“Fine, darling,” I said, stepping back. “We’ll just visit like this, then.” I settled myself on the floor. “You knock once for yes and twice for no.”
But what to ask? There were so many things I longed to know: what she remembered, if she could recall falling, if it had hurt terribly.
Yes and no questions, I reminded myself.
“Are you all right? Are you … hurt?”
No answer.
I took a breath. Tried again, deciding not to mention anything about the accident or her final day. There would be time for all of that later.
“May I get you something? Are you … are you hungry?”
She knocked once, hard and fast.
“Yes, of course, I’m so sorry, my darling—I’ll bring you some food.”
I raced down the stairs, quickly gathered a biscuit, jam, and a piece of cheese from the larder. I heated up milk and spooned in honey, just the way she liked. My heart leapt with joy to be preparing food for her once more. I hurried back upstairs, terrified that I would find the closet empty—that I had dreamed it all.
“I’m back,” I announced to the closet door. “I’m putting the food right outside the door. Would you like me to go away while you eat?”
One knock.
But, oh, what joy that one knock brought me!
I laid the food down just outside the closet.
“I’ll just be out in the hall,” I told her, backing away.
I slipped out of the room and closed the bedroom door. Then I held my breath and waited. I picked at the skin around my fingernails, squeezing out tiny drops of blood.
I remembered all the times little Gertie and I had played hide-and-seek around the house and yard. How I would wait like this, eyes clamped shut while I counted out loud to twenty, then called out, “Ready or not, here I come!”
And when I’d find her, I’d take her in my arms and she’d laugh, say, “Aren’t I the best hider ever, Mama?”
“Yes, darling. The best ever.”
Sometimes the game would start without warning, even when we were in town. We’d be shopping at the general store, and I’d turn, sure she’d just been right behind me, to find her gone. I’d wander the narrow aisles, the wooden floor creaking beneath my feet, searching. I’d look among the shelves of flour, salt, cornmeal, and baking powder. I might find her hiding amid bolts of fabric, behind the barrel of molasses over by the counter, or in the corner near the coal stove, where the old men gathered to warm their hands and talk. I’d search the store, calling Gertie’s name, and the other patrons would chuckle—the farmers in their bib overalls, the women who’d stopped in for buttons and thread or a box of soap powder—they were all in on the game, sometimes helping me look, sometimes keeping her hiding place secret by standing right in front of it. Abe Cushing once let her hide behind the counter, under the cash register. He fed her candy from the jars he kept on the counter—bits of licorice, toffee, rock candy—while she waited to be discovered.
But this was a new game we were playing. And I was not yet sure of the rules.
The minutes passed by. I stayed still as a stone, listening.
At last, I heard the squeak of hinges as the closet door opened, the sound of the plate being dragged into the closet. It took all of my will not to open the door and try to catch a glimpse of her. How I longed to set eyes on her again, to prove to myself that she was real!
There was silence for a moment. This was soon followed by the sound of glass smashing. I hurried back into the room just in time to see the closet door slam. The plate had been thrown, its contents strewn across the floor. The glass of milk was shattered.
“I’m so sorry, Gertie,” I said, my hand pressed against the door. “But we can try again. We’ll find something you like. I’ll bake molasses cookies. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
One weak knock.
I sat back down on the floor amid the collection of rejected food. Spilled milk soaked my dress.
“I’m just so happy you’re here. You are here, aren’t you?”
One knock.
I laid my hand against the closet door, stroking the wood.
“And you’ll stay? You’ll stay as long as you can?”
One knock.
I knew what Martin would say if I told him—what anyone in his right mind would say—but I didn’t care. I didn’t care if I was going mad, or if all of this was a figment of my imagination.
My Gertie was back. Nothing else mattered.
Martin
January 25, 1908