The Pillow Friend Page 5

  Brightly wrapped presents glittered at her from the shelves above her head, but even more interesting were the various shapes, not square but rounded or bulging, more than half-hidden by brown or white paper bags, or rough cocoons of tissue paper. She sighed with pleasure but made no effort to reach or touch them. She preferred the anticipation to knowledge. It was more fun to glimpse the mystery and tantalize herself with guessing than to know for certain what she would find on Christmas Day.

  She sat down and, as calmly as if this had been her own closet, these her own things, and hers the whole night to browse through them, picked up a shoe box and opened it. Ah, the red ones. She smiled as she stroked the smooth leather, then took them out and put them on the floor. She surveyed them, head cocked and forefinger laid along her cheek. “Well, I don't know. I like the color, but don't you have any with higher heels? What's in this box?”

  These were black patent leather. She lifted them out and set them beside the red ones. “Hmmm, yes, they are higher, but I don't know. . . . What else do you have?”

  She glanced around, hoping for a pair she hadn't tried before, shoes her mother had bought for some special occasion five or six years ago and kept unworn. There was one box half-hidden by others, pushed to the back. It looked promising, but when she took the lid off she was disappointed to see an old pair of brown moccasins—not her mother's usual style, although they looked well-worn. Then she noticed there was something else besides the shoes in the box, something wrapped in white silk. As soon as she picked it up, she knew.

  It took some time to unwrap him, for beneath the white silk scarf he had been swathed tightly, obsessively, in strips of crisscrossing black silk. When she finally had him uncovered Myles seemed smaller than she remembered, his colors faded, older, less special. It was hard to believe how important this dull, dead thing had seemed to her during the past summer.

  And yet he must be magic, he must be special: why else would her mother have stolen and hidden him away like this?

  Something slithered across her bare legs and she yelped and flinched and clutched the doll close to her chest. It was only the strips of black silk which had bound him, sliding off her lap. But how could they move by themselves? Were they magic? They might have been meant to deprive him of his life, and they might have succeeded.

  “Oh, Myles!” A wave of anguish, of love and regret, washed through her and she kissed his cold, hard face. Then up she scrambled and, never letting go of him, replaced the shoes and their boxes. Shuddering, she picked up each piece of silk between forefinger and thumb and dropped it into the shoe box which had been his prison.

  She went straight to her bed without bothering to check the time or tell her sisters. There, alone in the dark, with Myles on her pillow as of old, she could speak to him.

  “I looked for you everywhere,” she whispered. “Everywhere I could think of. I never thought my mom would have hidden you; I thought you must have run away yourself. I guess I'll have to hide you now, we'll have to be really careful. Will she know you're gone? Does she ever look in that box? Why did she take you?”

  She wants me dead.

  The sound of that voice, faint as a breath yet absolutely clear, set up a prickling shiver all over her skin. There could be no doubt that he had spoken. She had certainly not imagined it; she was nowhere near sleep. She could think of nothing to say.

  That's why she bound me. To stop me growing. To stop me being. I was getting stronger when I was with you, but I'm so much weaker now.

  “You're safe now,” she whispered, then clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering.

  No. Not safe here, not in this house. Never safe here. She'll find me.

  “No, she doesn't know all my hiding places. I'll keep moving you, I'll keep you with me, you'll be safe with me.”

  I'm only safe away from here. Away from her.

  “But—will you come back? Will I ever see you again?”

  Away from her, I can grow. And when I've grown too big for her to hurt me, I'll come back for you.

  She shivered, feeling a little sick. “Where will you go?”

  You'll have to take me outside. Take me away from the house, put me somewhere safe.

  Into her mind came the image of the huge old oak on the corner in front of Mr. and Mrs. Darwin's house. She remembered Leslie's dream of treasure and thought of the cubbyhole. Her mother would never look there, no adult ever would.

  “I think I know somewhere you'd be safe.”

  Take me there.

  She got up and went quietly down the stairs, barefoot and in her nightgown, with Myles clutched tightly in one hand. She could hear the television, and knew that her sisters would be too absorbed in some drama to wonder about her. The sound of the television would cover the sound of the carefully opened and closed door and, with a little bit of luck, she'd be able to get back inside just as safely.

  This was like old times, like one of her dares, only this time she didn't have to wonder if Myles would approve; this time he'd told her precisely what he wanted.

  The ice-cold pavement of the driveway burned her bare feet, but she was too excited by the promise of the dark and glittering night, by this dangerous and necessary adventure shared with Myles, to mind the cold. Her breath formed clouds before her face, and she pretended she was holding a cigarette, exhaling dramatically like Aunt Marjorie.

  She broke into a run and that stopped her shivering. She ran in a broken, weaving pattern, hiding behind every bush or tree, to minimize her chances of being seen. But many of the windows she passed were dark, and those that were lighted had curtains pulled across to shut out the cold, dark night. Their neighbors who were still awake would have their attention turned inward, toward the television set or each other, without a thought to spare for whatever might be outside. She saw no one, not even a passing dog or wandering cat. She and Myles were the only living creatures out in the cold, streetlamp-lit night. The front of Leslie's house was all dark, but she gave it a wave as she went galloping past.

  She could see one light shining out from the side of the Darwins' house—she thought it was the bathroom—but had no fear of being observed. In her excitement, anyway, she was past such petty fears. She knew she would not be caught; Myles would protect her. She thought it possible that she might even be invisible while under his protection.

  She paused at the foot of the oak tree just long enough to tuck her nightgown into her underpants and put Myles into the waistband. Then she raised her arms and gave a leap and swung up into the branches as nimbly as a monkey. She had never climbed a tree at night, but there was no problem; she could have climbed this tree with her eyes closed, she had done it so often. She settled herself into the familiar place, straddling the branch which faced the cubbyhole, and retrieved Myles from her waistband.

  The night throbbed around her, alive with dangerous promise, as Myles, too, was alive. She looked at him and saw his eyes gleaming in the shadows, and brought him close to her face to kiss him. She held him to her cheek for a moment and felt his lips move as he kissed her in return.

  A shiver rippled through her—cold or fear or excitement—so that she had to clutch the branch to stop herself falling, and nearly dropped the doll.

  “Oh! Are you all right?”

  He said nothing. As she looked at him, she saw that he had become just a doll again. But she knew that this was his disguise, his protection against the world; he had let her see what he really was, and she would never forget it.

  “You'll be safe here,” she said, pushing him into the cubbyhole, settling him safely out of sight. She wondered how long he would stay there, how soon he would move on, where he would go. “Don't forget to come back for me—don't forget me,” she said, and then she clambered back to the ground.

  Once there, she ran all the way home, ran so fast she didn't feel the cold, so fast she was nearly flying. She ran so fast and straight, so secure in her assumed invisibility, that she didn't even notice that her parents'
car was on the drive and they were getting out, until it was too late, there was nowhere to hide, they had seen her.

  She was grounded for a week. That meant she had to go straight to her room every day after school and stay there. She could come out to use the bathroom and to have dinner with the family, but that was all. She was in disgrace. The twins, who were in trouble, too, for not noticing she had gone out when they were supposed to be in charge, refused to talk to her. At least her parents, having imposed their restrictions, admitted she was still alive and their daughter. But for the duration of the week she wasn't allowed to go out, have visitors, or even phone calls. She couldn't check on Myles. She thought of asking Leslie, when she saw her at school, to look in the cubby and report back. But things were kind of strange with Leslie just then—she had her cousin Christie staying with her while Christie's parents were in Europe, and between Leslie and Mindy and Agnes and Nina there were a series of complicated negotiations evolving to determine who was best friends with whom. To bring up Myles with Leslie, excluding all the other girls, would mean complications she didn't want, so she told herself that it didn't matter. Myles would be fine; Leslie didn't have to know where he was.

  When she complained about stomach pains her mother thought it was a bid for sympathy and said sternly, “No excuses, young lady. You're going to school whether you like it or not. And you'd better like it. Behave yourself, or you won't get any presents from Santa Claus this year!”

  While she was at school her stomach pains got worse, so bad she began to cry. The school nurse called the doctor and her mother, and a few hours later Agnes was in the hospital with an appendectomy scheduled.

  There followed a strange time in which dream and reality became inextricably confused. A leering red face on the wall terrified her and she didn't feel any better about it when a nurse told her it was Santa. She was alone in a strange room, or thought she was, but when she cried out for her mother, her mother appeared. Sometimes her mother was wearing the familiar, dark blue robe which she only ever wore around the house—she never went anywhere in it, she never wore it out of their own house, so were they at home? Why didn't she recognize the room as being part of their own house? When she asked her mother, her mother insisted that the room had not changed, it was the same one she'd always had. She couldn't understand why her mother was lying to her—or if her mother wasn't lying, why she remembered living somewhere else, somewhere so different from this small, hot room with white walls and linoleum floor, the high bed and so few toys. She was confused and frightened, and none of her questions brought the reassurances she wanted.

  Something shone and glittered on the floor, moving like a strip of black silk. Yet when she begged the nurses to pick it up, they pretended they couldn't see it. She was afraid they planned to use it on her, or that her mother would bind her with it as she had bound Myles, and she would stop growing, lose the power of speech, die. She heard Myles on her pillow, whispering an urgent warning, but when she turned her head to look for him he was gone, and she couldn't remember what he had said.

  One evening Marjorie was there in a loose gray sweater and slacks, looking beautiful despite her untidy hair and a face without makeup. She'd brought a bag of peppermint candy, a jigsaw puzzle, and a book.

  Agnes looked at the book, which was small, fat and red and had her own name on the spine. “What's this?”

  “It's a novel. Probably still a bit too old for you, but don't worry about that, try it again in a year or two. You'll like it.”

  “Why does it have my name on it?”

  Her aunt smiled mysteriously. “You'll have to read it to find out, won't you? She was quite a heroine, that Agnes Grey. Anyway, the reason I'm giving it to you now is because I'm going away. I don't know when I'll be back. I've had enough of Texas and small-town minds. Things are really happening in London now; I want to be there, too. I'll drop you a line, if I can. And I'll tell you all about it when I get back.”

  She couldn't bear it. “Can I come with you?”

  “Silly! You have to stay here, get well, go to school. . . . Don't look like that! There'll be plenty of time for you to go places when you're older.”

  “I don't want to wait till I'm older; I want to go now.”

  “London will still be there when you grow up—”

  “But I want to go with you!”

  “Oh, I think your mother would have something to say about that.”

  “I don't care. Mother stole Myles.”

  “What?”

  “The doll you gave me, the talking doll. You know. The pillow friend. She took him—she lied about it!—and she wrapped him up in strips of silk and put him in a box in her closet and she would have killed him dead if I hadn't found him in time, he said so. I saved him. I can't stay with her now, I can't. You have to take me with you.”

  Marjorie stared at her, her face gone as expressionless as that of her sister in one of her moods. Then she sighed and relaxed a little and shook her head. “I can't take you. I don't know the first thing about looking after children; there's no room in my life for—”

  “I'll grow up,” she said desperately.

  “Well, I should hope so. And in your parents' house where you belong. I can't stay, I really shouldn't have come at all—there's a taxi waiting outside to take me to the airport. You be good, and get better. Don't forget me. I won't forget you, I promise.”

  Just like that, without even a kiss good-bye, she was gone. If it hadn't been for the evidence of the book Agnes might have thought she'd dreamed the whole visit.

  A little later, after she had stopped crying, she opened Agnes Grey and tried to read it, but her head ached and the long, unfamiliar words blurred together. It was a grown-up book with no pictures. She could imagine her mother saying she was too young for it and taking it away, so she kept it hidden—first under her pillow, and later, at home, at the bottom of her toy box—to keep it safe until she was ready for it.

  She was allowed to go home on Christmas Eve. It was frustrating to be forced to spend so much time playing quietly or resting, forbidden to run or ride her bike or climb or do anything too active in case she pulled her stitches. But it wasn't all bad—to keep her happy, her sisters and her mother played board and card games with her, and her father read her stories and played her favorite records on the hi-fi. She could read as much as she liked, and during the school holidays Leslie came to visit every single day.

  One day as they were playing together with the dollhouse Leslie asked her about Myles.

  “Don't you like him anymore? Is that why you left him in the tree?”

  It was like being slapped. “How'd you know I left him in the tree?”

  “Cause I found him, of course. What did you think? Didn't your Mom tell you? I gave him to her to give you when you were in the hospital. I thought you must be missing him.”

  So Myles had not escaped. Her mother had him again, delivered back into her very hands by her best friend. She felt a thick, suffocating anger filling her, an anger which had no outlet. She couldn't blame Leslie, who had thought she was doing her a favor. Maybe, if she'd trusted her friend, Myles would be safe now. If she'd been more careful, if she'd thought things through—She had only herself to blame, and she knew that Myles would never forgive her. If he had survived.

  “What's wrong, Ag? You don't look so hot. Aggie?”

  She scrambled up and ran for the door, almost falling, screaming for her mother.

  At first Mary Grey pretended not to understand but finally, out of concern for her daughter's health, she had to give in. “All right, settle down! You'll burst your stitches if you aren't careful, and you won't like it if I have to take you back to get the doctor to stitch you up again! Calm down! Yes, all right, all right, I'll get the doll, only be still!”

  She stopped struggling and let herself be pushed onto the couch. Agnes and her mother glared at each other.

  “Leslie, stay with her and don't let her move, got that? Agnes, I mean it.�
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  “Just get him!”

  She waited, clenching and unclenching her fists, trying not to think about how long her mother had had him, ignoring Leslie's puzzled noises.

  There was her mother, with Myles in her hand. Agnes reached out, eagerly, and took him. As soon as she felt the stiff little body, even before she looked down at the still, painted face, she knew that this time she had been too late. Her mother had won. She had lost her pillow friend. Myles was just an old doll. He would never look back at her again.

  IN THE WOODS

  I began with Things, which were the true confidants of my lonely childhood, and it was already a great achievement that, without any outside help, I managed to get as far as animals.

  —Rainer Maria Rilke

  Her parents had been arguing all week, quietly but ferociously, while she struggled to remain unconscious of the conflict, sinking ever deeper into her books. She read as a chain-smoker smokes; if she could she would have lived inside her books and never come out. When she had to do something that made reading impossible—walking, washing dishes, eating dinner with her parents—a voice inside her head described what she was doing, feeling or seeing. It became a necessary habit, a way of making her whole life as much like the experience of reading as possible.