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.”
“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
H er 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.
No matter how she tried to remain unaware she knew she was the cause of her parents' argument.
Thirteen was old enough, according to her mother, to be trusted to look after herself alone during the day. When the twins were thirteen they'd been left to look after their younger sister, and she was no less mature now than they'd been then.
She was a good girl, and bright, and if there were any problems Jane-Ann was just down the road.
According to her
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.”
“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
H er 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.
No matter how she tried to remain unaware she knew she was the cause of her parents' argument.
Thirteen was old enough, according to her mother, to be trusted to look after herself alone during the day. When the twins were thirteen they'd been left to look after their younger sister, and she was no less mature now than they'd been then.
She was a good girl, and bright, and if there were any problems Jane-Ann was just down the road.
According to her
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