Winter Shadows (12 page)

Dad said casually, “I hear Blair dropped by. What did she want?” I looked at him as if he’d said something stupid. Which he had. “Yeah, okay, she came to see how you were. But what else?”

I knew what he meant. Was Blair filling my head with stuff he didn’t like? Like how she felt Dad had been rushed into marriage by Jean, who had secretly and slyly courted him even before Mom died. That was Blair’s theory anyway. Mine, too.

Jean had been one of a small group of neighbors from the local Women’s Institute Mom belonged to who helped us in her final few weeks. Jean had spent a lot of time here. I was so focused on Mom, I hadn’t noticed her much. She and the other women were usually gone when I got home from school anyway. Blair wanted to be the only caregiver during the day, but Mom said Blair had to make a living and shouldn’t shut down her shop. She insisted her sister come only in the evenings.

“Did your aunt say anything about the changes in the house?” Dad asked.

“Just that the old furniture should be in proper storage, not in the barn.”

He looked sour. “She’d probably like to sell it in her shop. She was always jealous that your mom got this house and the antiques in it.”

“You have
never
said that before, Dad! Because you know it’s not true. Blair got Grandpa’s business and house when he died. Mom got this house. It was worked out between them ahead of time. That’s sick, Dad. You must really hate Blair.”

“I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. And I don’t
hate
her,” he said quickly.

“I bet it was Jean’s idea that Aunt Blair hasn’t come around because she’s jealous. You both know why Blair doesn’t come. She’s not welcome here.”

He shrugged and looked away.

“Look, Dad, she just stopped by to see how I was. She said I could come and stay with her when I feel better. I’ll go there during the holidays for a few days.”

I saw him bristle. “Of course. She’s your aunt. However, Jean did say Blair was very brusque with her.”

“Aunt Blair didn’t come to see Jean. What are you going to do? Ban Mom’s sister from the house?”

“Don’t be silly. It was her choice to cut herself off from the rest of us. I’m glad she stopped by to see you. But if she’s going to be difficult …”

I was done. I heard Dad sigh, then the door clicked shut. I rolled onto my side. I knew he was still hurt by Aunt Blair not accepting Jean into the family. But he hadn’t done anything to fix it.

Around midnight, I woke up and thought about Beatrice. I touched the star brooch. My skin prickled and, almost
instantly, the diary appeared on my bed. It felt warmer this time, the brown leather oily soft. I quickly turned the pages until I reached the spot where she’d ended the last time.

Something had been added! The ink was fresh, dark. I read avidly. She
had
seen me in the school bus and in her classroom, too, her brooch pinned to my bright red top.

I kept reading. I loved it when she caught Ivy stealing from the wooden crate and Duncan witnessing the whole thing. I especially liked Duncan for telling his mother off. Beatrice thought he was doing it to get back at his mother, but I think he likes Beatrice. After the fight with Ivy, Beatrice saw me lying sick in my bed, and the shock of it all, plus the lack of food, had made her faint. It was clear from her writing that she was totally bewildered.
Was I only adding to her already fragile state?

After agreeing to spend Christmas with Miss Cameron and Reverend Dalhousie, I wondered if Beatrice would get a chance to know Robert better. So far, I wasn’t all that impressed with him. He seemed stiff, with almost no sense of humor, but oddly enough, of the two guys, Beatrice seemed more interested in Dalhousie than Duncan.
Was she really interested in either?

There was one thing I was sure of, though: Ivy would get even with Beatrice somehow for catching her stealing from that gift box.

I closed the book. Suddenly it hit me. I was definitely seeing three people from this house – Beatrice, her grandmother, and now Duncan, even if it was only a
quick blurred view. I wish I’d caught a glimpse of his face when he picked her up. It might have told me how he really felt about her.

What was happening to me?
I could feel the chill of the room on my shoulders and the smoothness of the sheets on my toes. I knew for certain I wasn’t sleeping. I could smell the scented oil from the leather diary on my fingertips, along with banana-strawberry sweetness from the empty yogurt tub. I had an 1856 journal resting in my hands. I put it down and watched it slowly fade away, then fell back on my pillows.
If Beatrice was really living in this house in 1856, why was the journal passing through time and appearing to me?

And if all of this was about ghosts, or time travel, or about seeing people from the past who weren’t alive anymore, why didn’t Mom come to see me? Where was she? Was she angry at me? Was she gone forever?

I hadn’t really cried for her yet – I was still too angry at the unfairness … the awfulness of it all. I longed for her, and yet I couldn’t think about her too often because the glass shard inside my chest would stab me again. When she was sick, I knew I was losing her bit by bit. But then, suddenly one night, she was gone, and I couldn’t say sorry.

After that, I had only Dad and Aunt Blair to lean on. And then Jean came and Blair left. And Dad let her go.

I didn’t choose to have Jean or her kid in my life. Yet here they were. They say you can’t choose your family, but you can choose your friends. I have news for you. Sometimes you can’t choose either.

I
hated
it here now. Every day, I got up. I went to
school. I came home. I lay in bed until dinner was called. Afterward, I did my homework and went back to bed. That was my life.

Was I becoming a ghost in my own house?

I stared into the darkness, too tired to think. The sun was just rising when the door opened and Jean entered with a tray. Tea, toast, jam.

“No coffee?” I asked.

“Your dad said lemon herbal tea. He made it.”

Dad walked in. “I’m off, girls.” He kissed my forehead, testing my temperature like Mom used to do. “Fever’s down. How’re ya doing?”

What should I say? My ears and throat feel a bit better, but my brain has strep, and it’s eating away at my brain cells and making me imagine all sort of weird things? And, oh yeah, I still hate your new wife?

“Better,” I muttered.

“Good.” He grinned. “Holidays start in less than a week. You’ll be fine by then. Man, I’m looking forward to the break.”

“Our first Christmas together, Jon,” Jean simpered. “The first of many.”

As they murmured to each other, I pretended to go to sleep. When the door shut behind them, I looked out the window. Great-Uncle Bart told us how the rapids once stretched a long way downriver, causing problems for the traders. After the locks were built, they flooded the rapids with so much water, they vanished. That’s how I felt. Flooded. Unable to see the surface.

I spent the day sleeping until the door opened and Daisy shouted, “You awake?”

“No.”

Someone plopped down on the foot of the bed, then bounced up and down. I kept my eyes closed. “Go away, you horrible child!”

A strange voice said, “News from the outside world has arrived.”

I pulled the cover over my head. “What are
you
doing here?” I croaked from inside my dark cave.

Martin Pelly laughed. “Greetings from Grand Rapids High. Your mom called the school, and, as I am your brand-new English partner, Mr. Bruin told me to bring you the assignment and two poetry books. It’s worth thirty percent of our final mark. Victorian poets – comparing the romantics with the pastoral ones, whatever that means. We’re to choose two female and two male writers. Fun, huh?”

“I don’t care. I’ll never feel better again,” I croaked. “And FYI, Jean’s not my mother. And also FYI, I don’t want to do schoolwork. Go away.”

He pulled the cover off my head. The static made my hair crackle. I could actually feel it floating in the air. I smeared my hand with lotion and tried to hold my hair down.

“Red nose, red hair, green top. Very Christmasy. You know, I seem to recall someone telling me to make sure I pulled my weight in this project. So who’s backing out now, huh?”

I glowered at him. Jean came in with two mugs and a plate of shortbread.

“I made you some hot chocolate,” she said to Martin. “I’m assuming you came on the school bus. That snow is building up out there.”

He shrugged. “Yeah. But I’ll be fine walking home.”

“You can get a ride with me.” She handed us each a mug. “I’ll stop in and say hi to Donna, if she’s on afternoon shift. Haven’t seen her in a while.”

“Who’s Donna?” I asked.

“Our restaurant manager,” Martin said.

I looked at Jean. “You’re friends with her?”

“I did have a life before I met your dad, you know.”

I frowned. I sometimes forgot she grew up in St. Cuthbert’s.

“Next time, I’ll go home and get my truck first,” Martin said.

As she left, Jean called over her shoulder, “She’s sick, Martin. Half an hour.”

He ate two cookies while checking out my room. “You share, huh? With that weird kid – what’s her name – Dizzy? Maisy?”

“Daisy. And I
have
to share this room. But as long as I’m sick, she’s in with my dad and Jean. That’s fine by me.”

“Your parents divorced?”

“No. My mom died.”

“Oh, right. I’ve heard that. Forgot. I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault. Why do people say they’re sorry when you know they really aren’t? How could they be
when they didn’t know her? But thanks for the books.” I pretended to begin reading.

“I’d miss my mom something awful. That’s why I said it.”

I glanced at him. He was wearing a denim shirt over a yellow T-shirt and jeans. His hair was glossy and almost touched his shoulders. His eyebrows and eyes were nearly as black. The mole by his mouth was flat and smooth.

“Okay. Sorry I snarked,” I murmured.

“Been pretty sick, huh?”

Tears pricked my eyes, but I pretended to sneeze to cover it up.

“Look, first we have to sort out the four writers we’re going to focus on. I used the Internet to see who might be the most interesting. My list is on a sheet inside one of the books.”

“Thanks. I’ll be better soon, and I’ll take a look.”

“Bet you’re glad you’ve got a partner now!” he said.

“Maybe. We’ll see.”

He crunched his way through another cookie. I sipped my hot chocolate, but I could hardly taste it.

“This house is really old,” Martin said.

“Yeah.”

“What’s it like living inside history?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you know – this place is one of the oldest in the area.”

“Built over a hundred and fifty years ago,” I said.

“Pretty amazing when you think about it – I mean, who built it? People who have been dead for a long time.”

“You may think they’re dead,” I blurted out. “But I’m not so sure!”

T
he dragon was waiting in the kitchen. Before announcing my Christmas plans, I decided to ignore her and make bannock and a batch of molasses gingerbread for Papa. He was working on a leather harness at a side table and looked pleased to see me assembling my ingredients, though his glance slid uneasily toward Ivy. We both knew her bannock was like chewing thick leather, her gingerbread dry as dust. She was reheating the inevitable stew, giving me looks of cold malice whenever she caught my eye. I rarely cook anymore, except to prepare Grandmother’s meals. I wonder how much pleasure I’ll have preparing our holiday feast with Ivy hovering nearby like a thin shadow of gloom
.

Why does she hate me so? I tried hard to be pleasant after my return from the east, despite the incident with the brooch. But she refused to offer anything in return. I finally settled for the barest of civilities until our recent arguments. This week has been difficult, strange, and even frightening, as her anger seems to come from deep inside her. I dreaded telling
her and Papa about Christmas Day and the number of people coming for dinner!

While the bannock cooked on the griddle, I mixed spices from Penelope’s Christmas box for the gingerbread, inhaling the scents of cinnamon, mace, allspice, and ginger. There was plenty of buttermilk and molasses to work with, although no doubt Ivy would keep an account of every missing spoonful
.

When the bannock was browned, I slid the round off the griddle. The smell of toasted oatmeal reminded me of winter mornings helping Mama. Sadly, instead of soothing me, it heightened my anxiety. I ate little, my insides balking at the greasy stew, but I managed a piece of gingerbread to settle my stomach
.

“I have some news,” I said brightly, my heart in my throat
.

Papa lowered his spoon, looking interested. Ivy kept eating
.

“Miss Cameron has asked people to host some of our choir members for the festive season … and I have agreed to take in three. They will be no trouble and will sleep in Grandmother and my room.”