I went quiet once more, returned to counting the horses. It was easier than talking to her, easier than thinking about our sick mother down the hall and our father in the living room combing through those ancient books full of strange stories, and the sound of that phone ringing and ringing. From behind me, in a softer voice, Rose said, “I’m sorry.”
Since there were so many horses now, it took longer to inspect them. I kept counting, imagining I was staring into an actual herd, breath blowing from their nostrils, tails swishing about to keep the flies away.
“Did you hear me, Sylvie? I said I was sorry. I know I’ve got a mouth on me, as Dad likes to point out. But I shouldn’t use it on you all the time.”
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. I’ll try to be better, though.”
I had seen how easily her efforts to control her behavior peeled away, so I didn’t put much stock in what she was saying. When I finished counting the last of those horses, finding every last one intact, I turned to look at her on my bed.
“You know, I think about it sometimes,” she told me.
“Think about what?”
“Growing up here. I’m hardly the sappy type. But once in a while, I can’t help remembering.”
“Remembering what?”
“Stuff.”
“What stuff?”
“Stuff like sleeping in the living room under those makeshift tents or drawing our houses in the foundation across the street. I remember those times, even if I act like I don’t.”
Her words left me with the same awkward feeling as when I told her I’d miss her if she went to live with Howie. I wanted to ask why we couldn’t share a more grown-up version of that closeness now, but worried the question would make her defensive, so I kept quiet.
“I remember when Mom and Dad first brought you home from the hospital too. ‘Look at its hands,’ I used to say. ‘Look at its feet. It’s so tiny.’ And Mom would say, ‘Rose, your sister is not an it, but a she.’ ” Rose let out a laugh then and paused, lying there with her sneakers on my mattress, staring at that picture of our mother in the paper. I walked over and looked at it again too, my gaze shifting to a passage from Heekin’s article:
“After we returned to our apartment from the hospital, where we had lost our daughter, I put Penny on top of her bed,” said Elaine Entwistle. “For some time, I felt too heartbroken to go back into that room. But when I did, I saw the doll’s arms and legs were arranged differently than I’d left them. I asked my husband if he’d been in that room, and he said no. I told myself it was my imagination, that I wasn’t thinking clearly. But soon, it happened again. That was just the beginning of a series of very strange occurrences, which led us to contact the Masons.”
I stopped reading. I’d already been through it once at the library that day. Clearly, Rose wanted to be done with it too, because she crinkled the paper and tossed it in my wastebasket. “I feel sorry for you, Sylvie.”
“Me?”
“I’ve only got another year left. But you’ve got all of high school with them. It’s not going to be easy after this. And according to Dad, the piece got picked up by other papers. Bigger ones.”
“Maybe people will forget,” I said, detecting that flimsy sound in my voice once more. “Maybe things will go back to normal.”
“Keep telling yourself that. But if I were you, I’d get rid of that doll before she does any more damage.”
“I thought you didn’t believe the things they said about her.”
“I don’t. But does it matter what I think if others out there believe? Now that people know she’s here in this house, Penny will just keep influencing things. Look at Mom and Dad. They believe, and it’s changed them already. It’s changed the whole feeling in this house too. It’s like the air is harder to breathe. That’s what belief does, Sylvie. Whether something is true or not is beside the point.”
I sat on the edge of my bed, considering. Finally, I asked, “But get rid of her how? Where?”
“You’re the brainiac. Figure it out.”
Rose looked past me then. Her expression tightened, and I turned to see our father in the doorway. In one hand, he held an ancient book from the curio hutch, so thick and heavy it might have been a weapon. “I made dinner,” he said, his voice deep and low.
“I’ll be right down,” I told him, even though I didn’t feel hungry in the least.
“And what about you, Rose? Should I assume you won’t be joining us again?”
“No thanks,” she answered, quieter than I was used to. “I ate after track practice.”
“Suit yourself. I’ll take food to your mother, Sylvie, then see you downstairs.”