The Appearance of Annie van Sinderen

I look slack-jawed at my mother. It’s today?

It’s today. The meeting of the waters is today. Today, the city celebrates the official opening of the Erie Canal.

Tonight is the Grand Aquatic Display.

I only have one day of memories left. I’m running out of time.

My aunt gives me a wan smile and pats the back of my hand. “You’re pale, Annatje,” she says. “I’ll have the tea ready when you come down. Strengthen the blood. You’ll see.”

She gets up and leaves the room, giving my mother a long warning look.

When she’s gone, Mother comes over and yanks the quilt roughly off me.

“I don’t know what nonsense you’re up to,” she says to me in a low voice. “But I won’t have you ruining today with your histrionics. Now get up. Breakfast will be cold.”

I glare up at her and pull my nightdress down over my legs against the chill in the attic.

“Did they find who left the note yet?” I ask her in an accusing voice.

My mother looks surprised and displeased with my question.

“Never you mind,” she says. “We’re safe here, and everything’s proceeding as planned. Except for my lazy daughter oversleeping. Now get dressed. I’ve laid out your things in Beattie’s room.”

“Is Papa here?” I ask.

“Yes. For another half an hour or so. In the drawing room.”

Mother gives me one last glare from the doorway.

“What?” I ask her, defiant.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into you,” she says. “But we need you to step in line. We’re a family. What’s good for one is good for all of us. Don’t you forget that.”

The door clicks shut behind her, and when it’s closed I stick out my tongue.

“What’re you doing that for?” Beattie asks.

She’s just wandered in through the connecting door to the other attic spare room that she’s sharing with Ed, and she’s chewing on something. It proves to be a stick of dried beef. She’s been dressed up like a fashion doll, the ones they display in the windows of expensive mantua-makers. Even her cheeks are rouged. It’s disgusting.

“Come here,” I say to her.

She comes over by the side of the bed, saying, “You want some?” and holding out the beef stick.

I shake my head, and roughly wipe the rouge off her cheek with a moistened thumb.

“Hey!” she whines. “Quit it.”

“You look like an actress, with that stuff on,” I say.

Beattie looks hurt. “Mother said I should look like a lady for the festivities. Why aren’t you dressed? Your dress is much lovelier than mine. Mine doesn’t have a ribbon.”

I can’t believe they’re going to trot my little sister out like a prop for Papa’s benefit. My vision goes red, and I leap out of bed, throwing a shawl around my shoulders.

“Where’s Ed?” I bark at her.

“How should I know?” Beattie shrugs.

I hurry across the room and fling open the door.

“Annie! Where are you going?” Beattie cries after me.

I gallop down the narrow stairs of Aunt Mehitable’s house. They’re so steep they’re almost like a ladder, and I’ve fallen down them more than once. My aunt’s house is one of the oldest on the Square, a dim and narrow clapboard contraption in the English style, with a sharp peaked roof and wooden shutters.

“Papa?” I call out.

Mother said he was in the drawing room. I have to catch him before he leaves. I have to ask him about the letter.

I tear past my aunt’s housekeeper, who gasps at my wraithlike aspect in white linen nightgown and shawl, curls flying. I land with a stomp at the bottom of the stairs and fling myself into the drawing room.

Startled, my father looks up from a newspaper in his hand and stares at me. I’m taken aback by his appearance. Papa looks thin and drawn, with purple rings under his eyes. Sallow skin hangs from his cheekbones with unfamiliar slackness, and his eyes look black and haunted.

“Annatje,” he says, as if reminding himself of my name.