Time for Andrew: A Ghost Story

  When Hannah reached up to turn off the gas jet, I glanced at Andrew. He was watching his sister from the rocker, his eyes fixed longingly on her face. A little wave of jealousy swept over me. He'd get to be with her for years, but all I had were a few more minutes.

  In the darkness, Hannah smiled down at me. "Close your eyes," she said. "Go to sleep."

  "But I'll never see you again."

  Hannah's smile vanished. "Don't talk nonsense," she whispered. "You'll see me tomorrow and every day after that."

  In the corner, Andrew stared at his sister and rocked the chair harder. In the silent room I heard it creak, saw it move back and forth.

  Started by the sound, Hannah glanced at the rocker and drew in her breath. Turning to me, she said, "Lord, the moon's making me as fanciful as you. I thought I saw—"

  She shook her head. "I must need a good night's sleep myself." Kissing me lightly on the nose, Hannah left the room without looking at the rocking chair again.

  As soon as we were alone, Andrew said, "What now, Drew? Am I going to be invisible forever? A ghost they'll never see?"

  Standing there in my pajamas, he looked as desperate as the night we'd met. He'd been dying of diphtheria then. Now he was cured, he was home, but things were still far from settled. I was real and he wasn't.

  Fumbling from fear, I began unbuttoning the nightshirt. "Maybe if we change clothes again," I said uncertainly. "If I go up to the attic, if you stay here..."

  Following my example, Andrew slipped out of my pajamas. When I put them on, the cloth felt scratchy and unfamiliar. I snapped the elastic waistband against my stomach, studied the rockets printed on the sleeves, went to the mirror and gazed at my reflection.

  "You look like you did when I first saw you," Andrew said. "Except for your shiner."

  I touched my eye and winced. "How will I explain this to Aunt Blythe?"

  "That's easy enough. Tell her you walked into a door." He frowned. "It's going to be more difficult for me. How can a black eye disappear overnight?"

  "Just say it's another example of your miraculous self-healing powers. Like the fever—no one ever understood how you recovered so fast from that."

  Andrew leapt on the bed and bounced up and down. In midair, he crowed, "Andrew Joseph Tyler, boy wonder. Nothing can harm him, nothing can kill him. He's indestructible!"

  As Andrew crashed, his mood popped like a balloon. "Oh, Lord, Drew," he whispered, "I hope I really am indestructible. Buster's giving me the heebie-jeebies. If I'd known he was going to howl like that, I would never have whistled for him."

  From somewhere behind the house, we heard Papa scolding the dog. By the time the kitchen door slammed shut, the only noise was the shrill rasping of cicadas.

  In the sudden silence, Andrew grabbed my hand and shook it. "I'll miss you, Drew. You've been a regular gent."

  It was hard not to cry, but I was determined to show Andrew I could be as tough as he was. "I'll miss you too," I admitted. "And Hannah and Theo and Mama and Papa. I never had a brother or a sister or a dog of my own before."

  "But you won't miss Edward. He'll be there waiting for you." Andrew meant it as a joke, but neither of us laughed.

  Suddenly serious, I gripped his shoulders tightly and stared into his eyes. "How will I know what happens to you?"

  "Look in the graveyard," Andrew said in a melancholy voice. "If you don't see my tombstone, you'll know I didn't die."

  He laughed to show me he was joking again, but death was even less funny than the old man in the wheelchair. Reaching out, Andrew crooked his little finger with mine. "If I live, I'll find a way to let you know, Drew," he promised. "I owe you that much—and a whole lot more."

  After a little silence, Andrew's face brightened. "You don't suppose you could stay, do you? Just think of the fun we'd have playing tricks on Edward and Mrs. Armiger." He laughed at his own thoughts. "Why, we'd make their heads spin, Drew. They wouldn't know one of us from the other."

  For a moment, it seemed possible. My mother and father were away, they wouldn't miss me. As for Aunt Blythe—well, we'd think of some way to let her know I was all right. We were bouncing on the bed, singing "Yip-I-Addy-I-Ay," when the door opened and Mama appeared. It was Andrew she looked at, not me.

  "Why are you still awake?" she asked. "I told you to go to sleep."

  As Mama approached the bed, Andrew flung his arms around her. "You can see me, Mama," he cried. "Oh, thank the Lord! It's me, your own true son, back again for keeps."

  She stared at him, perplexed. "What nonsense is this? Of course I can see you. Of course it's you. Who else would it be, you silly goose?"

  I slid off the bed and ran to her side. "Me," I shouted, "it could be me."

  When Mama didn't even blink, I tugged at her nightgown. "Look at me," I begged. "I'm here too, we both are, Andrew and me. Can't you see us both?" I hugged her, but all she did was shiver.

  "No wonder this room is so drafty," she murmured. "The attic door is wide open."

  Andrew and I stared at each other, his face reflecting my disappointment. He was visible, I was invisible. Like the design on his quilt, the pattern had reversed.

  Sadly I released Mama. As I turned away, Andrew whispered, "We'll meet again, Drew. I swear it."

  Mama looked at him. "What did you say?"

  "Oh, nothing." Hiding his face from his mother, Andrew winked at me and said, "I was just talking to myself, Mama."

  I took one long last look at Andrew. Much as I wanted to stay, it was time to leave. When Mama reached out to close the attic door, I slipped through it like a ghost. The door shut behind me. I was alone at the bottom of the dark stairs with nowhere to go but home.

  Chapter 22

  The marbles lay on the attic floor where we'd left them, but Papa had extinguished the candle. It was just a lump of wax now, its wick too small to light again. The faint smell of smoke lingered in the still air like a long-ago birthday party.

  Crawling about in the shadows, I gathered immies and carnelians, cat's-eyes and moonstones. Last of all I found the red bull's-eye. Andrew's lucky shooter had gone wide of its target and rolled into a dark corner. For a few moments, I held it between my palms, feeling its warmth. Reluctantly, I dropped it into the leather bag with the others. Click. The sound was loud in the quiet attic.

  After I'd hidden Andrew's things under the floor, I felt the air thicken and darken the way it had before. My ears rang, my head ached, I was too dizzy to stand, but I wasn't frightened this time. Knowing what would happen, I closed my eyes and fell into the spinning blackness unafraid.

  When I opened my eyes, I was dazzled by the bright moonlight pouring through the windows. Andrew crouched on the floor a few feet away, his face puzzled. My heart leapt at the sight of him, but when I moved closer, I realized I'd been tricked by the huge mirror that once hung above the Tylers' parlor mantel. My own reflection stared at me, sad and alone, surrounded by things from Andrew's home—the stuffed pheasant, the parlor organ, Mama's dressmaker's dummy, the fancy hall coatrack.

  But where were Mama and Papa? Where was Hannah? Theo? Andrew? Seeing their possessions abandoned and covered with dust made my heart ache. In my haste to leave, I stumbled over boxes and crates, stubbed my toe, barked my shins. Cobwebs clung to my face like shrouds. A mouse scurried over my foot.

  When I reached the top of the stairs, I saw Aunt Blythe peering up at me. "Drew," she said softly, "were you walking in your sleep again?"

  I put my foot on the top step and shivered. The wood was cold against my bare skin. Slowly, I went down to meet my aunt.

  "Your eye," she said. "You've hurt yourself."

  "The door." I touched my face. "I must have bumped into it."

  "That's what woke me up—the sound of a door slamming. I thought I'd dreamed it." Aunt Blythe took my hand and led me to bed as if I were a little child.

  Aching with exhaustion, I sank into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  The sound of traffic woke me in the morning. When
I opened my eyes, I saw checked curtains blowing in the breeze. The tumbling-block quilt covering me was old and faded. My posters hung on the walls. The horses' heads were gone.

  The wallpaper had been covered over, but, looking closely, I saw tiny roses under the blue paint. The pattern repeated itself endlessly, meeting at corners, refusing to disappear completely.

  "Andrew," I whispered, "are you still here?"

  The floor creaked, and I turned my head, expecting to see him in the doorway. It was my aunt.

  "How do you feel this morning, Drew?"

  I told her I was fine, but she insisted on checking my temperature. "I know it's silly to worry, but whenever you look the slightest bit off color I'm afraid you're getting sick again."

  She stuck a thermometer in my mouth. "Diphtheria—that was the last thing anyone expected. Like most modern children, you were immunized when you were a baby. The doctors were absolutely mystified."

  When my aunt was satisfied I had no fever, I said, "I don't remember much about the hospital."

  "No wonder," she said. "You were out of your head most of the time. Didn't know anybody. Not even your own parents. We were afraid you had brain damage."

  "I guess I wasn't myself," I said slyly.

  Aunt Blythe chuckled. "That's exactly what your father said—'Drew just isn't himself" She ruffled my hair. "Well, except for that shiner, you're fine now. How about getting dressed and having breakfast?"

  When I sat down at the table, Great-grandfather looked up from his oatmeal and scowled. "Still here, I see," he muttered. "You've been fighting too. Just what I'd expect of a ruffian like you."

  Aunt Blythe patted her father's hand. "Drew was sleepwalking again. He met a door head on, poor thing."

  She turned away to pour herself another cup of coffee, and I leaned toward Great-grandfather. "I know who you think I am," I whispered, "but you're wrong. I'm Drew, not Andrew."

  Great-grandfather shook his head violently. Pushing his bowl away, he wheeled himself out of the kitchen. From the back, he looked even more vulnerable—scrawny neck, big ears, thin hair. It was hard to believe he was truly Edward. No wonder Andrew hadn't recognized him.

  Aunt Blythe sighed. "I'm sorry Father is so unpleasant, Drew. No matter how I try, I can't convince him you aren't his cousin Andrew. He must have truly despised that boy to be so hateful to you."

  Without looking up, I ran my finger around the A carved in the table. "What happened to Andrew?"

  Aunt Blythe frowned as if she were trying hard to remember. While she pondered, I held my breath. Finally, she shook her head. "I don't really know."

  "The day we found his picture," I said cautiously, "you said he..." I paused, took a deep breath, and forced myself to finish the sentence. "You said Andrew died."

  She stared at me over the rim of her cup. "I must have been confused," she said slowly. "Father had an uncle who died in childhood. His name was Andrew. Maybe I was thinking of him."

  Getting to her feet, Aunt Blythe gathered the dishes and filled the sink with hot water. The sun shone through the kitchen window, bees buzzed in the hollyhocks, birds sang. Across the backyard, I saw the grove where Hannah and I had played marbles. The trees were taller now, and the family burial ground was hidden under a jungle of honeysuckle and brambles.

  "Look for my grave," Andrew had said. "If you don't see it, you'll know I didn't die."

  I ran out the back door and jumped off the porch the way I used to. Binky chased me across the lawn, barking joyfully. Unlike Buster, he didn't care who I was—Drew or Andrew. A boy to play with was all he wanted.

  Scrambling through weeds, pushing brambles aside, burrowing under tangles of honeysuckle, I finally found Lucy's grave. On either side of it were two tall headstones. The inscriptions were worn and weather-stained. I had to scrape the moss away to read the names. Papa had died in 1919, and Mama had died twenty years later in 1939. So long ago—before I was born, before my father was born, but it made my heart ache with sadness. It was like visiting my own parents' burial place.

  I plunged deeper into the weeds. On my hands and knees, I searched for a stone with Andrew's name on it. Sweat plastered my T-shirt to my back, gnats hummed in my ears, mosquitoes raised welts on my bare arms, but I was determined to search every inch of the burial ground for my friend. I had to know, had to be sure.

  Hidden in the brambles, I found the final resting place of my great-great-great-grandfather, Captain Andrew Joseph Tyler. I found his wife's grave too and some of their children, including an Andrew Joseph who'd died way back in 1877. He must have been the one Aunt Blythe had mentioned, Great-grandfather's uncle, Papa's brother.

  There was no other Andrew. I jumped as high as I could and shouted "Yip-I-Addy-I-Ay!" so loudly my voice echoed back to me. "We did it!" I yelled. "You didn't die, Andrew, you didn't die!"

  Behind me, I heard someone laugh. Whirling around, I saw a flash of white high in the branches of the tree Hannah and I had climbed so often.

  "Hannah," I cried. "Is that you?"

  No one answered. Leaves shifted and shimmered in the sunlight, tricking my eyes with shadows, bushes rustled and shook. Arrowing toward me, Binky plunged out of the honeysuckle. In his mouth was an old croquet ball. He dropped it at my feet and wagged his tail.

  Under the dirt and moss clinging to it, I saw a faded red stripe. Binky had found one of the balls Buster had buried so long ago. Perhaps the very one I'd once whacked into the poison ivy.

  "Whuff," Binky said, "whuff." He wanted me to throw the ball, but I held it tightly.

  "No," I said, "you can't have this one, old boy."

  "Drew," Aunt Blythe called, "come out of those weeds. Do you want a good dose of poison ivy?"

  I ran to my aunt. "Did you know there's an old family burial ground here?"

  "Goodness, yes. One of these days I plan to pull the weeds, but I've had so much else to do I haven't gotten around to it yet."

  "I'll help you. I don't want to forget—" I closed my mouth just in time to keep myself from saying Mama and Papa.

  Aunt Blythe looked at me closely. "You've been in the heat too long, Drew. Just look at you, you're all tired out. Come inside and lie down for a while."

  Taking my arm, she led me toward the house. Great-grandfather sat on the porch, head thrust out like a hungry bird waiting to be fed, mumbling to himself. He scowled at me but said nothing.

  When she'd settled me on the living room couch, my aunt noticed the croquet ball. "Where did you find that dirty old thing?"

  She reached out to take it, but I clung to it. "Let me keep it," I said. "It reminds me, reminds me..." Without finishing the sentence, I closed my eyes, too weary to explain.

  Aunt Blythe stroked my hair. "Of course you can keep it, Drew."

  After she left, I lay still. I was in the old parlor, the very room I'd rested in once before. Although most of the Tylers' furniture was gone, the same clock ticked on the mantel. Outside, birds sang and cicadas hummed and buzzed just as they had that afternoon. Even though I couldn't see her, I was sure Mama was nearby, humming old hymns while she dusted the furniture, pausing now and then to scold Theo, calling to Hannah, ordering Buster outside. With the memory of her voice in my ears, I fell asleep.

  An hour or so later, Aunt Blythe woke me. "This came for you in the mail, Drew."

  I took the postcard—a night view of the Eiffel Tower sparkling with lights. On the back was a note from Mom and Dad. The work on the dig was finished, they were enjoying Paris, they'd see me soon.

  Beside me, Aunt Blythe drew in her breath sharply. "Why, I never!" Waving a letter covered with spidery handwriting, she said, "What a surprise! After all these years, Hannah wants to pay me a visit. She'd love to see the house she grew up in."

  At the sound of Hannah's name, my heart beat faster. Speechless with happiness, I listened to my aunt chatter excitedly.

  "She says John died last winter and she's staving in Riverview to straighten out his estate." Aunt Blythe paused
to scrutinize the letter. "Listen to this, Drew: 'You'll find me a bit long in the tooth, Blythe, but, never fear, I still have my wits about me. You might warn Edward I'm not a jot sweeter than I was the last time we met!'"

  Aunt Blythe laughed. "In other words, Hannah hasn't changed a bit!"

  "When is she coming?"

  "Tomorrow afternoon." Aunt Blythe clapped her hands. "Oh, I can't wait to see her!"

  "Me either!"

  Aunt Blythe smiled. "Fancy your being so pleased. I didn't think you'd be interested in an old lady like Hannah."

  Old? I stared at my aunt. I'd seen Hannah less than twenty-four hours ago—dark hair piled on her head, laughing, teasing, challenging me to a game of marbles or a race to the top of a tree.

  Beside me, Aunt Blythe sighed. "Well, Hannah won't find me a kid, will she?" Getting to her feet, she smiled at me. "Rest a little longer if you like. Lunch will be ready in about fifteen minutes."

  Alone in the living room, I studied the flowered wallpaper, searching for the young girl's face I'd once seen in the roses. Yes, she was still there, but faded and dim, much harder to find than the day Mama had made me rest on the parlor sofa. Looking at her, I remembered a famous drawing my father had once shown me. "Look closely," he'd said. "Tell me what you see."

  "An ugly old woman with a big nose."

  "Is that all?" Dad asked.

  Like magic, the lines shifted. The old woman's nose became a young girl's profile, her eye became the girl's ear, her chin the girl's throat. Two images in the same space, wavering back and forth, changing from old to young and back again, fooling your eyes. An optical illusion, Dad said, proof there was more than one way to look at things.

  But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't see the old woman in Hannah's face any more than I could see the boy in Great-grandfather's face. I didn't want to. Surely Hannah would step out of the past unchanged, as young and beautiful as ever.