“Not really,” Carson said carefully. “I guess I just think it’s an unlucky house. First Alan Hanley. Now Michelle.…” His voice trailed off.
Cal stared at him, feeling cheated. He loved the house, more every day, and wanted to hear nothing bad about it. “I’m sorry you feel that way,” he said. “For me, it’s a good house.”
He took off his white jacket, ready to go home for lunch. He was at the door when he suddenly turned back.
“Josiah?”
Carson looked at him inquiringly.
“Josiah, I just want you to know—I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. I don’t know how I’d have gotten through all of this without you. I consider myself very lucky to have a friend like you.” Then, embarrassed by his own words, Cal hurried out of the office.
Alone once more, Carson’s mind went back to the words that had caught Cal’s attention.
Damned house.
And that’s what it is, he thought. An image came to his mind, an image of a stain, spread thickly on the floor of the potting-shed.
A stain that no one had ever been able to get rid of.
A stain that had haunted his life. Irrationally, he was convinced that it was somehow connected to Michelle Pendleton’s doll.
Now, he was sure, it would haunt the Pendletons.
Indeed, it was already beginning.
Josiah Carson didn’t pretend to know exactly what it was about the house that made things happen to the people who lived there, but he had his suspicions. And it was beginning to look like his suspicions were correct. For Michelle, it had already begun. And it would go on, and on, and on.…
Michelle stood in the cemetery, staring at the tiny stone with the single word on it:
AMANDA
She tried to make her mind blank, as if by closing out her thoughts, she would be able to hear the voice better. It worked.
She could hear the voice, far away, but coming closer.
As the voice approached, the bright sunlight faded, and the sea fog dosed around her.
Soon Michelle felt as though she were alone in the world.
Then, as if something had reached out and touched her, she knew she was not alone.
She turned. Standing behind her she saw the girl.
Her black dress fell nearly to the ground, and her head was covered by her bonnet. Her sightless, milky eyes were fixed on Michelle. She was smiling.
“You’re Amanda,” Michelle whispered. Her words hung in the fog, muffled. Then the girl nodded her head.
“I’ve been waiting for you.” The voice was soft, musical, and soothing to Michelle. “I’ve been waiting for you for a long time. I’m going to be your friend.”
“I—I don’t have any friends,” Michelle murmured.
“I know. I don’t have any friends, either. But now we’ll have each other, and everything will be fine.”
Michelle stood still, staring at the strange apparition in the fog, vaguely frightened. But Amanda’s words appealed to her, and comforted her. And she wanted a friend.
Silently, she accepted Amanda.
CHAPTER 13
“Now, you’re sure you’ll be all right?”
“If I need help, I’ll call you, or Miss Hatcher will, or someone will,” Michelle replied. She opened the car door, put her right foot on the sidewalk, braced herself with her cane, and pulled herself upright. June watched anxiously as she teetered, but Michelle quickly gained her balance, and slammed the door. Without waving or saying good-bye, she began limping slowly up the walk to the school building. June stayed where she was, watching, unable to drive away until Michelle was inside the building.
Carefully, her left hand holding on to the railing, her right hand maneuvering the cane, Michelle mounted the steps, leading with her right foot, then dragging her left leg after her. The process was slow, but steady. Only when she had reached the top of the seven steps did she turn, wave to her mother, then disappear into the school. Sighing, June put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb. As she drove home, she prayed that everything would be all right. And, feeling a pang of guilt, she began to look forward to spending a day—a whole day—with her baby and her work.
Corinne Hatcher had already begun the lesson when the door opened and Michelle appeared, leaning on her cane, her expression uncertain, as if she might be in the wrong room. The class fell silent. The students shifted in their seats to stare at her.
Trying to ignore them, Michelle limped down the aisle, keeping her eyes fixed on her goal—the vacant seat in the front row, between Sally and Jeff, that had apparently been saved for her. As she reached the seat, and carefully lowered herself into it, she allowed herself to look at Miss Hatcher and smile.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” she said shyly.
“It’s all right,” Corinne assured her. “We haven’t even begun. I’m so glad you’re back. Doesn’t anyone want to say hello to Michelle?”
She looked at the class expectantly. After a moment, a murmuring began as each of the children, unsure of what was expected of him, muttered a greeting. Sally Carstairs, reaching across the aisle, squeezed Michelle’s hand, but Michelle quickly withdrew it. From the other side, she heard Jeff speaking to her, but when she turned to him, she saw Susan Peterson nudging him, and he looked quickly away. Michelle felt her face reddening with embarrassment.
She couldn’t concentrate on her lessons. Instead, she was terribly aware of the other children, feeling their eyes boring into her back, hearing their whisperings, kept so low she couldn’t make out the words.
For a while, Corinne Hatcher thought of stopping the lesson, of facing the issue of Michelle’s accident head on, but she discarded the idea: it would be too embarrassing for Michelle. So she pressed ahead, trying to keep the children’s minds on their work and off their classmate. As the first recess bell rang, Corinne gratefully released the class. All except Michelle.
When the room was empty except for the two of them, she pulled her chair over near Michelle’s desk.
“It wasn’t too bad, was it?” she asked in as conversational a tone as she could muster. Michelle looked at her blankly, as though she didn’t understand the question.
“What wasn’t?”
“Why—why your first morning back at school.”
“It’s fine,” Michelle said. “Why shouldn’t it be?” There was a challenging note in her voice that threw Corinne off. It was as if Michelle were daring her to talk about the whisperings that had pervaded the room for the last two hours.
“Perhaps we should go over some of the work you’ve missed,” she offered, taking her lead from Michelle: if Michelle didn’t want to talk about the class’s reaction to her, then it wouldn’t be talked about.
“I can catch up by myself,” Michelle said. “Is it all right if I go to the restroom?”
Corinne stared at the girl, so composed, so seemingly sure of herself. But she shouldn’t be—she should be nervous, she should be feeling insecure, she should even be crying. But she should not be calmly asking if she could go to the restroom. Suppressing the questions that were in her mind, and wishing that Tim Hartwick were here today, Corinne watched Michelle make her way toward the door. Corinne Hatcher was very worried.
Michelle was pleased to find the hall deserted—at least there would be no one to watch her as she made her slow progress toward the girls’ room, her cane tapping hollowly on the wood floors.
She wished she could disappear.
They were laughing at her, just like she thought they would.
Sally had barely spoken to her, and the rest of them hadn’t known what to say.
Well, she wouldn’t give in to them.
She pushed the door open and went into the restroom, where she stared at herself in the mirror, wondering if the pain was showing in her face.
It was important that it not show, that nobody know how she felt, how much she hurt.
How angry she was.
Especially at Susan Peterson.
Sus
an had said something to Jeff.
Said something that made him stop talking to Michelle.
Amanda was right—they weren’t her friends, not anymore. Michelle washed her face, then looked once more in the mirror. “It doesn’t matter,” she said out loud. “I don’t need them. Amanda’s my friend. The hell with them!” Then, surprised at her use of the swearword, she took a step backward and nearly fell. She caught herself on the edge of the sink, steadied herself. A wave of frustration swept over her, and she wanted to cry, but she wouldn’t give in. I’ll show them, she vowed silently. I’ll show them all.
Painfully, she started back to the classroom.
After recess, something in the classroom changed. The whispering stopped, and the children seemed to be keeping their minds on their work.
Except that every now and then, one of the children would glance surreptitiously first at Michelle, then at Susan Peterson. If the girls were aware of what was happening, they gave no sign.
Sally Carstairs was having a very bad time of it Every few minutes she looked up from her work, glanced at Michelle, then quickly glanced across both Michelle and Jeff Benson to Susan Peterson. When their eyes met, Susan’s lips tightened and her head shook almost imperceptibly. Sally went back to her work, her face flushing guiltily.
When the lunch bell rang, not even Sally Carstairs waited for Michelle. Instead, within seconds the room was empty except for Michelle and Corinne. Michelle reached under her desk for her bookbag and got out her lunch. Then she stood up and started out of the room.
“Why don’t you stay and eat with me?” Corinne suggested.
For a brief instant Michelle hesitated, then shook her head. “I’ll go outside,” she said.
“Are you sure?” Corinne pressed.
Michelle nodded. “I’ll just sit at the top of the steps where I can see everything.” She was almost out of the room when she stopped suddenly, and turned to face Corinne. “It’s important to be able to see. Did you know that, Miss Hatcher?” Without waiting for an answer, Michelle left the room.
Michelle sat on the top step, her left leg stretched stiffly away from her, her right drawn up against her chest. She rested her chin on her right knee and watched the children in the schoolyard.
Under the big maple she could see her own classmates, Susan and Jeff and Sally—all of them—clustered together in a group.
They were talking about her, and she knew it.
Susan Peterson, particularly. Michelle could see her, leaning over to whisper something in someone’s ear, then the two of them—Susan and whomever she had spoken to—glancing at Michelle, and giggling.
Once Susan started to say something to Sally, but Sally only shook her head and immediately started to talk to someone else.
Michelle made herself stop watching them. Her eyes wandered over the playground. Out near the back fence, some of the fourth-graders were playing softball, and Michelle felt a twinge of envy as she watched them run. She used to play softball. She had been one of the fastest runners in her school.
But that had been before.
Across the schoolyard, near the gate, Michelle saw Lisa Hartwick sitting by herself. For a second, she wished Lisa would come over and sit on the steps with her, but then she remembered—the other kids didn’t like Lisa, and even if they weren’t talking to her, she wouldn’t make things worse by being friendly with Lisa.
Close by her, at the foot of the steps, three girls—perhaps eight years old—were engrossed in a game of jacks, oblivious to Michelle above them. She watched the game for a while, and remembered when she had been their age. She’d never been good at jacks—the little pieces had always somehow slipped through her fingers. And yet, the game didn’t involve running, or jumping, or any of the things Michelle couldn’t do anymore. Maybe she should ask them—
The bell rang. Lunchtime was over.
Michelle stood up and went back into the building. She made sure she was the first to arrive in the classroom. As soon as she was inside the door, she slipped into a seat at the back of the room.
A seat where none of them would be able to see her unless they turned around and openly stared at her.
But she would be able to see them.
Watch them.
Know who was laughing at her.…
When the three-ten bell rang, Corinne Hatcher again asked Michelle to wait, and beckoned Michelle to her desk at the front of the empty room.
“I want to apologize for the class.”
Michelle stood before her expressionlessly, her face a blank mask of indifference.
“Apologize? For what?”
“Why, for the way they treated you today. It was very rude.”
“Was it? I didn’t notice anything,” Michelle said tonelessly.
Corinne leaned back in her chair, and tapped her desk with a pencil. “I noticed you weren’t having lunch with your friends.”
“I told you—it was easier not to try to get down the steps. Is it all right if I go now? It’s a long walk home.”
“You’re walking?” Corinne was aghast. She couldn’t walk—it was much too far. But Michelle was nodding calmly.
“It’s good for me,” she said affably. Corinne noticed that now that the subject had nothing to do with her classmates, Michelle seemed to relax. “Besides, I like to walk. And now that I can’t walk as fast as I used to, I see a lot more. You’d be amazed.”
In Corinne’s mind, Michelle’s own words rang out: It’s important to be able to see.
“What do you see?” Corinne asked.
“Oh, all kinds of things. Flowers, and trees, and rocks—things like that.” Her voice dropped a little. “When you’re by yourself, you really look around.”
Corinne felt very sad for Michelle. When she spoke, her voice reflected her emotions. “Yes,” she said, “I’m sure you do.” She stood up and began gathering her things together. Walking very slowly, so Michelle could keep up, she left the room and locked the door behind her.
“You’re sure I couldn’t give you a lift home?” Corinne offered when they reached the front steps.
“No, thanks. Really, I’ll be fine.” Michelle sounded distracted, and her eyes were searching the schoolyard, as if she were looking for someone.
“Was someone going to walk with you?”
“No—no, I just thought.…” Michelle’s voice trailed off, and she started down the steps. “See you tomorrow, Miss Hatcher,” she called over her shoulder. Reaching the bottom of the steps, she slung her bookbag over her shoulder, and limped toward the sidewalk.
Corinne Hatcher watched her until she disappeared around the corner, then started toward her car.
He could have waited for me, Michelle thought bitterly.
She walked as quickly as she could, but within a few blocks her hip began hurting her, and she slowed her pace.
She tried to force her mind off Jeff Benson, but as she walked, every sight she saw reminded her of the days they had walked home together. Now he probably walked Susan Peterson home, she thought.
She left the village behind and made her way along the road, staying well off the pavement. Even though the path was rough, and it was easier to walk on the asphalt, she knew she wouldn’t be able to get out of the way of an oncoming car—the path was much safer.
She stopped every few yards, partly to rest, but also to look around, to examine everything carefully, as if she were seeing it for the first, or maybe the last, time. Once or twice, she stood perfectly still, closed her eyes tightly, and tried to imagine what it would be like to be blind. With the cane, she poked at things around her, seeing if she could identify them by the way they felt.
Most of the time, she couldn’t.
It would be awful, she thought. Being blind would be the most awful thing in the world.
She was almost halfway home when she heard a voice calling to her.
“Michelle? Hey, Michelle, wait up!”
Stoically, ignoring the voice, Michelle kept walkin
g.
A minute later, Jeff Benson caught up with her.
“Why didn’t you wait?” he demanded. “Didn’t you hear me?”
“I heard you.”
“Well, why didn’t you stop?”
“Why didn’t you wait for me after school?” Michelle countered.
“I promised Susan I’d walk her home.”
“And you knew you could catch up with me?”
Jeff blushed. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.” There was a silence, and Michelle continued on her way, Jeff keeping pace with her. “If you want to go home, you don’t have to wait for me,” she said.
“I don’t mind.”
They continued walking. Michelle wished Jeff would go away. Finally, she told him so.
“You make me feel like a freak!” she exclaimed. “Why don’t you just go on home, and leave me alone?”
Jeff stopped in his tracks and stared at her. His mouth opened, then closed again. His face reddened and his fists clenched. “Well, if that’s the way you feel, maybe I will,” he said at last.
“Good!” Michelle could feel tears welling up in her eyes, and for a moment she was afraid she was going to cry. But then Jeff turned away from her, and began loping down the road. When he was a few yards away, he suddenly looked back, waved, and broke into a run. To Michelle, it was like a slap in the face.
Jeff slammed into his house, and called out to let his mother know he was home. He tossed his books on a table and went into the living room, where he flopped down on the sofa and put his feet on the coffee table. Girls! What a pain!
First Susan Peterson, telling him that he shouldn’t talk to Michelle anymore, then Michelle, telling him that she didn’t want him to walk with her anymore. It was crazy, that’s what it was. He glanced out the window.
There she was, all by herself. Jeff watched as Michelle passed his house and started past the cemetery. Suddenly she stopped, and stared into the graveyard, as if she were watching something. But there was nothing to watch. To Jeff, the cemetery looked the same as it always did—choked with weeds, gravestones collapsing, deserted. What was Michelle looking at?