Buzz bolted up in bed, body rigid. “Whatisit?”
Ruthie pointed to the closet, hand shaking. “There’s something in there,” she told him, her throat almost too dry to speak. “Watching us.”
Buzz had his feet on the floor in two seconds and the crowbar in his hand. He bounded to the closet, swept back the clothes on hangers.
“Nothing here,” he said, after a second.
Ruthie shook her head, rolled out of bed, and approached the closet cautiously. There was nothing but the familiar rows of shoes, her parents’ clothing on hangers. But something was different. The air in the closet felt strange—crackling and used up. And there was an odd acrid, burning odor—something familiar to her, but she couldn’t say where she’d smelled it before.
“Maybe it was just a bad dream?” Buzz said, ruffling her hair.
“Yeah, maybe,” she said, and closed the closet door hard, wishing she could lock it.
Visitors from the Other Side
The Secret Diary of Sara Harrison Shea
January 15, 1908
Things have become so very strange—I feel as though I am floating outside my body, watching myself and those around me with the same curiosity as if I were watching actors on a stage. Our kitchen table is piled high with food the women bring: brown bread, baked beans, smoked ham, potpies, potato soup, gingerbread, apple crisp, fruitcake soaked in rum. The smell of the food sickens me. All I can think is how much Gertie would have loved it all—fresh gingerbread topped with whipped cream! But Gertie is gone, and the food keeps coming.
I see myself nod, shake people’s hands, accept their hugs and food and kind gestures. Claudia Bemis has cleaned the house from top to bottom and kept the coffeepot full. The men have split kindling, carried in bundles of firewood, kept the dooryard shoveled.
Lucius has stayed right by Martin’s side. The two of them spent much of yesterday in the barn together, building Gertie’s coffin.
These past two days, so many people have come to pay respects, to say how sorry they are. Their words are hollow. Empty. Soundless bubbles rising to the surface of the water.
Gertie is with the angels now.
We’re praying for you.
The schoolteacher, Delilah Banks, came calling. “Gertie had the most fanciful thoughts,” she said through tears. “I can’t tell you how very much I will miss her.”
One teary-eyed face after another, a chorus of voices low and somber: So sorry. We’re so, so very sorry.
I do not wish for their sympathy—what I want is my Gertie back, and if no one can give me that, then, as far as I’m concerned, the world can just go away and take their tears and potpies and gingerbread with them.
Poor old Shep has taken up residence at the foot of Gertie’s chair in the kitchen. He lies there all day, looking hopeful each time he hears someone enter the room, only to rest his head mournfully on his front paws when he sees it is not Gertie.
“Poor love,” my niece, Amelia, says, getting down on her knees to stroke the dog’s head and feed him choice scraps. Amelia has been very kind. She has insisted on staying with us for a few days to help with things. She is twenty-one, very striking, strong-willed.
Last night, she brought me some warm brandy before bed and insisted I drink the whole cup. “Uncle Lucius says it’ll do you good,” she explained.
Then she took up my brush and began to work the tangles out of my hair. I haven’t had my hair brushed for me since I was a little girl.
“Can I tell you a secret?” Amelia asked.
I nodded.
“The dead never really leave us,” she whispered to me, her lips so near my ear I could feel the warmth of her breath. “There is a circle of ladies in Montpelier who meet once a month and speak with those who have passed on. I have been several times now, and heard the spirits rapping on the table. You must come with me, Aunt Sara,” she said, her voice growing urgent. “As soon as you feel up to it, we will go.”
“Martin would not approve,” I said.
“Then we won’t tell him,” she whispered.
Martin has been no comfort—he is shy, clumsy, and awkward. Once, I found these things sweetly boyish and endearing; now I find myself wishing that he were a different man, a man more sure of himself. I have come to despise the way he never looks anyone in the eye—how is a man like that to be trusted? There was a time, not all that long ago, I even loved his limp, because in some way it reminded me of everything he’d given our family—his constant drive to keep us warm and fed, to keep the farm going no matter what. Now I loathe the way his bad foot scrapes across the floor so noisily; it is the sound of weakness and failure. I know it’s wrong, and it makes me sick, this new seething venom inside me, but I cannot help it.