opened her mouth and let it hang for a second too long—but she didn’t end up denying it. “She’s not a ghost, if that’s what you’re saying. You know we don’t believe in ghosts, silly.”
“How?” I said.
“How
what
?” she said.
“
How
is she alive?”
Right then, Ruby held up a hand to stop me from saying more and shot her gaze over my shoulder, to the open doorway behind me. There was a thump coming from out in the hallway. Then another as a heavy weight was dropped.
Was that Jonah?
I stayed very still as she checked outside the room.
But when she returned from the darkened hall she held in her arms a framed mirror that must have slipped down from the wall—and somehow didn’t break.
“Maybe we do have a ghost,” she teased.
“That wasn’t Jonah?”
She shook her head. “It’s the house settling, that’s all.” She held the mirror facing out at me and for a brief moment it caught a bare corner of the room and I didn’t see myself in it—like I was the one whose existence we should be questioning. But it was only the angle. When I shifted, I was back in frame and made a reflection as usual. She plunked the mirror on the floor, careful not to get a crack of bad luck in it, and asked me what she’d asked me before.
“So,” she said, “you’ll stay?”
“Well, yeah,” I said. “Of course.”
How could I leave? Now back, I couldn’t picture anywhere else. Literally—like my mind had been wiped clean of all other towns clear from here to Route 80. Places that weren’t this place had lost their names. Here was home, because Ruby was here.
“And didn’t you notice?” she said. “I decorated. You like?”
Tacked to the walls in random spots were photos of the two of us. We grinned and pursed our lips and dangled candy-colored tongues over the electrical outlets. We posed with faces mashed together, nose to nose, or cheek on cheek, the flash deviling our eyes, on a windowpane. There was one of me in her lap posted halfway up a wall, but I wasn’t a baby, I was twelve years old. There was one of the two of us in her bright white car, sunglasses on and lenses reflecting white-hot sun, above the light switch. There were no boys in any of the photos. And it went without saying that there were none of Mom.
The last of the photos was taken the summer I was fourteen. There we were, cooling ourselves off in the Millstream, Ruby at the edge of the frame with a diamond-shaped fleck of mud on her nose, and me in the center, too many flecks of mud on my body to count, about to splash her.
That was the most recent photo—missing from the walls were the two years we’d spent apart, a time left unphotographed and unrecorded. Neither of us mentioned that.
“It’s perfect,” I told her. “I love the pictures.”
“We’ll bring up your suitcase later,” she said.
Suddenly I remembered what I’d wanted to check. I was propelled to the window. The room she’d had built for me was at the front of the house, and the view out the window displayed only the driveway. Nowhere, from any spot in that room, could I see a hint of the reservoir. Which meant it couldn’t see me.
That answered my question.
“Are you going to show me
your
room?” I asked her.
She nodded and led the way.
The “hallway” to reach Ruby’s room was a set of plywood planks running from one side of the house to the other. I could look down and see the first floor a story below. Walking the planks was like performing the trapeze in a dark circus, only everyone’s gone home already and they’ve taken the net with them, so if you fall, the hard ground is all that’s there to catch you.
Ruby balanced on the planks without looking down. She didn’t put a hand to the wall to keep steady. Once in her room I could see that her clothes were scattered about, and a chair was set up in the middle of the floor to hold only sunglasses, and her dresser drawers spilled out more than they held, all of which was like
“How?” I said.
“How
what
?” she said.
“
How
is she alive?”
Right then, Ruby held up a hand to stop me from saying more and shot her gaze over my shoulder, to the open doorway behind me. There was a thump coming from out in the hallway. Then another as a heavy weight was dropped.
Was that Jonah?
I stayed very still as she checked outside the room.
But when she returned from the darkened hall she held in her arms a framed mirror that must have slipped down from the wall—and somehow didn’t break.
“Maybe we do have a ghost,” she teased.
“That wasn’t Jonah?”
She shook her head. “It’s the house settling, that’s all.” She held the mirror facing out at me and for a brief moment it caught a bare corner of the room and I didn’t see myself in it—like I was the one whose existence we should be questioning. But it was only the angle. When I shifted, I was back in frame and made a reflection as usual. She plunked the mirror on the floor, careful not to get a crack of bad luck in it, and asked me what she’d asked me before.
“So,” she said, “you’ll stay?”
“Well, yeah,” I said. “Of course.”
How could I leave? Now back, I couldn’t picture anywhere else. Literally—like my mind had been wiped clean of all other towns clear from here to Route 80. Places that weren’t this place had lost their names. Here was home, because Ruby was here.
“And didn’t you notice?” she said. “I decorated. You like?”
Tacked to the walls in random spots were photos of the two of us. We grinned and pursed our lips and dangled candy-colored tongues over the electrical outlets. We posed with faces mashed together, nose to nose, or cheek on cheek, the flash deviling our eyes, on a windowpane. There was one of me in her lap posted halfway up a wall, but I wasn’t a baby, I was twelve years old. There was one of the two of us in her bright white car, sunglasses on and lenses reflecting white-hot sun, above the light switch. There were no boys in any of the photos. And it went without saying that there were none of Mom.
The last of the photos was taken the summer I was fourteen. There we were, cooling ourselves off in the Millstream, Ruby at the edge of the frame with a diamond-shaped fleck of mud on her nose, and me in the center, too many flecks of mud on my body to count, about to splash her.
That was the most recent photo—missing from the walls were the two years we’d spent apart, a time left unphotographed and unrecorded. Neither of us mentioned that.
“It’s perfect,” I told her. “I love the pictures.”
“We’ll bring up your suitcase later,” she said.
Suddenly I remembered what I’d wanted to check. I was propelled to the window. The room she’d had built for me was at the front of the house, and the view out the window displayed only the driveway. Nowhere, from any spot in that room, could I see a hint of the reservoir. Which meant it couldn’t see me.
That answered my question.
“Are you going to show me
your
room?” I asked her.
She nodded and led the way.
The “hallway” to reach Ruby’s room was a set of plywood planks running from one side of the house to the other. I could look down and see the first floor a story below. Walking the planks was like performing the trapeze in a dark circus, only everyone’s gone home already and they’ve taken the net with them, so if you fall, the hard ground is all that’s there to catch you.
Ruby balanced on the planks without looking down. She didn’t put a hand to the wall to keep steady. Once in her room I could see that her clothes were scattered about, and a chair was set up in the middle of the floor to hold only sunglasses, and her dresser drawers spilled out more than they held, all of which was like
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