Getting Back to Normal Read online

  “Want to go to the movies tomorrow?” Tammy asks.

  “Sure. I can’t wait to get away from this place.”

  “But it’s so beautiful!” Tammy gushes. “You’re like living on your own private estate.”

  “You won’t say that when you see this cottage,” I tell her. “And it’s miles from everything.”

  “I’ll come over after school and we’ll have fun,” she offers.

  “How can you with piano, dancing, and drama lessons every day of the week?”

  That stops her, but only for a minute. “You can always come here for a weekend sleepover.”

  “Thanks, Tam,” I say.

  Tammy sighs. “That means you won’t.”

  “I can’t leave Robby,” I mumble.

  Tammy doesn’t understand, but at least she has the good sense not to argue. She thinks I act the overprotective sister and that Daddy should be looking after Robby. Well, maybe he should be. But not all fathers are like Tammy’s—thrilled to drive their daughter back and forth to lessons and help with science projects.

  We talk about which movie we want to see, and decide to eat lunch at the mall before the show. “We’ll pick you up around noon,” Tammy says.

  “Great, can’t wait,” we say at the same time. Our private signing off.

  I take my book of short stories out of my school bag. It feels strange, getting ready to read my English assignment in this room. I snuggle down in the rocking chair and look around. The place won’t look half-bad with new curtains and a few area rugs. I rock as I read. I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I know is, Robby’s shaking my arm.

  “Vannie, wake up!”

  My heart is pounding. Where am I? I remember, but the fear stays with me. “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “You left me alone,” he says accusingly.

  “I was here reading. I fell asleep.”

  “And I’m starving.”

  The sky is beginning to darken. I look at my watch. “It’s past six o’clock,” I tell Robby. “Daddy should be home soon. He’s bringing our dinner.”

  Robby stamps his foot. “I want to eat now. We ate lunch so very long ago.”

  Robby’s right. We last ate in our own house, before the movers came at noon. That seems like yesterday.

  I step into my sneakers and tie the laces. “Let’s go downstairs and see what’s there.”

  “I looked. There’s nothing to eat.”

  My heart sinks. “Let me check. I brought lots of Mom’s supplies from home.”

  Robby sniffs. “But you can’t make anything with them like Mommy used to.”

  In one minute he’s going to start bawling for our mother. I jump off the rocker. “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go.” I grab hold of his skinny hips and start him down the stairs. Our old train game.

  Downstairs, I flip on every single light. Even if we had the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree here all lit up, the cottage would still be dark and gloomy. I rummage through the refrigerator.

  “There’s some jelly left.” I hold up the jar. “Cherry. Your favorite.”

  “So? What can I eat it on? Paper?”

  “Let me see, let me see,” I mumble over and over as I open cupboards. “I remember seeing an open package of something.”

  “Of potato chips?” Robby asks hopefully.

  “Of those biscuits Mom used to like. Ah, here it is!”

  I open the packet held closed by a twist, and take out a few biscuits for Robby. Even in the dim light, I can tell they’re stale.

  “Do you want a few of these?”

  Robby shrugs his shoulders. He starts to sniff.

  I’m getting more and more furious with Daddy for leaving us like this. “I’ll put jelly on the biscuits,” I say between my teeth. “That should hold you till Daddy comes back with our dinner.”

  Now Robby is crying. Large tears run down his face. Still, he takes a bit of the jellied biscuit and chews. He cries and chews. I wonder how he can do that—cry and chew at the same time. I worry that he’ll choke. But he finishes the biscuits and grabs me around the waist.

  I rub his back. When he’s calmer I take him to his bedroom. “Go to sleep, Robby,” I tell him.

  Robby shakes his head but lets me untie his sneakers. I help him under the covers, clothes and all. When his sobs turn to snores, I tiptoe out of his room.

  “I have to get out of here,” I say out loud, “or I’ll go stark, raving mad.”

  I fling myself out the front door into the cool, fresh air. The sun has gone down, taking all the colors of the rainbow for company. Under the pale gray sky, the road’s an endless black. Huge trees loom up, frightening me. I’m about to return to the cottage, when the tall street lamps flanking the road blaze with light. Across the meadow, Greystone is lit up as well. Maybe that’s where they’re holding the board meeting. Maybe not. Either way, I’m no longer afraid.

  I race along the road, retracing the route we took this afternoon. It feels great to be moving—pumping my legs and swinging my arms—after this horrible day. By the time I reach the pond, I’m gulping down gallons of air. I slow down. Not one duck in sight. Where did they all go? I grin as my eyes make out their hunkered-down forms on the grass around the pond. The ducks have gone beddy-bye for the night.

  I drop onto the wooden bench and stare at the smooth surface of the water. All is quiet and peaceful.

  “I like it here,” I say out loud. “Away from that awful cottage. Even away from Robby.”

  Suddenly I miss Mom. She would love sitting beside me, the two of us gazing out at the pond in early evening. No matter how busy and hectic things got, she always took time out to appreciate nature. “Moments of Beauty,” she called it. “Vannie, always leave room in your life for Moments of Beauty.”

  I feel tears welling up. A few spill down my cheeks, but I brush them away as I remember what Mom told me a few days before she died.

  “Don’t stay sad and mopey, Vannie. Remember the good times we’ve shared, especially the fun things. Make sure you keep fun things in your life.”

  “Good times. Fun things,” I say aloud.

  Good times and fun things were helping Mom prepare for her big catering jobs. I grin, remembering the last time we baked puff pastries. When Robby came into the kitchen, I made him a whipped cream mustache. Mom and I laughed as he licked it off, then asked me to make him another.

  “I want to cook dinner tonight,” I say out loud. “Something Robby will like so much, he’ll rub his tummy and say, ‘Vannie, this is good. Almost as good as Mommy used to make.’”

  I get up and walk to the edge of the pond, careful not to step on any ducks. I crouch down, pull up blades of grass, and toss them into the water.

  “But what can I make? Number one, I don’t know how to cook. Number two, we’ve hardly any ingredients.”

  A cold breeze chills my neck as an amused male voice asks, “Do you have pots and pans?”

  I jump to my feet, startling a duck. He flaps his wings and quacks his complaint. I turn around to see a young man in a tuxedo sprawled on the bench I just left. His long, skinny legs are stretched out before him as though he’s been there for hours. He’s handsome, I suppose, or would be if not for the dumb grin that matches his silly question. For some reason, he doesn’t frighten me.

  “Who are you?” I ask.

  “Archibald Heatherton the Third, at your service.”

  He stands up, puts his hand to his heart, and bows. Now I’m sure he’s making fun of me, and I don’t like it one bit.

  “Where did you come from, all of a sudden?” I demand. “And where are you going, dressed like that?”

  “I come, I go, as the wind blows,” he says, as if he’s reciting a poem. “Would you be kind enough to tell me to whom I am speaking?”

  “Whom?” I stare at him. “We studied ‘whom’ in school, but no one uses it.”

  “How utterly astounding!” he declares.

  At first I think he’s teasing
me again, but he seems truly upset by my grammar-usage bulletin. At least he’s no longer grinning, so I decide to be polite.

  “I’m Vanessa Taylor.”

  I’m about to reach out to shake his hand. Instead, I let out a yelp. “The bench! I can see the bench right through you!”

  Archibald Heatherton the Third leaps to his feet and flips into a handstand.

  “An optical illusion, no doubt.”

  The sight of an upside-down man in a tuxedo, waving his skinny stork legs in the air, is too much. I burst out laughing.

  “How very nice to meet you,” he says. “Do call me Archie.” He jumps right side up again. “And you are here, enjoying the fresh air, though Merrymount Gardens is closed, because—?”

  “Because I’m living in that awful cottage with my father and my brother. We moved in today.”

  Archie sits down again and stretches out his legs. “Too bad they can’t accommodate you at Greystone. Though the heating’s impossible in winter.”

  “So Aunt Mayda says. But how do you know?” I ask, excited. “Did you ever stay over when the family still lived there?”

  Archie nods. “Indeed. Many times.”

  “Then you must know Aunt Mayda—I mean, Mayda Shipley. I call her Aunt Mayda because she and my mother were friends since college.”

  A sweet-sad expression clouds his face. “Indeed I do. I’ve known your Aunt Mayda since the day of her birth.”

  “Since she was born?” I ask, puzzled. “But Aunt Mayda’s older than you. She’s thirty-six. The same age my mom—was.”

  I feel the sympathy of his soft brown eyes. It’s almost as though he knows how much I miss Mom, how our lives have gone helter-skelter since she got sick. Then the grin is back, and Archie’s clapping his hands.

  “You want to prepare a meal and I intend to help you. Do you have pots and pans, Vanessa?”

  I nod. “Yes, but not much else. And I’m not a very good cook.”

  Archie stands again. He does three back flips away and three forward. “Can you boil water?”

  “Of course. Anyone can.”

  “Do you, by chance, have a package of spaghetti?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Then you’re in business! I’ve an excellent recipe that’s delicious, nutritious, and easy to follow. You’ll need cheese, eggs, and bacon bits.”

  “Oh.” My enthusiasm droops like melting ice cream. “I don’t have cheese, eggs, or bacon bits.”

  Archie waves a hand. “No matter. There’s all that and more in the pantry at Greystone.”

  I stare at him. “I can’t take supplies from Greystone, Archie. That would be stealing.”

  “It would be putting leftovers to good use,” Archie says firmly, “leftovers from the brunch the Rotary Club held last week. They’ll only be thrown out tomorrow.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Your Aunt Mayda would love for you to have them.” He lowers his voice as if he’s letting me in on a secret. “And despite the brilliant lights, Greystone is unoccupied as we speak.”

  Suddenly I’m chock full of questions, not counting those I’ve already asked and Archie hasn’t answered. But he’s speaking again.

  “Let’s not forget the recipe, Vanessa. It’s easy as pie, even for a rank beginner.” His words come quickly, as though he’s in a rush to tell me and be on his way. “Boil the spaghetti, drain it well, and return it quickly to the pot. Stir in four eggs, cut-up pieces of cheese, the bacon bits, some salt and pepper. Mix well. The heat from the pasta will cook everything nicely.”

  “How much cheese should I use?” I ask.

  Archie laughs. “That’s for you to decide. Hurry off and fetch what you need. They leave the kitchen door open till eight each night.”

  “Thanks, Archie! Thanks for all your help!”

  He waves his hand. “Think nothing of it. Besides, I’ll be needing your assistance by and by.”

  I’m too excited by the thought of preparing an actual meal to wonder what his weird words can possibly mean. I stare across at Greystone. It’s only a short walk away. I’ve nothing to be frightened of; still, I wouldn’t mind company.

  “Will you come with me?” I ask as I turn back to Archie.

  Only Archie—Mr. Archibald Heatherton the Third—is nowhere in sight.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Archie!” I shout. “Where are you? Where did you go?”

  My eyes scan the lawn in every direction, but find no sign of his tall, skinny figure. A tingle runs down my spine. Archie’s disappeared into the evening air.

  “I just can’t see him because it’s dark out,” I mumble, trying to convince myself. But it doesn’t work. My vision has adjusted to the darkness. There are no trees or shrubs around to hide Archie from sight.

  I suddenly remember Robby. He’ll be frightened if he wakes up and finds himself alone in the cottage. I’m about to run back when I think of how much he’d love the dish Archie told me how to make. And so I hurry off to Greystone for my supplies.

  “That Archie is one strange dude.” I shake my head as I race-walk toward the mansion. “Comes out of nowhere, knows all this stuff about MG, but won’t answer my questions. And does flips and handstands like an acrobat, when he’s not sprawled out on the bench.”

  The bench! I stop dead in my tracks when I remember having seen the bench through Archie’s body. That’s when he started flipping around.

  To distract me? Make sure I didn’t touch his hand?

  And, come to think of it, he sure was in a rush to end our conversation. As if he was afraid he’d disappear into thin air.

  Which is exactly what happened the moment I turned my back.

  Suddenly signs of his strangeness fill my mind. Like his old-fashioned name. And using “whom.”

  And saying he visited at Greystone when no one but Aunt Mayda’s stayed there in almost twenty years.

  My next thought so totally amazes me, I spin around, my arms slicing the air like the rotor blades of a helicopter. “Archie’s a ghost,” I announce to the tall trees along the path. “It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  “A ghost!” I repeat, and shiver with excitement. “I just had a conversation with a real, live ghost, and he didn’t scare me one bit!”

  *

  The kitchen door to Greystone is unlocked, as Archie said it would be. I switch on the light, probably the only light not already on. “Hello?” I call out.

  I’m relieved when no one comes. Quickly, I gather up cheese, eggs, bacon bits, and a jar of dried onion flakes. I put everything into a plastic bag I find in one of the drawers. I consider leaving a note for Aunt Mayda, telling her what I’ve done. No, I decide. I’ll tell her when I see her.

  On my way back to the cottage, I run through the recipe again. It’s easy enough. I’m pretty sure I can make it come out right. I realize that, ghost or not, I can trust Archie, though he clearly doesn’t trust me.

  “Why didn’t he tell me he’s a ghost?” I wonder aloud.

  “He was probably afraid he’d scare me to death,” I answer myself, giggling. Still, that’s no way to start a friendship.

  I leave the bag of food on the kitchen counter and tiptoe into Robby’s room. He’s snoring gently, with his thumb tucked in his mouth. “Now I’m going to make you a real supper,” I whisper.

  I wash my hands at the kitchen sink and boil water for the pasta. While the spaghetti’s cooking, I beat eggs and cut up cheese. I line up all the ingredients the way Mom always did, ready to mix them into the pasta as soon as it’s drained.

  I set the table for two. It’s a quarter to seven. When Daddy gets home, he’ll have already eaten. Eating’s one of the things they do at those meetings.

  I’m spilling the spaghetti into the colander in the sink, when Robby calls out, “Daddy, Vannie, where are you?”

  He startles me and my hands shake. Hot water splashes on my fingers. I nearly spill the pasta all over the sink.

  “Daddy! Vannie!”


  “I’m here!” I shout. “In the kitchen.”

  “Come and get me, Vannie. I’m frightened.”

  When I pour the spaghetti back into the pot, some slides into the sink. I leave it there. “Just a minute.”

  “Hurry up, Vannie!” Now Robby’s sobbing. “I need you.”

  I rush to his room and turn on the light. I want to comfort him, but then the spaghetti will cool off and the dinner won’t come out right. I force a smile on my face.

  “Go wash your hands and come into the kitchen. I’ve a surprise for you.”

  “What kind of surprise? A food surprise?”

  I shrug my shoulders. “Maybe. You’ll have to see for yourself.”

  I add the eggs to the spaghetti and mix well till the eggs start to gel. Then I put in the cheese, the onion flakes, and bacon bits. I stir, pleased to see our dinner taking shape right before my eyes.

  The cover! Where’s the cover? I’m frantic as I search for the lid of the pot so the food will stay warm. There it is, on the kitchen table! I slam it on the pot as Robby comes into the kitchen, wiping his hands on his pants.

  “You forgot to put out a towel,” he complains.

  “Sit down here.” I point to the chair farthest from the stove.

  Robby plops himself down. His nose wiggles from side to side. “What’s that? It smells good.”

  I dish out a hefty portion of Archie’s recipe for each of us. Robby sniffs before he tastes. He tastes again, then jumps up from his chair and sticks his head inside the refrigerator.

  “What are you looking for?” I ask.

  “Ketchup.”

  “Ketchup?” I ask, hurt. “It’s on the door. Why do you need it?”

  “Because ketchup goes with spaghetti-cheese omelet.”

  “Spaghetti-cheese omelet,” I repeat. “Sounds good to me.”

  Robby giggles. “Tastes good to me.” He finds the ketchup and squeezes a dollop the size of his fist on his food. “Mmm, this is better!” he says, his mouth full of spaghetti-cheese omelet and ketchup. When he’s eaten everything on his plate, he asks, “Can I have some more?”

  “Uh-huh.” I grin at him. “There’s lots and lots.”

  The spaghetti-cheese omelet tastes good to me, too. Next time I’ll add more ingredients—parsley and other herbs. Maybe pieces of tomato.