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  My hand hovered over the doorknob for a brief moment before I flung the door open and screamed, waving around my umbrella.

  A boy shouted and fell down the steps.

  “Sam?” I dropped the umbrella and rushed from the door. “I’m so sorry. Sam? Are you okay?’

  He groaned and held his leg. “Allie!”

  “I’m so, so sorry!” I knelt on the muddy ground next to him, the rain pouring down my head. “Oh my goodness, Sam, I didn’t mean to …” I trailed off, my cheeks reddening, although I’m sure he couldn’t see them in the dark. “I thought you were a criminal.”

  “Do I look like a criminal?” Sam rolled his eyes. “Didn’t your mother tell you I was coming? We telephoned her.”

  “No, I …” I wrung my hands, flustered. “No, I guess not.”

  Sam held up a paper bag. “My mom thought I might send you all some eggs.” Liquid oozed out of the bottom of the bag, and it wasn’t from the rain. “Only now they’re broken.”

  I sat on the ground and groaned. I could feel the rain and mud soaking through my skirt. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  A smile twitched on Sam’s face. “You said that.”

  “I know, but I still am.” I buried my head in my wet hands, feeling mortified.

  Sam laughed outright and pulled me up. Well, sort of— since, at fourteen years, I was still taller than him. “Aw, shake it off.” He handed me the dripping bag and grinned. “Here are your eggs.” He tipped his hat. “Good night.”

  “Wait.”

  Sam turned around. My stomach squirmed at the thought of what I was about to do.

  “You might as well come in and dry off. At least until the rain stops a little.” I straightened my shoulders. “As payment. For the … egg mush.” I held up the bag and smiled.

  Sam pulled off his muddy boots and followed me inside. I wrung out his jacket and hat while he made his way to the living room.

  I tipped over a boot and gawked at the amount of water that poured out. It was really pouring out there. I shook my head and placed the boots on a mat, reaching for his hat.

  “Is this Christmas music?” Sam called from the living room.

  “Yep.” Gosh, the hat had almost as much water as the boots.

  “What’s your mom—Uh, Allie? Allie! Allie, come here! Your mom’s —”

  I raced into the living room and screamed.

  Mama was strewn on the floor, her head on the hardwood and her legs still sliding off the couch.

  “Mama!” I shrieked, trying to run to her. My knees began to feel like putty. I groaned, watching the room spin around me. Without a word, my knees gave and I collapsed on the floor.

  You see, Mama was sick. Very sick.

  I’d first taken her to Dr. Murphy the summer before, when Mama began to misplace things and forget where she was. She was so mad that for a whole week afterward she wouldn’t speak to me. But I never told her what the doctor said once the door was closed and we were alone.

  Dr. Murphy told me I was to take care of Mama. For however much time she had left.

  He claimed I was too old to be lied to, and that I needed to face things as they were and make her last days as comfortable as possible. Because no matter what I did, she would get worse.

  Mama was dying.

  Dr. Murphy said that Mama showed all the symptoms of brain cancer. Possibly even a tumor. The specifics of the sickness were fuzzy — it varied from patient to patient, so I needed to be prepared for anything.

  I’d wanted to take Mama to a special hospital so she could get better. I’d even crawled under the bed and ripped out the seams of the mattress, grabbing the envelope of money I’d seen Mama hide the summer before. I counted it twice, but it still wasn’t enough. Only fifty dollars.

  Dr. Murphy told me that without treatment Mama would decline quickly until I would have to feed her and dress her and take care of her. He’d seen it happen dozens of times before. And, at some time or another, they always died.

  My job was to make her happy — to keep her with us. He said as long as Mama could remember she’d be fine. But she couldn’t remember.

  “Allie?” a voice asked gently. “Allie, wake up. Wake up, Allie.”

  Lights all around me. Blurry. Dancing.

  I moaned and put my hand on my brow. A giant knot was formed on my forehead. So that’s what was causing the pain.

  I opened my eyes a little wider and then squinted. Where in the world—

  “Allie? Oh, she’s awake!”

  Dr. Murphy was standing above me, the familiar, doctorish smell of aftershave and metal lingering in the air. Dr. Murphy’s gray eyes twinkled as he gave my hand a little squeeze. “That a girl. Wake on up, Allie.”

  I tried to sit up, but the pressure in my head pulled me back down to the pillow.

  “Whoa, whoa.” Dr. Murphy tightened his grip on my hand. “Steady. Steady.”

  I looked around. I was in the hospital, in one of those little patient beds. All around me were nurses scribbling on pads of paper. There were other patients in the beds around me, moaning or vomiting, watching me.

  I glanced at the doctor and grabbed his coat. “Why am I here? What happened?”

  “Ah,” Dr. Murphy looked around and nodded his white head. “Momentary confusion and memory loss. It’s quite common with mild concussions.”

  One of the nurses nodded and scribbled something on her notepad.

  Dr. Murphy turned back to me and squeezed my hand. “You fell down,” he said in a loud voice. “On the floor. Remember?”

  What is all this about? I tried to sit up again, a sudden thought piercing through my head. “Where’s Mama?”

  Dr. Murphy touched my wrist. “She’s all right. For now.” He glanced at his notepad, which he quickly whipped out of my sight. “She had a bump on the head.” He glanced up at me, his eyes probing. “Alcyone … do you know of anything your mother could have been doing that may have caused her to fall off the couch? We talked about this sickness. Is there anything — any medicines, any treatments that you’ve been giving her that we haven’t prescribed?”

  I shook my head, my hands clammy. “No, sir.”

  Dr. Murphy sighed and pulled off his spectacles. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a bottle of pills. “Alcyone, we think your mother may have been suffering a lack of memory and took some pills we prescribed for her to use years ago. That may have accounted for her unconsciousness and fall.” His voice grew soft. “Her health is deteriorating. Surely you must know that.”

  I looked around the doctor’s office. The nurses frowned, their eyes sad. I clamped my hands together and took a deep breath. I didn’t need their sympathy. They could keep it and waste it on all the puppies and babies in the world, for all I cared. Mama was strong and so was I. She would survive a hundred more Christmases.

  “What do you need me to do, doctor?” My voice shook a little. Coward. I hated myself for feeling so afraid.

  Dr. Murphy sighed and avoided my eyes. “There’s nothing else you can do. It’s just a matter of time.” He took a deep breath. “I’d like … I’d like to put her in a facility. Where she can get help.”

  My throat constricted. “No.” My voice sounded panicky and distant, even to my own ears. “No, please. Let me stay with her.”

  He glanced at me, and I could tell he was fighting back his sympathy for me.

  Everything in me ached at the thought of Mama dying in a distant hospital, surrounded by strange faces. My desperation must have shown in my face, because Dr. Murphy’s shoulders fell and he shook his head.

  “If you desire, though, I can arrange for her to die at home. With nurses working around the clock, of course.”

  “Thank you,” I breathed. “I’ll take good care of her.”

  “Very well.” Dr. Murphy paused a moment and squeezed my hand. “I’m so sorry, Alcyone.”

  And then he left and I was alone. Again.

  I pressed Mama’s hand against my cheek. “Mama? Mama
, can you hear me?”

  I dropped her wrist and pushed away from the bedside, trying to look cheerful. I crossed the room to the window. Dark curtains had been pulled. Darn nurses.

  I could hear Mama’s labored breaths from the bedside. “Of course you don’t want to get up in this dreary room,” I said out loud. “What was it you said? ‘Waking up in the dark is never a pleasant feeling.’ You said that just the other day. Remember?”

  I turned. Mama’s eyes were shut, her chest heaving up and down. My eyes smarted. “I wish I could catch you the sun,” I whispered. I spun around and flung the curtains open. Blessed light flooded into the room. “See, Mama? It’s not so dark anymore.”

  I ran to the fireplace and grabbed the box of matches. I scampered across the room, lighting every lamp and candle in sight. Within seconds, the room was covered in a warm glow of light.

  “Allie?” she whispered. Her voice was dull and shallow.

  I rushed to her side and grabbed her ashy hand. “Yes, Mama?”

  “Allie … I want …” She clutched me tighter than I thought she was capable of doing. “I think … I was …” She breathed in and turned her head to the side, gasping for air.

  I knelt by Mama’s bedside and stroked her cheek. The lamplight illuminated the new injury on her forehead. I brushed my finger across her face, stroking the scar.

  God help her. The thought came unbidden. And yet I meant it. With all my heart, I begged God to help her.

  Fix her. Heal her. I’ll do whatever it takes. Just please. Please don’t take her from me.

  Her skin grew cool and clammy as her breathing lessened.

  No. My heart sank. No, no, no.

  I turned away. “I know!” I said with false brightness. “I’ll …” I struggled to choke out the words. “I’ll play you a song on the piano. I’ve been practicing for your … birthday.”

  I walked over to the old piano and lifted the lid. I slid into the seat and began the cheeriest song I knew. Song after song, I played, my fingers stumbling as tears threatened to burst.

  Mama had stopped breathing. I knew it, but I shoved it deep inside my chest, refusing to believe it.

  My fingers began to slow as I neared the third chorus of “Turkish March.” And then my shoulders fell with a bang as my arms hit the piano and I burst into tears, an unfathomable ache pulling at my heart.

  August 14, 1939

  Mama, I wish you’d come back. It feels like all the happy things in the world have died except for me. And I’m still here and living without them. My heart hurts, and my head hurts, and I wish that you were here to rub it.

  Tears stung at my eyes. I stopped to hold my hand up to my mouth, fighting them back. It felt like everyone in Tennessee was waiting outside for me to start the funeral. “Such a tragedy,” I’d heard them say. “For such a young, healthy woman to have that happen to her. It must have been such a burden on the girl to have a crazy mother. At least she’s in a better place now.”

  Are you in a better place, Mama? No, I don’t think you’re in any place at all. Christians are the crazy ones. That’s what you told me— there isn’t a God. There’s no one listening, no one who cares.

  For some reason, that thought didn’t comfort me. The idea of Mama’s soul disappearing completely. It was unsettling.

  I love you. I’ll always love you, and I believe you loved me, too. And that makes me feel just a little bit better.

  “I’m sorry.”

  I looked up to see Sam Carroll sticking a handful of flowers in my face. I dropped my head and stared at my black satin lap, fiercely wiping my eye.

  “Allie, I said I was sorry.” Sam kicked his foot on the ground, sending up a small pile of dust.

  I looked up and gave him a withering look. “If you hadn’t been at my house, none of this would have happened.”

  Sam looked taken aback. “What?”

  Some of the ladies at the funeral frowned at me. I lowered my voice. “If I’d been in there with Mama, I could have saved her.”

  “Allie,” Sam whispered, hurt in his eyes.

  I refused to meet his gaze. Instead I hugged myself as tightly as my too-small black dress would let me and tried to fight the tears in my eyes.

  “Well.” Sam laid the flowers at my feet. “I’m still sorry.” He looked up at me with the saddest blue eyes — I really was tempted to believe him for a second. Just a second.

  I focused on my lap once again, and Sam shuffled off with his mother, glancing back over his shoulder at me. I avoided his eye.

  “Are you Alcyone?” A stuffy old lady looked down her nose at me. I nodded and wiped my nose on my sleeve. “Oh, for goodness sake, child, use a handkerchief.” The lady tutted and handed me an intricately embroidered hanky. I blew my nose and handed it back to her. “Oh.” The woman grimaced and placed it back in her quilted purse. “I am Mrs. Pamela Dewsbury, from the adoption agency.”

  “Adoption?” I squeaked.

  “Yes.” Mrs. Dewsbury wrinkled her nose again and brushed a spot of dirt off the bench before she sat down beside me. “You see, Alcyone, you have no family. And so we have matched you with a compatible adult who can take care of you. I am to take you back to your home and help you pack your things so we can go straight there on the six o’clock train.”

  My mouth hung slightly open. Mrs. Dewsbury reached over and shut it with one finger. “That is very unsightly.”

  Over the car ride home, Mrs. Dewsbury explained my current situation in cold detail.

  “I’m sorry to have to do this to you, but most of your belongings must be sold in order to pay for your mother’s funeral arrangements. You may have noticed your mother didn’t have much money.” She glanced at me and tightened her lip. “You shall only bring one suitcase full of things of little worth to your new home.”

  “What about my cat?” My heart was racing. What would I do without Daphne?

  Mrs. Dewsbury shook her head. “You may not bring the cat.”

  I scooted to the edge of the car and looked out the window, running my finger down the glass. “Where am I going?”

  Mrs. Dewsbury glanced at me sideways. “Maine.”

  Maine? I crouched farther into my corner. Oh, Mama.

  Chapter 4

  After great pain, a formal feeling comes —

  The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs …

  As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow —

  First — Chill — then Stupor — then the letting go —

  — Emily Dickinson

  I looked around my bedroom and fought back tears. All my things. All my precious things. The dolls Mama had given me and the little dresses we’d sewn together. The beautiful curtains we’d picked out and the sheets we’d camped out in.

  I choked on a sob as I folded the last of my few articles of clothing and placed them in my bag. There was so little room left.

  Think, Allie. What will you need?

  I reached over and pulled down my sketchbook and chalks from my nightstand. Then I walked over to the left wall of my room and stared at all the drawings I’d placed there. Ones of me, ones of Daphne, ones of Mama.

  Ones of Mama. I reached up and peeled my favorite one off the wall, holding it to my chest and stroking my finger over Mama’s face. She was dressed in her favorite feedbag dress, the one with checked tulips, standing in the garden by my roses. In her hand she cupped a butterfly, but it looked like it was going to fly away any second. The look on her face was one of anticipation and excitement. The old Mama. Before the sickness.

  I put the picture in my bag along with a photograph of me and Mama. Then I walked over to the bookshelf and sighed. All our favorite books. The Brontës’ stories, the Greek mythology, the poems. Then I knew which book I wanted to bring.

  Mrs. Dewsbury was talking on the phone in the kitchen when I snuck downstairs. There it was in the living room. Right where I had left it the night … well, the night Mama died. The Poems of Emily Dickinson.

  For a moment, I
considered running away. To the hills, or one of the abandoned farms. Somewhere near Mama’s grave, where I could still visit her and feel her presence around me. Where I wouldn’t feel so alone in the world.

  No. I straightened my shoulders. No, I won’t run away. I’ll be strong. I’ll be the woman that Mama always wanted me to be —fearless and tough.

  I looked over the room one last time before running upstairs to place the book in with my meager possessions. I zipped the bag shut and sighed at all the dolls and animals that were left. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, kissing every one of them, no matter how childish it felt. “I just don’t have room.”

  Before shutting the door to my room behind me for the last time, I said good-bye to the pictures still on the wall, and the books remaining on my shelves.

  I crept across the hallway to Mama’s room, still hearing Mrs. Dewsbury talking from the kitchen.

  Daphne met me in the middle of the hall and purred, rubbing her head against my leg.

  “Oh, Daphne,” I murmured, scooping her up in my arms and burying my face in her orange fur. “Oh, I’m going to miss you so much.” I set her on the ground and watched her strut back down the hallway, oblivious to my heartache.

  I opened the door to Mama’s room and choked back more tears.

  It was as if nothing had happened. The bed was still unmade and one of the windows was open. The curtains fluttered in the breeze. A book that we had been reading was still sitting on the nightstand.

  I shut the door behind me and walked over to Mama’s still-open piano. My fingers ran over the keys as I tried to lock the memory in my brain. I sunk into the seat and began to play.

  “Pavane for a Dead Princess.” It seemed fitting. Mama was a princess.

  I played it better than I ever had before, even after hours of practicing. Tears blinded my eyes as my fingers slid down the keys, caressing every one. This is for you, Mama. See, I told you I’d always play for you. I strangled down a sob.

  “Alcyone.”

  The song ended abruptly. I looked up to see Mrs. Dewsbury frowning in the doorway, and wiped away my tears fiercely. “I was just … I was just …”