Time Windows (23 page)

Just as she began sidling up the stairs to the second floor, her parents' bedroom door opened and Helen crossed the hall to the bathroom. The door closed. Over the pounding in her head, Miranda heard the sound of running water. She tiptoed up a few more steps, then froze as car headlights swept into the driveway, their beam penetrating like a searchlight through the front door screen. Her father was home—thank God!

She raced up the stairs now, hardly caring if they creaked. She had to get up to the attic—and fast. Dorothy was waiting. Dorothy was counting on her.

At the top of the attic stairs the old rush of terror hit her. Her throat grew parched; her lips felt thick and dry. The timeless refrain roared through her head:
Helpmehelpmebelpme! I'm going to die, going to die!

Not if I can help it!
thought Miranda. The scent of magnolia was very strong, the terror so acute that she nearly turned and fled. But she wrapped her arms around herself resolutely and crossed to the dollhouse. She knelt behind it and looked through the little attic windows.

Dorothy dropped the black crayon and staggered backward.

"No!" whispered Miranda, turning away. "No! That's too late." She looked back again. This time she saw Timmy Kramer crouching over the small fire in the corner.

"Hey, come here, Timmy!" Jeff called. "Look at this little crack—"

"No!" cried Miranda, closing her eyes as the flames suddenly leapt from the corner to the wall by the trapdoor. "Dorothy, where are you?"

She heard voices conferring below her on the second floor. What lies was Lucinda telling her father? In desperation, Miranda turned back to the dollhouse. This time through the windows she saw an empty attic. Toys filled the white bookcase under the windows. Snow filtered down outside. It was Dorothy's attic playroom!

Footsteps clattered up the wooden stairs and Miranda held her breath. Were her own parents coming up, or was it—?

The door burst open, and regal Lucinda stormed in on a wave of magnolia perfume. She dragged Dorothy by the arm. Dorothy fell to the floor as her mother yanked her into the room. "Don't hurt me, Mama!"

"I've had it, you little brat." Lucinda's voice was cold and her eyes glittered. "Any more nonsense out of you, and you'll get it again."

She stepped away, smoothing her hands over her gown. "Dorothy, you will stay up here until your father gets home. You will stay up here until you can learn deportment. I will not have a clumsy, willful, disobedient child in this house." With these words she turned and exited, locking the door. Soon Donald would arrive and she would leave forever.

Dorothy raced to the door. "Mama!" she cried, kicking the door with her small, bare feet. "Let me out, Mama!"

Miranda hunched over the dollhouse, waiting, not daring to look away from the attic scene. She waited while Dorothy sobbed and pleaded, waited until Lucinda finished getting ready and called up the stairs: "I want you quiet up there, young lady. An afternoon in the cold will teach you to mind your mother!" She waited until she was positive that Lucinda and Donald had left the house.

"She'll have dropped the key," whispered Miranda. "But
I've
got it now!"

Dorothy stopped crying and sat shivering beside her bookcase of toys. She pulled a blanket out of an open trunk, wrapped it around herself, and settled down to play with a puzzle and wait for her father. After a while she started humming to herself and picked up her little dolls. She carried them over to the dollhouse.

Miranda held her breath as Dorothy disappeared from view behind the house. Then she pulled the tarnished key from her pocket and set it in the dollhouse attic.

The childish singing broke off with an exclamation of surprise, and Dorothy emerged from Miranda's corner, trailing the blanket. She held the now bright and shiny key in one hand, a puzzled expression on her face.

The dollhouse had worked the magic. Miranda stared at the space where the tarnished key had been in the dollhouse attic only seconds before, and let out her breath. "Go on!" she urged Dorothy aloud. "Don't just stand here wondering how the key got there! Take it and get out of the attic! Go over to the Hootons'—go anywhere! Just go!"

Dorothy hesitated at the door, staring down at the key in her small hand. A hundred questions must have been tumbling through her mind. Her eyes swept the room and stopped at the dollhouse.

Miranda stared hard at Dorothy through the windows. "I can't do any more," she yelled. "Now you have to save yourself!"

Dorothy's eyes widened with something like fear. She pressed her hands to her mouth. Her eyes met Miranda's and the expression changed for a second, becoming old and very wise. "Thank you, Dollhouse," she said in her soft, childish voice. Then she turned away and, with a strange sound—half cry, half laugh—unlocked the door and fled from the attic.

"Oh, there you are, Mandy," said Helen as Miranda slowly emerged from the attic. Miranda shrank against the wall.

"What is it?" cried Helen, running to her. "You look—funny. Do you feel all right? Have you been up there all afternoon?"

Miranda shook her head. "I'm going to bed," she whispered, staring past her mother into the hall. It looked different, somehow. Or was it only that the earlier atmosphere of menace was gone?

"Don't you want some dinner? We've just ordered out for pizza."

"Is Dad home?" The atmosphere
was
different. Lighter, airy. Less stifling, as if the weather had changed while she was up in the attic, and strong winds had blown away the humidity.

"He's down in the kitchen." Helen placed a gentle hand on Miranda's forehead. "You don't feel feverish. But it must be awfully hot in the attic. Why don't you take a bath and get into bed? I'll bring you up some pizza." She stroked Miranda's hair. "Tomato with extra cheese. How does that sound?"

"Fine," croaked Miranda, and she disappeared to soak in the tub.

She lay in the bath full of bubbles, eyes closed, relief washing over her with the warm water. She knew she was safe. And Dorothy was safe. That was all that mattered now. She was too tired to wash. She simply rested, watching the fluffy bubbles grow thin. When they had melted away to a film on top of the water and she stood up to get out, she gasped. She touched her legs gently with probing fingers and felt no pain at all. The bruises on her shins were gone.

She mulled things over in bed with her pizza. If Dorothy had escaped from the attic, she didn't die in the secret room after all. That meant, of course, that her body couldn't have been found there.

But how could that be? Could that possibly be true? She scarcely dared to think so. Could time change, just like that? As quickly as a snap of fingers in the air? As quickly as a key could turn in a lock?

Philip walked by in the hall. "Dad!" she called.

"Hi." He stuck his head into the room. "Are you feeling better?"

"Sort of," she said, breathlessly. "Come here a second, will you?"

He walked over to her bed. "Not deathly contagious, I trust?"

"No," she said. "Dad? Where's the newspaper?"

"Today's? Downstairs, I think. I thought you read it at breakfast."

"Not today's. The day before yesterday's.'

"It's probably in the pile for recycling."

She tried to smile at him. "Would you mind bringing it up to me? I want to read something again."

He raised his brows at her, but went downstairs and returned a few moments later with the
Garnet Star.
"Here you go. Nothing very exciting, I'm afraid."

"No?" Miranda grabbed the paper and scanned the front page. The headlines that had screamed the discovery of the mummified body now announced a demonstration against nuclear weapons in Washington and a political meeting in Egypt. A bank had been robbed in Boston, and two Garnet teenagers had been caught trying to steal bicycles in the park. She double-checked the date. It was the right one, but there was nothing at all about a dead child in Miranda's attic.

She stretched out under the sheet and let the paper drop to the floor. She lifted the cover and stared down at her body, double-checking her legs. There were no bruises—somehow it was true! Dorothy was saved—the past was changed, and so was the present. She couldn't even begin to think what this might mean. Her mind refused to ponder the imponderable. She lay back in bed, utterly exhausted, and slept without stirring until morning.

 

Birds in the tree outside the window woke her. She lay still for a few minutes, all senses alert. Then she slid out of bed and cautiously moved across the room to pull some clean clothes from her dresser. She moved gingerly, feeling the newness of everything, the freshness of the air. She walked down the steps, testing each tread with her foot before putting her weight on it. It seemed anything could happen.

She ate cereal at the breakfast table while Philip sipped his diet shake. Surreptitiously she stole a glance at the floor and felt dizzy when she saw the old, worn linoleum was smooth, untorn. It had never been touched.

"Are you feeling better this morning, Mandy?" asked Helen.

"Yes," she nodded, taking a muffin from the plate Helen set on the table. She noticed a whole row of small containers filled with soil lined up on the windowsill over the sink. Small leafy plants poked through the dirt. In one pot Miranda recognized mint leaves; in another, chives. But her mother had spent so much time lying in bed with headaches, she hadn't had time to start the herb garden she wanted. At least, the windowsill had been empty yesterday. Where had these herbs come from?"

"Ed and I need to go back to Lexington this morning," said Philip. "It's fascinating work, the museum business. Helen, do you know—I may have found a new vocation!"

"That's great, Phil!"

"Do you want to come along, Mandy?"

"Not really. Thanks, though." Her voice was soft. She couldn't seem to reach normal volume.

Helen smiled. "Don't you and Dan have plans for a picnic today?" She slipped a fried egg onto Philip's plate.

"Umm—," said Miranda vaguely.

"Take it away, Helen. I've had my egg for the week already."

"Oops! Sorry." She nudged it back onto the spatula. "Mandy?"

"Okay." She picked up her fork and stabbed the yolk.

Philip poured Helen some coffee, then emptied the rest of the pot into his own cup. He rattled the newspaper. "Look, there's another good film in town this week. Shall we go see it?"

"Sure, why not? This seems to be our summer for movies." They started talking about all the good ones they'd seen so far. Miranda picked at her muffin. As far as she knew, no one had gone out to a movie since they'd left New York. Miranda felt a stab of fear in her stomach and pushed away her plate.

"Look, are you still thinking about moving?" she interrupted their conversation.

Helen stared at her, and Philip lowered his coffee mug. "Moving?" he asked.

"Is something the matter? Don't you like it here, Mandy?" asked Helen. "You seem to be enjoying yourself—"

"Oh, I am. I do." Miranda assured her. "But I just thought
you
wanted to move. You know, because you don't like the house."

"Why would I not like the house?" asked Helen. She looked confused. "We've only been here a month! I thought we all agreed it's the greatest place in the world!"

"Never mind," said Miranda. She carried her plate and cup to the sink. "Well, I'm going for a bike ride with Dan."

"Have fun. But, honey? Be sure to come in and lie down if you start feeling sick again." Helen began to clear the table.

Philip carried his mug to the sink. "Oh, Mandy, don't forget you have that extra flute lesson this afternoon. Mrs. Wainwright called this morning and said you'd arranged it with her the other day. I guess you're anxious to be in top form for the autumn concert."

"Umm, yeah," murmured Miranda. She was out the door before either of them could ask again if she was feeling all right. As far as she knew, she had never arranged a special lesson.

 

Miranda rode across the street and waited on the Hootons' front porch until Dan bounded out. "Dad said you should come in for coffee cake," he said, "but I told him we wanted to get going. I had a hard time keeping Buddy from coming along, too, until I told him where we were going. He always freaks in graveyards."

"The graveyard? I thought we'd decided to stay away from there."

He looked surprised. "I thought the whole point was that you wanted to see it!"

Miranda shrugged. "Let's go then."

They rode side by side up the hill. "I have to talk to you," began Miranda, pumping hard to keep pace.

"I have to talk to you, too," he answered sternly. "Will you or will you not come with us to Cape Cod next week? What did your parents say? I'm dying of suspense!"

Miranda didn't answer. Cape Cod? What was he talking about? She felt a stab of fear again. She cleared her throat and rode behind him as a car passed. "I have to talk to you, first," she called.

"About what?"

"Well, about the secret room, to start with."

"Yours or ours?"

"Mine." So at least he knew they had found one'. "Listen, Dan. There
wasn't
a dead body in it. The paper said so!"

"What!" Dan braked with a screech of tires and she nearly crashed her bike into his. "The newspaper said 'No dead body was found in Miranda Browne's attic'?"

"Of course not, idiot. It didn't mention a body at all. That's what I mean. You know if we'd found a body, they would have reported it."

Dan stared at her in astonishment. "I guess I have to agree with you there. But since there wasn't any body, why should you be surprised that the papers didn't report it?"

Miranda bit her lip. "Dan? You're going to think I'm weird, but—"

"Correction! I
already
think you're weird."

She pressed on. "Just answer me, okay? Did we find a body of a dead girl in my attic? Or not?"

Dan laughed shortly and mounted his bike again. "Of course we did, poor thing. We found bodies all over the house. My house, too. Blood and guts. We'll see more at the graveyard, if you want." He shook his head and pedaled ahead of her, yelling back over his shoulder: "What's the matter with you today?"