“She’ll be fine,” I heard Dr.
Blenkinsop say, his voice drifting out to the kitchen, where Father and I were
sitting.[i] The doctor was with the Eastbrooks in our
parlor, where they had taken the unconscious Harriet as soon as she had
fainted. The Eastbrooks had no telephone
yet, and Father had urged them to use our house.
“Dr. Blenkinsop will come right over,” he had
said. “He’s a friend.”
“That’s remarkable,” said Mrs. Eastbrook. “A doctor who comes to a house. I thought those days were over.”
“Things are different in a small town,” Father
said.
“They’d better
be,” said Mr. Eastbrook. I wondered what
he meant.
We got up from our chairs and went
into the parlor. The doctor was still
talking. “She may just be tired from the
move,” he said. “The stress.” He paused a moment. “Or maybe she ate something that didn’t agree
with her?”
“She’s always eating,” her mother said softly.
“It must be food,” said her father. “What’s a kid
got to be stressed about?”
“Well, children can feel stress, too—” began
the doctor.
“That’s ridiculous,” snapped
Vickie’s father, his face reddening.
Dr. Blenkinsop just sighed. “Well, let’s just let her rest,” the doctor
said. “That’s really all she needs. I don’t see any need for any medication or
other tests for the moment. But keep in
touch. Here’s my number.” He handed Mr. Eastbrook a card.
I looked over at Harriet, lying on
one of our couches, her face still very white.
She was staring at me, her eyes wide—the deepest blue I’d ever
seen. Her mother was sitting beside her,
stroking her hair. Harriet, her eyes
never leaving me for an instant, whispered something to her mother. Mrs. Eastbrook glanced over at me, smiled,
and made a little gesture for me to come over.
I walked over and stood beside
them. “Are you okay?” I asked. “Are you feeling okay?”
Harriet smiled faintly—but still
stared at me. Her eyes looked like those
of a frightened animal.
“She’s fine,” said her mother. “But she sure had us worried there for a
while, didn’t she, Vickie?”
“Yes,” I said, fighting the surprising tears
in my eyes. “I was scared.”
“Vickie is just the same age as you,” Mrs.
Eastbrook told Harriet. “Isn’t that
wonderful? You two will be the greatest
friends. The greatest friends ever.”
“Elizabeth?”
Mr. Eastbrook was calling to his wife.
“Do you have the checkbook in your purse? I need it … right now.”
“Sure.”
She got up to go pay the doctor.
Harriet and I, for a moment, were alone.
“Sit down,” she whispered.
I did, and she grabbed my hand,
holding it so tightly it almost hurt.
“Who are
you?” she whispered.
“Vickie Stone,” I said, puzzled. “From next door. You know that.”
“No,” Harriet replied. “Who are you really?”
“I’m Vickie
Stone. What do you mean?”
“Do you know why I fainted?”
“Were you sick?”
“I fainted because I’ve seen you before,” she
said fiercely. “I’ve seen you many
times.”
“You’ve seen
me? But where? I’ve never seen you, Harriet.”
“I see you at night,” she said. “I see you in dreams.”
And that was all—because Mrs.
Eastbrook was beside us once again.
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