Tales From the Darkside Part 20

Christine hurried around the yard to the back door and pushed it open, entering the kitchen. The house was still. At last she heard her mother's footfall in the hall above, and then the creak of the stairs.

"Chrissie," her mother said as she entered the kitchen. She still wore her long blue housedress; she had always dressed early in the morning before.

"Who's that little girl?"

"What little girl?"

"The one I saw in my room, looking out the window."

"You must be mistaken." Her mother's voice was flat. "There was no one in your room."

"I saw her."

"You're imagining it."

Christine pa.s.sed her mother and pounded up the stairs. The door to her old room was still open; she hurried through it.

The little girl was not there. The room felt cold; Christine pulled her coat more tightly about her. Abruptly the floor shifted under her feet.

She staggered, righted herself, and heard the sound of a child's laughter.

Christine covered her ears, then let her hands drop. The room was warm again; everything was as it had been. Her mother had said that there was no little girl; that meant she had imagined it all. She would have to put it out of her mind.

After Christine had greeted her sister-in-law, said h.e.l.lo to her nephew, and peeked into the baby's room, Charles led her to the bas.e.m.e.nt. His bar sat in one corner in front of a stainless-steel sink. He poured her a bourbon, then opened the refrigerator and took out a light beer. "My refuge," he said. He came around the bar and sat down next to her.

"Shouldn't we go upstairs?"

"It's all right. Jenny's got to nurse Trina again, and then she'll have to put Curt to bed, and then she and Mom'll watch the MacNeil-Lehrer Report before supper. We can go up then." He paused. I heard about Jim."

"He moved all his stuff out finally."

"I thought you two would be together forever. I kept expecting you to call and say you'd gotten married."

Christine sipped her bourbon, then gazed at the gla.s.s. "After he left, I came home one day and started fixing drinks. Jim always had a vodka and tonic and I always had a bourbon. Well, I fixed myself a drink and then I suddenly realized I'd fixed his, too. That was when I finally cried about it." She shook her head. "You seen=m to be doing all right."

"I guess so." Charles's ash-blond hair was already thinning around his temples; his mustache was thicker, as if to compensate. "One thing about being a dentista"the customers can't talk back to you while you're working."

"You'll be all right. You always were. You were always the good child.

I screwed up."

"Chris, Mom worries about you sometimes."

"No, she doesn't. She's never forgiven me, not since my breakdown. It was as if I was saying she was a lousy mother because I didn't turn out right. And I'm not married, and I don't have kids, and I don't have a lovely home and a fine husband. She hates me for it, but she won't say so." Christine gulped at her bourbon. "If she says she worries about me, it's only because she thinks she's supposed to say it."

"Oh, Chris, come on."

"She never came to see me when I was in that expensive bin. She never asked me why I broke down.

After that, I was damaged goods as far as she was concerned. As long as I was perfect, she loved me.

When I wasn't, she just turned herself off."

"What do you want her to do, say she's sorry?"

"That wouldn't change anything."

"Then forget it. It's your problem, Chris. You can't keep feeling sorry for yourself."

She glared at him. "It's easy for you to talk, Chuck. You didn't fall."

"You think so? Every time Dad visits, he asks me why I don't keep up my sports more, maybe coach Little League. I know he would have liked to see me pitch in the major leaguesa"h.e.l.l, I wanted it, too.

n.o.body grows up thinking, *Boy, I'm really into teeth." But I'm not going to get depressed over it."

"Chuck, Mother's been spending a lot of time in my old room. It worries me. She" Christine was about to mention the little girl, but changed her mind. "That room gives me the w.i.l.l.i.e.s. I wish she'd put all my old c.r.a.p away."

"You could take it with you when you drive back to the city."

"I don't have room. And I wouldn't care to be reminded of how wonderful I once was."

"Chris, you've got to stop it. You have the rest of your lifea"don't poison it. Grow up. Everyone fails in some way. You have to learn to live with that."

She heard the voices again.

Christine threw off her sheet and coverlet and tiptoed toward the door, opening it slowly. Creeping into the darkened hallway, she moved cautiously toward her old room.

A child's voice giggled. "Do you like it?"

"I think it's beautiful. But you always do everything well."

"I'm glad. I love you, Mommy."

"I love you, too."

Christine trembled as she recognized her mother's voice.

"Read to me, Mommy." Bedsprings squeaked.

"Which book?"

"The House at Pooh Corner."

"You're such a good little girl. You won't disappoint me, will you Chrissie?"

"Never."

Chrissie. Christine backed toward the guest room. How long had the child been living in this house, and what had enabled her to appear?

She knew the answer to the second questiona"her own failure, and her mother's disappointment. She shook her head. It was a dream; it had to be.

She got back into bed and lay there, awake, for along time.

Christine had slept uneasily and her eyes felt gritty in the morning.

She got out of bed, pulled on her robe, and darted into the hall before she had time to change her mind.

As she entered her old room, she closed the door behind her.

The bed had been made, or had never been slept in at all. The artifacts of her childhood and youth still hung on the walls in their usual places, and the House at Pooh Corner was back on the bookshelf between Winnie-the-Pooh and Stuart Little. The yearbook was open once again, this time to a picture of Christine and a boy named Lars Heldstrom under the caption "Most Likely to Succeed."

She gripped the dresser; her hands became claws. "Come out", she muttered. "d.a.m.n you, come out."

The room was still. She was having another breakdown; the breakup with Jim and the visit home had unhinged her. But her mother had been in the room, and she had seen the child in the window.

"Who are you? If you don't come out, I'll take Mother away. You'll never see her again."

"No, you won't." The voice seemed to hover above her; she clutched at the dresser, afraid to move.

"She's mine now. Go away."

Christine spun around. The little girl was standing in front of the closet door, dressed in a pair of blue overalls and a white turtleneck.

Her small hands held a clarinet; her blue eyes were icy.

"Who are you?"

"I'm Chrissie. Don't you know that?" The girl's voice was low and harsh. "This isn't your room anymore. Mommy comes to visit me every day."

"She's not your mommy."

"She is. I could feel her calling me, and I wanted to be with her so much. I found out I could come in here and stay for a while. I'll never let her go away."

"You will. I'll force you to."

"You won't. She loves me. She doesn't love you anymore."

Christine strode toward the child. The little girl retreated to a corner, her back against the closet door.

As Christine reached for the girl, the wall suddenly dropped away; she was standing at the edge of the floor, gazing down into a thick gray fog. She teetered on the edge, afraid she would fall and keep falling, and clawed at the gray mists, then staggered back and fell across the bed.

She sat up. The room was as it had been; the little girl was gone.

Christine pressed her hands to her face. She had never had delusions; even during the worst days of her illness, she had never seen things that weren't there. Depression had been her affliction, and despair, and guilt.

She rushed from the room and was halfway down the stairs before she had time to think. Her mother would only evade a confrontation, and there was no one else to help her.

Christine climbed the front steps, reached into her purse, and removed the key she had taken from the kitchen wall that morning; she had parked her car in front of a house farther down the street. Her mother would not be expecting her; Christine had said that she was going to the mall to see Toni.

Opening the storm door, she propped it against her back while inserting the key, turning it slowly so that the lock would not snap, then pushed the door open. After closing both doors, she took off her coat and put it on the entryway's wooden bench with her purse, then slipped off her shoes.

The living room was a beige desert, its modular furniture unstained, its only oases of color two potted plants and a Pica.s.so print over the fireplace. Her stockinged toes curled against the thick, pale rug. She could hear nothing; she knew where her mother was.

She moved stealthily through the dining room and toward the back of the house, stopping when she reached the staircase. Her face was flushed; she pressed icy fingers to her cheeks. She had often sneaked up the stairs when she came home late from dates, always able to avoid the steps that creaked.

She set her foot down on the first, skipping the second, holding on to the banister.

When she reached the next floor, she could hear the voices; the door to her room was ajar. She moved toward the crack of light; the wood under her feet was hard and cold. The child said, "I'm going to be the best, Mommy. I'm going to be the best at everything."

Christine thrust the door open violently; it bounced against the doorstop. The little girl, still dressed in overalls, looked up; she was kneeling on the floor, her arms around Mrs. Matthews legs. The older woman sat in a rocker; she gazed past Christine, her gray eyes empty.

"Mother," Christine said. The woman's face seemed even paler now, her hair more silvery. "Mother."

The child stood up slowly. "Leave her alone," the little girl said.

"You can't have her. She's mine. She'll always be mine."

"Mother, listen to me." Mrs. Matthews stirred slightly at Christine's words. "You have to come away from here."

"She gave you everything," the child said. "She did everything for you, and you failed. But I won't."

"Mother, come out of this room."

"It's too late," the little girl said. "It's too late. You can't change anything now. You can't say you're sorrya"it won't help." She grabbed the older woman's hand. "She's mine."

Christine looked around the room, the monument to her past. She strode to the wall, pulled off a framed photograph, and smashed it on the floor. "This isn't me now. You should have thrown all this out years ago." She pulled down another photo, then hurled the National Merit certificate against the wall.

"Chrissie." Her mother was standing now. Christine took a step toward her, then noticed that Mrs.

Matthews was gazing down at the child. "May I go with you now??

The little girl smiled. "Yes. We'll never come back, never."

"No," Christine cried.

"I need her now," the child said. "You don't." She tugged at Mrs.

Matthew's hand, leading her toward the corner next to the closet door.

Christine darted after them, stepped off the floor, and was surrounded by fog. "Come back!" The gray formlessness swallowed her words; the thick ma.s.ses pinned her arms to her side. She could feel nothing under her feet. "Mother, don't go." The mists parted for a moment, revealing a distant room, a tiny canopied bed, the small figures of a little girl and a woman in a blue housecoat. "I need you, too." The fog closed around her again, imprisoning her.

Hands gripped her shoulders; she was being pulled back. She flailed about, stumbled, and found herself leaning against the closet door, clinging to someone's arm.

"Chrissie. Chrissie, are you all right.?

Christine raised her head. A woman was with her. She wore a long housedress; her face was Mrs.