Page 37 of Persephone's Curse
A cold prickled down the center of my spine. “You mean you could see…”
“So it’s not just you,” she continued. “If you were thinking it was just you.”
“You could see…ghosts?”
She nodded and picked up her dolls again. “You think you’re the only one, but you’re not.”
“Did your sisters know?”
“No. It was just for me.” Esme bopped her dolls up and down gently on the carpet in front of her.
“What do I do?” I asked her. Seeking advice from a six-year-old ghost might have been a low point for me, but I did my best to put that thought out of my head.
“What do youwantto do?” Esme asked. She was barely paying attention now, fully invested in whatever tableau her dolls were currently involved in.
“I want to help her,” I said.
“You should help her,” Esme said with authority. “My sisters and I always help each other.”
“I should help her,” I repeated.
“Definitely.”
To help her, I’d have to make her stop. Stop knocking. Stop loving him. Stop all of this.
But how could I make Evelyn do anything?
I sat and watched Esme for a few more minutes, then got up and got a glass of water. I drank it all at the kitchen sink, suddenly so, so thirsty. I filled it up again and drank a second glass.
My throat felt tight; my head ached. I couldn’t stop thinking about Henry. I couldn’t stop thinking about Evelyn.
I couldn’t stop thinking about what Esme had said.You should help her.
In my pocket, I felt my phone buzz. I hadn’t even realized I’d brought it down with me. I pulled it out and looked at the screen—finally, finally, a text from Evelyn:
I’m not mad at all. See you soon.
I didn’t text her back.
I didn’t know what I would have said.
I stared at her text until the screen went black.
We drove back to New York on Sunday morning, after a tearful goodbye with Aunt Bea and a lot of croissants for the road. Mom and I got to the car first (Bernie’s tearful goodbye was lasting a little longer), so I slid into the front seat.
“You’re a good sister,” Mom said once our doors were closed.
“I didn’t really do anything.”
“That’s not true at all.” She reached over and squeezed my hand. “Status report?”
“Evelyn isn’t really speaking to me. Clara is Clara.”
“And you?”
“Oh. I’m fine,” I said. “I’m always fine.”
We got back to New York around five, taking our time, stopping for lunch in Saratoga Springs, a little town Upstate. It was already getting dark when we pulled into the parking garage and walked the block to home, and we were all quiet, for, I thought, entirely different reasons.
