door, finding it locked, then rattling the doorknob back and forth impatiently. Whether the someone was locked in or out—that, Helen could not say.
There was another long pause, as she knew there would be, and then came the knock ... the short pause ... and the jiggle. Over and over and over again, starting at three in the morning, Helen had endured the maddening sequence of sounds night after night after night. The plumber had been her last hope.
In a deep and mysterious part of her soul, Helen understood that the sounds were unrelated to the pipes and radiators. In the last two weeks she ' d turned the heat up, down, and off, with every possible variation between, until the kids had begun to beg for mercy. Becky had accused her of entering premature menopause. Russ had threatened to move in with a friend. Everyone was miserable, Helen, most of all—because she was the only one who could hear the sounds.
A couple of nights earlier, when the heat was off entirely, she ' d actually dragged Becky into her bedroom to bear witness. It made Helen groan with pain even to think about it.
" Listen! " Helen had hissed to her sleepy daughter. " Can ' t you hear it? "
Becky, a shivering waif in her nightgown and bare feet, had stood in the near dark with her head bowed and her hair tumbling over her eyes and had mumbled, " Mom ... please ... I ' ve told you. "
And then Helen had grabbed her daughter by the arm and swung her around to face first one wall, then another. " There! Now —there! That jiggle! And then the knock! " she ' d insisted. When Becky had continued to droop and shake her head, Helen had grabbed her other arm and cried, " What ' s the matter with you? Are you deaf? "
And Becky, the laid-back, well-adjusted, go-with-the-flow darling of her mother 's eye, had broken down into a fit of sobbing. " Don ' t do th is, Mom, don't do this," she'd said through her tears. "You're scaring me. Please ... don ' t! "
The next morning, despit e the futility of the gesture, Helen had called the plumbers.
Chapter 5
On Thursday Helen made her coffee extra strong, put on a simple lavender dress that she liked to think of as subtle, and resolved again to put the noises of the night behind her. Squirrels, the echo of a ticking clock, a demented woodpecker—the tappings could have been any of those things.
The fact that Becky hadn 't been able to hear the sounds meant nothing. Who ' s to say whether her hearing was as good as her mother ' s?
In any case today was not the day to be tired and dragging. Nathaniel Byrne—or, more likely, his proxy Peaches Bartholemew—was bringing little Katie to school during the last class. It was absolutely critical to Helen that they be impressed. She felt as nervous as a schoolgirl herself, with a stomach full of butterflies and a heart that wouldn ' t stay quiet.
What if they didn ' t like the facility? What if they decided to shop around a bit? What would she do without Katie?
She wanted Katie there.
Helen blinked at the th ought. Where had it come from? She didn ' t need Katie, really; as it was, it was going to be awkward to bump one of the twelve children already ac cepted—probably that bratty Me ri elle who ' d wedged open the paint closet during Helen ' s interview with her mother.
So why the anxiety? Why was it that as soon as someone mentioned the name Byrne, Helen felt an unease that amounted to queasiness? She might have pondered the question forever if the irate driver behind her hadn ' t blasted her out of her reverie with one long lean on his horn.
She turned the Volvo quickly into the parking lot of the preschool and pulled into one of the reserved slots. There were many others available for parents dropping off and picking up; space was no problem at The Open Door.
The preschool operate d out of a charming nineteenth- century brick building that once had been a small bank. Helen, catching a wave of renovation that was sweeping over historic downtown Salem , had
There was another long pause, as she knew there would be, and then came the knock ... the short pause ... and the jiggle. Over and over and over again, starting at three in the morning, Helen had endured the maddening sequence of sounds night after night after night. The plumber had been her last hope.
In a deep and mysterious part of her soul, Helen understood that the sounds were unrelated to the pipes and radiators. In the last two weeks she ' d turned the heat up, down, and off, with every possible variation between, until the kids had begun to beg for mercy. Becky had accused her of entering premature menopause. Russ had threatened to move in with a friend. Everyone was miserable, Helen, most of all—because she was the only one who could hear the sounds.
A couple of nights earlier, when the heat was off entirely, she ' d actually dragged Becky into her bedroom to bear witness. It made Helen groan with pain even to think about it.
" Listen! " Helen had hissed to her sleepy daughter. " Can ' t you hear it? "
Becky, a shivering waif in her nightgown and bare feet, had stood in the near dark with her head bowed and her hair tumbling over her eyes and had mumbled, " Mom ... please ... I ' ve told you. "
And then Helen had grabbed her daughter by the arm and swung her around to face first one wall, then another. " There! Now —there! That jiggle! And then the knock! " she ' d insisted. When Becky had continued to droop and shake her head, Helen had grabbed her other arm and cried, " What ' s the matter with you? Are you deaf? "
And Becky, the laid-back, well-adjusted, go-with-the-flow darling of her mother 's eye, had broken down into a fit of sobbing. " Don ' t do th is, Mom, don't do this," she'd said through her tears. "You're scaring me. Please ... don ' t! "
The next morning, despit e the futility of the gesture, Helen had called the plumbers.
Chapter 5
On Thursday Helen made her coffee extra strong, put on a simple lavender dress that she liked to think of as subtle, and resolved again to put the noises of the night behind her. Squirrels, the echo of a ticking clock, a demented woodpecker—the tappings could have been any of those things.
The fact that Becky hadn 't been able to hear the sounds meant nothing. Who ' s to say whether her hearing was as good as her mother ' s?
In any case today was not the day to be tired and dragging. Nathaniel Byrne—or, more likely, his proxy Peaches Bartholemew—was bringing little Katie to school during the last class. It was absolutely critical to Helen that they be impressed. She felt as nervous as a schoolgirl herself, with a stomach full of butterflies and a heart that wouldn ' t stay quiet.
What if they didn ' t like the facility? What if they decided to shop around a bit? What would she do without Katie?
She wanted Katie there.
Helen blinked at the th ought. Where had it come from? She didn ' t need Katie, really; as it was, it was going to be awkward to bump one of the twelve children already ac cepted—probably that bratty Me ri elle who ' d wedged open the paint closet during Helen ' s interview with her mother.
So why the anxiety? Why was it that as soon as someone mentioned the name Byrne, Helen felt an unease that amounted to queasiness? She might have pondered the question forever if the irate driver behind her hadn ' t blasted her out of her reverie with one long lean on his horn.
She turned the Volvo quickly into the parking lot of the preschool and pulled into one of the reserved slots. There were many others available for parents dropping off and picking up; space was no problem at The Open Door.
The preschool operate d out of a charming nineteenth- century brick building that once had been a small bank. Helen, catching a wave of renovation that was sweeping over historic downtown Salem , had
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