36. And Her Place Shall Know Her No More - 1928
The ghost girl was home again, but home was as unfamiliar to her as she was to herself. This didn’t surprise her. She knew she had grown and changed. Esther Darling had said so, when she’d bought the girl a new, special dress to wear for her real, for-true parents. Perhaps home had, too.
When new-Mama and Daddy came to Esther Darling’s house to bring her back to New York City after seeing the newspaper article, at first she hid from them, curling beneath the heavy brocade curtains that puddled on the floor in her room.
They were so loud and surprised-looking, with new-Mama’s arms spread wide like a bird’s wings and her voice all squeaky: Ellaohmygodineverthoughtwewouldseeyouagainit’samiracle.
New-Mama wore all black, with strings of pearls around her neck and a little black hat on her head.
When she spread her wing-arms like that, she looked like the raven that had perched on the ghost girl’s windowsill all winter.
The maid who worked for Esther Darling and Daniel had shooed the bird away, saying ravens were bad luck, that they meant death.
The ghost girl didn’t like the mama-raven, especially the way she dove toward the girl with her arms open, ready to swoop her up. When she saw her coming, the girl fled.
She thought she’d be safe beneath the curtains, which hid all of her from view.
Even her feet, in their shiny Mary Janes.
But Esther Darling found her anyhow, scooping her up and saying in a fake-happy voice that there was nothing to be afraid of, these were her real-true-parents come to take her home.
How lucky she was, Esther Darling said, but after all these months of listening, the ghost girl knew well enough when someone was lying.
And when she got into the car that would take her to the train station with new-Mama and Daddy, she saw Esther Darling at the window, tears running down her face as they drove away.
The ghost girl was sad to be leaving Esther Darling and her piano, which spoke and sang when the girl could not.
She wished she could tell that to Esther Darling, but it didn’t matter what she wanted.
She had been Found, and now she must Go—not on the wings of the wind, after all, but on the very same train that had brought her to Chicago months before.
New-Mama held fast to her hand all the way to the train station, as if afraid the girl would fly away.
The girl wanted to tell new-Mama that if she could have, she would have done it long ago.
That the wind had tricked her into thinking she was a butterfly, but the wind had lied.
Girls, she wanted to tell new-Mama, could not fly.
But her voice had fled, and so she sat, new-Mama’s grip too tight on her hand, and watched Chicago go by.
There was a crowd at the train station, with cameras and lights and yelling: “Mr. Carter, can we have a statement?” “Mrs. Carter, look this way!” “Ella, aren’t you the most adorable little thing?
Smile for the cameras!” Daddy scooped her up, holding her high above the crowd as new-Mama smiled and waved.
Ella, the ghost girl began to understand, was her. Perhaps that was her real, true name. She was the most adorable little thing.
The yelling-people said to smile, so Ella tried, the way new-Mama had.
But as the people turned to take her picture, sprays of fire erupted, flaring bright against the dark.
The girl shrieked in terror, burying her face in Daddy’s chest. He held her close, murmuring that these were flash lamps, and nothing to fear, but she didn’t dare lift her head until they were safe on the train, in a car that was just for them.
Daddy smelled like the pine trees in Lincoln Park, and his arms were strong around her. The ghost girl trusted him.
On the train, Daddy showed her the paper, a copy of the one Esther Darling and Daniel had found. He held her on his knee, and when he spoke, his voice was warm and slow, like the molasses Esther Darling had let the girl pour when they’d made Christmas cookies together.
“I know you must be scared, Ella,” he said, his warm hand moving over her blond hair. “But you’re safe now; don’t worry. We’ve missed you so much. We put ads in all the papers, looking for you. Soon we’ll be home, and you’ll be back in your old room again, and everything will be all right.”
The girl sat back against Daddy’s broad chest, and he put his arm around her.
The fabric of his suit was scratchy, but his voice was soft when he said, “Your mother’s right.
It is a miracle.” He pulled a handkerchief out of the breast pocket of his jacket, dabbing at his eyes.
“We must be grateful to Daniel and Esther forever, for their kindness to you. And now,” he said, resting his chin on top of her head, “we’re all together again. ”
Daddy wasn’t scary, like the mama-raven. The ghost girl decided wherever they were going couldn’t be too bad, as long as he would be there, too.
The cameras and the yelling-people were there again when they got out of the train at Grand Central Station, but this time, the girl was ready. She looked straight ahead, holding new-Mama’s hand, and didn’t jump or scream when the fire-flashes lit up the night.
Then they were home, a fancy white-stone-and-red-brick building with columns too big for the girl to wrap her arms around.
Home was a pretty place, with tall ceilings and fireplaces and a piano of the girl’s very own.
New-Mama took the girl up a flight of stairs and into the room she said belonged to her, explaining it had been waiting for her all this time.
The girl stood in the doorway, looking at the room. There was a window seat with a cushion and a pillow, a bed piled high with white blankets, and a shelf filled with books and toys, including a teddy that made new-Mama cry.
The room had been waiting, new-Mama said. The girl felt sorry for it. Had it been lonely, all this time? Was it happy, now the girl had come home?
New-Mama led the girl inside and helped her take off her dress, opening a drawer to show her the nightgowns that belonged to her. She tipped water from a pitcher beside the bed to wash the girl’s face, erasing the dirt from their journey. Then she tucked the girl in and turned to the bookshelf.
“This was your favorite,” new-Mama said, perching on the edge of the bed. “‘There once was a velveteen rabbit…’”
Curious despite herself, the girl tugged the covers up to her chin and listened.
“‘What is REAL?’” new-Mama read. “‘Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?’”
New-Mama had funny voices for each character: a voice for the boy, the Nana that came to tidy the nursery, the Rabbit, and the Skin Horse. The girl was very sleepy, but she liked the voices, so she made her eyes stay awake.
“‘Real isn’t how you are made,’ said the Skin Horse. ‘It’s a thing that happens to you.’” New-Mama made Skin Horse’s voice low and grumbly, like the engine of the train.
A strange feeling began to grow inside the girl’s chest. Was she real? What if she wasn’t? What if that was why she had lost her voice, why the wind spoke to her at night?
“‘Once you are Real you can't become unreal again,’” new-Mama read. “‘It lasts for always.’”
The girl had to find a way to become Real. Maybe here, it would finally happen. Maybe that was what it meant to be home.
Desperate, she dug down deep and found her voice. Real things spoke; she would have to do the same, if she wanted to be one of them. “I—have bunny?” she said, each word an effort. “Like the Boy and his Rabbit?”
New-Mama’s face lit up, like the girl’s words had turned on a lamp from inside.
“You have a stuffed teddy,” she said. “It was with you when…but never mind. Would you like a rabbit? We can get you one tomorrow. We’ll go to FAO Schwarz, the best toy store in the city. You can choose any bunny you like.”
“I would like a bunny,” the girl said in her creaky, unused voice. “Thank you.”
If she had a bunny, then perhaps it would become Real. And if the bunny became Real, then perhaps she would be too.
“Such nice manners,” new-Mama said, but then her eyes filled with tears again.
The girl was confused. She had said thank you, like Esther Darling had taught her. If new-Mama liked her manners, then why was she sad?
If the girl made new-Mama sad, then maybe she would have to go away again. And if this was home, then where would she go? Worry rose up inside her.
“Not cry,” she said, patting new-Mama’s hand.
“Oh, Ella.” New-Mama wrapped her arms around the girl, holding her close. She smelled of flowers and the syrupy-sweet wine she had been drinking on the train. “I’ve missed you so.”
The girl hugged new-Mama back, the way she was supposed to do. She would be good. She would be Ella. She would not do anything that would make them send her away.
“Read about the bunny?” she said.
With a sniff, new-Mama sat back and wiped her eyes. “It’s very late, Ella dear. I’ll read more tomorrow. Sleep now.” Bending down, she pressed a kiss to the girl’s forehead, slid the rabbit book back onto the shelf, and left the room, closing the door behind her.
Outside the window, the wind sang its siren song. The girl who was now Ella paid it no attention. Instead, she closed her eyes and listened to the noise of the city, letting the blankets take her down and down and down.