near the second floor gable peak. “Roses,” said Jane in a dry whisper, “not pigeon holes, roses – all the time. It was here, all the time it was here – in Aunt Alice’s house – our house, Amelia’s house, Hester’s house.”

She jumped to her feet, the big house faded and the little one was left, its brick new and bright red, its ivy a thin runner of baby green leaves along one side, its white wood trim freshly painted with the two roses clearly visible over
the low door. Not the kitchen door of Aunt Alice’s house, but the front door of the other one, its stone step in front of it and the little yellow and white butter and eggs flowers growing around it and in its cracks. Not Hester’s house, her house. She was still standing there beside the cherry tree, not old and gnarled now, but small and young and straight. And the water was visible out of the edge of her eye – not a pond or creek as Elizabeth had assumed, but the whole of Lake Ontario – still and pewter gray under the sultry sky, the same sky, the same hot heat there had been for days. She was still Jane standing there, but now she was the other person too. She looked down at herself and saw she was wearing a long dress, blue, the dress from the sick basket dream, from the candy store on King Street. She had no shoes on.

The other person likes barefoot too,
she thought, wriggling her toes in the grass, and was glad. Her hair was the same as it had always been, two long brown braids, hot and sticky on her head, and she was surprised to see that she still wore the bracelet Pat had found in the coach house.

“Oh no, it’s not the same,” she said, and held her wrist up to see, but it was the same, only new, so new you could see the roses.

“Roses,” she said, shaking her head, “roses again. Why didn’t we see that, roses, painted red and white, rose red and snow white …”

Nervously she smoothed down the unfamiliar long skirt. The other’s memory began to intrude and she heard herself say, “I’m coming,” and felt the other’s irritation.
“Oh Hester, don’t be so impatient,” she heard herself say, almost as though it were someone else saying it – but not quite.

And then the fear that was her own came rushing back. The house faded a little, the big house reappeared as if in a double exposed photograph.

“I won’t go in there,” she cried, “I won’t go!” but felt herself, willy-nilly, with the touch of her long skirt against the grass, walking toward the house. It was like being a bone, torn between two dogs.

“Elizabeth,” called Jane, “Liza, please come home!” A face appeared at the upstairs window, the big house faded once more, the feet under the long skirt continued toward the house.

From under the lilac bush, Horse began to whine. “Oh Horse,” cried Jane in a last frantic plea, “please come with me!” But Horse, his fur standing up in a ridge along his spine, backed further under the bush, watching her unhappily from under his tangled white hair.

“I’m coming, Hester,” she called to the upstairs window, “I’m coming.”

Melissa

I
t was at this point that Elizabeth, just getting on the subway to take her to Mr. Hedley’s Avenue Road apartment, stopped short, felt Jane’s frantic plea for help, turned around, and took the next streetcar back. All the way into town she had felt uneasy. She had explained it to herself by saying it was because she felt guilty taking the doll to Mr. Hedley without Jane’s permission, but suddenly she knew it wasn’t and she was scared. And then she saw it too. Sitting at the back of the streetcar, surrounded by noisy, chattering people, the picture of their house – Aunt Alice’s house – leapt into her mind and over it, the same way Jane had seen it, like a double exposed photograph, the little house of their dream. Its peaked roof ended just below the tower window, its white wood carved roses fitted themselves neatly over the pigeon holes of Aunt Alice’s house, its front yard settled into the kitchen garden. And, just as it had happened with Jane, Aunt Alice’s house
faded. The dream became reality and Elizabeth was sharing completely the memory of someone who had lived in that smaller, older house.

She remembered now, not as two people, but as one, the other girl in her long blue dress. She remembered, as the other must so often have done, horror and grief. Smoke was pouring out of the upstairs window. She could feel heat – the hot sultry heat of the day and the heat of the flames from upstairs. There was a crowd of people, shouting and running, then suddenly quiet. She was trying desperately to get into the house but someone’s big hands were holding her back.

“I have to go in there,” she was sobbing. “You can’t stop me. It’s my sister in there. She’ll die! You can’t stop me.” Then understanding without being told, understanding from the silence of the crowd outside that it was too late, she looked up and saw Hester, Hester in a pink dress with red ribbons on it, half-hidden behind her mother’s fashionable wide brown skirt, Hester looking white and scared.

She screamed at Hester, she remembered it so clearly, “It’s your fault, it’s your fault,” over and over again. “It’s your fault. Oh Hester, I hate you, I hate you forever and ever! Oh Anne …” and then the sobs that seemed never to cease.

It was all there, the memory of that day, with the agony of its first happening, and Elizabeth Hubbard sitting on the streetcar, her fist clenched over a small wooden doll that had once belonged to that other girl – that other twin – remembered it all. And the memory was like a flood let
loose over a broken dam, pouring out, carrying with it bits of memory from other days: an instant of joy with Anne in the winter snow, a trip in the cart with a new spring lamb, the misery of saying good-bye to the little house and the lake, the sailing ship on its way back to England.

But as the strength of that one tortured memory faded, so did the others, and Elizabeth was herself again. Rubbing the tears away from her cheeks, sniffing shakily and ignoring the stares of nearby passengers, she tried to sort things out. “It was twins,” she said. “Twins. Why didn’t we see it was twins? We should have seen that. Twin roses – two of them. That’s why it was us. We should have known that. It wasn’t the same memory we borrowed, not Hester’s, not the doll’s. Jane had one and I had one and the roses were for two … and it was our house, of course it was our house, not Hester’s house and Hester was …” Elizabeth’s stomach turned over. She realized who Hester was. “Hester is Jane’s ghost,” she cried out loud, causing the stares to become more pointed and the woman beside her to get up and move away. “It’s Hester who’s been doing all the things, Hester who was in the attic, Hester who … oh glory … and Jane is there.” Elizabeth jumped up from her seat and got off the streetcar at the next stop – four stops before Hayberry Street.

“I’m coming,” she whispered as she hurried along the street. She wished achingly that she’d paid more attention to Jane’s fears. How could she have been so stupid? she wondered, she who had known from the beginning that something strange was going on, who’d said all along
that there was a clue somewhere they were missing. How could she have ignored Jane’s feeling about the ghost? It was all so obvious now. “I’m coming, Jane, oh please don’t let it be too late.”

She began to run, bumping into people as she did, past stores, houses, apartments, her breath heaving up from the bottom of her stomach, perspiration streaming down her face, sticking her hair tight to her head and wetting a dark round spot on the back of her white shirt. “I’m coming,” she kept saying in uneven rhythm to her stumbling feet. And all the while, at the back of her head, was the picture of that other day and that other twin. Tears came again and mixed with the sweat on her face.

She raced down Hayberry Street in a last sprint of energy, along Sabiston Court, around the corner of the house and was staggering toward the back door when an unearthly sound from the garden stopped her cold. The hair at the back of her neck prickled and her hot skin turned cold with goose flesh. It came again. A howl, a moan, almost a scream. By will power she hadn’t known she had, Elizabeth slowly turned around. Terror evaporated and she collapsed on the ground, her legs like melting jelly.

Horse, terrified by what was happening in the house and garden, had never emerged from his shelter under the lilac bush. His haunches deep under the bush, his unruly head shoved as close into the ground as he could get it, he had lain there, glaring balefully at the house.

When he saw Elizabeth rounding the corner of the house, headed in his direction, his tail began to thump in hopeful anticipation. But when he saw her stumbling right by him, not seeing him at all, he couldn’t help himself. He opened his mouth and let out a yowl of pain and despair.

“Oh Horse,” sighed Elizabeth through her deep, exhausted breathing, “oh, Horse,” and he looked so awkward and foolish, still not willing to come out from under his bush, his tail thumping like a drum against the earth, his eyes beseeching her so mournfully, she began to laugh. And it was laughter that saved Elizabeth, gave her back her sense and reason and a kind of courage she may never have had before, and probably saved Jane’s life.

She lay there a moment, her cheek against Horse’s ecstatic head. “I love you, Horse,” she said at last, “but if you won’t come with me, I’ll have to go without you,” and she walked steadily to the house, through the back door and up the stairs to the old attic. The door wouldn’t open.

“Jane,” she called firmly through the door, “Jane, it’s me, Elizabeth.”

Anne

I
nside the attic Jane heard, but dimly, as though the voice outside was the unreal dream voice and what was happening here, inside, was real. She wasn’t Jane now. She hadn’t been since the moment she entered the house following Hester’s call. Jane was somewhere deep inside a distant, borrowed memory. She was the living memory of another girl named Anne and she was standing, not in the dreary gray attic with its clumsily repaired floor, she was in a bright bedroom with walls that had stripes of roses and green leaves freshly painted on. There was a big wooden bed, with low carved posts, a bed she shared with her sister Melissa. There was a small washstand in one corner with a new pink wash basin and ewer they had got from England for Christmas. In the other corner was a square table with a candle on it. Across from that was a blanket chest over which hung the sampler she had spent so many months working. There were white
woven curtains at the window, curtains that hung limp in the excessive heat of the July day.

She was having an argument with her cousin Hester. Hester lived in Toronto, five miles away. Anne didn’t like Hester, neither did Lissa, and Hester knew it. Hester scorned their house in the country, their plain homespun clothes – even their new blue dresses. Her own were always in the latest style
(as though,
thought Anne,
her fat arms were any prettier under those fat sleeves over her elbows)
and made of cloth imported from England – flowered cloth. Hester was a tale bearer and her idea of having fun when she came to visit was to tease the dog, Claverhouse, get the sheep all upset by throwing pebbles into their midst, or turn the pig loose. At least she used to do those things. Nowadays she spent more time making much of the twins’ older brother William.