Emily wafted through the echoing farmhouse kept company by the mother-collie. She felt as old and weathered as the house itself. She'd been here almost as long, although her watery reflection in the hall mirror showed her the same as the day she died. She shivered, sending trails of ivy dancing, remembering sweet smelling apple-log fires, thin woolen stockings hanging with an orange, a walnut and a peppermint stick inside. She remembered carrying that blue and white pitcher from the barn every morning. The pitcher, chipped now, left behind on a window sill had a few dead flowers arranged in it. She liked its being there: she longed to taste fresh milk again. Her last family bought milk in plastic cartons with pictures of missing children on the sides. Emily remembered all the children that had been born in the big bedroom at the top of the stairs. Sitting on the worn window seat, she could see the summer sun streaming in through the flower-patterned stained glass design. The colored swatches on the wide-planked floor reminded her of her mother's patchwork quilt that was on the bed the morning she gave birth to her son that in life she never lived long enough to hold, that in death she couldn't hold on to. Emily didn't mind being alone, she minded being lonely. It was past time for another family but she worried that there wouldn't be one. The house was old and people weren't buying old houses any more. They seemed to want new ones, put together like a puzzle on a summer's afternoon, like the one she watched appear on the south pasture. A cold home, a tomb housing empty souls. The last people here hadn't any sense of family, letting the children take care of themselves, best they could, while the parents seemed more interested in watching tv and drinking. Emily remembered them screaming to the police and the social worker about ghosts and poltergeists as they were taken away. She smiled, thinking that she wasn't a ghost for nothing. She heard the sounds of a car- looking out the window she saw the collie surrounded by children. A real estate lady was telling the parents about the house, talking about bedrooms, water pressure and furnaces needing work. They didn't seem put off as they ran light fingers over the glass work and agreed that the bannister was perfect for sliding down. The mother was figuring out where the Christmas tree would go. The father couldn't wait to enjoy a fire in a real old-fashioned fireplace. The kids wanted to know if the collie came with the house and was it really true that the house was haunted? "Oh, I hope so," said the mother. Emily brushed by the chandelier; the crystals sang as they moved against each other. A rustle of papers, a scratch of a pen, phone calls on one of those miniature telephones people had now-a-days. Snatches of conversations offered and accepted. The real estate lady went back where she came from mumbling about strange people, ghosts and spending her commission. The mother wandered around outside picking some flowers. She came into the kitchen and arranged them in the blue and white pitcher, then stood there looking out the kitchen window at the apple tree out in the field. "Well, ghost," she said, "I hope you don't mind if we come and live with you." Emily smiled and said something she knew the mother wouldn't be able to hear. . . until I answered. |