Amber House (21 page)

A bell went off.

“Oh, yikes, we gotta get going. Class starts in ten.”

The guys had toweled dry too. All evidently had access to lockers. And, presumably, suits.

We snuck out the same door we snuck in. The art building was at the top of the campus. It was a hike. At one point, Richard held out his hand for mine, but I pretended to be involved with something on my sleeve. I didn’t like that he’d lied to me about
his mother. It made me wonder what else he hadn’t been entirely truthful about.

The art teacher, Mr. Schrieber, was another Amber House
connoisseur
, unfortunately. After Richard introduced me, Schrieber launched into a mini one-on-one lecture on all the famous American portraitists, “spanning three hundred years of painting,” hanging on the walls of Amber House. And this was not to mention what he called “the Hicks Biblicals” on the risers of the main stairs.

“My great-aunt Gwendolyn spent the night at Amber House once.” He said this with such cheerful enthusiasm, I waited for some nice story to follow.

“Really?” I encouraged him.

“A long time ago, when she was a little girl. She used to tell us that night she had the most horrific nightmares she’d ever had in her life.”

“Oh,” I said, faltering.

“In fact, they were the inspiration for the Schreiber family boogeyman,” he ran on, still happily enthusiastic. “If we were bad, Aunt Gwen would tell us, ‘You’d better watch out, or she’s gonna get you’” — his voice dropped to a spooky whisper — “‘The Mother Who Comes in Your Sleep.’” He laughed with glee. “Aunt Gwen was such a crazy, mean old bat.”

Yes
, I thought.
Nice story.

I guess Richard noticed my chilled attitude toward him. After we buckled up in his car for the ride home, he sighed, leaned back, and said, “Okay, Parsons, what’d I do?”

I know I must have turned red. I didn’t have any idea how to answer. I mean, it wasn’t like he owed me the truth or something. But it just blurted out of me: “Kathryn said your mom isn’t dead.”

He didn’t say a word. I saw the muscles in his jaw bunch, and then he turned the ignition and popped the clutch in reverse. We spun out of there kicking up gravel.

I was scared and unhappy that I had just totally blown it. I mean, I had basically called him a liar. I guessed we were kind of done, right? But he had lied to me.

Then he downshifted and screeched to a halt on the shoulder of the road. He talked facing forward, to the steering wheel, without looking at me. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I lied to you like that — it was stupid, okay? It’s just —” He stopped, as if the words were bitter in his mouth. “I just didn’t want to have to say it out loud, you know? That she up and left us. Left me. Like there was something wrong with me, you know? Or something wrong with her.” He put his elbows on the steering wheel and pressed his palms into his eyes.

I felt terrible. I reached up and pulled his hand away from his face, then turned it over and laced my fingers through his. He tightened his hold, squeezing my hand. “I’m sorry, Parsons.”

I squeezed back. “No worries, Hathaway. I’m sorry I said anything.”

He leaned over, put his finger under my chin. He hesitated a moment, then gave me the softest kiss. I liked it. I liked it a lot.

Then he popped the car back in gear and drove us to Amber House, which meant he sped like a madman, passed six cars, and nearly spun out in the gravel of the entrance. Even so, I felt surprisingly relaxed, like a bunch of muscles I had been holding tense had all let go at once. Then I realized — I had just enjoyed a day of utter normalcy, no echoes allowed.

Richard was speaking to me. “Hm?” I asked.

“I said, how ’bout we go riding tomorrow after school?” he repeated.

“Riding? Riding what?” I asked.

He laughed. “Horses, you dope. What do you think?”

“You’ve got horses?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “And so do you. Jeez, Parsons, don’t you ever go exploring? Somebody should have given you a map and a tour of your own house.”

“Well, you’re doing a pretty good job of that, Hathaway, even if it is taking you forever to finish.”

“Yeah, well, I need excuses to keep coming over.” He grinned fetchingly.

“You don’t need any excuses,” I said, grinning back. “You’ve got an open invitation. You’re welcome anytime.”

I was waiting, hoping, for another kiss, and he must have known it, because he smiled before he reached across me to open my door. “Your mom’s waiting on the front porch,” he said.

“Oh,” I said, turning pink. “Right.”

As I shifted to get out, he snagged my little finger with his little finger, like a little secret embrace. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Parsons,” he promised. And I smiled.

Mom opened the door for me. “How’d it go?”

I found I was really not interested in analyzing the day for my mother. I just wanted to slip away to my room and analyze it for myself.

“It went fine,” I said. “A lot of kids said they were coming to the party. I think it’s mostly because of Richard.”

She must have heard something in the way I said his name — some tone that betrayed me.

“Don’t start liking him too much,” she said.

I think my mouth fell open. That was just perfect, wasn’t it? First she was riding my case because I chased the lovely Richard off by winning the regatta with Jackson. Now she was warning me not to get too close? “I thought you wanted me to like him.”

“No. I wanted
him
to like
you
. I want him at that party. I want him to bring all his friends.”

I was absolutely incredulous. “That just sounds so … so … manipulative. Don’t get me wrong — I’m not a big fan of the senator’s, but — jeez, Mom, I didn’t think you were just
pretending
to like him.”

“I’m not pretending. I do like him. Of course I like him. What’s not to like?”

“No.” I shook my head. Was she playing word games with me? “I mean
like him
like him.”

She looked at me in genuine disbelief. “Oh, God, no. I’ve known Robert Hathaway since he was fourteen. I know exactly
what kind of man he is. Even when I was younger than you, I was never dumb enough to
like
Robert.”

“So, you don’t like him. You just
want
something from him.”

“You know what? I don’t like your tone.” She came and stood in front of me, her hands on her hips. “I know you’re still a child, but it’s time you realize how things work in the real world. You think I’m some kind of conniving bitch because I want to use the senator’s connections? I got news for you, honey: The only reason the senator is letting me use his connections is because
he
wants something from
me
.”

I just stood there, shaking my head. I mean, I was relieved I didn’t have to worry about my mother and her imminent piles of money, but I was still appalled. Mom was using the senator, using his son,
and
using me. And she wasn’t bothered by it. At all.

“I don’t know what he wants yet,” she went on. “Could be something as simple as a campaign contribution and a chance to mingle with his wealthy constituents at no cost to himself. Or he could be looking for a — companion.”

Okay, yuck.

“Or maybe he’s more ambitious. He’s single, I’m newly wealthy, and he doesn’t seem to like it much when your father is around.” She rolled her eyes the tiniest bit. “But here’s something else for you to think about, Sarah, and I’m not telling you this to be cruel. Do you think the senator didn’t say the exact same thing to Richard that I’ve said to you? ‘Be nice. Don’t mess up this deal for me.’”

Her tone was light, but brittle and unrelenting.

“I mean,” she kept going, “you are a lovely girl. You don’t believe that half as much as you should. Any boy would be lucky to spend time with you. But do you really think that this boy swallowed his pride and invited you to his school because he all of a sudden finds every other girl he knows inadequate?”

Maybe she wasn’t trying to be cruel. But in that moment I just wanted to reach out and claw her. I turned and left the room without another word.

As I marched up the stairs to the second floor, I thought about all the things Richard and I had done — the tour of the house, racing down the hall, sailing on the bay, sharing sandwiches and brownies. Kissing. His confession in the car. All of it — just playacting? Just being “nice” to help his dad make some kind of score?

It was disgusting. It was awful.

And was that what I had been doing? Being “nice” because Mom told me to?

It wasn’t. I knew it wasn’t. I wasn’t just being nice. Richard was perfect. Richard was amazing. What girl wouldn’t want to be nice to him?

And he wasn’t like that, like what my mom said. He was funny and charming. And real. He wouldn’t just pretend to like me. Would he?

I felt sick in the pit of my stomach, like I wanted to throw up but never would. I went into the flowered room, closed the curtains, shut off the lights, and curled up under the covers.

Sammy woke me. The room was dark, but I knew it wasn’t late yet. The clock confirmed it was only just dinnertime.

I had dreamed. I remembered just a snatch. Looking in a mirror and not seeing my face. A voice — maybe Nanga’s — saying, “No one’s in the mirror.”

Sammy’s pleading chased the fragments from my brain. “Don’t you want anything to eat, Sarah? We ordered pizza.”

He sounded so wistful, so bereft, I almost got up and went with him.

Almost. But not with my mom down there.

“I’m not that hungry tonight. Listen, buddy, will you do me a favor?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You have to keep a secret.”

“I can keep a secret. I’m a good secret keeper.”

“I know you are, Sam. You’re an excellent secret keeper. That’s why I’m asking you.”

“Tell me, Sarah.”

“I’m going exploring with Jackson tonight. I think I know where there’s a secret passage. And if we find it, I promise we’ll take you through it. But Mom can’t know I’m going. Right?”

“Right.”

“So I want you to tell her I have a bad headache and I went to bed already. Then watch TV with her and sleep downstairs in Gramma’s big bed. Okay? We got a deal?”

He nodded with big eyes. “We got a deal.”

I quietly got ready for the night’s adventure: hooded jacket, gloves, boots — everything I could think of to make myself spider-proof. I figured if I tucked my sleeves into the gloves, my pants into the boots, and my hair into the hoodie zipped up to my chin, the only spider-accessible skin I’d have left was my face. And I’d just have to watch out for my face.

The best thing about a house with multiple staircases is it makes it hard for your parents to keep track of you. Ten minutes before I was supposed to meet Jackson, I headed for the conservatory. Down the stairs, out the back, a quiet trip across the stone paths. Once I got past the windows to the rear gallery, I turned on Sam’s flashlight. I veered right toward the entrance to the maze.

Jackson was already there, waiting for me. “I’m glad you got my message,” I said. “Thanks for coming.”

He regarded me with some amusement. “Nice outfit.”

I realized, a little belatedly, I must look like a crazy person. “I have this thing about spiders,” I explained. “Especially poisonous spiders.”

“Well, I think you got it covered,” he said, smiling. “Just watch out for your face.”

Yeah, check.

I saw he’d brought a tool kit, a crowbar, a shovel, a broom, and a bigger flashlight than Sam’s. He was like a damn Boy Scout, I thought, always prepared. Life never seemed to take him by surprise. But maybe that’s the way you had to be when you’d been through the kind of things he’d been through.

I wondered if knowing about his condition had changed the way I thought about him. Or treated him. I hoped not. That would suck — to have people always dealing with you like you were made of glass.

“What?” he said.

“Huh?” I said.

“You’re staring at me like — I don’t know what.”

“Sorry,” I said. “Thought I — forgot something.”

“A beekeeper’s mask, maybe? Let’s go.”

He traded me flashlights and put Sam’s in the kit. He gathered up his stuff.

“I can carry something,” I said.

“Just carry the light.”

I was a little doubtful about finding the path to the center, but I shouldn’t have been. Jackson knew the way.

“There’s a rhythm — right, skip, right, left, skip, left, right, skip. Then left, skip, left, right, skip, right, and left.”

It sounded easy, in theory, but in practice — in the twists of the maze, in the rise and fall of the sloping ground — it was
hard to keep track of where you were in the pattern. I kept wanting to turn right when I should have been going left, and sometimes I continued straight past a turn I hadn’t spotted. Jackson corrected me verbally, calling me back, turning me around, but after the fifth misstep, he sighed.

“You keep doing this and
I’m
going to forget where we are in the turns. Carry this, okay?” he asked, handing me the broom. He put the crowbar and tool box in one hand and with the other took my flashlight-wielding arm above the elbow to guide me.

I was uncomfortably aware of those fingers on my arm. I held it a little away from my body, so the back of his hand would not brush my side. But he still touched my ribs whenever he guided me to the left. I wondered if he noticed.

I lost all sense of direction as we followed the twists of the maze. We’d started off west, then gone south and east, maybe, before making the last couple of turns. From there, a straight path led to the heart of the maze.

I sucked in my breath.

A little octagonal gazebo stood in the center, gleaming in the light from a three-quarter moon. It was shaped in marble and wrought iron, ringed all around with two stone steps. A delicate stairway climbed up the outer sides to the metal roof, which was girded in railing. The gnarled trunks of old wisteria vines leaned in at four of the vertices, spreading fall-naked branches along the ironwork arches.
In the spring
, I thought,
it must be glorious.

I mounted the stairs circling up to the roof. Jackson climbed behind me. We stood at the rail, staring. The maze spread out around us and Amber House loomed above, a dark mass against the purple-black sky.

“In May and June,” Jackson said, “the hedges bloom with tiny white flowers and the wisteria makes a lavender curtain all around the gazebo. Daffodils poke up between the roots. The whole place hums with bees. And there are a million butterflies.”

“It would be a perfect place for a wedding.”

Jackson smiled crookedly and nodded in agreement, amused, I thought, to hear me make such a girly observation. Like I was one of those twits who are always tearing pictures out of bridal magazines. “I predict,” he said, with his hand to his temple and his voice oracular, “
you
will be married here someday.”

I chuckled, relieved he had made a joke of it. “The odds are long against it, Nostradamus.”

“Fortunately for you,” he said, “I’m not a betting man.”

Still a little embarrassed, I looked away again, across the moonlit view. Fresh anger at my mother bubbled up in me. How could she sell this? How could she take it away from Sammy and me? We had a right to be here. I felt — connected — to this place.

I looked up and imagined the generations of my ancestors standing in the windows, looking back at me. If my mother had her way, I would be the last one to remember them. The last one to hear the echoes of their voices.

I felt it like a loss already suffered. But what could I do about it? There wasn’t a single thing I could say to change my mother’s mind. If she had any idea about my connection to Amber House, it would only make her want to get out even faster. I remembered the hyperexaggerated distaste in her voice when she’d pronounced the word
schizophrenic
. An inherited disease.

I shook that thought off me like a bug.

“Let’s look for the tunnel entrance,” I said, a little harshly.

“After you,” Jackson answered, apparently not offended by my abruptness.

We went down and I put my attention into the task at hand. I walked all around the outer edge of the gazebo, poking at the ground with the crowbar to see if the earth hid a trapdoor or a closed-over entrance. But it all seemed solidly packed dirt. Jackson watched me patiently.

“You gonna help?” I asked, a little indignant.

“Why don’t we check inside the gazebo?”

It was a simple open-sided room with a couple pieces of garden furniture and a floor made of large squares of black and white marble. Nothing hidden, all open to view. Jackson bent low and shone his flashlight over every inch of the harlequin tiles. He crouched and said, “You see this?”

“What?” I bent down beside him, trying to spot what he was talking about.