Looking around, I felt like I would need a sedative if I stayed in there too long. But then I spotted a tranquil island in the midst of the storm that was her room.
It was in the form of an armoire.
Painted plain white, its doors were ajar and inside were dozens of framed pictures, arranged haphazardly on the shelves. The silver, gold and pewter frames gleamed in the sunlight streaming through the windows and drew me like a soothing mirage.
I walked to the cabinet and looked through the images. There were pictures of Savannah throughout her childhood doing various things, things like holding trophies, swimming in a lake, sitting on a horse and shooting a basketball from the free-throw line. There were pictures of people I assumed were friends and family, people dear to Savannah’s heart. Among the lot, there was even a picture of me and Bo, sitting beneath the big tree at school where we ate lunch sometimes. That one made me ache, made my heart hurt. I missed him so much.
But among the hodge-podge of prints were several images of a woman. She was a recurring theme in many of the pictures. She was quite beautiful, with long wavy red hair and skin like porcelain. Her smile was bright and happy just like Savannah’s. There was no mistaking that she was Savannah’s mother, though she could easily have passed for an older sister now.
My heart went out to Savannah. I recognized this kind of pain, recognized the signs of it, of wanting to hang on to every little piece of someone who was never coming back. In my mind, in my heart, our house looked like Savannah’s room—
memories and pictures of Izzy everywhere. The reality of it, however, was a whole different story.
My family acknowledged neither the one-time presence of Izzy nor the loss of her. Her bedroom, which Mom kept exactly as Izzy had left it, was the only outward indication or reminder that she’d ever been a member of our family. Other than that, there was no evidence that Izzy had ever existed. No random pictures or scattered memorabilia. But inside, deep down in the places that hurt the worst, the places that missed her the most, there was no escaping the pain of it. That’s something that would never go away, no matter how much we tried to hide it.
“Do you believe in ghosts?”
At Savannah’s question, I turned to look at her. She was perched on the end of her bed, her legs drawn up beneath her, staring blankly at the wall in front of her.
“I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about it. Why?”
Savannah hesitated for only a second before she answered. “Since the accident, I’ve seen her.”
“Seen who?”
“My mother.”
I looked back at the pictures. There were several things I wanted to say, but how to say them delicately was beyond me.
Clearing my throat, I said, “Your mother, um, passed away, right?”
“Yeah. She drowned a little over four years ago.”
I nodded. That’s what I thought. “And you’ve been seeing her?”
Savannah nodded. “I know. It’s crazy, right?”
I said nothing, but I was thinking that it pretty much was.
“It’s her, though. I know it. It even smells like her, like roses.”
“Do- do you think you might be imagining it?”
“No,” she replied emphatically. “I can see her perfectly, like crystal clear. I can see her just like I could if I had my sight back. That clearly.”
“Does she ever, uh, speak or anything?”
Savannah’s expression fell a bit. “No. Not yet. When she comes back, I’m going to talk to her, see if she’ll tell me what she’s doing here.”
“What does she look like? I mean, can you tell that she’s…”
“That she drowned?” Savannah supplied. “No. She looks just like she always did. She hasn’t changed one bit.” Her tone was almost wistful and I felt sorry for her.
During those days when I thought Bo was gone, I imagined that I smelled him everywhere. The mind can play cruel tricks on you when you want something so badly.
I looked back to the shelves of pictures. Not knowing what else to say and becoming more and more uncomfortable with the silence, I picked an image to ask about.
“So, did you actually win this talent contest?”
“Which one?”
“The ‘Tweens That Rock’ one.”
Savannah smiled, her easy smile, the one that said we were moving on from the subject of her ghostly mother. “Of course I did. How could you question my ability to rock a stadium, even at age nine?”
I laughed and purposefully steered the conversation into happier, less creepy waters.
CHAPTER THREE
When I got to the house, Mom was home, which was truly bizarre.
Trepidation tickled my spine. The last time she’d been home when I’d gotten there was when Lars had exchanged blood with her and made her a totally different person for a day or two. Not that she was a bad person during that time. In fact, I wouldn’t have minded having that woman around more often, just not like that, not under those circumstances.
In some ways, Mom was very predictable. Monday through Thursday, she went straight to O’Mally’s after work and didn’t usually get in until after 10:00.
Sometimes it would be really late, like midnight or so. Apparently it was a time consuming process, getting your drink on; that’s why she got a jump on it at, like, 5:15.
For dealing with life after the death of a child, memory eradication via vodka was Mom’s coping skill of choice. I would’ve liked to stage an intervention long ago, but I couldn’t do that by myself and Dad was no help. Since Izzy’s death, he’d never disembarked the denial train. I doubted he even admitted to himself that Mom was a drunk. He just avoided it, like he did most things in life. He traveled all week long and we played at being the perfect family on the weekends. End of story.
The front door was unlocked and I walked in cautiously. From the kitchen, I could hear the clank of spoon against pot and I was immediately suspicious. Mom didn’t cook unless Dad was home and she was in her pretender mode.
“Ridley? Is that you?”
“Yeah, Mom.”
“Come in here. I’ve got some good news for you.”
Uh-oh, I thought.
Setting my duffel in the floor, I walked into the kitchen, bracing myself for what I might find. Turns out, it wasn’t all that bad. Well, maybe I should say it wasn’t all that unusual. Mom was stirring a sauce pan. She was making herself an enormous hot toddy. She liked them when she felt a cold coming on.