The room was not lighted, but I could see as clearly as I might have in the daytime. I could read the titles of the books on the shelves and observe the minute detail in the intricately woven pattern in the rug. On the TV table there lay some letters, evidently awaiting mailing. I could read the addresses on the envelopes. On the piano there stood a framed photograph of a smiling blond girl with braces on her teeth. She was dressed in a riding habit, and her hair was pulled back in a high, tight ponytail.
I moved farther into the house. There were three bedrooms. In the largest of these a man and woman were sleeping. They lay close together in a queen-size bed, the woman with her cheek against the man’s shoulder. The digital clock radio on the bedside table read five thirty. It had been later than that when I had awakened at Cliff House. In the winter, the sun didn’t rise until nearly seven. I was momentarily bewildered by the discrepancy and then realized I must have traveled far enough west to have passed through two time zones.
The woman made a little moaning sound. Then, suddenly, startlingly, she called out, “Kathy!”
Her body jerked convulsively, and the man came awake, rolling over to throw his arm across her.
“Kathy!” the woman cried again. “Watch out!”
“Hush, hush,” the man said soothingly. “Darling, you’re dreaming.”
“Kathy!”
“It’s a dream, just a dream.” He cradled her against him and began to rock her back and forth as though she were a small child. “Hush, now. Go back to sleep.”
“A dream?” the woman murmured uncertainly. “Oh, Art, it was so real!”
“I know. It always is. But it was only a dream, dear.”
He continued to rock her, making the bed sway back and forth with the rhythmic motions of their bodies. She turned her face against his chest and began to cry.
I moved beyond them to the second bedroom. It was clearly uninhabited. The bed had been stripped of sheets and was covered with only a white tailored spread. The closet was so empty that there wasn’t a thread or a shred of lint to testify to the fact that clothing had hung there.
A guest room? Maybe. Yet there was something about it—
I didn’t like that room. I moved past it to the next one. This was also empty, but it had the look of having recently been occupied by someone who was expecting to return. Cosmetics were scattered carelessly across the dresser top, and the desk was cluttered with books and papers that seemed to be connected with a homework assignment. Several silver trophies stood on the bureau , and over them hung a bulletin board adorned with first- and second-place ribbons from an assortment of horse shows. The couple of dresses in the closet were far outnumbered by plaid shirts and jeans. On the rumpled bed a high school yearbook lay open as though the reader had been leafing through it when she was called away to some more interesting activity.
I drew close to the bed and looked down at the row on row of pictures that constituted the “Junior Class of Sandia High.” Smiling up at me from the topmost row was the girl from the gold-framed photograph in the living room. Beneath her picture a name was printed—KATHERINE ABBOTT.
The next photo in the line might have been my own.
Beneath this one the lettering read—LIA ABBOTT.
When I returned to Cliff House, I found myself confronted with a day that had not wakened. Dawn had come and gone, but the sun did not appear to have climbed into the sky. The clouds were bunched so thick and low that they completely concealed it from view. What light there was seeped through the heavy layers and emerged diluted into dishwater gray. From my bed I could see that the balcony beyond the glass doors was frosted with snow.
For a while I simply lay there, trying to get my thoughts into some kind of order. Where was it that I had been? It had been a far place, two time zones away, where winter was strange and still. The cold there had been a dry cold with a crisp, foreign feel to it, and the sky had arched above me in a canopy of stars.
I reached back with my mind, attempting to sort out the images and sensations. The house that I had visited had once been Lia’s. I was as certain of that as I was of the fact that she no longer lived there. The aura of her presence had faded. No, that was the wrong word; “faded” sounded gentle and natural, something that occurred in the ordinary progression of time. In this case I had the feeling that someone had made a concentrated effort at erasure.
There were so many unanswered questions. Who were the couple in the master bedroom? Why had the woman been crying, and what was the dream that her husband seemed to know so well that it did not have to be described? The “Kathy” she had cried out to must have been the “Katherine Abbott” in the high school yearbook, the sweet-faced blond girl with the wide smile. The room with the riding trophies had to have been Kathy’s room. There had been no sense of Lia’s presence there. The clothing in the closet, the half-completed homework on the desk, the careless clutter, so natural for the room of a teenager, had all been Kathy’s. But where was she?
And where was Lia? There had been nothing in any part of the house to indicate that a second girl had made her home there. In the yearbook she had been identified as “Lia Abbott,” with the same last name as Kathy’s. Had Lia been adopted by the Abbott family as I had by the Strattons?
I was jerked from my reverie by the sudden clatter of ice pellets raining against the balcony doors. I pulled myself up on one elbow so that I could see past the balcony to the water. The sea was the color of charcoal, and it was churning as madly as though it were in a pot on a hot burner. For as far as I could see waves were cresting and breaking in long, jagged lines of froth. From my position I didn’t have a view of the rocks, but I could imagine them, slick and black beneath an icy torrent of rushing water. I pictured our ledge, Jeff ’s and mine, and shuddered.
My eyes shifted to the clock on the bedside table, and I caught my breath in surprise. It was already well past eight! Could I really have been gone that long? I was beginning to realize there was no sense of time connected with these astral journeys. If distance could be covered in an instant, it reduced the concept of minutes and hours to unreality. Why hadn’t someone been sent to wake me?
Or maybe someone had! That thought was enough to bring me upright with a start of panic. What if, as he had so many times before, Neal had come to shake me awake for school, and I hadn’t responded! He would’ve been terrified!
Scrambling quickly out of bed, I snatched up my robe from where it hung across the back of the desk chair and hurried out into the hallway. The phone was ringing. It jangled twice and then was silent. I started down the stairs, and as I came abreast of the living room I heard voices floating up from the kitchen. Their pitch was ordinary. No one sounded upset or frightened.
I let my breath out slowly in a sigh of relief and continued on down the rest of the way at a more leisurely rate, buttoning my robe as I went.
When I entered the kitchen I found the children, still in their pajamas, seated at the breakfast table, eating French toast.
Mom was standing at the stove, stirring a spoonful of instant coffee into a cup of hot water. She greeted me with a smile.
“Hi there, honey. Did our hailstorm wake you?”
“There’s no school today!” Neal announced jubilantly, and Megan said, “Jeff just called.”
“No school,” I repeated. “Jeff—” as I tried to get the various items of information into workable order.
“It was on the news,” Neal said. “It’s because of the storm. It’s supposed to get worse, and Mr. Ziegler’s scared if he takes us across we might get stuck there.”
“That makes sense,” I acknowledged. “And what about Jeff ?”
“I said you were still asleep,” Meg said. “He said for you to call him when you woke up.”
“Do you want toast?” Mom asked. “No, first I guess you’d better return Jeff ’s call. I can’t believe the lines will stay up much longer.”
“I’ll call him from upstairs,” I said.
“Secrets?” Meg asked with a sudden interest.
“They wouldn’t be if I told you,” I said, and went back up to the living room.
I had my finger poised, ready to dial, when I was struck with the realization that I had nothing to report. I knew what he expected—a full account of my trip to find Lia. It would be such a letdown when I admitted that it’d been a total failure! Not only had I fallen short of my destination, but I had gleaned no new information of any importance. The only actual discovery had been the name in the yearbook, and that meant nothing unless I could understand its significance.
But was it true? Had I learned nothing? I’d been in Lia’s home. I’d moved through rooms that she had once occupied. I’d seen her adoptive parents and observed the setting within which she must have lived. Surely I must have absorbed something meaningful!
I forced my mind back, concentrating on the details. The mountains, the clear, dry air, the Navajo blanket, the two-hour time difference, all helped to place the Abbotts’ home in the Southwest. In what city and state did they live? I had the nagging feeling that I should know. I had seen something and had let it slip by. Had there been lettering on a mailbox? No, I was sure that there hadn’t. The license plate on the camper would have helped, but I had paid it no attention.
Mentally, I retraced my passage into the living room and let my mind’s eye move slowly about, lighting first one place and then another. I saw again the rich texture of the draperies, the well-filled bookshelves, the TV—
And there, I stopped. On the TV table there had been envelopes. In the top left corner of each had been written a return address. I focused on it briefly. I hadn’t taken in the name of the street and the house number, but—the town? I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to picture the handwriting. Abruptly, I saw it—saw the whole word spelled out—ALBUQUERQUE. The Abbotts lived in Albuquerque, New Mexico.
So I did know something! And the key to further knowledge lay right at my fingertips. Hesitating only a second, I picked up the phone and called Information.
The operator on the mainland connected me with Directory Assistance in Albuquerque. The faint, faraway voice asked me the name of the party I wished to reach.
“Abbott,” I said, and then recalled the voice of the sleep-dazed woman in the huge bed. Oh, Art, it was so real! The name—Art? “It’s Arthur,” I said. “Arthur Abbott.”
I expected that there would be dozens, but luck was with me. There was only one Arthur Abbott, living on Stagecoach Road.
The operator gave me the number, and I called it.
The phone rang and rang. It was a woman’s voice that finally answered, and I recognized it at once. It was a strange sensation to hear over the telephone wire what I had listened to in person such a short time ago.
“Hello?”
“I’m sorry to be calling this early,” I said, realizing that it was likely that my call had awakened her. “I’m trying to get in touch with Lia.”
There was a long silence. I began to wonder if we might have been disconnected.
Then the woman asked, “Who is this?”
“My name’s Laurie Stratton,” I said. “I’m sort of a relative. I’ve lost touch with Lia, and I’m trying to find her.”
“You’re related to Lia?” There was disbelief in her voice, and something else as well. I couldn’t pinpoint it exactly, but it sharpened her tone, and the words came at me, clipped and harsh, with spaces between them.
I thought of how Mom had reacted to the idea of my trying to make contact with my natural family. She had felt upset and threatened. If Mrs. Abbott was Lia’s adoptive mother, it wouldn’t be surprising if she were reacting with identical emotions.
“I don’t want to disturb anything,” I assured her. “Please believe me. I’m not interrupting Lia’s life. She’s the one who got in touch.”
There was another strange silence. When Mrs. Abbott spoke again, her voice was flat and expressionless.
“I’ll get my husband.”
A moment later Mr. Abbott came on the line.
“This is Art Abbott. You’re trying to reach Lia?”
“Yes,” I told him. “I’m Laurie Stratton, Lia’s biological sister. I don’t want to cause problems. Lia and I have already communicated. It’s just that she never told me where her home was. I’ve been trying to locate her.”
“Lia doesn’t have a sister,” Mr. Abbott said. “At least, we were never informed about one. Do you know the name of the agency that placed you?”
“Hastings, in Gallup,” I said. “I was adopted by the Strattons when I was a baby. Lia and I are twins. She stayed with our biological mother for a while, and then, I think, she was put up for adoption too. I think it might have been through the same agency.”
“It was.” His tone had altered slightly. I could tell that he was beginning to believe me. “You’re Lia’s twin? Fraternal or identical?”
“Identical,” I said.
“Dear god!” It was a moment before he seemed able to continue. When he did, it was in a rush, as though he wanted to get everything said as quickly as possible.
“We didn’t adopt Lia. At one point we planned to, but the legal procedures were never completed. She was our foster child for eighteen months. She had been in three homes before ours. None of the placements worked out. We couldn’t understand it. She was an attractive girl with a magnetic personality. Our daughter, Kathy, adored her. It seemed incredible to us that her previous families could reject her the way they did.”
“They rejected her?”
“Accidents happen. We don’t know why things happen like they do, but, painful or not, we must accept them. At least, that’s how we felt then. A foster child deserves the same loyalty you give a biological child. We’d had foster kids before, and they’d added so much to our lives. My wife and I love children. We’d have had a dozen of our own if we’d been able.”
“So you took Lia to live with you?” I prodded gently, hoping to get him back onto the original subject.
“We thought it would be great. She could be a sister to Kathy. They were in the same grade, and they got along beautifully. Kathy taught her to ride, and the girls would go off on trail rides together after school and on weekends. We got Lia her own horse. We never played favorites. We were lucky enough to be able to provide well for them, and we wanted them both to have whatever they needed to be happy.”
“And was Lia happy?” How odd it seemed to be talking with someone who had lived with Lia and knew her, not just as a vision and a voice, but as a daughter.
“She was, and she wasn’t,” Mr. Abbott said slowly.
“What do you mean?”
“She liked it here, but at times she seemed depressed. She’d go into her room and lock the door. She said she was sleeping. If she was, it was like the sleep of the dead. We couldn’t rouse her for a phone call or dinner or anything. That disturbed us. People don’t act that way unless there’s something bothering them.”
“Did she tell you what it was?”
Mr. Abbott hesitated. Then he said, “She told us—” There was an odd note in his voice. “She told us she was getting too attached to us.”
“Too attached? But how could that—”
“She was scared she might lose us. That’s what she said, anyway. It had happened before, she said. Every time she’d get settled into a place and start to feel she belonged there, the family would decide they didn’t want her. She said she felt she was with us ‘on loan.’ It was pitiful to see a young girl so insecure. That’s why we decided to adopt.”
“But it didn’t go through?” When he didn’t respond, I asked another question. “Where is Lia now?”
“Let me ask you something,” Mr. Abbott said. “Is your life happy? Are your parents good people?”
“Great people,” I said.
“Then stop this search. Let Lia be. She’s nothing to you except for the fact that one woman gave birth to you.”
“It’s not that simple,??
? I said. “It’s gone too far. I don’t expect you to understand, but I have to find her.”
“Well, it won’t be here,” Mr. Abbott said. “She’s no longer with us. She’s in a hospital.”
“In a hospital!” I exclaimed. “You mean, she’s sick?”
“She’s sick, and she’s not going to get better. If you came here, you couldn’t see her. She’s not allowed visitors. My advice to you, Miss Stratton, is to concentrate on your own life—”
There was a loud beep, and the line went dead.
For a long time I stood, unmoving, holding the silent phone against my ear. The lines must have gone down. How was it possible that I could have come so close to the knowledge I was seeking, only to have it slip so suddenly through my fingers? Mom had warned me. We all knew what storms could do. There were periods every winter when we were isolated for hours, and sometimes even days. But why, I asked myself, did it have to happen now? In one moment I could have asked Arthur Abbott the name and location of Lia’s hospital!
Was that information necessary? Was it possible that I could reach Lia without it? I didn’t know. The projection experience was so new to me that I wasn’t certain how much control I actually had. I’d been able to travel to Helen at will, but I’d known precisely where to find her. My second attempt had been less successful. Was that because I hadn’t directed myself toward an exact geographical location? Or was it because fear had diverted me? I had known there was no danger connected with my visit to Helen.
Lia had told me that our mother had searched the state of California for our father. She had found him, or so Lia supposed. And Lia, herself, had managed to locate me. Had she had leads to go on? If so, what?
I did have some idea of where I should be looking. “Even if you came here,” Mr. Abbott had told me, “you couldn’t see her.” He had not said “if you went there,” but “if you came here.” Lia was in a hospital somewhere in the vicinity of Albuquerque. And I would no longer have my fear of her as a deterrent. Lia was no threat if she was as ill as her foster father had indicated.