Not a Sparrow Falls (26 page)

Samantha shrugged. Her heart started thumping again. “I guess so.”

Bridie strolled over to the dress again. “This sure is pretty,”
she said, smiling. “We’ll have to look for some nice earrings to go with it.”

“There’s a bead shop on Duke Street,” Samantha said. “We could make some.”

“What a good idea!” Bridie gave her a huge smile like she’d just invented peanut butter or something.

“It’s no big deal,” Samantha said, feeling grouchy and then mad at herself because she hadn’t really meant to act that way.

“Well, good night,” Bridie said. She walked toward the door and put her hand on the doorknob. Samantha felt like she had once when she’d been messing around in the car and had played with the gearshift, and it had started rolling.

“Light on or off?” Bridie asked.

“What?” Her voice came out funny, all strangled sounding.

Bridie paused and her face got serious. “What’s wrong?” she asked, taking a step closer to the bed.

****

There was no answer. Samantha just blinked again, and her face froze into that hard look that could shatter with the wrong word.

Ah. This Samantha was back again. Not the tough girl who stole wine and skipped school. This was the child from the church, the little girl with the sagging shoulders who’d penned the note.

Samantha pointed her glazed eyes toward the floor again. Bridie followed her gaze. She felt a stirring of some odd emotion—dread or fear—when she saw Anna’s journals there.

She sat down on the bed, thinking. Why should she be afraid of what was in those books? It wasn’t as if the contents were going to affect her in any way. And she had nothing to do with this family or this child, either, part of her brain reminded her. Cut and run, it advised flatly. Bridie rubbed her forehead. Her mind was a piece of window glass, and thoughts pelted and rolled off, none staying put long enough to examine.

Samantha’s trauma increased. She buried her head into the pillow.

Bridie reached out and rubbed the shuddering back, wishing someone else were here, someone who knew how to help. Who wanted to help.

God, please send someone to help me, Samantha had prayed.

Well. Here she was. Not exactly what Samantha had prayed for, but apparently she was the answer.

“I can’t read them,” Samantha was saying into the pillow.

Bridie felt a surge of a very familiar emotion. She hated watching things unravel and not being able to help.

But you can help. You just won’t.

Well, fine. Now she was hearing voices. She thought back to what she’d read about the long-term effects of drug abuse.

You know who I am.

Oh. Better yet. She wasn’t having flashbacks; she was hearing the voice of God. That was quite an improvement.

Read the books,
the voice suggested quietly.

Bridie shook her head.

Read them.

“Oh, for crying out loud,” she muttered.

Samantha raised a startled face.

“Oh no, I wasn’t talking to you,” Bridie soothed, rubbing her arm.

Samantha stared at her. Well, at least she’d stopped crying.

Bridie decided to throw all her chips onto the table. “Are you afraid to read them?”

Head back into the pillow. More sobs, and suddenly Bridie couldn’t tighten her heart any longer. Her own eyes flooded, and it seemed she could almost see the sparrow plummeting toward the hard ground.

“Come here,” she invited, and Samantha turned and buried her face in Bridie’s shoulder and hair. Bridie wrapped herself around the bony little body, kissing the curly head. “Shh. Hush, now. It’s all right.”

When the sobs tapered off, Bridie plunged in, landing right in that spot where the angels tiptoed.

“Listen,” she said, brushing the hair back from Samantha’s wet face. “I think you need to know what’s in those books, but I can guess how hard it is for you to read them.”

Samantha looked at her wide-eyed, waiting.

“Would you like for me to read them with you?”

The tension drained from Samantha’s pinched little face. She nodded. The water level in her eyes rose again but didn’t overflow this time.

So. She had caught this sparrow before she hit ground. A close save, but a save all the same. The thought flew by that the reverend wouldn’t exactly be happy to know the hired help was perusing his personal history. She had no right to pry into Alasdair and Anna MacPherson’s private lives. None whatsoever. Everyone would have a hissy fit if they knew.

She smiled, the humor unavoidable. If they knew the truth about her, reading Anna’s journals would definitely be small potatoes.

You came to help the child,
her invisible friend reminded her.

“That’s right, I did,” Bridie said, and suddenly the decision didn’t seem so hard to make. She wasn’t here to make friends with the father or the aunt. She wasn’t here to play house or mama to the babies, though those things had all been fun. She had come here to help the child, and this was how the child was asking to be helped. Besides, the worst that could happen would be she’d get caught, booted out, and then she could leave with a clear conscience.

She could almost hear her mama, though, horrified, rebuking her for nosing around in other people’s private things. She hadn’t even let Bridie explore Grandma’s trinket drawer without asking permission.

Well, she had done quite a few things Mama wouldn’t approve of. And on that thin comfort, she took the first journal from the box and climbed onto the bed.

“You can sit up here,” Samantha invited in a rare show of warmth.

Bridie scooted up beside her. Both of them leaned back against the pillows, and Bridie positioned the book on their laps.

It was big and fancy, with a brown leather cover. Anna had written a word on the front with metallic gold paint.
Ephemera.

“What’s that mean?” Samantha traced the letters.

“Let’s just see.” Bridie opened the book and pointed to the word, written again in beautiful script.
“Ephemera,”
she read,
“The transient documents of everyday life.”

“What’s transient?”

“Here today, gone tomorrow,” she said softly.

Samantha was silent.

“
This is the journal of Anna Ruth Williams,
” Bridie read, and beneath the inscription was Anna’s picture. She was beautiful. The photo looked as if it had been snapped at a party. She was standing in a doorway, leaning against the wall. Her hands were behind her back, and she was smiling as if she had a secret. Her hair was long, curling loosely around her shoulders. She wore pearl teardrop earrings and a black dress.

The next page had two pieces of heavy rag-rich paper attached meticulously to the scrapbook page. There were no glue bumps or Scotch tape. Again Anna had written in calligraphic script.

I should be studying, but instead I am reading my favorite book,
The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe
. Again.

“What do you like about it that you read it over and over?” Father asked me once. I said I didn’t know, but now that I’ve thought about it, I think I like the way the White Witch’s power begins to crumble once the king is back in the land. I feel that way now. It’s as if spring is here, even though it’s October. Father says I’m giddy at being let loose at the university and I should keep my mind on my studies. I’m sure he’s right, but I believe I am happier than I have ever been. It feels so good to be away from home. I feel guilty as I say this. He is so kind to me and worries so, but sometimes I fear I’ll suffocate. Here I can breathe. I go to my classes, return to my room. My roommate is seldom here, and I savor being alone. I brew myself a cup of strong tea and just sit on the desk and gaze out the window at the leaves turning all shades of rust and russet and brown and gold. It’s raining today, and the wind tears them off and splats them onto the ground in wet clumps. It’s warm and delicious inside. The steam pipes clang and tap. I take another sip of tea and turn the page of my book.

Bridie turned the page. There was a class schedule from the University of Edinburgh attached. Anna had been no slouch academically. Creative Writing, Ancient History, Physical Science, and Introduction to Classical Literature.

“Go on,” Samantha urged.

“Hold your horses.” Bridie shifted her eyes toward the photographs of Anna with her friends that were arranged artistically on the next page. Anna and two other girls were sitting at a table in a restaurant, mouths full, obviously enjoying their food. The menu was taped beside it—Brody’s Pub—with a circle around what Anna had ordered.

The next picture was of Anna and a pleasant-looking young man. Not Alasdair MacPherson. Anna was wearing a silly-looking hat, and the man was carrying a huge bag. Bridie read the caption.

Hugh and I take in the High Street Jumble Sale. Treasures galore—this lovely chapeau as well as a donkey lamp and pink chenille bedspread. This may call for a new decorating scheme. I think the peacock on black velvet would make a perfect focal point. Will give some thought to it.

“She would have liked Wal-Mart,” Samantha said.

“And I like her for that,” Bridie said, smiling.

Bridie turned the page. There was another picture—Anna at her desk, reading.

“My roommate snapped this,”
Anna wrote, and beside the word
roommate
was a picture of another girl. She was big and happy looking with red curly hair.

Her name is Ruby, and she is a nursing student. I said perhaps I’d become a nurse, but Ruby said no, I was too sensitive. “Stick to your writing,” she advised. I suppose she is right. Still, I like the idea of taking care of someone. Making the world right for them. Ruby laughed at that. “As if that’s what nurses do,” she said. Here’s Ruby’s solution:

An arrow pointed downward to another photo. It was Anna at her desk again, wearing a paper nurse’s cap.

She made this for me and says I can play nurse as I study literature. The best of all worlds.

Samantha scooted a little closer and rested her head lightly against Bridie’s shoulder. Bridie turned the page. There was another class schedule. Winter quarter Anna would take writing again and another literature class and sociology and art. Beside it was fall quarter’s grade report. Bridie gave a little whistle. “Look at that.” She pointed at the grade point average: 3.96.

There were more pictures of her and her friends. There was a train schedule taped onto the page and underneath Anna had written:

I feel myself tense as I think of returning home for the holidays. Father will want to talk about Mother again, and I don’t want to talk about Mother. I want to be happy. I suppose I am borrowing trouble. I will go home. This time. After all, he’s bought me the ticket. But if things turn out as I expect, I’ll spend future holidays at college.

Bridie turned the page, interested. She wondered what kind of problems Anna had had with her father.

I am back at school, and not a moment too soon. I awoke this morning seeing through the dark glasses. As always, the mood came out of the blue. I went to bed last night happy as a lark, glad to be back, and awoke this morning as gray and droopy as the dripping bare branches outside my window. I didn’t get out of bed. Ruby came in at lunchtime and asked what was wrong, was I ill, and I said yes. She brought me soup from the dining hall, then sat at the edge of my bed, giving me knowing looks. “You should talk to someone,” she said. Go away, I wanted to shout at her. Just go away and leave me alone. Perhaps, I answered instead. Finally she left, and I pulled the covers over my head and went back to sleep.

There were no pictures on the page. Just her train ticket from Christmas break, and not glued neatly but stuck to the page with a piece of masking tape. Bridie glanced at Samantha. Her face was tense again. Bridie turned the page and kept blundering on.

The sun pours through the windows. The last week seems like a dark dream. I don’t know why I let these little ups and downs throw me into such a spin. It’s over, that’s the main thing, and I’m ever grateful. I think I’ll see about getting a job. My classes are going well, though I have a little catching up to do from my spell last week. But on the whole, I think it might be good for me to have a schedule, someplace I must go each day and see people. I have made a promise to myself. Whether I find a job or not, every day I will make my bed, shower, and eat.

Bridie frowned. Those were pretty low expectations. Having to promise yourself to eat was not a good thing. But then again, she was probably taking one statement out of context. After all, judging from the papers and assignments pasted in the scrapbook, Anna’s grades were still very good.

There were lots of pages of mementos after that. Flyers for plays she’d been to, movie ticket stubs, more photos of Anna and her friends. Lots of entries about her writing projects, the plots of her short stories, which sounded awfully depressing, but what did she know? Apparently winter quarter passed without another spell of the dark glasses. Spring quarter’s class assignments were glued onto the next page. Bridie flipped past it, and there, staring back at her, was Alasdair MacPherson. It was a small picture with printing underneath, probably clipped from the campus phone book or yearbook.
Alasdair MacPherson, Teaching Assistant, Divinity Department.
Bridie smiled.

I have met a new friend. His name is Alasdair MacPherson, and he teaches my Biblical Literature class. Doesn’t teach it, exactly. He is a graduate student—a teaching assistant. He doesn’t ask me out, of course. That wouldn’t be appropriate, but he did call me up to his desk after class to discuss the thesis for my paper and we got on to other subjects, and before I knew it an hour and a half had passed. That happened twice last week. He volunteered to lead a study group, and of course, I signed up immediately. Shameless, I know.

I am so glad Renaissance Literature was closed. Otherwise I’d never have met him. I am carrying on too much, but really, he is a very attractive person, and I mean that in more ways than physical, although there’s nothing to complain about in that department.