Willow House Chapter 9

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 The Tour that Doesn’t End So Great

     Lunch was delicious and perfect for a day like this; warm tomato soup with a grilled cheese sandwich. I haven’t mentioned the blowing curtain or rocking chair to Mrs. Hallovich. I don’t want her to make up an excuse about the playroom being drafty or something. I know what I saw. I’m a little freaked out, but I still want to go up and play again.

     As promised, Mrs. H. is leading us up the staircase to the right side of the second floor. Tommy hangs on her hip, looking over her shoulder at me. He grins. I think he is the cutest thing on the planet, and my heart melts. 

     When we get to the top, Mrs. H. opens the first door.

     “This is my room,” she says.

     It’s beautiful. She has a canopy bed too! It has a pretty, flowery bed cover. She plants Tommy on a bouquet of embroidered roses in the center, and hands him a set of old-fashioned keys from her bedside table to play with.

     She turns to a beautifully carved set of bookshelves and hands me a framed photo of a young woman with dark hair. “This is my mother. She was eighteen in this photo, about a year before she met my father.” 

     I examine it for a moment before she takes it back and replaces it with a heavy gold frame. “Does this look familiar?” 

     It’s a larger version of the photo of her parents from her locket.

     “They don’t look any happier in this one do they?” She teases me.

     “Not really,” I say.

     “They were happy though, Ella. I had a wonderful childhood.” She replaces that photo too, then shows me more of her trinkets and whatnots on the shelves. She hands me a silver frame. “Do you recognize her?”

      At first I’m confused. It’s a different young woman. How does she think I’m supposed to recognize someone else on her bookshelf? But there is something about her that seems like someone I know.

     “That’s you!”

     “That’s me. I was 21 in that photo. It was taken during a summer visit to my aunt, about a month before I met my husband.”

     “You were really pretty,” I say.

     “What?! I’m not pretty anymore?”

     Oops! “I didn’t mean it like that. I . . . “

     She’s laughing at me. “I know what you meant, Dear. And thank you.” She gives my shoulder a squeeze. “I’m pretty sure Sam thought so too.” She winks at me and places the photo back on the shelf.

     She leads me around the bed where Tommy is still playing with the keys, and points to another photo on the bedside table. She picks it up and turns it toward me. 

     “My children.”

     I’m no longer surprised at the idea of her as a mother. I’m thinking she was probably a wonderful one. I take the photo as she holds it out to me. This one is a match to the photo in her locket.

     “Gertrude was four in this picture, and Henry was nearly two.” She reaches and gives Tommy a playful poke in his tummy. “Almost exactly the same age as you, little rascal.” Mrs. H. sits down beside him and gathers him into her lap.

     I’m thinking that Henry and Tommy look a lot alike, but then all two year old boys look alike, don’t they?

     “Do you have any pictures of them when they’re older?”

     “No, Ella Dear, I don’t.” She sighs and looks sad. “When Gertrude passed, my husband ended up taking down all images of both children and destroying them. I found this one years later among my mother’s possessions.”

    “Why did he do that?” This has to be one of the most terrible things I’ve ever heard!

    “Grief affects people differently.” She kisses the top of Tommy’s head and continues. “I told you that Sam took our daughter’s death exceptionally hard. He changed. It was actions like that that eventually drove Henry away from home. He just couldn’t make his father understand that he still had a son whose life had not ended. By the time Sam began to recover, it was too late. Henry was gone.”

     “That’s so sad,” I say, handing the photo back.

     Mrs. H. nods and replaces it to her nightstand. She runs her finger softly down the side of their faces. My heart feels like it’s breaking in two. I want to ask more about Sam. What happened after Henry left? Where is Sam now? But I’m feeling that for once, my questions need to stay in my mouth.

    Mrs. Hallovich stands. “On to the next room!” she exclaims setting Tommy on his feet. “Forward! March!”

     Just like that, the sad stuff is left behind. 

     The next room is just a plain bedroom for guests. It’s nice but not full of stories and photos like the last one.

     “This was Henry’s room,” she says. “A long time ago.” She doesn’t say anything else. I think she’s trying to get her happy back.

     There’s a nice bathroom in between with one of those cool bathtubs that have lion’s claws on the bottom. I imagine myself in there, surrounded by a mountain of bubbles.

     After the tour, I ask if I can return to the dollhouse.

     “That would be fine. I’ll take Tommy to the study and read to him for a while before he goes down for his nap.”

      We walk down the first set of stairs together, but as I continue up to the playroom she calls up to me. “Would you like to join me on the front porch for hot chocolate a little later?”

      Hot chocolate on a rainy day is about the only thing that would pull me away from the dollhouse. “Sure!” I say.

     “I’ll come get you in a bit then.”

     When I return to the playroom, no curtains or chairs, big or small, are moving. Now that I’ve had a tour, I realize how much this dollhouse is built to resemble the original. There’s no upstairs bathroom, but Mrs. Hallovich said that was added later. Some of the furniture has been changed or moved around. The miniature house has an attic. I stand up and step back out into the hallway. There’s a trapdoor in the ceiling. It probably has one of those ladders that drop down. I’ll have to remember to ask Mrs. H. about it.

     I close myself back inside the playroom and start comparing the things in the dollhouse to what is in the real house. The desk in the study is almost the same. So is the picnic table in the kitchen. The room that Mrs. H. said was Henry’s is definitely furnished for a young boy in the miniature version. It’s interesting. It’s like looking back in time to what the house was like when her kids were home. That thought brings my attention to the parlor.

    The mother, father, and boy doll are where I left them, but the big sister doll isn’t there. Just then, I hear the creak of floorboards outside the playroom door. 

     “Mrs. Hallovich?” I call. 

     I can see the shadow of her feet under the door and wonder why she isn’t coming in. Then she knocks.

     “Come in!” I say. Weird.

      I turn back to the dollhouse and see the big sister doll propped up in the hallway outside the playroom door. I turn. The playroom door is opening. I grab the sister doll and return her to the parlor with her family. The door to the playroom stops moving. I’m kind of afraid to breathe. I want to call for Mrs. Hallovich, but my throat is closed up.

     I sit like that for a long time. I’m afraid of the dollhouse. I’m afraid of the hallway. I’m afraid to call out. The rocking horse across from me has an evil face. If any rocking chairs start rocking I’ll die. Once again footsteps make their way down the hall toward me. I glance down at Big Sister and see she’s still in the parlor. The playroom door opens all the way and Mrs. Hallovich walks in. I’ve never been so happy to see anyone in my life.

     “Ella Dear, whatever is wrong?”

     I fly into her arms. I don’t want to tell her that her daughter is a ghost. Who wants to hear that? I just know I’m done with dollhouses for a while. Maybe forever.

     “I’m okay,” I finally say. “I was just wondering when the hot chocolate would be ready.”

     Mrs. H. pulls away and looks at me closely. She knows that’s not what I was thinking, but she nods anyway and gives me a hug. 

     “It’s ready now,” she says. 

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Willow House Chapter 8

 

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                                     The Queen of All Toys

     “Do you like dolls?” Mrs. Hallovich asks.

     “Uh . . .”  I shrug my shoulders. “Not really.”

     Truth is, I never play with dolls. But, I do sleep with a stuffed moose.

     “I have more than just dolls upstairs. Would you like to see the playroom?”

     “Sure,” I say. 

     What else is there to do today? I woke to rain coming down softly on the roof, and we drove over with rain coming down in buckets. The news this morning called for the raining of cats and dogs for the entire day. No further outdoor exploring in the forecast.

     We’ve just finished our second day of having our second breakfast - Belgian waffles, crispy on the outside, fluffy as a cloud on the inside. I take hold of Tommy’s hand and we follow Mrs.Hallovich out of the kitchen and back to the front entrance. We are going to go up that beautiful staircase! The carpet runner going up the steps is a faded pinkish color that’s worn through in patches. Now that I’ve spent a day here, I’m starting to notice details that I didn’t notice before. It must have all been magnificent once upon a time.

    “This house is really pretty.” I say.

     Mrs. Hallovich seems happy about that comment. 

     As we climb, I get a better look at the stained glass window at the top of the landing. I know it’s gray outside, but the glass is so dark and dirty that there’s no light at all able to pass through. Some of the glass pieces are cracked. It makes me sad. I wonder what it would have looked like when it was new.  At the landing we take the stairs that go off to the left. That still leaves a mystery on the other side. 

     “What’s up those stairs?” I ask, pointing up to the right.

     “Two bedrooms, including my own, and a bathroom.”

     “Can I see them?” Immediately after asking, I’m afraid I sound nosy, but Mrs. Hallovich doesn’t seem bothered.

     “Of course you can,” she answers. “We’ll take a look after lunch.”

     This left side of the upstairs has a short hallway with two doors. Mrs. H. opens the first one, and steps into a huge bedroom.

     “This room belonged to me when I was a girl, and then Gertrude.” She stands aside so that Tommy and I can step in. 

      “Wow! You had a fireplace in your bedroom?”

     “That was how we heated back then,” she says. “The fire would die down overnight, and I would wake to freezing cold. I can remember a few times when I had to break a thin layer of ice in my wash basin, just to be able to wash my face.”

     She has walked over to a dresser, where a large bowl sits with a pitcher nestled in its center.

     “Why didn’t you use the bathroom?”

     Mrs. H. smiles down at me. “We didn’t have a bathroom in this house. Can you imagine that?”

     “But there’s one downstairs and you said there was one across the hall.”

     “Those were added much later.”

     No bathroom. Unimaginable.

     “So where did you . . . ?”

     Thankfully she knows where I’m headed with this question and she laughs out loud. “An outhouse in the backyard.”

     “I don’t think I could live through that,” I say.

     The room has a canopy bed. I’ve always dreamed of having a canopy. Maybe I could survive using an outhouse for a canopy bed. There’s also a giant wardrobe that’s every bit as big and beautiful as the one with a secret passage to Narnia. I’m walking toward it to take a peek inside when she begins to lead Tommy back into the hallway. 

     “Come along, Ella Dear,” she says to me.

     I follow her down the hallway and she throws open the next door. 

     “Here’s the playroom!” she announces.

     This room is even bigger than the last. It also has a large fireplace. There are a few big objects covered with sheets, just like you’d find in any haunted house. In the corner is another large, sheet-covered object. It sits in a circular area with three tall windows and window seats, like in the parlor downstairs. Then, it hits me. These spaces are the inside of the turret! Duh. Now I know what’s inside a turret! 

     For such a gray, gloomy day, there’s plenty of light coming in. I walk into the turret and look down onto the street in front of the house. There’s the sidewalk Daleni and I have always avoided. Funny how things can change so fast. 

     “Taaa daaa!” I hear Mrs H., and turn to see that she has pulled a sheet down from some shelves. The shelves hold all kinds of playthings: a jack-in-the-box, a drum, wooden soldiers, and dolls. So many things!

    Tommy is toddling toward me, about to grab hold of the sheet covering the big shape beside me, when Mrs. Hallovich sweeps him up and carries him back to the shelves. She deposits him in her lap while plunking herself on the floor in front of all the toys. 

     I wonder if she does yoga. 

     She pulls out some pieces from a train set on the bottom shelf. Tommy picks up the caboose and starts in with his “vroom vroom” noises.

     Mrs. H. laughs, picks up the engine car, and demonstrates to Tommy the ch-ch-ch-ch ch-ch-ch-ch sound that a train is supposed to make. Tommy copies those sounds, and then Mrs. H. does a woo-woo sound like a train whistle, and I know I’m going to be hearing these noises out of my baby brother for the rest of my life. 

     She fiddles with the headlight. “This used to work when Henry was a boy. Shame it doesn’t anymore.” She messes with it a minute more and puts it down.

     Tommy crawls away from her, steering his little caboose out onto the open floor and around the mysterious ghost furniture.

     Mrs. H. reaches over and pulls out something that looks like a really old briefcase.

     “This was my son Henry’s prized possession.”

     I’m always interested in what can be classified as a prized possession, so I walk over to investigate. 

     The case is made of light brown leather that has been scuffed up in places. She flips the rusty latches, opens it, and turns it toward me. Inside are all kinds of small toys and games, each with its own compartment: jacks with a rubber ball, marbles, pick up sticks, cards, a yo-yo, and a variety of colored game pieces. The lid of the case has a belt across it holding in different game boards. Checkers is on top. 

     “Have you ever played with one of these?” she asks. She holds up a wooden stick with a cup on the end and a wooden ball nestled perfectly within.

     “I don’t think so,” I say.

      She dumps the wooden ball out of the cup where it dangles from an attached string.

     “The trick is simply to swing the ball up and into the cup. Like this.” She demonstrates. The ball makes a gentle arc and plops neatly into the cup. Ridiculous. Of course it’s going to plop into the cup. That’s where it’s attached. Have I ever seen a more stupid toy? I don’t think so.

     “You try,” she says.

     I take the toy. I’m ten years old for crying out loud. This toy is more Tommy’s speed. I tip the cup. The ball falls out. I feel a smirk on my face, but I can’t get rid of it. I swing the ball out like Mrs. H. had done. The ball makes a big circle, up and over, about a mile away from the cup. The smirk falls, like magic, off my face.

     “A little gentler,” she says.

     I’ve got this. I swing the ball up more gently. The string sags and the ball drops about a mile in front of the cup.

     “It just takes practice. You’ll get there.” 

     Is that a smirk on her face?

     I continue to practice as Mrs. H. pulls out more goodies from the box.

     “The kids and I would spend entire afternoons playing jackstraws,” she tells me.

     “Is that the same as pick-up-sticks?”

     “Mmm-hmm.” 

     Mrs. H. has a kind of not-all-here look on her face, then her eyes clear and she stands.

     A doll sits on the shelf at her eye level. 

     “This is Emily,” she says taking her down. She straightens the doll’s gown. It’s not a babydoll. It looks more like a teenager. Her dress is green and brown and reminds me of Andes mints. 

     “I taught Gertrude to sew by making dresses for her. There’s a whole trunk of clothes and accessories around here somewhere.”

     “Daleni, would love her.” I say, and I really mean it. Daleni loves all kinds of dress-up, whether it’s dressing Barbies, or putting dresses on herself. We like to put on the ones that belonged to her mom when she was dating Daleni’s dad. Her mom was into sparkles.

     “Well, I will find that trunk and you can bring your friend up here to play sometime.”

     I just smile. Probably not gonna happen.

     “I’ve got one more thing to show you before I go downstairs to start lunch.” She moves toward the piece of ghost furniture in the turret. 

     “This was Gertrude’s prized possession.” 

    She flings off the sheet like a magician. Underneath is a miniature version of Willow House, minus all the overgrown shrubbery. 

     My eyes bug out of my head, and I’m seriously wondering if a person’s eyeballs could drop right out onto the floor. 

     “You’ve never seen a dollhouse?” Mrs. H. asks.

     “Not like this.” I say.

     Mrs. H. smiles and swivels the house around on its little swivel-y stand so that the interior faces toward me. I drop to my knees, and everything but the house disappears from my vision. This must be what falling in love is like.

     The rooms have tiny furnishings that look a lot like the furniture in Willow House. The kitchen has food, the library has books, the playroom has toys, the bedrooms have clothes. One of the bedrooms has a canopy bed like in the room down the hall from me. It has real pillows! I pick one up and give it a gentle squeeze. A bed made for an itty-bitty princess is what this is.

     I think quite a bit of time goes by. I’m sitting in a trance in front of this dollhouse, and I guess my jaw has been hanging open ‘cause there’s a little drool on my chin. I hear Mrs. H. moving around. She picks up a basket and starts filling it with some of the train pieces. 

     “How ‘bout you and I go down and start some lunch,” she says to Tommy. 

She hands him the basket to hold, then picks him up, arranges the whole package on her hip, turns to me and says, “I’ll leave you to it.”

     I’ve looked away from the dollhouse long enough to notice that more of the sheets have been removed, revealing a rocking horse and a full sized rocking chair. I give Mrs. H. a smile, which she returns with a wink.

    Before they are out the door, Tommy reaches into the basket and pulls out the engine. The light on the front immediately comes on.

     “Well, would you look at that.” Mrs. H. says as she walks away. 

     That’s a bit strange, but my focus is drawn back to this, the queen of all toys. I investigate each room. Windows open, drawers open, hinges hinge. Tiny perfume bottles made from glass beads form a line along a dressing table. There’s a tiny birdcage just like the one in the greenhouse. Kitchen cabinets hold plates, and bowls, and tiny cups. I twist an old fashioned faucet in the kitchen, and I’m truly surprised there’s no running water. There’s a staircase that splits in two, just like Willow House, complete with a stained glass window on the landing, showing a twisted weeping willow tree. I glance down to the entrance hall and sure enough, a chandelier to match. There are people as well - a father, mother, small boy and big sister - probably the Hallovich family in miniature.

     Time once again passes without me realizing, until I hear Mrs. H. call from downstairs, “Soup’s on!”

     “Coming!” I shout back. I’m holding the big sister doll and set her down in the parlor with the rest of her family. I’ve arranged them so that they can talk to each other while I’m gone. (Yeah, I know what you’re thinking, but you probably do things like that too).

     Mrs. H. is calling from the landing now. “Don’t worry about covering the dollhouse back up. You can play again later.”

     I can’t wait. Before walking through the door, I turn and look back one last time. I almost can’t believe my luck at being able to play here with the most beautiful dollhouse in all the world. One of the curtains in the tiny study blows inward. A small chair on the front porch begins to rock.

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Willow House Chapter 7

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 Table Manners

   

     “Please pass the garlic bread,” I say to Dad. He gives me a big smile. He loves it when I use good manners.

     “How was your day?” he asks.

     “I survived. Thanks for asking.”

     “Surely you did better than just survive. What did you think of the house?”

     I look across the table at Mom who’s cutting Tommy’s spaghetti up into little pieces. Then I look back at Dad, and trying to use a polite voice, not one that might get me in trouble just for opening my mouth, I smile and say “Who’s idea was it to send us there?”

     I get the sense that Dad appreciated my effort. “As a matter of fact, it was I who had that marvelous idea.”

    “Oh.” I nod my head. “You sent your kids to the Witch House?” My polite voice is slipping a little.

     “The what?!”

     “Everyone in town knows the house is haunted,” I stopped myself from saying ‘and that Mrs. Hallovich is a witch.’

     “Everyone huh? I didn’t know that. So, tell me, Ella, did you see any ghosts?”

     “Not exactly. But you can tell they live there.”

     “Uh-huh.”

     “Mom, how could you let Dad talk you into taking us there?” My polite voice has disappeared entirely.

     “I didn’t talk her into anything, young lady.” 

     I’ve done it now. He brought out his ‘young lady’ voice.

     “I met Mrs. Hallovich at one of my job sites earlier this spring. She liked the work I did in the park, and wanted to meet me. I stopped by her house, at her request, to have a look at her property. We got to talking, and by the end of the conversation, she had offered to watch you and Tommy for a while until Heather gets home from college.”

     “You were in her house?”

     “Briefly. I was mostly in her back yard. There was so much overgrowth that I couldn’t get in very far. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s going to cost her a small fortune just to clear it out.”

     “Did you see the fountain?”

     “You were in her backyard?” Dad seems surprised. “I didn’t see any fountain. But, like I said, I didn’t go in very far.”

     “She has a weeping willow that’s 130 years old!”

     “Willows only live about 30 to 50 years, maybe 75 if you’re lucky and it has a good water supply. I’m sure you’re mistaken.”

     “That’s what Mrs. Hallovich said.”

     “Well, Mrs. Hallovich must be confused.”

     I decide not to get into the sleigh ride, her life before cars, the photos where people don’t smile, or her basic immortal-ness.

     “How far exactly did you guys go into the yard?” Dad asks.

     “We went clear back to the greenhouse.”

     “What greenhouse?”

     “The one in the second yard.”

     “Wait . . . what!? You guys were able to walk back to a second yard? Was it actually clear enough to get through that jungle?”

     “Well . . . yeah. Once we got a few steps away from the house it kind of opened up.”

     “Hmmm. She must have hired someone else to clear it.” Dad looks like his feelings are hurt. He’s trying to act like it’s no big deal, but I can tell it is.  

     “There’s still a lot to do,” I say. “Everything is full of weeds. I bet she can use your help planting nice flowers and stuff.” 

     “Thanks, Kiddo,” he says. “Maybe someone in her family helped clear it out so I can get back there and do the fun work. Save her a little money and such.”

     I nod my head enthusiastically. That’s the spirit! But, I’ll definitely ask her about it tomorrow.

     “Tell me more about this greenhouse,” Mom says.

     “Oh my gosh! It’s beautiful! It’s full of plants, even real lemon trees! There’s a stream with a bridge, and fishes, and statues, and a big weeping willow chandelier! And everything is all sparkly and nice. It’s nicer than the house.”

     “Today!” shouts Tommy.

     None of us know exactly how to respond, so we all nod enthusiastically and say, “Yes! Today, Tommy!”

     Mom looks at Dad. “Sounds like a good excuse for you to go back and see what’s going on.”

     I can tell Dad is feeling better. He winks at me. “Yes it does.”

     Mom leans across the table. “So, be honest, Ella. Today didn’t turn into the catastrophe you thought it was going to be, did it?” 

     Don’t you just hate it when parents are right? 

     “It wasn’t a catastrophe but. . . “ I search for something to get that satisfied look off her face. “The week just started. And there’s lots of weird things going on there. Lots.”

     “We’ll leave it to you to figure it all out,” Dad says.

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Willow House Chapter 6

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 Sometimes Texting Is Not Enough

       I take the stairs two at a time to my room. I need my cell phone! I can’t wait to tell my best friend Daleni where I spent the first Monday of summer! 

     I had ended up sleeping next to Tommy until Mom shook us awake at 4:30. I haven’t taken a nap in forever, and I since I was out so long, it’s pretty suspicious. Thankfully, the quilt had aired itself out by the time I laid down, and I don’t think the extra scrubs in the tub are going to be necessary.    

     I text, “Hey! You’ll never guess where I was today!”

     Four minutes and 17 seconds later she responds, “Where?”

     In my opinion, texting can sometimes fall a little flat. I want to build suspense.

     “Where do you think?”

     Two minutes and 9 seconds later I receive another text: an emoji eye roll. I don’t want to lose my audience.

     I text, “I was at the Witch House.”

     “Which house?”

     “Yeah!!!! The Witch House!”

     “No. I mean which house?”

      Oh. I thought she had misspelled witch, which was weird because I had just spelled it for her.

     “The haunted house on Willow Street.”

     “WHAT?!?!?!?!”

     There we go. That’s the reaction I was looking for. I dial her number because capital letters were not going to be enough for me.

     “You’re making that up!” she says, as she answers her phone.

     “No. It’s true.” I’m trying to sound way cooler than I feel.

     “Dios mío! How did you end up there?!”

     I should probably stop here and explain that ‘Dios mío.’ means basically, ‘oh my gosh!’ 

     Daleni’s parents are from Cuba. Daleni was born in this country and speaks perfect English. Her parents try. They still have accents and say things funny sometimes, but I can mostly understand them. Her dad cranks up the Cuban music on the weekends, and her mom makes the best food ever. I try to learn a new word every time I go over there, so I’ll be able to ace Spanish when I get to high school. Daleni’s going to take French. I don’t know how she’s going to do it. If I tried to remember vocabulary for three languages, my head would explode. 

     I begin by telling her about my mom pulling up to Mrs. Hallovich’s curb this morning, like it was nothing.

     “That’s crazy!’” she says. “What did you do?”

     “I had to stay there for the whole day! What choice did I have?”

     “Oh my gosh, Ella! Oh my gosh! Were you scared?”

     “Are you kidding? I thought I’d never see you again! But, I had to be brave for Tommy. There was no way I was going to let anything happen to him.” 

     “Oh my gosh, Ella! Tell me all about it.” 

     So I did. I told her about the overgrown porch that was like a mouth swallowing us up. I told her about the cauldron, and the fireplace in the kitchen, both big enough to cook people. I told her about the fountain with the cursed swan frozen in time. I told her about the greenhouse, but I might have made it sound a little less spectacular, and I may have told her that there were poisonous plants growing in it, and well . . .  some of them probably were. I told her about the bird who lives there and never dies. I told her about the carriage house and how spider webs covered everything, (not too much of an exaggeration) and how the carriage looked like it was built for the devil’s own horses.

     “And Mrs. Hallovich? Is she as awful as we always thought?”

     I have to take a moment. I have only told Daleni bad things. I haven’t mentioned the blueberry scones, the colorful fish swimming through the greenhouse, or the fact that I felt like Cinderella sitting in that big black carriage. I have left out a lot. Saying Mrs. Hallovich is awful would be taking things a little too far. I may stretch the truth but I don’t lie.

     “I think she put a sleeping spell on us,” I say, and I certainly do have my suspicions. “But she won’t get away with any evil plans while I’m around.” 

     There. I avoided that question as best as I could.

     “Oh, Ella. Do you have to go back there again?”

     “Tommy and I have to go there every day this week. Heather Marker isn’t home from college yet.”

     I hear Daleni’s mom calling her in the background. “I’ve got to go,” Daleni says. “Mima needs help setting the table. Are you still coming over this weekend?”

     Daleni’s having a sleep-over on Friday night to celebrate the beginning of summer. Mandy Lewis and Melanie Hawkins are coming over too. We call them the M&Ms. Mandy’s okay, but Melanie and I don’t get along that great.

     “Yeah, I’ll be there,” I say.

     “Talk to you later. And, Ella?”

     “Yeah?”

     “Que tengas buen suerte.” (Good luck) “Call me tomorrow when you get home.”

     I press the end call button and google ‘when were cars invented?’. The answer I get is not entirely clear. It’s somewhere in the late 1880s but people didn’t really start owning them until the 1920s. I take the year we’re in now, subtract an age I think Mrs. Hallovich might be. I guess 70 even though I don’t think she’s that old. That puts her birthday in the early 1950s. There were surely cars on the road by the time they would have taken their sleigh rides. Yes. Mrs. H. is definitely losing it.

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