Ghosts of Bergen County by Dana Cann Page B

carefully, into two cups. She passed one to Mary Beth, who took it with two hands, one on the saucer and the other with her thumb and index finger on the delicate handle of the cup. She brought the cup to her lips and made sounds with her tongue on the roof of her mouth, a proxy for sipping.
    Then the girl held out her hands again, both this time, as though proffering a large platter. “Cakes?” she asked.
    â€œWhy, thank you.” Mary Beth made a show of choosing one. “They all look delicious.”
    â€œYou can have more than one.”
    Mary Beth raised her hand above the platter. “Hmmmm. I’ll start with this one. No!” She moved her hand. “This one.” She picked up a cake and nibbled it. “Mmm.”
    They sat for a time, enjoying the tea and cakes, each other’s company, and the ambiance offered by the shaded woods.
    A cheer rose from the ball fields above. The girl looked up the hill. “Is Catherine playing baseball?” she asked.
    â€œNo.”
    The girl sipped her tea and waited.
    â€œIf Catherine was playing baseball, wouldn’t I be up there, cheering, with the other parents?”
    â€œI guess so.”
    Mary Beth wished to cut through the ruse, through the games and the tea and cakes. But this was a child. Still, she said, “Catherine died.”
    â€œThat’s sad.” The girl didn’t blink. She just looked unhappy.
    â€œI’m Mary Beth.”
    â€œI know.”
    â€œHow do you know?”
    â€œI followed you here.”
    â€œFrom where?”
    The girl paused to consider her answer. Mary Beth felt as if she were floating in some sort of liquid—a thick, warm syrup—from which she might never escape.
    â€œFrom your house,” the girl said.
    â€œDo you live on Woodberry Road?”
    The girl smiled. “I live here , silly.” She touched the bark of the fallen tree.
    It was a game , Mary Beth reminded herself. It was real and make-believe all at once. She wasn’t sure of the rules. She wasn’t sure if she’d get another opportunity to play. She sipped her tea.
    â€œI used to live there,” the girl said.
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œWhere you live. Before you lived there.”
    â€œHow old are you?” Mary Beth asked.
    â€œSix. My name’s Amanda.” She presented the platter of cakes.
    â€œAmanda.” Mary Beth selected one and nibbled it. “It’s nice to meet you.”
    â€œIt’s not polite to talk with your mouth full.”
    â€œMmm. You’re right.” Mary Beth pantomimed swallowing. “It’s nice to meet you, Amanda.”
    A breeze came through and swept the bangs from the girl’s forehead.
    â€œMy house,” Mary Beth said, “was only recently built. I don’t think you lived there.” It was too logical an argument for such a fanciful game. Mary Beth wished she could take it back.
    But it didn’t faze Amanda. “Is that where Catherine lived?” she asked.
    Mary Beth nodded.
    â€œWhat color was her room?”
    â€œPurple.”
    Amanda frowned, as though disappointed by the choice. “Light purple or dark purple?”
    Mary Beth paused. It wasn’t a baby’s room anymore. She remembered the crib and the mobile and the morning sunlight shining through the window. “More light than dark. More blue than red.”
    Amanda considered this.
    â€œDid you know that that’s how you make purple? You mix red paint with blue paint?”
    â€œI knew that,” Amanda said.
    â€œWhat do you get,” Mary Beth said, “when you mix red paint with yellow paint?”
    Amanda squinted a moment at the bark on the fallen tree between where the two sat. Then she said, “Blue.”
    â€œOrange.”
    â€œAre you done with your tea?” Amanda reached out to take Mary Beth’s cup and saucer.
    â€œI can bring paints and paper.” Mary Beth touched knuckles with the