My Diary from the Edge of the World (9 page)

“It's just drawings and paintings,” Millie said. “It doesn't prove anything.” Which was exactly what I'd been thinking. Sometimes I hate how Millie and I can have the same exact thoughts at the same time. “It's not real.”

Grandma got a twinkle in her eye, stood up, and went into a closet in the corner of the room. She came back with three objects in her hands and laid them down on the rug.

One was a page from an encyclopedia, showing a photograph of a jellyfish called the
Turritopis nutricula
(and showing on a map of the round earth where
such a creature could generally be found). One was a little unopened foil packet labeled
SNACK BAG
from Delta Airlines. (“In the Extraordinary World aeroplanes are so commonplace, just about everyone rides on them!” Grandma explained.)

But the most convincing thing of all was a simple postcard. It was a photo, taken from the air, of a city full of real, gleaming hotels, helicopters hovering overhead, lights pulsing along the tops of soaring glass buildings.
Viva Las Vegas, Nevada!
it read at the top.

There are no cities in Nevada. There are no helicopters. The reality of what she was showing us settled around me. I felt my pulse pounding in my wrists. Somewhere, I realized, there was another Nevada. How could that be?

“They're yours to keep,” Grandma said with an easy smile, as if she hadn't just turned our world upside down. “I want you to take them with you when you go. To remind you of where you're headed.”

“Where'd you get these things?” Millie asked. She sounded breathless and as shocked as I felt.

Grandma and Dad looked at each other. “I used to be something of a treasure hunter,” Grandma said. “Always looking for rare items—antiques, artifacts . . . I
found these at an estate sale. The guy was some kind of explorer, himself.”

“Why didn't you ever tell us, Teddy?” Mom breathed. “That you had proof?” She looked so astounded that I realized, suddenly and with certainty, that she had never really believed in my dad's theories at all.

“You're my family. I didn't think I needed to,” Dad said earnestly. He ran a hand down the side of his face thoughtfully, scraping his stubble.

My mom took his hand in hers and kissed his knuckles.

*  *  *

It's evening again and I'm sitting on the edge of my bed, looking down on a dim field full of glowing ghosts shining in the dark. My room is in the crow's head and my window is one of his eyes.

We spent the day soaking in a hot spring Grandma took us to in the woods (it felt so good after all the hiking), learning how to call the crows to our fingers, and watching Grandma bake a cake for us by flurrying her hands around to one side while also playing Monopoly with us.

Millie was much nicer to Oliver the whole day than she ever is to me. She led him and Sam on a walk
around outside, while I was helping Grandma in the kitchen. (If the crows are helpers too, they didn't do it in front of me.) I watched the three of them out the window, a lump in my throat: Millie likes to steal my friends. It used to annoy me so much that I started an I Hate Millie Club when I was nine and forced all my friends to join. The thing is, she is so charming when she wants to be that people can't resist her. I, on the other hand, fall a little short in the charm department.

After we were done in the kitchen, Grandma went down to the glade muttering that she had to do something for the ghosts, and I was so curious about what it might be that I went after her. As I stepped outside, she turned and gestured me forward. She was standing beside a big cardboard box, and as I cautiously walked up beside her, I glanced into it at a pile of knickknacks. The ghosts retreated at my approach and hovered a few feet away from us.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Giving them some presents I found at a garage sale last time I was in town,” Grandma said, bending over and pulling things out of the box, then laying them on the grass: brass candlesticks, a roll of tinfoil, a package of silver barrettes. “Ghosts love anything
that shines. To them it's as good as gold and jewels.”

The ghosts eyed me warily. Finally, the singed one with the book of matches I'd noticed earlier floated closer. He tried to smile at me, but only managed to grimace, and held out his hands as if to offer me the matches.

“That's okay.” I shook my head. “I don't need any.”

He frowned, nodded, then turned his attention to the shiny things on the ground. He leaned over and took two candlesticks in his hands.

“Only
one
, Samson my pet. You know that. There needs to be enough to go around.” Grandma turned to me, grinning. “They can't talk,” she explained, “but they can understand well enough.” Samson laid one of the candlesticks down and then floated backward toward the cave. He clutched his treasure to his chest with pride as he disappeared into the darkness.

“Poor Samson,” Grandma said, shaking her head. “Sad story. He was burned in a big fire. I read about it in the archives at the library in town—I like to know about my ghosts.” She handed a roll of tinfoil to a woman in a filmy bridal gown, who darted away quickly. “He set the fire himself, couldn't resist playing with matches. Clouds came for the others who died, but no Cloud ever
found Samson.” She sighed. “I just feel so sorry for the poor creatures. It must be so hard to be stuck forever in one place. To never move on.”

The ghosts went on taking their shiny objects from her, one after the other, and then retreated into the cave, no doubt to stash their treasures somewhere in the Underworld far below. I breathed a little easier once they were all gone. Grandma smiled with satisfaction and closed up the top of the empty box.

“Grandma,” I asked, “if the Extraordinary World is real, why did
we
get stuck with all the monsters and the ghosts and the Underworld? Why are
they
so lucky instead of us?”

“Ohhh.” Grandma pursed her lips and shook her head. “We get what we get. You can't really compare. I bet they have their own troubles.”

“But they don't have Clouds.”

Grandma turned her eyes to me, the glass one trailing the real one. “That's true. They don't have Clouds.”

“Do you really think it's still coming for Sam?” I asked, barely above a whisper. “Do you really think Dad's right and we can save him if we go far enough?”

Grandma placed a hand on my shoulder. “I'll tell you something about your Dad, Gracie. Ever since he
was a kid, he holds on to everything like
this
.” She squeezed her hands into tight little fists at her chest and scrunched up her face, shutting her eyes tight. “He thinks everything has to be just the way he wants it to be, or else . . . disaster! He can't be happy when things are messy, and trust me, things are
always
messy.” Grandma opened her eyes again; they twinkled with good humor. “But letting go . . . it isn't always as horrible as it seems. Just look at these poor ghosts.” She nodded toward the cave. “They're stuck forever. And that's much worse.”

I can't imagine ever letting go of Sam. Without him, I wouldn't be me. We, the whole Lockwood family, wouldn't be us.

“But to answer your question, yes,” Grandma went on, “I believe you can make it where you want to go. It just takes a little trust.” She looked up at the sky, as if searching for answers, then back at me. “Easier said then done, I know.”

*  *  *

Tonight I've just been sitting here thinking about Grandma's words and watching the sky deepen and darken. Supposedly there is a man on the moon who watches over us, but nobody's ever been there to
discover whether it's true or not. It's the same with the constellations. People say they battle it out every night, ruling our lives on earth. But if that's true, we can't say for sure.

*  *  *

Oliver came in a few minutes ago and has just left.

“Hey, Gracie,” he said, standing in the door a little shyly, “just wondering if you needed anything.”

“Like what?” I asked.

He rubbed his ears, looking shy. “Well, I guess I was really thinking about me. I don't like sitting alone in my room. I shouldn't admit this, but I keep thinking about ghosts looking in my window.”

I motioned that he was welcome to come in, and he sat down beside me on the bed. I'd never sat alone next to a boy who wasn't Sam in any room, anywhere, and it made me feel sophisticated. Sometimes I wish that there was an audience around to watch my most interesting moments.

Since I was positive Millie had been charming all afternoon, I wanted to make stimulating conversation, maybe even a joke, but I couldn't think of anything good. . . . And anyway, Oliver has this effect on me like I can't pretend to be something I'm not when
I'm around him. I guess deep down, at that moment, I wasn't a jokey someone.

“I've just been sitting here thinking about how far away we are from the stars,” I finally said, even though I knew it was a peculiar thing to be thinking about. “It makes me feel really tiny. And that makes me feel scared.”

“I like it,” Oliver said. “I like feeling small.”

I can't imagine why anyone would like feeling small. But I didn't say that. I just sat next to him and tried to be as okay with the silence as he was. After a while it started to feel kind of nice, actually. Maybe I should try being quiet around people more often.

“I feel better now,” Oliver finally said, standing and moving toward the door. “Thanks, Gracie.”

“Okay. Good night, Oliver.” I gave him a little wave as he walked out.

And now I'm back to staring out at the sky, which every moment is more and more speckled with stars. I just wished on a shooting one. (I cheated and made two wishes—for Sam to be okay and for us all to go home to Cliffden.)

What I haven't mentioned that's been on my mind a lot today—while soaking in the hot springs and eating cake with Grandma and even standing in the glade of
ghosts—is that for the first time in my life, I've realized I may have been completely wrong about my dad. All his letters to the editor, all the times I've felt so embarrassed of him, all his crazy certainty about something I thought was impossible. And it looks like he was really right all along.

*  *  *

I do also want to say that I think Oliver's face isn't fishlike at all, the longer I look at it.

We've been here for six
glorious days. We've soaked in the hot springs until our fingers turned to prunes. We've gone butterfly hunting with Grandma. (She says she can understand the language of insects, which—she also says—have a thousand different words for green. Dad says not to believe her.) We've had our auras read. (Mine is fuchsia, Millie's is a soft lavender, Sam's is a pale green, Oliver's is brown. Dad refused to have his read, but Mom was pleased to find out hers is a rainbow and always changing.)

Grandma hasn't tried even once to put spells on us, and I've realized that it's not some huge terrible thing that made her and Dad stop talking—it's just that they're so different, and don't seem to agree on anything except
the Extraordinary World (even though you can tell they love each other). Try as I might, I can't picture my dad growing up here and feeling anything but out of place.

The biggest thing that's happened is that we've planned a route to the edge of the earth. A few nights ago after dinner, Grandma cleared the plates and then leaned her elbows on the table. I knew just by the look on her face that the conversation was about to turn serious.

“The world is more dangerous than it used to be,” she said, once we'd all resettled ourselves.

“Kids,” Mom said, “why don't you head outside and find something to do? Just don't go near the glade.”

Grandma put her hand in mine as I reluctantly stood up.

“The older ones should hear this.”

We all stood looking at Mom expectantly, halfway between leaving and staying. Finally, Mom only sent Sam off to his room to play, and the rest of us settled back into our chairs. Sam dragged his feet across the room, casting disgruntled glances at us before trudging upstairs.

“The world is more dangerous than it used to be,” Grandma repeated, laying her palms firmly on the table for emphasis. “The northern and southern sheets of ice are growing, pushing all the beasts closer toward
us. Our cities get swallowed by trees, the Great Kraken rules the Southern Sea, mermaids are building underwater villages even in the inlets now, and sasquatches outnumber people here in West Virginia three to one.” Grandma slid her hands together and folded them tightly. “I don't know what else; I'd be more up to date on these things if someone would bring me a newspaper every once in a while.”

She sighed, touching her curls to smooth them out. “I'm just saying it's wild out there . . . and getting wilder all the time.”

A cupboard opened in a corner of the room, and a crinkly, yellowing scroll floated toward the table. Grandma reached up, grasped it in her left hand, then spread it out on the table in front of us. It was a map of the United States.

“Now, let's just see here what your choices are. You have Chicago.” She jabbed a finger near the top of the map. “Home of architects and journalists. Lots of freshwater mermaids, because of the Great Lakes. It'd be nice to gather more information there from one of the great archives, but Chicago's been taken back by the woods, ivy growing to the top of even the tallest buildings. . . .” She sighed. “There's nothing there for you.” She scanned
the map thoughtfully. “There's New York, the Magic City.” (We learned in fourth-grade bio that it's been scientifically proven that magical ability is caused by a special gene in our DNA. New York has more magical families than any other place in the US. Incidentally, the city is home to the only TV stations and movie studios in the country, and it's where most of the manufacturing happens, which is why the farther you get from the northeast, the harder it is to buy anything nice and new.)