“It was a ballroom.”
“All of Hedgebrook could fit in this place.”
“Why would they move?”
“It looks like they moved a long time ago.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Or their housekeeper is lousy.”
“Did you see that cobweb on the chandelier?”
“Shhh. Her parents might be here and hear you.”
“I don’t think anyone’s home. Except that Farrell fellow.”
Mira catches up with me. “Where are we going, Des?”
“I told you. My bedroom.”
We walk down a hallway. Past Mother and Father’s room. Past the nursery. Past the playroom, and we arrive at my door. That is, if it is still my door. If the contents haven’t been thrown out the way the occupant was.
I fear I might crumble or do something else just as embarrassing as I turn the knob and push open the door, but instead just the opposite happens. I am infused with the energy and life the room once held, lifted like a child onto someone’s shoulders. The room is just as it was. Just as I remember it, but better. Not a piece of furniture has been moved. It is a shrine to a child who was supposed to make the world whole.
I cross to the bed, an elaborate canopied affair with wispy sheers as sweet and pink as cotton candy, tied back with pink bows at the posts. I slide my hand over the vermicelli quilted spread, pink roses bordering the edges, not as soft as it once was, stiffer with age, but still beautiful. I sit on the bed and bounce. I laugh. The dust swirls in my eyes again, making them burn and water, and I use the heel of my hand to wipe the tears away.
“This room is very . . . pink,” Seth comments.
“What’s with all the ruffles and bows?” Aidan adds.
“It’s . . . sweet,” Mira says, but the way she says sweet is distasteful, like saccharine sweet. Not-quite-right sweet. Aftertaste sweet. This from a girl with flashy peep-toed platforms and a poodle skirt.
There is nothing wrong with this room. Nothing. But the moment has passed. Now I see it through their eyes. I run across the room to the shelf that once held my Madame Alexander dolls. Gone. I glide my palm over the dusty shelf. Maybe in a moment of guilt, someone thought to pack them away. Or maybe they were discarded when I was. My fingers curl, gathering the shelf dust into my fist. “Seth, do you really believe there’s no such thing as a fair day?”
Seth steps closer to me. “Destiny—”
“Just one day—”
“It’s not—”
“Forget it! It doesn’t matter!” I grab two books from the shelf below and throw them across the room. I grab two more and still more, flinging them everywhere. My bed, the walls, the furniture, glass lamps on tabletops sent sprawling and crashing to the floor.
“Destiny! Stop!” Seth springs on me from behind and holds me so both of my arms are pinned beneath his.
“Let go!” I yell, but he holds tight.
Aidan is pale, looking nervously at the door and the shattered glass. “I think this might be what Mr. Farrell meant by no scenes.”
“Gardian!” I scream. “His name is Gardian!”
“Pipe it, Aidan!” Mira says.
A scene. Yes, that’s what I’m making. And that has never gotten me what I wanted. It only made things worse, then and now. I relax against Seth’s chest, feeling tired and limp, like he is all that is holding me up. He leans close, his breath warm against my neck and ear. “Is it safe to let go?” he whispers. I nod.
His arms loosen and slowly fall away, like he doesn’t quite trust me. Mira steps closer and takes one of my hands in hers. “Des, I’m so sorry. Everyone’s had their fair day but you. You wanted to come see your parents, get some things off your chest, and now you can’t. It’s wrong. It’s just plain wrong. If there were some way—”
“I know where they moved to. It’s not far from here.”