Mystery

She slung her leg over the side of the hammock and sighed. It was the sigh alone that told the story of her boredom, the story of being dragged out to visit an aunt and uncle she barely knew; then of finding that her relatives and their neighbors were about the dullest people who ever walked the face of the earth. Then just as she sighed again, the actress in her searching for the best pitch to portray most complete and utter boredom, the screen door opened and quietly closed and her aunt stepped out and squinted in the sunshine. “Carmon, honey. I’m afraid this must be rather dull for a city girl like you,” she tittered. “Why don’t you take a little stroll. I’m going to be off to the Ladies Society.” Her aunt stood awhile, expectantly waiting for her niece to jump up and scamper down the road calling, “Have a nice day, Auntie!” like the niece she had always imagined. Carmon only raised one eyebrow and twisted a short black curl around her finger. Reluctantly Aunt Angela walked down the manicured sidewalk toward the dark red minivan in the garage. A minute later she was backing out of the graveled driveway. Carmon watched and wondered, momentarily, why people drove in parkways and parked in driveways, but she soon dismissed the thought, telling herself that it was much too hot to think. Her eyes followed the minivan in a lazy sort of way, the way you might imagine a large beetle who, having just eaten his fill, lay watching a slow, fat fly. Carmon got up and pulled her soccer shorts from her sweaty skin, then gave up because they replastered each time. A gnat flew into her hair, and she flicked it away. “I guess anything would be better than this, even a walk,” she said to the mosquito on her arm before squashing it. Carmon grabbed her faded New York Mets cap and put it on, then began to walk toward Maple Street, which was three houses down from Aunt Angela and Uncle Fredrick’s house. At each house there was a girl with blond hair, shooting hoops and hoops and hoops and hoops . . . On the corner of Maple Street and Eve Street there stood a large house. Carmon stopped to pull out her water bottle from a Barbie fanny pack that her little sister Melissa had insisted she bring and wear to remember her. Carmon took a long drink, then replaced it and looked up at the house. It looked like an imitation of the houses she’d seen along Brattle Street in one of her many visits to Cambridge, mixed with an imitation of a villa in Switzerland that she had stayed at for a year. Carmon shook her head and smiled. The imitation was certainly bad. Thunk, thunk, thunk—her head turned automatically toward the sound. In the driveway there stood a medium-height girl with medium-length blond hair. She was shooting baskets at a hoop almost rhythmically. Carmon gazed at her for a moment, then noticed the lack of emotion on her suntanned face. She showed no sign of having any fun, yet every time she shot the ball it landed neatly in the basket. Carmon shook her head, then walked on. As she came to the driveway of the next house she heard dribbling again, and again. Carmon turned her head to see a young girl shooting baskets. She seemed totally unaware that right next door, a girl was also playing. Their houses were just far enough apart that neither of them could see each other. Carmon wanted to run up to the girl and tell her that right next door a girl was shooting baskets too, and that they could play one-on-one, but the girl’s dad was on the lawn blowing leaves in a circle with a leaf blower. Every few minutes he would stop and watch his daughter’s endless, perfect shots, then give her a thumbs-up. She would smile, toss her blond hair, then continue to shoot and dribble, perfect synchronized dribbling. Carmon walked on and on, and at each house there was a girl with blond hair, shooting hoops and hoops and hoops and hoops . . . Carmon began to be mesmerized by the endless perfection. She looked around her and realized she had no idea where she was. Her head seemed to be throbbing in perfect, synchronized beats, almost the same as the thunk, thunk, thunk coming from the driveway ahead. She couldn’t seem to remember where she’d turned or how long she had been walking. She looked around and realized you couldn’t give directions around here. You couldn’t say “turn left at the house with the leaf blower” because every house had one, prominently filling the natural silence. You couldn’t say “turn right at the house with the fake jockey statue” because every house had one. And you couldn’t say “make a U-turn at the house with the minivan” because every driveway seemed to contain one. You certainly couldn’t say “cross the street at the house with the basketball hoop.” Even in her present state of mind Carmon knew that. Carmon turned yet another corner with the desperate hope of ending up on her aunt and uncle’s street, though the street sign clearly read Twilight Park. In front of her, about five houses down, stood a Man, a Lady and a perfect little Boy. They were calling her name and beckoning to her. They seemed to know her, though she was certain she’d never seen them in her life. She seemed drawn toward them, closer, closer, her head throbbing with the repeated cries of “Carmon, Carmon, Carmon . . .” She walked on, the monotonous, coordinated sound of the voices merging with the ever louder thump of basketballs. The people stood in front of her smiling. The man held a basketball which he placed in her outstretched hands. She walked forward, catching a glimpse of

As I sipped the sherberty punch, I gazed about the Fitzpatricks’ sprawling farm for a comfortable spot to sit. It was the Fourth of July, and summer heat waves rippled across the cow pastures behind the barns. The Fitzpatricks, our neighbors, were giving a party. I could see my older brother Wesley trying to climb up the knotted rope that hung from a newly constructed tree house. I could do that, I thought. Easily. That is, if I ever got up the nerve to climb fifteen feet above the ground. I glanced about the party and spied my best friend Tracy, sitting on the porch steps. She waved to me, and I started toward her. “Holly!” someone shouted. I jumped. Oh, it was only my brother Wesley, calling me from the tree house. “What?” I shouted back. “Why don’t you come on up here? You wouldn’t believe the view!” I said nothing. Suddenly another person popped up beside Wesley, grinning freckledly down. My punch got caught in my throat somehow. It was Henry Fitzpatrick. He was wiry and freckled, maybe one or two years older than my fourteen-year-old brother, with a head of thick red hair. I looked hard at my paper cup. “C’mon, Holly, give it a try,” he urged. “OK,” I said as nonchalantly as possible, setting down my trembling cup. After all, I didn’t want to look like a sissy. My loose chestnut curls bounced against my shoulders as I crossed the distance between the porch and the giant maple. I was under the rope now, gazing at it. I had to do it now. Oh, how had I gotten myself into this thing? I was under the rope now, gazing at it. I had to do it now I looked up. Both of them were staring down at me. Henry smiled encouragingly. I simply couldn’t mess up in front of him. “Don’t worry,” Wesley yelled. “You’ll make it. Everybody else did.” I took a deep breath and swung onto the first knot. It wasn’t that hard. Getting up the second one was a bit more difficult. I was on the sixth knot, almost done, when I glanced down to make sure my feet were secure. I didn’t even notice my feet. All I saw was how far away the ground was. Was the rope whirling, or was it just me? “Holl, are you OK?” Henry had asked me something, but I wasn’t thinking clearly. I felt someone grab my hand. I forced myself to look up, and felt my feet giving way. I wanted to scream but I couldn’t. I felt for the rope, but it wasn’t there. I felt my hand slipping rapidly out of the hand that was holding mine. I let out a scream as our hands parted. The last thing I remember were two very white faces, one of them with freckles, getting farther and farther away. I opened my eyes. They felt strangely heavy and hard to open. All I saw was white. Maybe I’m in heaven, I thought vaguely. Slowly my vision was clearing. No, it wasn’t clouds I was seeing. It was a clean, sterile, flat white—one that reminded me of hospitals. Hospital! Of course. That would make sense. I had probably hurt myself falling from the tree house, and had been taken to a hospital. Strange that nothing hurt on me. I felt tired, though—very tired. I wondered how long I had been lying here. Probably since yesterday. My vision was now sufficiently cleared to take in my surroundings. There was a window, but there was a blind drawn on it. There was a bulletin board, on which there was a very yellowed card that said “Get Well Soon, Holly, with love, Mom, Dad and Wesley.” There was a clock over the door, which read 1:34 PM on its plain face. It was then that I noticed the machines. There were a lot of them, lined up next to each other in complex rows. They were connected to . . . me! I looked cross-eyed at my nose. There were tubes coming out of it. Eeuw, I instinctively thought. I tried to move my head. It took some energy to do it, and I lay back on the pillows again, exhausted. There was nothing to do. I wished there was a magazine left on the cot. I slept. I wakened to the sound of a door creaking open. I glanced at the door. A nurse was coming in with a needleful of clear stuff and a clipboard. She stopped in front of my cot and wrote something down on her clipboard. She looked nice, about twenty years old. She raised her eyes for the first time to mine. I made an effort to smile, though it was difficult and hurt a bit. What followed was very unexpected. The nurse gasped, and she dropped her cargo with a resounding clatter. She backed quickly out of the room, staring at me all the time. I frowned slightly. What was the matter with her? The next moment a doctor entered, looking very confused and flustered. Behind him the nurse who acted so oddly followed. “Y- you see, doctor, she is alive and awake and she even smiled a bit at me—see for yourself, doctor! And after all these years!” The doctor stared at me for what seemed like an eternity. I cleared my throat. Finally, he told the nurse to bring him a folding chair. When she got back he lowered himself into it. He looked at his hands for a long time. Then he spoke. “Holly, can you tell me a little bit about yourself?” “Sure,” I said. My voice sounded deeper and raspier than usual. “My name is Holly Fullbright and I’m thirteen years old. I have one brother Wesley, who’s fourteen, my mom and dad, three cats and my pet parakeet Phoebe. Can you tell me why I’m here?” The doctor looked at me weirdly. “This is