Willow House Chapter 12

 

To begin at chapter one click here

The Royal Treatment, and Croquet

     The first two days at Willow House have been an explosion of new things. I know I’ve let my guard down way more than I should have, but here’s the deal: there are definitely some weird things going on, but none of it seems to be coming from Mrs. Hallovich. I think she really likes us, and not as a side dish for dinner.

    Right now, Tommy and I are swaying side to side in a hammock she strung up for us between a couple of trees. We’re just relaxing and looking up through the branches. Mrs. H. has spent the morning getting things ready for a special lunch outside, and she seemed happy when I asked if Tommy and I could go out to the yard for a while.

     The first thing I did was take Tommy by the hand (because I knew he’d be nervous), and lead him up the stairs of the carriage house to the guest’s quarters. There wasn’t much to see, just a room with a bed, a table and chairs, and a dresser. The weird thing was that everything was clean and tidy. No dust anywhere. The bedcover smelled like fresh laundry and there was even a small bouquet of real daisies in the center of the table. Someone has definitely been spending time up there. Why would Mrs. Hallovich lie? Did she even know?

     I had pulled Tommy with me toward the dresser. I admit, I was going to open a drawer to see if there were any clothes in there, but as I was getting near, something crunched under my right foot. I looked down to find a miniature birdcage. It had to be the one from the dollhouse, but how had it gotten here? I had smushed it.

     Now, as I swing back and forth with Tommy in the hammock, I reach into the pocket of my shorts and pull it out to have a better look. It’s smushed alright, but the wires seem to bend pretty easily. I’m no professional-miniature-birdcage-repair-person but I might be able to fix it and bring it back tomorrow. The trick will be getting it back where it belongs. Where does it belong? Should I return it to where I stepped on it?

     I look over to the little, iron table and chairs under the willow tree. They have a new coat of white paint. Mrs. H. has placed colorful cushions on the seats. The weeds are gone, and the table is prepared like she’s expecting royalty to show up. She has set out flowery china plates, two crystal glasses with raspberry lemonade, one silver goblet of milk, cloth napkins, and platters full of dainty, little things to eat. One of the platters is stacked with small sandwiches cut into triangles, one holds apple slices, grapes and baby carrots, and the third holds oatmeal cookies so thin and lacy that, if you hold them up to your face, you can see through the little holes. Plus, she’s added a bag of potato chips, because we’re kids.

     Mrs. H. has gone back in the house for a moment. She said she forgot something.

     I close my eyes and listen to the wind rustling through the leaves of the trees. I hear birds, and I’m starting to wonder about the trickling sound of water, when I hear the back door slap shut as Mrs. H. returns.

     “Look what I have here,” she says.

     She’s wearing a wide-brimmed, straw hat tied with pink ribbons, and she’s holding up a similar hat decorated with straw flowers for me. An old fashioned top-hat dangles from her left hand. 

     We scramble out of the hammock and join her beneath the willow. She sets the top hat on Tommy's head, and I am amazed that it doesn’t slide down to cover his face. 

     She gives me a nod. “I stuffed it with tissue paper.”

     I put my hat on, and she slips me a pair of little white gloves.

     “Ladies and gentlemen should be properly attired when lunching under this magnificent tree,” she says. 

     We take our seats. The weeping branches surround us like the walls of a room. Mrs. H. instructs us to hold hands, and then gives a small prayer of thanks for the beautiful day, the bounty of which we are about to partake, and the company of dear friends. 

     That was really nice.

     I can’t say I dig in to the food. One doesn’t “dig in” when one is wearing white gloves and a fancy hat. I fill my small china plate with all it can hold, and nibble daintily at a sandwich, with my pinky extended.

     Mrs. H. seems to appreciate my effort. 

     Several sandwiches, grapes, and cookies later, I give my pinky a rest, and begin to notice the world around me again. 

    “What’s that?” I ask, pointing to a box attached to the trunk of the willow.

     “That’s a bat box.”

     “A what?!”

     “A bat box. A place for bats to sleep.” 

     You’ve got to be kidding.

     “Is there a bat in there now?” I whisper.

     “Maybe. Go have a peek,” she whispers back.

     As if.

     “Bat’s are very good for keeping the mosquitoes at bay,” she informs us. She sees my I’m-not-wanting-any-part-of-this face and continues. “Bats can eat up to 1000 mosquitoes in an hour.” Then, when my face muscles don’t change a bit, she adds “Google it.”

     “But they’re creepy,” I say.

     “They are mammals, just like us. But unlike us, they were given the gift of flight. Isn’t that wonderful?” 

     I can tell I’m still wearing my disgusted face, so she adds, “and as far as they’re concerned, you’re creepy too.”

     “You keepy too!” Tommy points at me and laughs. 

     I can still hear the sound of trickling water. I ask her about it. 

     “Just on the other side of the willow, past the shrubs, is an embankment that leads down to a small stream.” 

     “Can we see it?” I ask. 

     “You saw a part of it Monday. This is the same stream that passes through the greenhouse and feeds the pond.” 

     “Cool,” I say.

     

      When we’re done eating, Mrs. H. tosses the leftover crumbs and bits of fruits and veggies out onto the lawn. 

     “Lunch!” she calls out. I give her a funny look. “For the animals, Dear,” she adds.

     She takes off her white gloves and lays them on the table. “Time for your croquet lesson,” she says. “Follow me.”

     I take off my own gloves and reach for Tommy’s hand. We follow her from the shady hideaway beneath the willow, out into the bright sunshine, and back into the darkness of the carriage house. I think my eyes are having trouble adjusting because the carriage looks like it’s been washed and waxed since we saw it two days ago. I don’t have time to look closer or ask questions before I hear Mrs. Hallovich say, “Ella Dear, can you grab those?” She points to the tall, wire basket with six wooden balls. “And can you carry this for me, Tommy?” She hands him a blue mallet that’s nearly as tall as he is. “I’ll carry the rest,” she says.

     We take all the croquet pieces out into the yard. The colors of the balls and the matching mallets certainly seem a lot more colorful than they did before. But then, what do I know? My eyes are fried. 

     Mrs. Hallovich sets the mallets down and leads Tommy a little further out.

     “Now, young man, you’re going to help me set these up.” She holds a wire wicket upright on the grass and tells Tommy, “push!” The wicket sinks easily into the ground, making a little arch for the balls to pass under. Before long a nice little croquet field is all set up.

     “We’ll start with some practice shots,” she says.

     She shows me how to hold the mallet, and a couple of ways to shoot the ball. I select the yellow ball to match the mallet I’m holding, and begin to practice hitting it through the wickets. She turns to help Tommy hit a few balls with his own mallet. That lasts about three minutes. He’s getting grumpy. The only time that Tommy gets grumpy is when he’s sleepy. 

     “Why don’t you continue to practice while I lay Tommy down for his nap. When I come back, we’ll have ourselves a real game.”

     I hit the ball around for a few minutes, until Mrs. H. returns with something that looks like a cellphone. I realize I haven’t seen any technology at all in her house - not even a television.

     “Is that your phone?”

     “Ha!” She snickers. “Not a phone. Baby monitor. See?”

     She holds it out to me, and there’s my baby brother on video, snoozing away.

     “I never saw anyone in my life who can fall asleep as fast as your brother does.”

     “It’s a gift,” I say.

     She laughs. She hooks the monitor to her waistband, and proceeds to teach me the rules of croquet; how to hit your ball around the field, pass through the wickets, and collect points. She smiles as she knocks into my ball with her own. 

     “When you hit someone else’s ball you have two options,” she tells me. “You can take two shots toward the next wicket, or you can do this.” She gives me an evil grin from beneath the brim of her fancy hat, places her orange ball gently against my yellow one, steps lightly onto her own, and then whacks her ball hard enough with her mallet to send my ball flying way off course across the lawn.

     My jaw drops. I can’t believe she just did that.

     “Now I still have one more shot,” she says. She hits her ball gently through the next arch, which gives her another turn, and then hits again, leaving herself lined up nicely toward the next wicket.

      I’m still standing in the middle of the field with my mouth open.

      “You can do that to me as well.” She pauses then adds, “if you ever get the chance.” She winks at me. 

      I turn, and head off to where my ball lies in the next county. Game on.

     

     After all that wonderful instruction, we begin our cutthroat game of croquet in our big beautiful hats. She checks the baby monitor frequently, and reports that Tommy has turned twice in his sleep. It’s a perfect summer afternoon. There’s a lot of shade back here in her yard, so it’s not too hot, and my hat is keeping all the extra sun dapples off of my face. Several birds have flown down and perched around the fountain like they’re expecting it to start spewing water again any moment.

     “Tell me more about Daleni,” Mrs. Hallovich says, as I line myself up for a shot.

     “She’s been my best friend since I moved here last year.”

     “And what do you and Daleni like to do?”

     “When we’re at Daleni’s house we like to dance.” Then I remember the most important thing, “Oh! And eat!”

     “Both of those are great things to do.”

     “Daleni’s mom makes great Cuban food, and sometimes both of her parents dance with us.”

     “Salsa?”

     “Yes! She makes it with a lot of cilantro. It’s fantastic!”

     Mrs. H. laughs. “I mean the dance. Do you all salsa dance?”

     “Oh! Haha! Yeah! I’m not great at it, but Daleni’s parents look like professionals.”

     “Wonderful! My husband and I used to travel. I’ve been to Cuba, and believe it or not, I’ve done the salsa!”

     “Really?!” Somehow, I’m able to imagine her doing it. “Daleni says I need to loosen my hips more. I think Spanish people are born with looser hips.”

     “That may very well be true. I admit my hips weren’t terribly loose either, but we sure had fun!” Mrs. H. is really enjoying our conversation. 

     So am I. “Maybe you can dance with me and Daleni. She can bring her music over here!” The second it’s out of my mouth, I wish I could stuff it back in. I don’t even know how I’m going to get her over here for a simple visit, let alone a salsa party.

     “That would be wonderful, Dear! I can prepare a nice lunch, and we can teach her to play croquet!”

     I nod and turn my attention back to the game.

     “Any other friends?” Mrs. H. asks.

     “There’s the M & M’s,” I say.

     “The M & M’s?”

     “Mandy and Melanie. Mandy’s great but Melanie . . . not so much.”

     “And just what is it about Melanie that you don’t like?”

     “She’s always competing with me,” I say, as I swing and hit Mrs. H.’s orange ball with my own. I give her my own evil grin from under the brim of my hat. I plop my ball gently down next to hers, step lightly on my own, swing my mallet and give it a firm smack that sends the orange ball sailing away across the grass.

     “Yes. I can see how a competitive friend would be difficult.” One of her eyebrows is up while the other is in its regular place.

     “But she’s competitive all the time,” I say.

     “Maybe you’re recognizing, in her, a part of yourself that you find disagreeable.” 

     “What?! I’m nothing like her!”

     “We’ll change the subject for now,” she says. “So tell me, Miss Eleanora Owens, what made your family decide to move here to Saint Clair?”

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Willow House Chapter 11

To start at chapter one click here

 Do White Lies Count?

 

    

      Tonight, I don’t need to exaggerate when I tell Daleni about my day and the scary events in the playroom. I leave off the part, though, about how happy I was to see Mrs. Hallovich when she came upstairs.

     “Ella, are you sure you’re going to make it three more days?”

     “I’m not going back in the playroom. That’s for sure.”

     “Have you told your parents?”

     That is a sticky question, because I really don’t want my parents to stop sending us to Willow House. “No,” I say.

     “Why not?!”

     “There’s too much going on there! Mysteries I need to solve! I haven’t even been up to the second floor of the carriage house!  Or the attic!” (I’m not really sure I want to go into the attic. I’m just listing uncharted territory.)

     If I’m being honest, I’m not ready to say how much I’m starting to like Mrs.Hallovich. The facts I’m giving Daleni are starting to bug me. Why does it feel like I’m lying?

     “You know,” I start. “Mrs. Hallovich isn’t so bad. I think she just lives in a house that’s bad.”

     “You told me yesterday that you thought she put a sleeping curse on you. Maybe she’s used some kind of spell so that you start to like her!”

     “Maybe,” I say, but I’m pretty sure she’s just kind of likable.

     “I’m scared for you, Ella”

     “Don’t be,” I say with confidence. “I’ll avoid the playroom and I’ll keep a close eye on Tommy. We’ll be fine. We’ll spend more time outside. It’s not supposed to rain again this week, and we only have three more days to go.”

     “Okay. You better live until after my party.”

     “I promise.” 

     I’m about to tell her I have to go, when I think of something. “Hey, you haven’t been telling Mandy and Melanie about any of this, have you?”

      “Oh! I’m sorry! You never said not to.”

     That’s true. Yesterday I wanted everyone to know how brave I was to spend time in Witch House. 

     “It’s okay. No worries. I’ve got to go though. Mom’s calling me that dinner’s ready.” (This isn’t exactly true but small white lies don’t count.)

     “Talk to you tomorrow?”

     “Yeah. I’ll call you when I get home.”

     Just as I disconnect, my mom calls, “dinner’s ready!” 

     What-do-ya-know? It was barely even a small white lie.

     Dad’s already sitting at the table when I get downstairs.

     “There’s my girl!” he says.

     I walk around the table and give him a hug.

     “How was Mrs. Hallovich today?”

     “Today!” Tommy shouts from across the table.

     My dad laughs. “Apparently he had a good time . . . today.”

     “It was okay,” I say. I’m not really sure how much information to give. “The house has a really cool playroom . . . and a big dollhouse.”

     Mom enters the room with a steaming, casserole dish. “You must have been in heaven!”

     Mom knows how much I’ve always wanted a dollhouse.

     “It was okay,” I repeat.

     Mom gives me a confused frown. “It must not be a very fancy one.” 

     “Oh, it’s fancy alright! There’s food in the kitchen, and clothes in the dressers, and . . .” I forget myself for a couple of minutes and continue on and on about how awesome it really was.

     Mom and Dad look at each other and I realize I’ve gotten a little carried away. I stop rambling.

     “Yeah, that sounds kind of okay. Sort of.” Dad teases me.

     I shrug my shoulders.

     “Are you going to be able to hang in there for a few more days?”

     I nod. The problem is, I don’t know how I’m going to figure this all out in only three days.

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Willow House Chapter 10

To start at chapter one click here

There’s Nothing that Hot Chocolate and a Good Story Won't Cure

  

     Mrs. Hallovich and I are on the front porch and I am calming down with a little help from the mug of hot chocolate in my hands, not to mention the sound of rain plopping on the roof and splashing on the leaves of the bushes around the porch. Mrs. H. has placed a small quilt over my lap, because I was shivering so much. I need to get my mind off of the playroom.

     Can you tell me a story?” I ask.

     “I have a million stories. What kind would you like?”

     “Anything,” I say. “I like all stories.” I’m just hoping it won’t be scary.

     “I think I have the perfect one, but, it’s a long one.”

     “I have time,” I say.

     “So you do,” she agrees. “All right then. I’ll start at the beginning, and we’ll see where we go.”

LEP’S STORY

     There once was a young man who had spent the entire first sixteen years of his life behind the gray walls of an orphanage. After careful planning, and a moment of bravery, he escaped into the night.     

     He slept in barns by day and crept through alleyways at night, making his way as far from the orphanage as he could. After a few days of hunger and scrounging for food, he began to think he had made a terrible mistake. He was lost in dark thoughts, when fortune shone upon him. He came upon a band of gypsies.

     ‘Now that is the life,’ he thought to himself. ‘They travel, play music, dance, and sleep beneath the stars. What could be more perfect?’

      This particular band of travelers were peddling pots filled with tree saplings, beautiful flowers from exotic places, and herbs and spices that had never been seen or tasted before by the local people. 

     He approached the caravan and asked to ride along. The gypsies, being generous and warm-hearted, agreed to let him join, on the condition that he work for his keep. The young man jumped at his chance and into a new life for himself.

     Within a week, he could see he had a natural green thumb. Plants flourished under his care. His mentor, a man named Yorg, became a father figure. He joked that not only was the young man’s thumb green but his whole body must be so. He affectionately named him ‘the leprechaun’. This was how everyone began to address him, and Leprechan was eventually shortened to Lep.

        The gypsies began to attract larger and larger crowds. People cheered as they pulled into each town, impatient to see what new vegetables and herbs would soon be growing in their gardens, and what new flowers would decorate their dooryards and tabletops. 

     Yorg and Lep shared instructions for the proper care of the plants, along with delicious recipes. They also taught the ways the plants could be used as medicines, making a great difference in the lives of the villagers. 

     The arrival of the gypsies became the most anticipated event of the year.

     As the years passed, however, Lep began to dislike the constant travel. When he was 26 years old, unlike his gypsy family, he felt the need to put down roots. He wanted to start a family of his own. On their yearly pass through one of Lep’s favorite villages, he pulled Yorg aside and shared what he had been thinking. 

     “I understand,” Yorg said. He smiled and pulled Lep into a bear hug. “We’ll surely miss our leprechaun.”

     Three days later, Lep stood amongst the townspeople in the road, and watched as the carts, holding the only family he had ever known, rolled across the bridge, over hills, and out of sight. Strapped to his back was a weeping willow tree sapling: a parting gift from Yorg. 

     “If it’s roots you’re needing, this tree grows them three times as large as the tree itself. It can also do our weeping for us,” Yorg had said. “We’ll miss your talents and your warm heart. You’ll always have a place among us.” As Yorg had walked away he turned and shouted. ”We’ll be back through in a year! We’ll see you then . . . Son.”

     Lep had never felt more bereft in his life, but he had made his decision. He had some money in his pocket that he had managed to save over the years and, because he had been through this area several times before, he had an idea on where he wanted to settle. Within a few days he carried, in his pocket, a deed to his own land; a small spot close to a stream where his willow could grow and flourish. 

     He camped beneath his sapling at night. It was too small to offer any protection from the elements, but it gave him comfort. Though it was a long way off, he knew he had a great deal of work to do in order to have a real roof over his head before winter arrived. Because he’d spent most of his money on the land, he had no extra for tools or supplies. So, he rose early each morning and went about looking for work. 

     It didn’t take long for him to find a large number of people excited to have him help with their gardens. Lep worked from dawn to dusk, and word continued to spread about his talented green thumb. By September he had saved enough money to buy tools and lumber. Added to the stones on his own property, Lep was able to construct a one room living space for himself. 

     Over the course of his time in the village, he had become good friends with another young man, named William, who was apprenticing to become an apothecary. William had a great deal of respect for Lep’s knowledge of plants and put many of his medicinal recipes to good use. The recipes not only eased pain and discomfort, but some actually helped save lives. 

     Lep made it through the winter comfortably enough with the help of William’s family and other kind souls who provided him with occasional casseroles, fresh baked bread, and milk. By spring he was ready to get to work at gardening again, but with all the spare time he’d had over the winter, he’d been doing a lot of thinking. There was something else of great importance to him. 

     Lep wanted a wife. He was tired of being alone. He wanted someone with whom to share his life. The town had many young women, most were daughters, nieces, and sisters of those he had done work for. He began to inquire politely for introductions. He was not prepared for the response.

     A dark cloud would pass over the faces of the townsfolk as he spoke of his intentions. They stopped hiring him. They made excuses: they wanted to do the work themselves, money was tight, they were developing allergies to his plants. He was, in a word, shunned.

     Lep found himself at William’s doorstep one evening, looking for an honest answer as to why the community seemed to have turned on him so completely. He was warmly welcomed by William’s wife Harriet and seated across from his friend in front of a fire that was keeping the cold spring evening at bay.  

     William, knowing Lep deserved honesty, gave him his painful answer. “You, my friend, are good enough to dig in their dirt, but not good enough to marry their daughters. That’s their opinion, not my own.” William bent and picked up his own baby daughter who had lifted her arms to her father. 

     “But why?” asked Lep. “What have I done?”

     “You’re a gypsy.”

     “What’s wrong with gypsies? They were kind enough to take me in, and are among the most wonderful people I have ever met. Didn’t the town applaud our arrival each spring?”  Lep was growing angry.

     “They think only of themselves and what the gypsies bring to them. You are asking to take something.” He bounced his daughter gently on his knee. “Lep, if my daughter were of age, I would be proud to see her wed to you.”

     Lep gazed at the tiny girl, in her father’s lap. Some of his anger left him. “You are a lucky man, William, with a beautiful family. I only wish for the same.”

     William’s wife, who had been listening, laid her hand on Lep’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Lep. You deserve better, and you will find it.”

     “What should I do?” 

     “Prove them wrong,” she said. 

     Her husband nodded in agreement.

     Lep returned to his small house. He was nearly out of money and with no recourse, knew he had to move on. He crossed his yard to his weeping willow which now stood nearly 12 feet tall. It was still skinny, but its boughs had begun to droop into the beautiful shape it would become. 

     Lep considered his options. There weren’t many. He had been here nearly a year and knew the gypsies would be returning through this area soon. He hated to return to them feeling he’d failed, but they were his family. He needed their love and acceptance.

     Within a week the caravan arrived. Once again the villagers lined the streets, watching as seven horse drawn carts, containing the annual bounty, came into view. As Yorg’s cart pulled even with him, Lep sprung onto the front seat beside his old friend and embraced him in a mighty hug. As they continued passing further into town, looking for a place to set up their camp, Lep shared his year’s experience and heartbreak. Yorg grew silent and called for the procession to halt. He hopped down from his seat and spoke to the driver of the cart behind him, that driver hopped down to speak to the driver of the next cart, and so on. All of this as the crowd waited expectantly for the side windows of the vehicles to open with the year’s new treasures. They wondered what exotic flowers had arrived? What new fruits? What new plants? What was taking so long?

     Each of the drivers returned to his seat. The windows remained closed. The crowd was silent. The horses started forward. What seemed a parade before, seemed more like a funeral procession now. The caravan passed across the bridge, over the hills, and out of sight. The gypsies never returned. 

     But Lep did.

     Mrs. Hallovich stops.

     “Go on!” I say. For cryin’ out loud she can’t stop here.

     “I’ll go on tomorrow. It will give us something fun to look forward to.”

     “I’ll look forward to tomorrow no matter what,” I say.

     “Will you now?” Mrs. H.’s eyebrows are raised at me.

     What the heck did I just say?

    She watches the wheels spin in my brain. She has just read my mind again. She laughs. “Oh, Ella! You are so precious!”

     I laugh. Who would have thought I would find it so funny that she can read my mind. I laugh harder. She laughs harder. 

     What a day this has turned out to be.

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Willow House Chapter 9

To start at chapter one click here

 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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