Invisible, as Music Read online

  She clicked on the television—she’d been the first of her friends to have one with a remote control. It was so nice to be able to click through the channels from the sofa without having to stand at the set and rotate the dial manually. She found the evening news and got her legs situated on the towel she kept there to protect the upholstery from her shoes before settling back on her pillow.

  Before Dan Rather signed off, she was asleep. She was startled awake by the hiss of the TV as CBS went off the air for the night. She struggled to sit up, annoyed with herself for falling so deeply asleep. It was tempting to just stay where she was, but she knew, if she didn’t get her braces off for at least a few hours, she’d end up with skin breakdown. Her last trip to the hospital for skin issues had turned into a six-week stay before they could get the sores on her back to heal sufficiently for her to be able to wear her braces again. That was five years ago, and she felt she was still trying to come back from that episode in terms of her strength and stamina.

  Half an hour later, she lay back in bed, unfettered for the night. Again, as soon as she lay down, sleep seemed to elude her. She mentally ticked through her nightly checklist: stove off; doors and windows locked; lamps off; front and back porch lights on.

  The panic wasn’t as frequent now as it had been when Amanda first left. Night noises seemed more normal, and her friends knew to check on her each morning if they didn’t hear from her.

  But just the knowledge that she couldn’t get out of the house quickly once her braces were off—it was almost as bad as the iron lung had been.

  Against her will, images came to her, things she tried desperately not to remember. Fevered memories of being whisked to a hospital, wanting to talk to Una, but not being able to breathe. Row upon row of the huge tanks in the ward, only heads visible as each patient lay there, completely dependent upon the machines to keep air moving in and out, in and out. Working down the ward, the nurses wheeled curtained panels into position around each of the machines to screen them as they rotated the lung to change diapers or bedpans and bathe what parts they could. Occasionally, crying family members gathered, and the panels would be positioned again as the lung was turned off to “let nature take its course” if the doctors had deemed that the patient would not regain the ability to breathe independently.

  Polio.

  That one word invoked terror every summer. People disappeared—children mostly—and people whispered the word, as if saying it aloud might invite it to visit their house.

  Then, after emerging—emaciated and wasted—from the iron lung, months and months of painful, tortuous rehabilitation.

  Henrietta pressed her hands to her face, trying to calm her racing heart.

  “It’s over,” she whispered. “Forget it. I can walk. I can breathe. I survived.”

  Chapter 3

  Sunlight broke through the clouds and pierced a gap in the curtains. Ryn opened one eye. Across the room, Vanessa was buried somewhere under a heap of sheets and blankets. All Ryn could make out was a tangle of blonde curls and Roo. She rolled over and stretched. Wednesdays were her only day with no classes. She’d dutifully spent the first few Wednesdays of the semester in her office in case students came by, but after the confrontation with Geary two days ago, she had no desire to spend more time there than she had to.

  She slipped out of bed and quickly changed clothes. She needn’t have been so quiet; Vanessa slept like the dead. But Ryn didn’t want to take a chance on a tag-along. She packed her backpack with a fun book—not a textbook—and enough layers to get her through into the evening, along with her wallet and car keys. She slung the straps over her shoulders and, at the last minute, reached for her guitar. Holding her breath as the door creaked open, she made her getaway.

  Downstairs, only Mrs. Middleston was up as she left her backpack and guitar in the foyer long enough to pack some food and eat a quick bowl of cereal in the kitchen.

  “Where are you off to?” Mrs. Middleston asked.

  “Not sure.” Ryn spooned up some Cheerios. “Just want to get away for the day. Are there any lakes or rivers near here?”

  “No lakes unless you go to the Finger Lakes, but there’s Jordan’s Pond.”

  Ryn jotted down the directions Mrs. Middleston gave her, made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich wrapped in wax paper, and poured a Thermos of hot water from the kettle on the stove.

  Nelly almost trembled with excitement as Ryn loaded her up and turned the ignition. With a pat on her dashboard, Ryn pulled away from the curb.

  The sun came and went from behind the clouds as she followed Mrs. Middleston’s directions. They took her out of the village and onto an unnamed dirt track that she passed once, having to turn around and retrace her path. Nelly bumped and bounced over the ruts and humps in the dirt road until they came to a dense stand of trees surrounding a pond. Ryn parked in the grass on the side of the lane and whistled.

  “Looks like something Thoreau would have loved.”

  Huge willows grew along the banks, their roots loving the water, their delicate weeping branches sweeping the pond with each breath of wind. Birches also grew in abundance, their white bark gleaming when the sunlight struck it. Other trees—mostly oaks and maples—populated the area around the pond. The pond itself was quite large—apparently large enough to row on, as there was an old kind of pier with a dilapidated rowboat tied to it. It looked as if there was a faint path meandering down a hill on the far side of the water where a small flock of ducks paddled around.

  With another pat to Nelly’s roof, Ryn gathered her backpack and guitar and set out around the bank, making her way toward the dock. Mists rose off the water as the sun warmed the morning. Bugs hovered there, and every now and again, a splash broke the stillness of the water’s surface as fish rose to take them. Birds flashed down, snatching more bugs. Leaves fell from some of the overhanging trees, spinning acrobatically as they descended to land softly on the glassy surface of the pond.

  She sat cross-legged on the weathered gray boards and dug her Thermos and a teabag out of her backpack. While her tea steeped, she wrapped her arms around her knees, listening to… nothing. Except it wasn’t nothing. What seemed like silence at first, with no voices and no traffic, was full of sound. Birds called, and bug wings whirred near her, and turtles crawled out onto rocks to sun themselves. Somewhere in the weeds, frogs croaked, and the ducks quacked in reply.

  She sipped her tea and breathed it in.

  The air warmed, and she peeled her sweatshirt off. Reaching for her book, she lay back, using her sweatshirt as a pillow, and read, Six of One, one of her favorites. Her eyes soon drooped, and her book fell to her chest as she dozed off.

  The sun was higher when she woke. She sat up, startling a turtle who had crawled onto the dock to share it with her. It dropped into the water with a plop. She stretched and tucked her book into her backpack.

  “I am not going to waste the day sleeping.”

  She opened her guitar case and cradled the guitar in her lap. The vibration of the strings seemed to echo into the morning. Turtle heads turned in her direction. The ducks paddled nearer, quacking softly as she sang.

  She played her way through several of her favorite songs—Joan Baez, Peter, Paul & Mary, John Denver, Cris Williamson, Meg Christian.

  While she played, the rowboat bobbed in the gentle waves created by the ducks as they paddled by. She tilted her head, considering.

  “What’s the worst that can happen? I can swim.”

  She put her guitar back in its case and went to the end of the dock. Squatting down, she reached for the rope anchoring the rowboat to the piling. Some murky rainwater sloshed around in the bottom when she pulled it alongside the dock. She rocked it to and fro. The boat seemed sturdy enough. Gingerly, she reached one foot down onto the seat, waiting to see if the boat would begin to sink. When it didn’t, she stepped in with her other foot. Under the seat was an old rusty coffee can. She used it to scoop the rainwater out of the bottom and then u
ntied the boat from the post. Giving it a shove, she slipped the oars into the locks and rowed out into the middle of the pond.

  “This is harder than it looks,” she muttered when her oars skipped too close to the surface or dug too deeply, spinning her in erratic circles.

  Before long, she got the hang of it, and struck out across the water. She followed the circumference of the pond, rowing in and out of shade thrown across the water by the surrounding trees. More turtles slipped off half-submerged logs and rocks, taking refuge under the surface of the water as she rowed by.

  She laughed. “This was just what I needed. Screw you, Bradley Geary.”

  “Do you hear music?”

  Henrietta suspended her bill paying as Bonnie emerged from the unused guest rooms with her duster. They both paused, listening. Bonnie had insisted on opening all of the windows that morning.

  “It’s a glorious day, and it’s past time this house was aired out!” she’d declared before throwing the sashes open.

  They both listened now, but Bonnie shook her head.

  “I don’t hear anything.”

  “I don’t now, but I could have sworn…”

  Henrietta finished the last of the bills and got to her feet. She found Bonnie cleaning the bathroom. “I think I’m going to pack up a sketchpad and go down to the pond.”

  Bonnie straightened. “Really? I can’t remember the last time you went down there. That’s a wonderful idea. Let me make you a sandwich real quick.”

  She waved off Henrietta’s protests and packed a ham and cheese sandwich, along with a bottle of water, putting them with a sketchpad and pencil case into a canvas bag with a long strap that Henrietta could drape over one shoulder and carry down the path.

  “You sure you don’t want me to take this down for you?” Bonnie fussed, rearranging the bag so it hung on Henrietta’s back where it wouldn’t interfere with her crutches.

  “No. I’m fine. Thank you, Bonnie.”

  “Well, you have a good time. Just holler if you need me. I’ll keep an ear peeled.”

  She opened the sliding glass door to allow Henrietta to step out onto the rear patio and closed the screen behind her.

  Henrietta walked to the far edge of the stone patio and hesitated. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been down this path. Bud, the yardman, was supposed to keep it clear and raked, but she had no idea if he did. She glanced back once to see if Bonnie was still there. She waved from behind the screen. Feeling foolish—like a girl afraid to ride her bike without training wheels—Henrietta set off.

  The flagstones were mostly clear of debris. A few small sticks and early fallen leaves littered the path, but nothing that barred her way. The downhill angle and hairpin turns built into the path to lessen the severity of the slope slowed her progress, but the pond drew closer as she descended the hill. Halfway down, she heard it again. Singing.

  Curious now, she waited for the trees to thin as she got closer to the small landing that had been built along the bank of the pond. A couple of covered lawn chairs sat where they always were. Henrietta’s property extended all the way down to the water, and she didn’t relish trespassers. Few people knew about the pond, and even fewer actually came out this far.

  That old boat—no one really knew who had put it there—was in the middle of the pond, being rowed by… was that the same young woman who had helped her the day she dropped her groceries? She sang as she rowed, some song Henrietta had never heard. Her voice was clear and pleasant to listen to, if not well-trained.

  The boat skimmed along in a lazy circle, powered by the girl’s pulls on the oars, until she came around to where Henrietta was standing.

  “Oh.” The girl stopped singing when she saw Henrietta. Her face turned bright pink. “Sorry if I was disturbing you.”

  She glanced up the hill. “I didn’t realize… We’re below your house.”

  “Yes.” Henrietta didn’t know whether to be amused or annoyed at finally getting down here to find she wasn’t alone. Her eye was caught by a flicker of movement on the seat next to the girl. She tilted her head. “Friend of yours?”

  “Sorry?” The young woman looked around.

  Henrietta pointed with one crutch to where a slender black snake with yellow stripes running along its length lay coiled on the wooden boat seat.

  In an explosion of sound and movement, the girl yelled and lurched sideways, the boat rocked violently, and the snake went flying into the water just before the girl went overboard.

  Through tears of laughter, Henrietta watched the snake swim gracefully across the pond’s surface while the young woman sputtered and coughed, cussing when she could finally speak.

  She grabbed the boat’s rope and waded ashore, dragging it behind her. She crawled up onto the landing where Henrietta stood, propped on her crutches, still laughing. She hauled the boat halfway out of the water and tied the rope to a tree before collapsing on her back.

  “Scared the shit out of me,” she gasped.

  “Probably scared the shit out of the snake, too,” Henrietta agreed, reaching up to wipe her eyes. “It was just a ribbon snake. They eat frogs and small fish, so there are lots of them around the pond. Yours was probably already in the boat when you kidnapped it.”

  The girl sat up and looked at her soaking wet clothing. “I just washed these.”

  She got to her feet, still breathing hard. She bent over and braced her hands on her knees. “I’ll get out of your way, just give me a minute.”

  When her breathing slowed, she straightened.

  Watching her fumble with the rope to untie the boat, Henrietta considered. “You did come to my rescue the day I dropped all of my food. The least I can do is return the favor. Come up to the house. We can wash and dry your clothes.”

  The girl gazed across the pond. “My stuff is all just sitting there.”

  “I doubt anyone will bother it. No one comes here.” Henrietta waited a beat. “Normally.”

  The girl grinned. “Leave it to me to be abnormal. I’m Ryn. Meryn Fleming, but I go by Ryn.”

  Henrietta turned to make her laborious way back up the path. “I’m Henrietta Cochran. No more talking from me until we’re back at the house.”

  “At least let me carry your bag.”

  Henrietta paused. It grated on her to let anyone else think she needed help, but she hadn’t been off her feet since beginning the trek down to the pond. She grudgingly agreed, taking it off her shoulder to hand over.

  The pencil case rattled when Meryn slung the bag over her shoulder. “What were you down there for?” When Henrietta glared at her, she said, “Sorry, I forgot. No talking.”

  Even without the extra weight, Henrietta was panting by the time they got back to the house.

  “What happened? I thought you’d be sketching for a couple of hours. Why are you back so soon?” Bonnie peppered Henrietta with questions before she even got the screen door opened. She pulled up short. “And who do we have here?”

  Meryn stared hard at her. “Have we met?”

  Bonnie looked from one to the other. “I don’t believe so. Though I imagine if we had, you probably looked a bit different.”

  Meryn glanced down at herself, bedraggled and wet, and grinned. “I suppose so. It’s weird though. You look so familiar.” She introduced herself and held out a damp hand.

  “I’m Bonnie Chambers,” Bonnie said, taking her hand gingerly.

  Henrietta stepped inside and made her way to the kitchen where she lowered herself into her chair with an exhausted sigh.

  “Would you mind washing her clothes for her, Bonnie? She can shower and wear a robe from the guest room.”

  Bonnie gaped for a moment as if she wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly. “Of course, Miss Cochran.”

  Bonnie fussed, forcing a cup of hot tea into Ryn’s hands as she sat at the kitchen table with Henrietta Cochran.

  “Catch your death of cold,” she muttered, laying out a plate of shortbread for the both of them
while she made sandwiches.

  Ryn tried to point out that it wasn’t a chilly day and she’d had a hot shower, but Bonnie glowered at Henrietta.

  “That pond should have been drained and filled in ages ago,” she said, slapping two plates on the table, each with a ham and cheese sandwich. Her nostrils flared and her mouth opened as if she was dying to say more, but she changed her mind, huffing and muttering and banging pans as she started a pot of soup.

  She was a little woman, but she sure made a lot of noise. She got out a cutting board and bags of potatoes and carrots.

  Bewildered, Ryn took a bite of her sandwich and glanced from Bonnie to Henrietta, but the only sign that Henrietta had made sense of Bonnie’s cryptic statement was a slight tightening of her lips.

  Ryn, wrapped in a thick terrycloth bathrobe, sat back with her tea. It was kind of nice, almost like being back home. The instant the thought came, she was hit by a pang of homesickness. This—the fussing, the clucking—this was exactly what her mom would have done.

  Had done, Ryn remembered. When she and her best friend Rebecca were nine, they’d fallen off an old log that stretched over the creek behind the Fleming house, and Rebecca was panicked because her hysterical mother would have a fit over Rebecca’s wet clothes. Ryn’s mom had calmly plopped them both into a hot tub and then sat them down with cups of hot cocoa, wrapped in thick fluffy bath towels while she washed Rebecca’s clothes.

  “Dear?”

  Ryn started, realizing she’d been smiling into her tea and not listening. “Sorry?”

  “I said, are you a student at the college?” Bonnie asked from the stove where she was chopping up potatoes to drop into the pot.

  “No. I’m a teacher. New this year. In the history department.”

  “You’re the one!” Bonnie exclaimed.

  Ryn’s eyes widened. Henrietta looked just as startled.

  “I’m the one what?” Ryn asked.