Amulet of Doom by Bruce Coville Page B

coffin!”
    This bizarre request did nothing to ease Marilyn’s fear. But the need in Zenobia’s voice was so real that she felt compelled to at least respond. Before she could think of what to say, Mrs. Sparks came running into the room. Her bathrobe dangled from one shoulder, and she fumbled with the other arm, trying to pull it on.
    â€œMarilyn!” she cried. “Marilyn, what is it?”
    Zenobia faded from view.
    Marilyn shook her head. “I had a nightmare,” she whispered, pressing her face into her hands.
    Her mother sat on the bed next to her. “I’m sorry, honey,” she whispered, slipping an arm around her shoulders.
    They sat for a long time, neither of them speaking. Her mother held her close and rocked her gently.
    â€œOf course, given all you’ve been through in the last few days, it’s not surprising,” said Mrs. Sparks at last. “To tell you the truth, I don’t think I could have handled it as well as you did. That’s part of what’s helped me get through this, you know—thinking how brave you were that night when you found Aunt Zenobia. I keep telling myself that if you can hold up, I can, too.”
    Marilyn, leaning against her mother, turned and looked at her in surprise. That her mother was old-fashioned, even prudish, she had accepted long ago. That she would be bothered by Zenobia’s death was a surprise to her.
    â€œI thought you didn’t like Aunt Zenobia.”
    Her mother seemed genuinely startled. “Whatever gave you that idea?” Before Marilyn could answer, Mrs. Sparks made a sad little noise in her throat. “Never mind. I know what gave you that idea. I didn’t act much like I cared for her, did I?”
    Marilyn shook her head. But she didn’t say anything. She just wanted to feel her mother’s presence right now, the way she had when she was little and something had frightened her. She was still trembling from the dream—and from what had happened after she woke up. For now it felt good to press against her mother. It helped her mind block out what she had seen. At the moment, that was the only way she could think of to deal with it: pretend it hadn’t happened.
    Part of her hoped if she pretended hard enough she could forget all about it.
    Another part of her knew that was impossible.
    â€œI did like her, you know,” continued Mrs. Sparks, her voice defensive. “It’s just that she was so … I don’t know. So different . Rowdy, almost. As if being a woman wasn’t enough for her.”
    The defensive note had dropped away. Now her voice held only a trace of wistfulness. “I do know how you feel, Marilyn,” she whispered. “Oh, yes, I do. Because when I was your age, there was nothing in the world I wanted more than to be like Aunt Zenobia.”
    Marilyn looked at her mother in astonishment.
    â€œDon’t be so surprised!” The tone in her voice was almost angry. “I’m human. I had dreams, too. But I grew up. That was something Zenobia never managed.”
    Any other time Marilyn would have argued with her mother. She didn’t believe that growing up had to mean giving up. If becoming an adult meant letting go of your dreams, what good was it?
    But right now she didn’t want to argue. She just wanted to be held.
    After a little while her mother began to hum “Toora Lura Lura,” a little lullaby she used to sing to Marilyn when she was very small. Marilyn hadn’t heard it in years. She felt herself begin to relax.
    After a while, she slept.
    Mrs. Sparks continued to sit beside her for a long time, humming softly, tears rolling down her cheeks. Finally she sighed, wiped her eyes, and left the room.
    When she was gone, Zenobia reappeared in the corner, and sat watching Marilyn sleep.
    Friday was just like Thursday, a day to be passed through, endured.
    Marilyn was vaguely aware of teachers talking. She knew she