another hobby.”
The clock says midnight.
I’ve been in bed for two hours, but I can’t get to sleep. My mind keeps trying
to put together the jigsaw puzzle of the Jameson murder, but there are too many
pieces missing.
When
the closet door opens, I’m glad. If I have to be awake, at least I won’t be
awake alone.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,
look at you. You’re as wide awake as I am.” Abigail jumps onto my bed and sits
with her knees hugged to her chest. “I’ve never been able to figure out why the
living use that expression’ sleep like the dead.’ We never sleep.”
“I guess it’s because
dead people look like they’re asleep,” I say.
“Do I look asleep to
you?” Abigail says. “You mean dead bodies look asleep, not dead people. The
body isn’t the person. It’s just the container that holds the person until it
wears out.”
“I guess so,” I say.
“You’re unhappy. I can
tell,” Abigail says. She pulls down the covers and crawls into the bed beside
me. “Scoot over, will you.” She strokes my hair with her fingers, which make it
feel like a cool breeze is blowing through my hair. “There’s no need to make
yourself miserable over something that happened seventy years ago,” she says.
“But it’s driving me
crazy. There’s so much we don’t know.”
“Perhaps people would be
better off if they admitted that there’s a great deal that they don’t know and
will never know. You’re lucky, though, Miranda. You have the Sight. You get to
know more than most people.”
“I get to know more than
I want to know most of the time,” I say. “Maybe that’s why I’m so frustrated
right now. I’m not used to knowing less than I want to know.”
“Well, right now you’re
probably feeling like most people feel. Not so wonderful, is it?
Feeling
normal?”
“I can’t feel that
normal. I’m having a slumber party with a ghost.” Then, because I can’t get his
name out of my head, I say, under my breath, “Harold Buchanan.”
“What was that?” Abigail says.
“Harold Buchanan he’s one
of the guys who could have committed the murder. We can’t find him, but the
thing that’s driving me nuts is that his name sounds so familiar to me, and I
can’t figure out why.”
“Hmm.” Abigail props up
on her elbow. “Maybe he’s a friend of your granny’s.”
“No, Granny doesn’t have
any men friends. Not that she has many women friends either.
About the only friend
she’s close to is Daisy’oh!” A picture as clear as a photograph pops into my
head.
“What?” Abigail asks.
“I can’t believe I didn’t
think of it til now. That day when I went with Granny to visit Daisy in the
hospital...Granny was making me read all the names of the patients on the hall.
Harold Buchanan’that was one of the names!” That’s where I had heard it before,
and that’s where Adam knew it from, too. Harold Buchanan was probably one of
Adam’s father’s patients!
Chapter Thirteen
It’s ten minutes before
school starts, and I’m waiting on the sidewalk outside Adam’s house. I’ve been
up for hours, itching to tell him about Harold Buchanan.
Finally Adam stumbles out
of the front door, his eyes still sleepy, his hair sticking up from the crown.
His backpack is flung over his shoulder, and he has a comb in one hand and a
Pop-Tart in the other. I watch him sleepily try to comb his hair with a
Pop-Tart before he realizes he’s using the wrong hand. “Hello, Mr. Morning
Person,” I say.
“Miranda!” He stuffs the
comb in his pocket and rubs his eyes. “What’s up?”
“I figured out where we
know the name Harold Buchanan from,” I say. “He’s a patient at the hospital.
He’s on the same hall where I ran into you that day I was visiting with
Granny.”
Adam
wags his Pop-Tart in excitement. “Buchanan! Yeah’that’s right! That’s the name
of that old guy who’s been in the hospital for months. When I help out Dad he
always says not to bother going
The clock says midnight.
I’ve been in bed for two hours, but I can’t get to sleep. My mind keeps trying
to put together the jigsaw puzzle of the Jameson murder, but there are too many
pieces missing.
When
the closet door opens, I’m glad. If I have to be awake, at least I won’t be
awake alone.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,
look at you. You’re as wide awake as I am.” Abigail jumps onto my bed and sits
with her knees hugged to her chest. “I’ve never been able to figure out why the
living use that expression’ sleep like the dead.’ We never sleep.”
“I guess it’s because
dead people look like they’re asleep,” I say.
“Do I look asleep to
you?” Abigail says. “You mean dead bodies look asleep, not dead people. The
body isn’t the person. It’s just the container that holds the person until it
wears out.”
“I guess so,” I say.
“You’re unhappy. I can
tell,” Abigail says. She pulls down the covers and crawls into the bed beside
me. “Scoot over, will you.” She strokes my hair with her fingers, which make it
feel like a cool breeze is blowing through my hair. “There’s no need to make
yourself miserable over something that happened seventy years ago,” she says.
“But it’s driving me
crazy. There’s so much we don’t know.”
“Perhaps people would be
better off if they admitted that there’s a great deal that they don’t know and
will never know. You’re lucky, though, Miranda. You have the Sight. You get to
know more than most people.”
“I get to know more than
I want to know most of the time,” I say. “Maybe that’s why I’m so frustrated
right now. I’m not used to knowing less than I want to know.”
“Well, right now you’re
probably feeling like most people feel. Not so wonderful, is it?
Feeling
normal?”
“I can’t feel that
normal. I’m having a slumber party with a ghost.” Then, because I can’t get his
name out of my head, I say, under my breath, “Harold Buchanan.”
“What was that?” Abigail says.
“Harold Buchanan he’s one
of the guys who could have committed the murder. We can’t find him, but the
thing that’s driving me nuts is that his name sounds so familiar to me, and I
can’t figure out why.”
“Hmm.” Abigail props up
on her elbow. “Maybe he’s a friend of your granny’s.”
“No, Granny doesn’t have
any men friends. Not that she has many women friends either.
About the only friend
she’s close to is Daisy’oh!” A picture as clear as a photograph pops into my
head.
“What?” Abigail asks.
“I can’t believe I didn’t
think of it til now. That day when I went with Granny to visit Daisy in the
hospital...Granny was making me read all the names of the patients on the hall.
Harold Buchanan’that was one of the names!” That’s where I had heard it before,
and that’s where Adam knew it from, too. Harold Buchanan was probably one of
Adam’s father’s patients!
Chapter Thirteen
It’s ten minutes before
school starts, and I’m waiting on the sidewalk outside Adam’s house. I’ve been
up for hours, itching to tell him about Harold Buchanan.
Finally Adam stumbles out
of the front door, his eyes still sleepy, his hair sticking up from the crown.
His backpack is flung over his shoulder, and he has a comb in one hand and a
Pop-Tart in the other. I watch him sleepily try to comb his hair with a
Pop-Tart before he realizes he’s using the wrong hand. “Hello, Mr. Morning
Person,” I say.
“Miranda!” He stuffs the
comb in his pocket and rubs his eyes. “What’s up?”
“I figured out where we
know the name Harold Buchanan from,” I say. “He’s a patient at the hospital.
He’s on the same hall where I ran into you that day I was visiting with
Granny.”
Adam
wags his Pop-Tart in excitement. “Buchanan! Yeah’that’s right! That’s the name
of that old guy who’s been in the hospital for months. When I help out Dad he
always says not to bother going
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