the bedroom, put the linens onto the bed, and slipped between the sheets.
She turned out the nightstand light.
And thought once again of her father.
If he could get through the next four years, so could she.
And she’d do it without the crutches that were still standing by the front door downstairs in case she needed them, and she’d do it without complaining.
And tomorrow, she told herself, would be a better day.
Her father was smiling at her, a sad smile, his face lined and gray. It was the same smile he’d given her at her mother’s funeral. But they weren’t at the graveyard—they were somewhere else. She tried to look around, but everything was cloaked in a damp gray fog
.
Slowly, the fog began to lift, and Sarah knew where they were
.
The mansion—the enormous house she’d dreamed about before, the one that was empty but not empty, that was filled with voices she could not hear, people she could not see
.
But this time she wasn’t alone. Her father was with her, and someone else, too
.
Her mother?
She turned, searching the shadows around her, but saw nothing. And when she turned back, her father was walking away from her. She wanted to cry, and reached out as if to touch him, to pull him back, but just as she was about to reach him something happened and—
Sarah woke up, a sob rising in her throat.
The dream had been so real that the tears she’d tried to hold back in her sleep now ran from the corners of her eyes.
She wiped at them with the sleeve of her pajamas, then took a couple of deep breaths and tried to calm her heart.
And tried to remember what happened at the very end of the dream, what happened that jerked her awake.
Tiffany breathed softly in the bed by the closed window. The bedroom door was closed, too, and the room felt so hot and stuffy she felt as if she were suffocating. She threw off the quilt, but that barelyhelped—she wasn’t quite so hot, but there was still no air in the room and she could hardly breathe.
A drink. That’s what she needed.
Maybe she should go to the bathroom and get a glass of water. But what if someone woke up? What if she ran into Zach, or Mrs. Garvey?
Better to simply try to ignore it all, relax back into the pillow and go back to sleep.
Where the terrible dream would be waiting for her.
Her stomach growled.
If she were at home on the farm, she’d just go get a glass of milk, then turn on her nightstand light and read for a while. If her mother was also awake—as she’d been so often during those last months—they’d snuggle under an afghan on the couch, wrapped up together, and just talk for a while. Not about anything.
Just talk.
Suddenly missing her mother so badly she knew she wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep, Sarah slid out of bed and carefully tested her injured leg. It was sore but not so bad that she couldn’t stand it. She slid her feet into her slippers and silently left the bedroom.
Even the air at the top of the stairs was fresher than in the bedroom. Maybe tomorrow she’d ask Tiffany if they could sleep with the door open. Or at least the window. At home they’d always slept with the windows open, even in the middle of winter.
She paused at the top of the stairs, which seemed somehow to have become steeper and longer than when she climbed them earlier. What if she stumbled? What if she wound up at the bottom in a heap with her one good leg broken? She wouldn’t—she couldn’t. Steeling herself, Sarah made her way slowly down to the kitchen. Pepper got up from his bed in the corner of the mud room, stretched himself, then trotted over to lick her ankles.
Very quietly, Sarah poured herself a glass of milk. She was tempted to put it in the microwave for a few seconds, but the silence in the house seemed so complete that she was sure even the sound of the machine’s fan would waken somebody else.
She opened the kitchen window just enough to feel the cool draft, and stood for a moment, sipping the cold milk as
She turned out the nightstand light.
And thought once again of her father.
If he could get through the next four years, so could she.
And she’d do it without the crutches that were still standing by the front door downstairs in case she needed them, and she’d do it without complaining.
And tomorrow, she told herself, would be a better day.
Her father was smiling at her, a sad smile, his face lined and gray. It was the same smile he’d given her at her mother’s funeral. But they weren’t at the graveyard—they were somewhere else. She tried to look around, but everything was cloaked in a damp gray fog
.
Slowly, the fog began to lift, and Sarah knew where they were
.
The mansion—the enormous house she’d dreamed about before, the one that was empty but not empty, that was filled with voices she could not hear, people she could not see
.
But this time she wasn’t alone. Her father was with her, and someone else, too
.
Her mother?
She turned, searching the shadows around her, but saw nothing. And when she turned back, her father was walking away from her. She wanted to cry, and reached out as if to touch him, to pull him back, but just as she was about to reach him something happened and—
Sarah woke up, a sob rising in her throat.
The dream had been so real that the tears she’d tried to hold back in her sleep now ran from the corners of her eyes.
She wiped at them with the sleeve of her pajamas, then took a couple of deep breaths and tried to calm her heart.
And tried to remember what happened at the very end of the dream, what happened that jerked her awake.
Tiffany breathed softly in the bed by the closed window. The bedroom door was closed, too, and the room felt so hot and stuffy she felt as if she were suffocating. She threw off the quilt, but that barelyhelped—she wasn’t quite so hot, but there was still no air in the room and she could hardly breathe.
A drink. That’s what she needed.
Maybe she should go to the bathroom and get a glass of water. But what if someone woke up? What if she ran into Zach, or Mrs. Garvey?
Better to simply try to ignore it all, relax back into the pillow and go back to sleep.
Where the terrible dream would be waiting for her.
Her stomach growled.
If she were at home on the farm, she’d just go get a glass of milk, then turn on her nightstand light and read for a while. If her mother was also awake—as she’d been so often during those last months—they’d snuggle under an afghan on the couch, wrapped up together, and just talk for a while. Not about anything.
Just talk.
Suddenly missing her mother so badly she knew she wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep, Sarah slid out of bed and carefully tested her injured leg. It was sore but not so bad that she couldn’t stand it. She slid her feet into her slippers and silently left the bedroom.
Even the air at the top of the stairs was fresher than in the bedroom. Maybe tomorrow she’d ask Tiffany if they could sleep with the door open. Or at least the window. At home they’d always slept with the windows open, even in the middle of winter.
She paused at the top of the stairs, which seemed somehow to have become steeper and longer than when she climbed them earlier. What if she stumbled? What if she wound up at the bottom in a heap with her one good leg broken? She wouldn’t—she couldn’t. Steeling herself, Sarah made her way slowly down to the kitchen. Pepper got up from his bed in the corner of the mud room, stretched himself, then trotted over to lick her ankles.
Very quietly, Sarah poured herself a glass of milk. She was tempted to put it in the microwave for a few seconds, but the silence in the house seemed so complete that she was sure even the sound of the machine’s fan would waken somebody else.
She opened the kitchen window just enough to feel the cool draft, and stood for a moment, sipping the cold milk as
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