Voices

A swaying breeze, dancing through an open window brushed my face. It was cool, a herald for the coming fall. I trailed my fingers carelessly over the dusty top of a crib, long cold, waiting for nothing. A good existence I suppose, very relaxing, I thought. The nursery was gloomy, the only light coming through the open window. The lights had shut off a while ago now, but the electrician had not picked up any of my calls. Perks of being in the country, I mused sarcastically, when I heard little steps on the old stairs. As I turned sharply towards the greying nursery door, a bumbling golden-haired girl dressed in a checkered tunic, and holding a ragdoll, wobbled into the room.

“Who are you? What are you doing in my house?” I asked, shuddering and making a face. But the wind seemingly took my words away, as the child continued her tour of the pale pink room without giving me notice. Why was a child in my house? I lived alone, out in the country where no one visited me, except this little girl it seemed. Too much crying, too many graphing hands were weaved into my last memory of children in this house for me to stand for this little child being here, helpless as she was. Whisking in front of the child, I said in the most authoritative voice I could muster, “Out child! Out of my house!" This time the child seemed to notice me, as she had fallen with a plumb on her bottom and looked up at me with milk chocolate eyes.

“Coo,” she said.

“Coo, back,” I replied. She giggled a bubbly giggle. Where were her parents? Leaving her, I walked through the door, down the warped staircase, and into the dingy front hall, expecting to find her parents. People these days having the nerve to walk directly into a person’s house! The idea! Downstairs however, nothing was to be found. There was nobody. I stomped this way and that, but not a soul was to be found in the entire house, except for the baby upstairs. Confused, I looked outside, nothing. Finally, I came back into the front hall. My foot tapped as my head swiveled this way and that, but the only sound was the tall dying grass scratching and bending against each other outdoors. What in tarnation. But even if someone was calling for her outside, the wind across the prairie would take their voice up to the vultures above. A tiny brown spider spun down in front of my wrinkled brows. Something must be done about this child. I blew towards the spiders to shoo it away, but it didn’t move. I really have to clean. I climbed back up the stairs. Creak, creak, creak.

I found her sitting on the tattered blue rug, playing with her doll. Her eyes danced when she saw me. With an effort for her new frame, she stood and started her wobbling walk towards me. Hands were extended.

“Uppies.”

“No. I don’t like children!” This was a lie. I had had four.

“Uppies!” she said more urgently, as her hands tried to grasp my dress, dropping her doll.

My face fell as again I said, “No!” Her face fell too, and picking up her doll by the hand, trundled away. As old memories blew back in, a private little ocean started to lash at my eyes.

Carry, what are you doing. It is just a little girl! You can’t get all emotional about her.

But we haven’t held one in so long! I miss my babies.

They are not your babies. You did not have my kids.

They are just as much mine as they are yours or at least half and half.

Quiet, you can’t be here! They all got taken away because of you!

That’s not my fault! It’s your fault for telling!

NO! I push them both out of my head. On the edge of the stairs, the child was tittering, about to fall. I rushed to grab her. Before she fell, an exposed nail caught the back of her gown, stopping her from moving further. I gathered her away from the edge, safe. The past happened, but it is the past. This child needs help now. We, I can give that.

“Hold my hand,” I command, going to take her little hand in mine. Together, we walk down the stairs. There doesn’t seem to be any parents around. I’ll have to call the police. Squatting sourly on the chipped kitchen counter, the old telephone was in need of a dusting. I really do have to clean. Blowing off the dust and swiping off the webs, I balanced the telephone on my shoulder and placed the call with my free hand. Shu shing, shing, shing. But a buzzer was in my ear. Really, even the phone is out! I close my eyes. Take a breath. And look down. As compensation for her intrusion, she seemed to be offering up her doll. Setting down the phone, I sit on my heels and look deep into her eyes.

“I don’t know what to do.” I tell her, “Your parents are missing, the phone is dead, and I do not have a car to take you anywhere.”

“Gurgle.”

What am I to do? I purse my lips. “What’s your name? Do you know your mommy or daddy’s name?”

“Coo.”

I sigh. Then I hear a desperate voice.

“Rosie! Rosie! Where are you! Rosie!” The parents! I stand up. Rosie turns and looks toward the sound of her parents’ voices.

“In here!” I cry, ushering Rosie towards the door. Like a gale, the mother burst through the door.

“Rosie!” Crying, she runs over and sweeps up Rosie. Rosie starts to cry.

“I tried to find you,” I tried to explain, “but I couldn’t. The phones were dead. Everything went wrong.” But wind again seemed to blow in through the door, smothering my words. Again, I was not taken notice of, and the mother turned away. When Rosie saw that she was leaving, she started to put up a fight.

“Dollie! Dollie! Dollie!”

“You have your dolly?” said the mother with confusion, stopping. Rosie wiggled and the mother put her down. Running over to me, she tried to give me her dolly. Too stunned by some force or another, I couldn’t take it. Gently, Rosie placed the dolly on the ground. Looking up at me she smiled, “Dolly, birthday.” The salt from my sea stings my eyes too much, and water drips down. Suddenly, in a flash, the mother snatches Rosie away, and bolts out the door. I am left alone. My hand reaches ever so slightly out, then back. The house is gloomy. The life that once was in it was blown out.

It's just us again. I sigh.

Just us.

Later in the day, news anchormen swarmed the house. Pictures were being taken of the kitchen floor, the dolly, and the nursery.

“And the water just appeared on the floor?” asked the red-lipped reporter.

“Yes! Just after she offered her dolly to nothing, they appeared!” answered Rosie’s mother, Alice.

“Thank you for your time.” Then turning to the camera, “What started as a simple picnic with her daughter, soon ended with a scare. Twenty-five-year-old Alice Trapper says that her back was turned only for a second to get some apples from the car. In the time, however, Rosie, her two-year-old daughter, had wandered off into the tall grass, making her way to Berry mansion, located close by. Alice reports that when she found her in the mansion, Rosie tried giving her dolly to the air, then water drops started to appear on the floor, from seemingly no source.

Is Berry mansion haunted by the ghost of Carry, who tragically committed suicide in this very house after doctors diagnosed her with insanity and took away her children? Or was it murder? The murder of one side of her poisoned mind by the other?”

Slowly, the swarm died down. The news crew packed up and left the house. The tiny brown spider rebuilt her web, disturbed by no one, and the cool wind moaned softly through the house.