Edith

I was entranced by the house. With its wraparound porch, octagonal turret and stained-glass windows, it looked like an illustration from one of my story books. The front door creaked as my father opened it.

“Go and find your bedroom,” he said, laughing. “You’ve got plenty to choose from.”

I rushed up the magnificent walnut staircase which curved up from the black and white tiled hallway and wandered in and out of echoing empty rooms. At the end of the corridor,a narrow staircase led to a small room in the turret. With windows and window seats on all sides, it had a bird’s eye view of the driveway and grounds, including a walled garden. I laughed in delight. This was my room.

As I was returning downstairs, I heard my parents’ angry voices. I sat down, leaning my forehead against the banisters.

“Greg, I’m tired of moving from one fixer-upper to another. I’m sick of living in construction and renovations and dust. Cassie needs to go to school and make friends.”

“Stop yelling and listen! This was too good a deal to miss. This one will make us enough money to buy a place to settle, I promise.”

“It had better, or I am taking Cassie and leaving. Do you hear me?”

I had heard this often, but it never failed to make my heart sink.

“Come on, Libby, hon. You’ll love decorating this place. Look at these marble mantelpieces and that bay window.”

“Sweet talking is only going to go so far, Greg,” said her mother, nevertheless allowing herself to be escorted around the house

Peace had broken out for now. I ran downstairs.

“Come and see my room,” I said, grabbing my father’s sleeve.

A week later, the turret room was arranged to my liking. My camp bed was set up with a reading lamp on the orange crate beside it. My books, journals and pencils were arranged on a rickety table that my father had found in the attic. Since the faded floral wallpaper was eventually going to be stripped off, I was allowed to draw all over it and had created colorful scenes of mountains, flowers and animals. My goats, llamas and horses all tended to look similar, but that couldn't be helped. I spent hours happily drawing and writing while the sounds of power tools whined and droned below as renovations began.

Wandering downstairs one morning not long after we moved in, I went in search of my parents. My father was outside in deep discussion with the electrician. My mother, her hair tied up, wearing old dungarees, was on a ladder in the front room stripping paint off the woodwork, muttering to herself.

“Criminal. Who paints over beautiful oak like this?”

“Mom, I’m going outside,” I said.

“Fine,” said her mother, preoccupied. “Be back for lunch. Have you done your reading?”

“Yes, I have.”

Our version of home school mostly consisted of my mother taking me to the closest library and telling me to choose whatever books I liked. I headed for the walled garden, making my way through waist-high weeds until I came to a wooden door hanging ajar on iron hinges. Panting and straining, I finally managed to open it far enough to squeeze through. The weeds were even higher inside. I stopped as I saw a figure standing motionless ahead, barely visible through the foliage.

“Hello?” I said.

There was no reply.

I cleared my throat and tried again, my voice trembling.

“Hello? Who are you?”

The figure did not budge. Inching forward cautiously, I sighed with relief as I came to an ornamental pond where a marble nymph listed drunkenly in the scummy green water, a water jug under one arm. She had a sad expression on her lichen-mottled face.

“Poor lady,”I said aloud. “You must have been beautiful.”

I suddenly heard my mom, breathless and irritated.

“There you are. I told you to be back for lunch. I’ve been calling and calling. Who were you talking to?”

“Look,” I said, pointing at the nymph. “I thought she was a real person.”

“My goodness, she’s seen better days,” said her mother, shaking her head. “Come on. Lunch is ready,”

My father was already at the table, skimming the newspaper. He folded it and looked up as we entered.

“Why don’t we all take a break and go into town? Libby, treat yourself at that spa you were talking about. Cassie and I will go to the library and then we can go to the ice cream parlor.”

My mother and I both looked at him and then at each other incredulously.

“Really, Greg? You’re serious?”

He laughed sheepishly.

“Okay, so the electricians are coming to work on rewiring the kitchen this afternoon. We won’t have any power for a while.”

“Hah,” said my mother. “I knew there had to be a reason. But I’ll take you up on it. Let’s get changed, Cassie.”

We dropped my mom off at the spa and headed for the library. I clutched my father’s hand. An outing with him was so rare as to be almost unheard of. An elderly lady with blue rinsed hair came up to greet us in the lobby.

“Hello,” she said. “Are you the family who bought the old Gardiner house?”

Cassie’s father looked at her, brows raised.

“How did you know? I’m Greg Wilson and this is my daughter Cassie. News certainly travels fast around here.”

“I’m Cecile Watkins,” she said, smiling. “This is a small town. Your arrival is the most exciting thing that’s happened in a while. I’m glad you’re fixing up the old place. It was in danger of turning into an eyesore. Not many people have the courage or the money to take on such a project. I’m with the local historical society. Come and see.”

She led us to a room where various old sepia photographs were set up on easels. I looked at them closely.

“Dad! It’s our house. They had horses and a carriage. That's cool."

In the largest picture, a couple sat in an open carriage in front of the house, a uniformed groom at the horses’ heads. The man had a long grey beard. The woman looked considerably younger, sitting very upright and holding a parasol in her gloved hands. A little girl, her face framed by pale ringlets, sat between them.

“Why are they so serious?” I asked.

“They had to look at the camera for a long time in those days so the picture didn’t come out blurred,” said the old lady. “That’s Mr. Gardiner, his wife Sophia and his daughter Edith when they moved into the house in 1880. Edith must have been the same age as you are, Cassie. “

“His wife?” said my father. “She looks young enough to be his daughter.”

“His second wife, Edith’s stepmother. His first wife died in childbirth when she had Edith. That was common in those days, unfortunately.”

I moved along the row of photographs. There were interior shots of rooms with thick brocade curtains, heavy furniture and large oil paintings. Scenes of the garden showed manicured lawns and flower beds, a far cry from the wilderness I had discovered. I suddenly spotted the nymph in the pond, her marble face spotless, and water cascading out of her urn.

“Daddy, that’s the statue I found this morning. Can we get her cleaned up and fix the fountain?”

My father looked dubious.

“We can try. That’s a bit beyond my pay grade. We’ll have to find a specialist.”

The old lady laughed.

“That statue caused quite a stir back in the day,” she said, dropping her voice to a whisper. “Some of the ladies of the town thought it was quite improper because her breasts are bare...”

I giggled. My father glanced at his watch.

“We’ve got to go and pick up my wife. Thank you for your time, Ms. Watkins. You’ll have to come and see the house when we’re finished.”

“I’d love to. Bye now, Cassie.”

Sitting in the ice cream parlor later, my mother sighed contentedly.

“That massage was wonderful,” she said. “Let’s do this again.”

I was not sure which was better, my triple scoop sundae or seeing my mother so relaxed.

A ramshackle van was leaving the house as we got home. The driver rolled down his window, giving a cheerful gap-toothed smile. A skinny teenage boy sat in the passenger seat.

“All done, Greg. Power’s back on. Give me a call if you need anything else.”

My mother eyed the van as he drove off.

“They don’t look like the sharpest knives in the drawer, Greg. Are you sure they know what they’re doing? Did they have good reviews?”

“They were the cheapest.”

I winced, feeling the atmosphere change as my mom got out of the truck, slammed the door and marched inside. My father sighed and shrugged.

“My stomach hurts, Daddy. I think I ate too much ice cream,” I said, suddenly queasy.

“Go on to bed then, pumpkin.”

I lay down in bed and read for a while to escape. Heavy storm clouds had been gathering all evening. As the first boom of thunder rattled the windows, the room was illuminated by lightning, I pulled the covers over my head.

Holding my plush bear, Panda, I finally drifted off into a troubled sleep in which the nymph followed me, tears streaming down her blotchy cheeks.

“You said you’d make me beautiful again,” she whispered.

“I will, I will,” I said. “Now leave me alone.”

I felt something touch my shoulder, and turned over, irritated.

“I told you to go away.”

“Wake them up,” a voice said. “Your parents. Wake them up now. There’s a fire…hurry.”

I startled awake and gasped as I saw Edith, looking as if she had stepped out of the sepia photograph. My heart was pounding.

“Are you real?”

“It doesn't matter."

Her image faded away. I leapt out of bed in terror, almost tumbling down the narrow stairs in my haste. I threw my parents’ bedroom door open.

“Mom, Dad! Wake up. Wake up, please.”

They both mumbled and stirred. Dad stumbled out of bed and sniffed.

“Smoke. Get outside now, both of you…where’s my phone…fire department now... yes, the old Gardiner house...”

My mother and I ran outside into the driving rain. Dad appeared, still talking on his phone as he ran towards the orange light glowing from the kitchen.

“Greg, no! Don’t go in there,” Mom screamed, pulling him back by the arm. I latched onto the tail of his shirt, half blinded by the rain.

“No, Daddy, no. Don’t, please.”

A loud wailing announced the arrival of the fire trucks. We found ourselves pushed to the periphery of the frantic action which followed. After what seemed like an eternity, a burly firefighter approached.

“I think we’re in the clear now. It was confined to a small area in the kitchen. Lucky that you woke up when you did or things would have been a lot worse.”

“I bet those electricians messed something up,” Mom said.

“We’ll look into it in the morning, ma’am,” said the firefighter. “Looks like your smoke detectors weren’t connected, so I’m just curious how you knew there was a fire?”

My parents looked at me.

“Did you know, Cassie?” said my dad.

I was glad they couldn’t see my face clearly.

“Um, er, I had a bad dream. It scared me, so I ran to your room. That’s when I smelled the smoke.”

The firefighter patted my shoulder.

“I’m glad history didn’t repeat itself.”

“What do you mean?” said my mom.

“Way back in the day, not long after the house was built, there was a fire in the kitchen. They managed to save most of the house, but the little girl who lived here died due to her injuries. I think her name was Edith or Eleanor or something like that.”

Tears mingled with the rain on my face.