happy; that was all that mattered. So what if none of it was true? For a few minutes she forgot that her life had been shattered; that she would never again see the daughter who wore her face; forgot her brokenhearted husband, stranded in a sand trap, beating golf balls to death; forgot the angry alien masquerading as her son, who plays his guitar just as loud as he can, to fill his mind with music, to drive out the pain; forgot the tangle-haired tightrope walker who is losing her balance.
âI ran into Mrs. Maxson today,â Mom said. âShe used to work at the library, remember? She hadnât heard about Helen.â
âWhat did you tell her?â
My motherâs eyes probed my face. âI told her sheâd died.â
The last time that happened to me, I lied. I said, âHelenâs gone away to school.â
Death is hard, Dr. Shubert says, but life is even harder. Jessie, she says, you must face the truth.
I said, âIâm going upstairs.â
My motherâs face collapsed, her happiness a crumpled mask. I had not fooled her.
âItâs bad enough weâve lost Helen!â she cried. âNow weâre losing you!â
She ran from the room. I shouldâve gone after her. Instead, I went up and fell asleep on my bed, curled around Helenâs journal.
I open my eyes. Pitch blackness. Where am I? In my room, in my bed, in the middle of the night. My bed is a boat in a dark sea.
Why did I wake? The smell. Itâs smoke.
Fire! The bedroom door is outlined in orange neon.
I get out of bed and touch the door. Itâs hot; it burns my fingers. In sixth grade the fire chief talked to our class. He said, âJessie, donât open that door.â
I run to the window. I canât get it open. Itâs stuck where Lucas painted it. Iâve got to get out. I can hear the hungry flames devouring the living room, licking up the stairs.
I pick up my school books and smash the window. The glass shrieks and chatters. I climb out.
Neighbors line the lawn, in robes and pajamas. They see me and gasp. âJump, Jessie!â they shout. âYou have to jump! You have no choice!â
Iâm falling through space. I land in a shrub. Thorns rip my skin. Someoneâs pulling me out. Itâs Bambiâs mother, her eyes full of the flames, the red light flickering on her face.
âLook at all the people,â she says, calmly, as if she were announcing the time. âTwo A . M .,â she adds, reading my mind.
The crowd is enormous. A man sells hot dogs. âRed hots!â he shouts. âRed hots!â
Dad is beside me. He takes my arm. âCome on, honey,â he says. âEverybodyâs waiting.â
The Fordâs parked in the street, Mom up front, Lucas in the backseat, his face turned away from me.
âWhere are we going, Daddy?â I ask.
âTo our new house. Youâll like it, Jessie.â
âBut all our stuffââ
âWeâll buy new stuff.â He opens the car door. âGet in, honey.â
I slide in beside Lucas. Then I remember.
âHelenâs in the house!â
I canât open my door. Very gently Dad says, âItâs too late.â
âHelenâs in there!â Iâm screaming. âWeâve got to save her!â
But we donât. We drive away. I look out the back window. The house is blazing. Tongues of flame stick out the windows, flames as orange-blue as veins. The walls shudder, then collapse.
I am screaming Helenâs name.
My eyes snap open. Pitch blackness. Where am I? In my room, in my bed, in the middle of the night. The clock glows like a jack-oâ-lantern. Two A . M .
Helenâs bed is empty. My father was right.
9
March 23
Bloomfield and I drove to the ocean today â after an hour of instructions from Dad: Drive slowly, wear your seat belts, donât pick up hitchhikers, etc. I wouldnât have been a bit surprised if
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