“I’m so sorry,” she said, kissing Lydia.
“The man hurt Lydia’s crown,” sobbed Lydia.
“I know, honey. He doesn’t understand little girls, because he doesn’t have a Lydia at home to help him.” Rosalind kissed Batty, too. “What a good big sister you are. We’ll talk tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay. I mean, yes!”
Next came Nick, who wrapped his arms around both Batty and Lydia, told them they were the best of the bunch, and that Lydia would always be his princess.
“And, Batty, you’re a champ,” said Nick.
“I know,” she answered. “Even without a sport.”
“No, you still have to get a sport.”
Then, just as Batty was unlatching the bottom baby gate, Jeffrey appeared bearing Lydia’s new pink rabbit, rescued from the high chair.
“Little Bunny Foo Foo,” he sang.
“Little Bunny Foo Foo,” Lydia wailed back at him. There was no cheering her up.
“Don’t forget our breakfast tomorrow morning,” Batty told him.
“Never.” He put his hand on his heart. “Penderwick Family Honor.”
“And, Jeffrey, musica anima mea est.”
“I know, I know.” He kissed the top of Lydia’s head, then did the same for Batty, and as he went back to join the others, Batty decided that missing the dinner was nothing after all—the last few marvelous moments had made up for it.
Getting a sobbing two-year-old ready for bed was no easy task. The removal of each piece of daytime clothing was a misery, as was the putting on of each piece of nighttime clothing. But all of that was nothing compared to what happened during face-washing and teeth-brushing. Batty, however, patiently persevered, and eventually Lydia was clean and in her polka-dotted pajamas. And still hiccoughing with occasional sobs.
Batty plumped her down onto the big-girl bed. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Lydia doesn’t like the man.”
“Neither does Batty, and neither does Ben. We’re all in this together.” Batty held up her hand for a high five, which Lydia managed in between sobs. “Did you know that I’m going to sleep in your big-girl bed tonight?”
“Batty’s bed?” Lydia’s last sob dried up at the possibility that the new bed had after all not been meant for her.
“No, I’m just borrowing it for the night. It’s your bed.”
“No, no, Batty’s bed,” said Lydia, then pointed to the crib. “Lydia’s bed.”
“Okay, fine. So what do you want tonight, stories or songs?”
“Songs,” said Lydia.
“Excellent choice. Songs, songs, lots and lots and lots of songs.”
THE VOICES WOKE BATTY out of a sound sleep. She couldn’t figure out where she was until she saw the glowing stars—the Hound constellation—on the ceiling. Yes, of course, she was in her old bedroom, with Lydia curled up nearby in the crib. The clock said midnight, and the voices, Batty realized, were Skye’s and Jeffrey’s. They had to be in the upstairs hall near the top of the steps—anyone talking there could always be clearly heard in here. Batty had loved this trick of the room when she was small, listening to her father and her sisters out there, keeping her safe from loneliness and monsters.
She had a moment of wondering if she should warn Skye and Jeffrey that she was eavesdropping, but she was too comfy to get out of bed, and anyway, it didn’t sound like a private conversation. First they were laughing about how Pearson had got his shirtsleeve caught on one of Oliver’s still lifes and almost pulled the whole thing down onto the birthday cake. Then they were laughing—but not as hard, because this part of the evening had been embarrassing for poor Jérôme—about how in the middle of the present-opening, as Jane chattered away in her usual broken French, trying to describe her great passion for books, Jérôme, hearing instead that her passion was for him, had erupted into an effusion of amour, amour, and more amour. Confusion had reigned until Molly called a friend named Lauren, who was much better at French than Jane, to handle the translation and hurt feelings.
Batty was glad to hear that Lauren had been successful, so much so that Jérôme left the birthday party to go meet her. But mostly Batty was glad she’d missed the hoopla, and rolled over to go back to sleep. She was almost dozing off again when Skye’s voice cut back into her consciousness, sharper now, stripped of laughter.
“What is that?”
Jeffrey answered her. “What do you think it is? Your birthday present.”
“That’s a small box. If it’s jewelry, I’ll kill you.”
“Skye, do you really think I’d buy you jewelry? Just open it.”
Batty shifted restlessly in the bed. It was too late now to warn them that she’d been listening, and besides, she needed to hear what happened next. If this present were about love, they were all in trouble.
But now she could relax, because Skye was laughing again.
“It’s a calculator watch! I love it!”
“Water-resistant and capable not only of telling the time but of advanced mathematical calculations, according to the saleswoman,” said Jeffrey.
“Thank you. I do love it, and I deeply apologize for accusing you of buying me jewelry.”
“I forgive you. Notice, please, too, that this calculator watch has a sky-blue wristband to match your sky-blue eyes. But not in a romantic way, just aesthetically, you understand.”
“It had better be just aesthetically, because you promised no romance. You’ve been fine up until now. Don’t blow it.”
“I know I promised, and I’m sticking to it.”
Good, thought Batty. They’d gotten past the tricky part and still weren’t arguing. If they could just say good night now and part, there would be no risk of Skye getting upset.
There was silence, and more silence, and Batty was almost back to sleep when Jeffrey started up again.
“It’s just that it’s hard for me to be with you and not want—” He paused. “You’re so beautiful, you know.”
“No, no, no, Jeffrey, no.”
“And there’s no one else? You’re certain?”
“You just promised—”
“I know, but—”
“I hate this. It’s like my best friend has been taken over by an alien.” Skye’s voice caught. “You have to go back to Boston now. I don’t want you here anymore.”
In Lydia’s room, Batty sat up, wide awake now. Please, please—she sent out silent messages—please don’t go back to Boston, Jeffrey. Say that you’ve promised to have breakfast with me. Say anything, but don’t go.
“If I have to leave, I will,” he said, and Batty softly moaned into the darkness.
“Not forever,” said Skye. “Just until you calm down.”
“What if I don’t ever calm down? Okay, forget I said that, and I will leave tonight if you need me to. But smile for me first, Skye, so I know that you’ll forgive me someday.” Jeffrey waited. “No? I really can be your best friend and love you, too, you know.”
“No, I don’t know. Obviously you can’t.”
Silence again. Batty was still, frozen in place, loneliness pressing on her like a too-heavy blanket. She wished that if Jeffrey were going to leave, he’d get it over with, so that she could figure out how to make it through the next morning without singing for him.
And now he was talking again. Dumb, dumb, dumb.
“Do you ever think about falling in love? I mean, not with me necessarily, but anyone.”
Skye groaned. “No, I don’t. Not yet. Not now.”
“Ever?”
“Jeffrey, my best friend wouldn’t be torturing me like this. How many different ways do I have to explain it to you that I don’t want to talk about this?”
“I just want to understand.”
“You want to understand? You really want that?” Skye’s voice was rising in pitch, and Batty, having a hundred times seen Skye lose her temper, could picture her now, eyes darkening and hands clenched, thumping together in frustration. “Then liste
n to me. This is what happens when people fall in love. They get married, right? And they’re really happy and have great jobs, and then they have babies and they’re still happy and love the children, and then with no warning—out of absolutely nowhere—the mother’s suddenly going to have another baby even though she already has three perfectly good daughters. And that would be bearable except that it turns out she also has cancer.…”
“Skye, you don’t need to say all this,” said Jeffrey. “I’m so sorry. I’ll just go now.”
“But if you want to understand, I do need to say all this.”
And maybe she did need to say it—Batty didn’t know—but Batty did know that she didn’t need to hear it. She knew this story already. It had a very sad ending, and she couldn’t bear the way Skye was telling it. She tried to scramble away, diving underneath the covers, jamming her hands over her ears, but nothing could block that voice, so full of pain and anger.
“The mother has cancer and she’s pregnant and because treating the cancer could hurt the baby, she has to make a decision. And she never asks her daughters what they think—or even her husband, for all I know—and she decides to protect the baby and let the cancer kill her. So she dies. She died. And in exchange—”
“Don’t say it, Skye,” Batty heard Jeffrey say. “Please. I know you don’t mean it.”
“Why wouldn’t I mean it? It’s true. In exchange for our dead mother, we got another sister, just what we didn’t need. We got Batty.”
Batty’s world turned black and void of sound. If the two in the hall were still talking, she could no longer hear them. She was floating somewhere far away in a thick fog of desolation, with shreds of old explanations tumbling around, around and around, slipping away before they could be made sense of. If only she could put the shreds together properly, Batty thought, maybe the fog would lift. But try as she would, all was confusion and misery.
After a very long while—how long she didn’t know—another argument started up, but this one was inside Batty’s thoughts. One voice, the louder one, told her that she was a fool. Had she never considered that her mother needn’t necessarily have died of cancer, not with the treatments available these days? Why, Keiko’s grandmother had survived cancer, and Mr. Geiger, and Jane’s French teacher. Had Batty never been smart enough to put those facts together? The other voice in her head, the quieter one, tried to say that no one had ever told her the whole truth. They’d said her mother had died of cancer, but they’d left out the part about her refusing treatment, about sacrificing herself, and about … about Skye being so angry.
And what of Rosalind and Jane? Were they angry, too? And her father?
No wonder her family never talked about her guilty role in Hound’s death, not with this so horribly more calamitous, more tragic, death in her past.
The quiet voice wept.
Of course they’re all angry, said the loud voice, scorning tears. And they thought you knew. How could you be so stupid as to not figure it out on your own?
Well, now she knew, thought Batty, both voices speaking together. But she wouldn’t tell anyone that she knew. No one, not her family, not even Keiko. Her father and sisters had chosen to keep their secret, and she would keep it, too, locking it into a box and burying it deep. It was the least she could do for Skye—for everyone—for replacing the lovely woman they’d adored and lost.
Some secrets buried away in boxes are peacefully forgotten, just as we hope they’ll be. But some refuse to stay in their boxes, popping out at the worst possible times. And then there are those—Batty’s was one—that linger and fester, gnawing away from the inside out. So when she next woke up, hours before dawn and still entangled in half-remembered dreams, she at first wondered how one of Ben’s rocks had gotten lodged inside her. Not until she’d shaken off sleep did she realize that it wasn’t a rock—of course it wasn’t—but a hard knot pressing up against her lungs, as though her insides had twisted themselves together while she slept. It was her secret, horrid and uncomfortable, and already Batty couldn’t remember what it felt like not to have it there. She couldn’t un-remember what she’d heard in the night, what she already thought of as The Conversation. It had divided her life into two parts, a “Before Batty” and an “After Batty.” The Before Batty had been young and naïve. The After Batty—she wasn’t sure about her yet.
But still, she allowed the tiniest, weakest ray of light into her unhappiness. Maybe Skye had relented about Jeffrey going back to Boston in the middle of the night. Hoping, hoping, Batty swung out of bed and went down the hall to her own room. It was empty, and the bedcovers were too neat for anyone to have slept there that night. But she wasn’t yet willing to give up, not until she’d gone outside to look for the little black car. If it was gone, Jeffrey was truly gone, too. She made her way past all the obstacles, the baby gates, Oliver’s horrid snoring coming from the living room couch, the front door lock—
The little black car was gone.
Trembling in the pre-dawn chill, Batty sank down onto the front steps. Her eyes burned from too little sleep, the awful stomach knot squeezed in on itself, and here came that thick fog of misery, threatening to engulf her. No, no, not again.
She stood back up, determined to outrun it, to flee the hopelessness. Where could she go so early in the morning? She looked at the eastern sky, over the Ayvazians’, and saw dawn hinting its arrival. Soon there would be light, even in Quigley Woods. That’s where she’d go. Not in bare feet, though, and not in her pajamas printed all over with porpoises. She went into the garage, remembering a pile of old shoes and scrubby work clothes heaped in one corner, and found a pair of red rain boots only a few sizes too big, plus an old sweater of her father’s. The sweater was huge on her and had holes and paint stains, but it would keep her warm, and cover some of the porpoises.
Before reaching even the cul-de-sac, Batty knew the boots were a mistake. They chafed at her bare feet and kept trying to slip off—it was like wearing buckets. But she had to keep moving—there was no peace behind her—so on she plodded into the woods, lured by the promise of privacy and by the eerie chorus of the spring peepers, those tiny frogs that sing loudest and most insistently at dawn and dusk. The peepers were too small and secretive to be spotted, but the birds swooped down to greet this early-morning human interloper, and a baby rabbit found itself sharing the path with two huge redrubber feet previously unimaginable in its green-and-brown-wooded world.
Batty wouldn’t go to her special place by the willow, not this morning. It was too forlorn and empty without Hound, and not far enough from home. But what if she crossed the creek into the wilder half of Quigley Woods? She’d been there several times under Rosalind’s protection, though never on her own. The rules of Gardam Street forbade it for anyone under twelve, and those who didn’t care about rules were usually discouraged by rumors of quicksand.
Today Batty didn’t care about rules—or rumors, either. She followed the nearest path to the creek, then determinedly set off upstream to where it widened and ran shallow enough for fording. She could have headed downstream instead, to the small wooden bridge, which would have been safer—and had always been Rosalind’s choice—but Batty wasn’t in the mood for safe. And when she reached the shallows and waded across, she was almost pleased that the water wasn’t quite shallow enough for her boots, which needed to be emptied when she reached the other side. The way on from here required climbing a hill that turned out to be steeper than it had looked, and after several slips backward, Batty took off the boots and went on with bare feet. By the time she made it to the top, her pajamas were torn and muddy, and her feet and ankles scratched, grim marks of her struggle. She didn’t care.
The woods were denser and darker on this side of the creek, and the paths less defined. Sometimes there were no paths at all, just areas with slightly less underbrush. Nevertheless, Batty put her boots back on and tromped into the trees, soon surprising a red fox out for a morning amble. Neither knew who was more startled, bu
t the fox broke eye contact first and slid away into the shadows.
Maybe because the fox was the same color as Ben’s and Lydia’s hair, or maybe because, in her troubles, Batty had forgotten how to be sensible, she decided to follow the forest creature. She struck out in the direction it had gone, although it was already out of sight—and whatever would she do with a fox if she managed to catch up with it? But she didn’t think of that until there had been nothing that looked like a path for five minutes. And then she remembered the quicksand—that would suck her in and never let her go—and how, if it lay in wait anywhere, it would be off the paths. Forgetting the fox and also that quicksand can’t actually chase people, Batty panicked, racing through the woods until she tripped over a fallen log hidden under years of dead leaves.
She thought about crying then, but managed to fight it off by concentrating instead on standing back up, only to discover that she’d wrenched her ankle. Not so badly that she couldn’t walk, but enough so that she’d never make it back down the big hill to the creek. Which really didn’t matter anyway. Chasing the fox had befuddled her sense of direction, and she no longer knew how to find the hill again.
Batty looked around for something to head toward. There, over to her left, she caught a glimpse of white, far off through the trees. That was as good a choice as any. Limping, she pushed her way toward the white, which turned out to be a birch tree, then she picked a pile of gray boulders to head toward, and from there, she reached a small clearing, and on and on, until with great luck she managed to stumble upon a path that took her out of the woods and back to the real world—that is, to an unfamiliar backyard with a sliding board and battered swing set.
Batty dragged herself over to the swings and lowered herself onto the one that looked the sturdiest. It was still quite early—no one was around to mind her resting there while she figured out how to get home from wherever “here” was.
But it turned out there was someone there, peering at her over the top of a bush. No, wait, two someones. Batty blinked, wondering if her misery was producing double vision. But when the someones crept out to see her, they stopped being hallucinations and became a set of twins, identical in looks and dress, nervously holding hands. She recognized them now—they were kindergartners at Wildwood.