The Ice Cradle (21 page)

“She’s gone,” I screamed, reaching the rocks and scrambling toward my son, using my hands to steady my progress toward the flat and substantial boulders. “Honey! Stop! Do not move! Stay right there!”

And then I witnessed the second miracle of my life, the first being the birth of the creature who was scrambling into the darkness not fifteen feet from me.

He stopped. And he turned. And before he could be snatched away by the wind or the sea or the rocks and the slime, I had him in my arms.

“She was chasing me,” he explained. He was sitting up in bed in his pajamas. I’d calmed him down with a long, hot bath,
after which he climbed into my lap as I sat in the rocker by our window, trying to collect myself and figure out what to say. I’d wrapped him in a down comforter and rocked him slowly, and even when tiny beads of perspiration broke out on his forehead and upper lip, and he tossed off the comforter, he still seemed to cling to the comfort.

“I know,” I said. “Do you have any idea why?”

He shook his head.

“None?” I asked.

“No.”

“Well, I do. You hurt her feelings and she was mad at you.”

“What did I do?”

“You rubbed it in that you were off having a fun playdate. That made her feel sad and lonesome. And maybe a little mad. Because I don’t think she has a lot of friends.”

“Yeah, because she’s
mean.”

“No,” I corrected, though at that moment, I would have loved to have wrung her scrawny little neck. “Because not very many people can see her.”

“Why not?” he asked.

The moment had come. We had to have the conversation. I took a deep breath.

“Okay, sweetie,” I began. “You know how—some people are really good at baseball and some people can play the piano?”

“Or drums,” he offered.

“Yeah. Drums, or flute or …” I drew a blank: should I go with a sports metaphor? A music metaphor?

“Dancing,” he continued.

“Sure, yeah, dancing! Well, that’s called a talent.”

“What is?”

“Being really good at something not everybody can do. It’s almost like a—present just for you.”

“From who?”

“From … God.” I gulped.

“But you still have to practice,” he offered sagely.

“Yeah.”

Might as well aim for the bull’s-eye.

“In our family, we have a very special talent. We can do something almost nobody in the world can do. We can …”

I panicked. How should I finish the sentence?
See ghosts? Talk to earthbound spirits? Help people who have died?
Henry looked so puzzled and trusting. I deeply disliked being in the middle of this conversation.

“We can talk to ghosts,” I finally said, struggling to keep my voice cheerful and casual.

“Is Vivi a ghost?” he asked.

“She is. So was Silas.”

He gave me a disbelieving look. “He was?”

“Yup,” I said.

He took a moment to absorb this. I reminded myself not to overwhelm him with information, but just to answer his questions directly and honestly.

“I never see Silas anymore,” he said.

“He went away,” I explained.

“Where did he go?”

“He crossed over.”

“To where?” Henry asked. “Heaven?”

Oh. So he had the general contour of an understanding. Someone lived, died, became a ghost, and went to heaven.

I paused. “As far as I know.”

We sat in silence for several moments. “Is there anything you want to ask me?” I finally said.

“Can Daddy see ghosts?” Henry asked.

I shook my head.

“You
said
our family,” he shot back.

“On my side,” I explained.

“Then who?” he demanded. “Pop?”

“No. Just you, me, and Nona.”

I could see he didn’t like this, so I added quickly, “Pop has other talents. And so does Daddy.”

“Like what?”

“Daddy? Well, what do
you
think?”

“He’s a good driver. He’s good at putting up the tent.”

“And …,” I prodded.

“And he makes good cocoa. And … he’s a good policeman.”

“And what about Pop?”

Henry hesitated, and my heart sank a little. Henry seldom sees my father, and when he does, it’s not for long.

“He tells funny jokes. He makes good pancakes.”

“Chocolate chip,” I said.

“Yeah, and he makes his letters nice. Nice and—square.”

I smiled. My father has beautiful handwriting, and even nicer printing.

“So you see,” I said, “everybody’s good at different things. If Pop’s talent was to talk to ghosts like you and me and Nona, you’d never get chocolate chip pancakes.”

This seemed to settle everything.

“So now, let
me
ask
you
a question,” I said.

Henry sat up straight. He was kind of getting into this.

“When you walk down the street,” I said, “do you see lots of ghosts?”

He gave me a puzzled look. “What does a ghost look like?”

“Like a regular person, but like Silas and Vivi.”

“You mean see-through?”

Yeah, I meant see-through
. “That’s right.”

“Then … lots,” he said.

I caught my breath.

“But you don’t talk to them,” I said.

“Only to the kids. Sometimes.”

“That’s good. That’s a good idea. Plenty of time for that later.”

“For what?” he asked.

“Talking to grown-up ghosts.”

“Okay.”

“And there’s just one more thing,” I said. “I know it might feel hard, but this has to be kind of a secret. At least for now. The fact that I see ghosts and you do and Nona does.”

“How come?”

“Because lots of people are afraid of ghosts. It would make them really scared if they knew how many ghosts were around all the time. It might even make them afraid of
you
. Or
me!”

“Whaaa?” he said, in a cartoon character voice.

“I know, crazy, right?” I didn’t remind him that an hour earlier, a ghost had practically driven him into the ocean. “It’s because of everything on TV and in the movies, all that stuff those movie people make up. You and I know the truth.”

“And Nona.”

“Right. And Nona.”

I could see how tired he was getting, and now a fretful look came over his features.

“Daddy?” he whispered.

“What about Daddy?”

“It’s a secret …?”

I sighed, took him back into my arms, and shook my head.

“Nothing,” I said, “is
ever
a secret from Daddy.”

Vivi never came back that night. She probably didn’t dare.

I waited for Henry to fall asleep and then searched through my bag for the cocktail napkin on which I had written Aitana’s cell phone number. It was nearly ten thirty. Normally I wouldn’t call someone this late, but people who cater parties and work in restaurants are up half the night. She was probably still at the senator’s house.

The phone rang six, seven, eight times. I was mentally rehearsing the message I was about to leave when I heard her voice.

“Hello?”

“Aitana? It’s me, Anza. Can you talk?”

“Oh, Anza! Sure! Hold on.” I heard some clanging of pans and a door slamming shut. It was suddenly quiet at her end, and I suspected she had stepped outside. “Hi.”

“Hi,” I said. “How’s it going?”

“We’re just packing up. Did you have any luck?”

“I didn’t find the house, but I think I found the street.”

“You did?” She sounded excited. “Where?”

“Ballard’s Way. About half a mile from the center of town.”

“I know where it is. It’s a little short street, right?”

“Yeah. I was right on their tail until this dog came out of nowhere.”

“I’ll ask Bert to take me,” Aitana said.

“Maybe you should just call the police,” I suggested warily.

“And say what?” she asked. “I told them I couldn’t describe
the couple in the car, and now I’m claiming to recognize them? Oh, hold on a sec.”

I heard a muffled conversation at her end. When she came back on, she said, “Sorry, we’re just finishing up here. Thank you
so
much.”

“No problem. Let me know what happens.”

“We’re seeing you tomorrow, aren’t we?”

“We are?”

“Lauren asked us over for supper. I know she’s planning to invite you.”

“Great,” I said, before hanging up.

Great, indeed
.

I wanted to sleep, but I wanted to think.

So Henry had the gift, if you could call it that. Now that I really thought about it, there had been some clues.

A couple of times, I’d seen him do double takes when spirits were in his vicinity. Then, for a while, he had a recurring nightmare involving a “skeleton in a dress.” This started shortly after we took a trip to Boston’s North End, where a couple of centuries ago, the immigrant Irish found dirt-cheap housing. Famine victims had collapsed and died on the streets of that neighborhood. I’d seen several “skeletons in dresses” myself that day.

Henry and I just hadn’t talked about it. I suppose he figured, as I had at his age, that everybody saw the shadowy people. I know he mentioned Silas to his preschool teacher, relating the story of how Silas had jumped off the back porch roof and landed on his head. She’d laughed with relief when I explained that Silas was Henry’s imaginary playmate.

But why hadn’t he spoken to spirits in public? Here, again, I could only guess. Tonight, he’d said he “sometimes” talked to the spirits of children, though I had to admit, I hadn’t been aware of this. There was Silas, of course, and now Vivi, but like lots of kids, Henry sometimes talks out loud to
himself
. At least that’s what I always assumed he was doing, alone in his room, playing with toys and action figures.

As for the ghosts of adults, I wasn’t surprised that he avoided
them
. Most of the time, so do I. He’s pretty shy around strangers. If he can avoid interacting with just about any adult, he will.

I wasn’t looking forward to telling Dec. For all my blather about “gifts” and “talents,” I actually felt guilty, as though I’d passed down a really quirky gene, of the type not everyone would be thrilled to have.

There are huge satisfactions that come with being able to do what I can do. It’s gratifying to ease suffering that has been going on for hundreds, sometimes thousands, of years. I make a lot of unhappy ghosts really happy. But when you’re a kid, you don’t want to have a “gift” that sets you apart. You don’t want to be one of a kind. You want to be just like everyone else.

THURSDAY