One for Sorrow Read online

  With that, she handed me over to a tall, dour woman wearing a black dress with a white apron over it and a small white cap on her head. Without a smile, she told me to follow her.

  Despite the number of people sitting at several long tables, the dining room was quiet. Everyone looked at me as I walked past, but no one smiled or said hello.

  They were all much older than I was, most of them adults at least Mother’s age, but some quite elderly. They didn’t smile, just looked. Was smiling forbidden?

  I felt lost and sad. It was Elsie who belonged here, not me, but whoever heard of putting a ghost into a convalescent home?

  The woman seated me at the end of a table. My chair faced the window. Outside the winter sun sparkled on snow, and I wished I were free to leave the dining room and go outside.

  The women at the table glanced at me and continued chatting about their various ailments and unappreciative relatives. I supposed they thought someone as young as I was could be of no interest to them. Certainly I had nothing to contribute to their conversational topics. Except for Elsie—​describing her might stop the talking entirely. And convince them that I was truly a lunatic.

  The old lady sitting beside me caught my eye and smiled. She had a kind face, but her eyes were sad. “My name is Mrs. Jameson,” she said in a voice so low I had to lean close to hear her.

  “I’m Annie Browne.”

  “Annie—​I’ve never met a person named Annie I didn’t like.” She smiled again. “Don’t let those women hurt your feelings,” she told me. “They’re decidedly unfriendly. I’ve been here a week and haven’t exchanged one word with them. Not even hello.”

  She paused a moment, but before I said anything, she added, “Perhaps you and I can become friends.”

  I wasn’t sure a girl my age could be friends with a woman her age, but I needed someone to talk to. I’d pretend she was my grandmother. With her pink cheeks and white hair, she certainly looked the part.

  “That would be nice,” I told her.

  “Do you enjoy reading?” she asked.

  “Oh, yes, I love to read.” While we ate our chicken noodle soup, we talked about books. We both enjoyed Wilkie Collins and Charles Dickens. She recommended Willa Cather’s novels, and I recommended Seventeen. She told me she’d loved The Magnificent Ambersons, Tarkington’s best book, she claimed. “But perhaps a bit slow, compared to Penrod’s antics.”

  When the meal ended, the other women walked away, still engrossed in conversation, but Mrs. Jameson lingered a moment. Taking my hand, she said, “I’ve enjoyed talking to you, Annie Browne.” She paused and peered into my eyes before adding, “I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but something about you worries me.”

  “Oh, you needn’t be concerned about me,” I said quickly. “I’m not crazy or anything like that. I crashed my sled and got a concussion. Dr. Benson says it’s left me in a precarious state of mind. That’s why I’m here.” I smiled and shrugged to emphasize I was fine, no cause for her to worry.

  Mrs. Jameson held my hand tighter, as if she feared I might run from her. “No,” she said softly. “It’s more than that. You’re frightened. I see it in your eyes.”

  I looked away, but I didn’t pull my hand from hers. I longed to tell her what really frightened me, but she’d never believe it. So, keeping Elsie a secret, I said, “I’m scared Dr. Benson will make me stay in Cedar Grove for a long, long time. I want to go home. I miss Mother and Father. I miss my friends and school and sleeping in my own bed at night.”

  “Of course you do. I miss my family and my home, too.” Mrs. Jameson looked at me closely. “But something else is weighing heavily upon you, Annie. I don’t know what it is, but I sense deep sorrow, loneliness, fear—”

  Before I had a chance to speak, a crew of cleaning women entered the room. Some carried mops and buckets; others carried trays and rags. One of them scowled at Mrs. Jameson. “Lunch is over,” she said. “The dining room is closed until dinner. We need to clean up, you know.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Mrs. Jameson said. “We’ll leave at once.”

  Still holding my hand, she led me into the hall. “We don’t have time to talk now,” she said, “but if you ever wish to confide in me, I’ll be happy to listen. And to help you if I can.”

  Giving me a pat on the shoulder, Mrs. Jameson walked away. I watched her go. In the sunlight streaming through the windows, her white hair shone.

  After she turned a corner, I lingered in the hall. What did Mrs. Jameson sense about me? What worried her? What did she see in my eyes?

  “You,” someone called to me, “what are you doing in the hall?” A stern-faced woman in a black skirt and white blouse approached me.

  “I’m supposed to be in arts and crafts,” I told her, “but I can’t find the room.”

  “Come with me,” she said. “And hurry. You’re already late.”

  Silently I followed her down the hall, relieved that I hadn’t gotten into trouble.

  Eighteen

  RTS AND CRAFTS met in a big sunny room with tall windows on one wall. Patients sat on stools at high tables. Everyone was making clay bowls.

  A plump, rosy-faced woman approached me. “I’m Miss Ellis,” she said, “and you must be Annie Browne.”

  I looked at her smiling face and wondered what she knew about me. “I’m sorry I’m late,” I apologized. “I couldn’t find the room.”

  “It’s a big place, but you’ll figure it out in no time.” She led me to a table under a window and introduced me to the three women already sitting there. They glanced at me and returned to their conversation. As usual, they made no effort to include me. I was a child, of no interest to them.

  Miss Ellis gave me a ball of gray clay. “We’re making pots today. Be creative,” she said in a perky voice. “Express yourself, Annie.”

  I studied the damp clay with distaste. It was cold and slippery, and I hated the way it felt. I looked at Miss Ellis in hope she’d give me a hint about making a pot, but she’d gone to the other side of the room to help an old lady. Not knowing what else to do, I rolled out snakelike coils of clay and fashioned a lopsided bowl. It looked as if a kindergartner had made it.

  Clumsy as it was, Miss Ellis raved as if it were a masterpiece. Surely she saw my bowl for what it was—​a misshapen mud ball. When she wasn’t looking, I mashed the bowl with my fist, rolled the clay into a ball, and stuck it to the underside of the table.

  Next, I spent an hour with Dr. Benson. We’d barely gotten through the niceties of how are you, I’m fine, when he asked if Elsie had joined us.

  I said quite honestly she wasn’t there.

  He leaned toward me, obviously pleased with my response. While he asked more questions, mainly about Elsie, her death, and my feelings about it, my mind raced ahead. Even if Elsie returned, I’d tell Dr. Benson and my parents she was gone. I’d say perhaps she’d been a figment of my imagination after all. I’d say I felt terrible about teasing Elsie the day before she caught flu. I’d say I was sorry I hadn’t at least tried to defend her. I’d say she wasn’t really as bad as everyone thought. I’d say she hadn’t deserved to be treated so badly.

  Mostly lies, but I was certain it was what Dr. Benson and Elsie wanted to hear. If I kept Elsie’s presence to myself, maybe he’d let me go home.

  When Dr. Benson told me my hour was over, he said, “I’m very pleased with the progress we’ve made today. If you continue to do well, Annie, perhaps you can go home in a week or so.”

  I almost skipped for joy on the way to my room. Dr. Benson was pleased. We were making progress. If my state of mind was less precarious, he might send me home as soon as next week. I’d be good, so good. I wouldn’t get into trouble. No matter what she did, I’d resist Elsie. If I ignored her, maybe she’d give up and go back to the cemetery. How happy I’d be then.

  All those thoughts came to a stop when I opened the door to my room. Elsie grinned at me from her perch on the curtain rod. She’d found a red crayon somewh
ere and scrawled bad words on the walls. She’d drawn naughty pictures as well, crudely done but recognizable as certain body parts no one ever mentions.

  In despair, I looked at what she’d done. How was I to explain it? Who could have done it but me?

  “What a bad girl you’ve been, Annie,” Elsie said with that hideous smirk of hers. “I had no idea you knew so many naughty words. And those pictures. What will Dr. Benson say when he sees this?”

  Elsie dropped to the floor and skipped across the room to me. “Instead of sending you home,” she said, “he’ll pack you off to the lunatic asylum. But don’t worry, I’ll go with you. I’ll never desert you, never, never, never.”

  With that, she jumped out the window and left me to deal with what she’d done. Shaking with rage, I tried to wipe the words and drawings off the walls, but I succeeded only in smearing my hands with red crayon.

  Behind me, the door opened, and I heard a gasp. I whirled around to see Nurse Baker staring at the wall, clearly horrified by Elsie’s handiwork.

  “Good Lord,” she cried. “What kind of a girl are you?”

  “I didn’t do this!”

  “Don’t lie to me! Just look at your hands—​you’ve got red crayon all over them.”

  “I was trying to clean it off.” My voice rose. “I don’t even know what the words mean!”

  “I’m sending for Dr. Benson!”

  “No, no, please don’t tell him. Please, I beg you.” I threw myself at her and tried to keep her from leaving. “You must believe me, I didn’t do this, I didn’t!”

  She freed herself from me. “You’re hysterical!” Without warning, Nurse Baker drew her arm back and slapped my face so hard I almost fell down.

  “What’s going on here?” Dr. Benson stood in the doorway. “I heard the noise from my office.”

  “I didn’t do it,” I wailed. “Elsie did. She’s not gone, after all.”

  “I caught Annie Browne in the act,” Nurse Baker told him. “Just look at her hands.”

  “I’m looking at the red mark on her face. Did you slap her?”

  “The girl was hysterical. In my family, a good slap always put an end to that sort of behavior.”

  “We do not strike patients here, Nurse Baker. One more incident like this, and you will be dismissed without a recommendation. Please leave now. I’ll deal with Annie.”

  Nurse Baker sniffed and left the room in a huff. As soon as she was gone, Dr. Benson turned his attention to the wall. “What’s the meaning of this, Annie? I thought you were making real progress, but now . . .” He frowned. “Are you blaming Elsie?”

  “Yes,” I cried. “Yes. Who else could have done it?”

  He gazed at me sadly. “Who else, indeed?”

  Even though he didn’t believe me, I said it again. “Elsie did it. She hates me. Don’t you see? She wants to make me pay for not being her friend.”

  “When will you give up this obsession with Elsie? The girl died months ago. She can’t make you do anything. Whether you admit or not, you defaced this wall. You, Annie, no one but you.”

  No, I thought, I didn’t, I didn’t, I didn’t. It made no sense to say it out loud. The more I insisted Elsie was real, the crazier I seemed.

  Dr. Benson went to the door and looked back at me. “I’ll have someone bring you a bucket of soapy water and rags so you can scrub off this filth.”

  I sat on my bed and stared at Elsie’s handiwork. There was no chance now of going home next week. Or even next month.

  What was to become of me? Only a crazy girl would insist a ghost was responsible for those words and drawings. Only a crazy girl would blame a dead girl. I was sure I wasn’t crazy. I was sure Elsie was real . . . but what if she wasn’t? What if I really was crazy?

  My thoughts were interrupted by a cleaning woman. Setting down a bucket of soapy water and a handful of rags, she stared at the wall.

  “Shocking,” she said. “Shocking that a young girl like yourself should know such things.”

  Looking at me as if I were a demon, she left the room and shut the door behind her.

  With a sigh, I dipped the rag into the water and began to scrub. And scrub and scrub. I scrubbed until my arms ached, but the words and drawings remained, paler, harder to see, but still visible.

  Part of my punishment was to eat dinner in my room. That was fine with me. Except for Mrs. Jameson, I didn’t enjoy the company of the others.

  Nurse Baker brought my tray. She looked at the wall and sniffed in disgust. “I can still see those words and drawings. Your room will need a few coats of paint to cover them up. That will cost your father a pretty penny.”

  “I did my best,” I muttered, “but—”

  “Your best wasn’t good enough, was it?” Nurse Baker put my dinner tray down and left the room. Her starched skirts rustled in disapproval. She probably thought a few more slaps might improve me.

  After I finally fell asleep, Elsie woke me by snatching off my covers. She’d brought the cold of winter with her, and I tried to pull my blanket back. Taking the blanket with her, she leapt to the top of my wardrobe and grinned at me.

  “I see they made you scrub the wall,” she said. “Didn’t they like my artwork?”

  I huddled on my bed, shivering without my covers. “I hate you.”

  Elsie laughed. “Didn’t you miss me? Didn’t you wonder where I went?”

  “Wherever it was, I wish you’d stayed there.”

  “If you insist, I’ll tell you. Or even if you don’t insist, I’ll tell you anyway.” She jumped down from the wardrobe, leaving the blanket out of my reach. “I went to Rosie’s house, to see how she is, poor girl.”

  She paused. “Aren’t you going to ask me how your former best friend is?”

  I hugged my knees tight to my chest and waited. The gleeful expression on her face scared me.

  “Well, I’m happy to tell you my plan worked. Rosie died last night.”

  “No,” I whispered. “That can’t be true. You’re lying. You always lie.”

  “Except when I tell the truth,” Elsie said. “Which happens to be what I’m doing now. I saw Rosie in her coffin, laid out in the parlor just like I was. As dead as dead can be.”

  “No, no, no,” I whispered.

  “Yes, yes, yes!” Elsie hopped around the room singing, “I had a little bird, and I named her Enza. I opened Rosie’s window, and in flew Enza!”

  I pulled the pillow over my head, but I could still hear her.

  Snatching the pillow away, she leaned over me. “And guess what else? Everybody says it’s your fault. You put that mask in her bookbag and she caught flu and now she’s dead. You murdered her, everyone says so, and you’ll go to jail for the rest of your miserable life!”

  “You made me put the mask in Rosie’s bag!” I screamed.

  “And how will you prove that?”

  “I hate you! You’re a monster,” I screamed.

  Elsie laughed again and returned to the top of my wardrobe. “What a nice warm blanket,” she called. “Thanks for giving it to me.”

  Nearly frozen, I huddled on my bed and wept. I saw Rosie laughing, skipping rope, bouncing a ball, and shouting, “One, two, three O’Leario.” Rosie my friend, Rosie the wild girl, more fun than anyone in the world. I saw her sick with flu, drenched with perspiration, burning with fever, hallucinating. I saw her still and cold and white, lying in her coffin while Jane and Lucy and Eunice wept. And blamed me.

  Why had I put the mask in Rosie’s bookbag? Why hadn’t I fought Elsie? What kind of a person was I?

  And all the while, as I lay there tormenting myself with guilt, Elsie perched above me on the headboard of my bed, swinging her bare feet in my face and singing, “The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out, the worms play pinochle on your snout. They eat your eyes, they eat your nose, they eat the jelly between your toes.”

  Nineteen

  N THE MORNING, Elsie was gone, and my blanket was on the floor. Wrapping it around me, I sat on my
bed and wept again for Rosie.

  A nurse came to remind me I was expected to be in the dining room for breakfast. She was new. Maybe Nurse Baker had quit and I’d never see her again. I told the nurse I wasn’t hungry.

  She looked at me closely. “Have you been crying?”

  I wiped my nose with the back of my hand. “Yes.”

  “I guess you’re sorry about what you did to your room.” She looked at the wall and shook her head. “I see you didn’t scrub it all off.”

  “I tried.” I sniffled and snuffled.

  “I’ll bring breakfast to your room. I’m sure Dr. Benson will want to see you as soon as you’ve finished eating.” She turned to leave but stopped to say, “In the meantime, get dressed, Annie. Comb your hair. Wash your face.”

  I did as she asked, but I didn’t eat the breakfast she brought. Nor did I go to see Dr. Benson. I’d caused Rosie’s death. How was I to face anyone?

  A little later, Dr. Benson found me sitting in my rocking chair, looking out the window.

  “Nurse O’Brien told me you’ve been crying,” Dr. Benson said. His voice was gentler than usual. “I suppose you’re upset about last night. Nurse Baker shouldn’t have slapped you.”

  I shook my head. “I just found out my friend Rosie has died of the flu and—” I broke down again.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, Annie. That’s sad news indeed.” He sat down on my bed and looked at me with sympathy. “But who told you? How do you know?”

  Before I could stop myself, I blurted, “Elsie told me last night. She says it’s my fault. She says I murdered Rosie, and I’ll be sent to jail, but it’s her fault, not mine! She made me kill Rosie.”

  Dr. Benson’s expression changed from sympathetic to disappointed. “Oh, Annie, I’ve told you again and again, Elsie is dead. She can’t tell you anything. She exists in your mind and nowhere else.”

  “If you’d just try, you’d see her yourself. She’s outside right now.” I pointed at Elsie, who was pirouetting on the lawn. “Why can’t you admit she’s there? You must see her, you must!”