When I arrived home, I found my father in the living room, curio hutch wide open as he inspected the books inside. The phone rang and rang, but he made no move to answer it. I’d long since returned the “history” book, but the sight of him there worried me anyway. Don’t bring up the article, I told myself, sensing that it would be better to discuss it with my mother. “What are you looking for?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
“Just gathering information for a new lecture. We booked two more today, and I’d like to give them a bit more historical context. People are so obsessed with what they see in movies, and I want them to understand the way malevolent spirits can have a more subtle but devastating influence on their lives if they don’t keep them at bay. For example, in the 1600s—”
“I don’t want to go on those trips anymore,” I heard myself say over the ringing phone.
“Excuse me?” my father said, distracted still by the thick book in his hands.
“I don’t like missing school. It’s too hard to make up.”
“You’ll be fine.” Without looking at me, he flipped the pages, saying, “We tried leaving you girls here alone before. Remember how that turned out?”
The image of Dot, naked and cowering in the corner of their bathroom, came to life in my mind. “But that was because of Rose.” Or mostly because of Rose, I thought.
“Sylvie, I don’t know where this is coming from,” he told me, shutting the book and paying attention now. “But we’re not leaving you here alone and we’re not going back to enlisting a nanny service. Besides, I can’t say no. I’ve already agreed to the lectures. They’re paying us three times what we normally get.”
The ringing fell quiet. And again, I heard myself say something unplanned: “Why?”
“Why?” At last, my father looked up from his book with an exasperated expression.
“I mean, why are they suddenly paying more?”
“Well, if you must know, word is getting out about us,” he said with a measure of pride. “People are curious about the things your mother and I do.”
My mother. The mention of her caused me to glance over at her rocker. Penny was not there. As if to prove my father’s point about how in demand they were, the phone began ringing again. “Where is Mom anyway?”
“In bed.”
“Bed? But it’s barely four o’ clock.”
“Yeah, well, she’s not feeling her best.”
“She’s sick again?”
“I’m afraid so, Sylvie.”
Before he was even done talking, I turned and started toward the stairs. My father called after me that I should leave her alone so she could rest, but I ignored him, going directly to my parents’ bedroom and peeking in.
Since the shades were drawn, the green glow of the alarm clock was the only light in that room. My mother’s body was a lump under the covers once more. I could make out only her pale face, eyes closed, on the pillow. Someone must have turned off the ringer on the phone in their room, because inside I heard only the soft rise and fall of her breathing even as down below the sound started up again. I wanted to bring my mother soup and cool washcloths and ginger ale, to take care of her the way she had always taken care of us, but there seemed to be nothing to do at the moment except let her sleep. I stepped away and went to my room, where I found Rose lying on my bed.
“How did you get in here?” I asked, since I had locked the door when I left.
My sister ignored the question, held out a copy of the Dundalk Eagle. “I’ve been waiting for you. Did you see this?”
I looked down at the photo of our mother cradling Penny. “Someone said something at school,” I told her. “So, yeah. I went to the library and found it.”
“Why do they have to put this crap in the paper? It makes us look insane.”
“Don’t blame them both. I was there when Dad took that picture. She said she didn’t want it turning up anywhere.”
“Well, she’s an idiot for posing for it in the first place. What does she expect out of him?”
I fell quiet, turning to look up at the horses, counting their legs, counting their tails. I’d taken Rose up on her offer, and now that shelf held her horses too. Fourteen of them crowded for space—a herd that had come to the edge of a cliff. “Don’t call Mom names,” I said, quietly. “She’s sick again. I’m worried about her. Something’s not right.”
“Yeah, and I’ll tell you when it began: the moment they came down the stairs from that apartment in Ohio lugging that doll.”
After so many weeks spent waiting for her to broach the topic, there it was at last. “That morning I walked with you to the bus stop. You said you were going to tell me things about what goes on in this house. But you never mentioned another word. Why?”
“You were the one who had it on your mind, Sylvie. You should have asked me again. Besides, I’ve been busy focusing on other things.”
“What other things?”
“My life. Some of us actually have one. Unlike you.”