Read Online This Shared Dream by Kathleen Ann Goonan - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kathleen Ann Goonan
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machinations, Jill stood on the city sidewalk facing her childhood home.
It was a Saturday morning. The clear, clean creek, to her left, roared from the culvert swift and full. Brilliant yellow forsythia ranged through the landscape, bending beneath the breeze, dotting its way down the bank through Sam’s old rock garden, past Bette’s place of solace, a small roofed pavilion. The air was clean and cool, probably the last breath of coolness before summer hit—which, according to the weather report, would be around noon, when the temperature would soar and humidity move in.
Whens clutched her right hand. Manfred, who was mostly Saint Bernard, sat next to them. Elmore was only too happy to get rid of Manfred, since she shed on his ten-thousand-dollar custom-made couch, and could clear his priceless porcelain from the coffee table with an affable wag of her powerful tail.
Whens asked, “Mommy, is this the house?”
“Yes. It’s the house Uncle Brian and Aunt Megan and I grew up in. Grandma and Grandpa’s house.” It seemed funny to say this to Stevie. To Whens ; she’d finally fully succumbed to calling him Whens. He had never met her parents; they had disappeared years before he was born.
“But Gram and Gramps live in Annandale.”
“They’re your daddy’s mother and father. This is where my parents lived—Grandma and Grandpa Dance.”
Steady on, she thought, staring at the house with eyes as wide as Whens’, seeing it for what it truly was: an old, neglected wreck of a gargantuan, yet stately Victorian mansion, complete with a ballroom on the second floor. Sam’s gardens engulfed the house like a sea, waves of varyingly high foliage topped with hollyhocks yellow and violet, lower eddies of mostly spent tulips frothing white and magenta; spears of pink lilies and a whole patch of orange, self-seeding bachelor buttons that had helped themselves to ever-widening territories. Vines ran riot over the porch. A climbing yellow rose blocked the windows of the north front room, obviously delighted with its house-sized trellis. Oak limbs the size of elephant legs overhung the roof. They would require surgery, preferably before the next strong breeze. The house needed a serious infusion of cash.
Halcyon House was principally green, although that was debatable, what with the paint peeling so badly. The stained-glass trim above the windows on Jill’s old tower room shone yellow, red, and blue. The window was open, just a bit; rain would have gotten onto the hardwood floor.
That was the least of her problems.
Whens tugged on her hand. “Let’s go in.”
She smiled. “Okay.”
The sidewalk leading up to the porch was frost-heaved. She remembered roller-skating here, dashing streetward but making sure not to let her skates catch on the bump. It had been five years since she had been inside—save for the episode that had landed her in St. E’s, which she did not remember—and apprehension seized her: What would be different? What would be the same?
And could she bear it?
She glanced down at Whens. She had to bear it.
“There’s a hole.”
She lifted him over the rotten wooden step. She held him on her hip as she slipped the house key from the pocket of her jeans and unlocked the door. She pushed it open, and the musty smell of pent-up years rushed out.
“It’s dark.”
Jill said, “Let’s open the blinds.”
Megan had had the front window repaired. Though Jill didn’t remember bursting through it, she had a scar on her chest from one of the shards. She was lucky not to have cut her throat.
“I’ll do it, Mommy.” Whens pulled on the cord with all his might, hand-over-hand like a seaman raising sail.
The wooden slats clacked. Sunlight brightened the multicolored spines of several thousand books on their built-in shelves. Jill unlocked the tall, wavy windows on each side of the repaired plate glass and raised them. Fresh air washed through the room.
Whens looked around. “It’s pretty. Like
It was a Saturday morning. The clear, clean creek, to her left, roared from the culvert swift and full. Brilliant yellow forsythia ranged through the landscape, bending beneath the breeze, dotting its way down the bank through Sam’s old rock garden, past Bette’s place of solace, a small roofed pavilion. The air was clean and cool, probably the last breath of coolness before summer hit—which, according to the weather report, would be around noon, when the temperature would soar and humidity move in.
Whens clutched her right hand. Manfred, who was mostly Saint Bernard, sat next to them. Elmore was only too happy to get rid of Manfred, since she shed on his ten-thousand-dollar custom-made couch, and could clear his priceless porcelain from the coffee table with an affable wag of her powerful tail.
Whens asked, “Mommy, is this the house?”
“Yes. It’s the house Uncle Brian and Aunt Megan and I grew up in. Grandma and Grandpa’s house.” It seemed funny to say this to Stevie. To Whens ; she’d finally fully succumbed to calling him Whens. He had never met her parents; they had disappeared years before he was born.
“But Gram and Gramps live in Annandale.”
“They’re your daddy’s mother and father. This is where my parents lived—Grandma and Grandpa Dance.”
Steady on, she thought, staring at the house with eyes as wide as Whens’, seeing it for what it truly was: an old, neglected wreck of a gargantuan, yet stately Victorian mansion, complete with a ballroom on the second floor. Sam’s gardens engulfed the house like a sea, waves of varyingly high foliage topped with hollyhocks yellow and violet, lower eddies of mostly spent tulips frothing white and magenta; spears of pink lilies and a whole patch of orange, self-seeding bachelor buttons that had helped themselves to ever-widening territories. Vines ran riot over the porch. A climbing yellow rose blocked the windows of the north front room, obviously delighted with its house-sized trellis. Oak limbs the size of elephant legs overhung the roof. They would require surgery, preferably before the next strong breeze. The house needed a serious infusion of cash.
Halcyon House was principally green, although that was debatable, what with the paint peeling so badly. The stained-glass trim above the windows on Jill’s old tower room shone yellow, red, and blue. The window was open, just a bit; rain would have gotten onto the hardwood floor.
That was the least of her problems.
Whens tugged on her hand. “Let’s go in.”
She smiled. “Okay.”
The sidewalk leading up to the porch was frost-heaved. She remembered roller-skating here, dashing streetward but making sure not to let her skates catch on the bump. It had been five years since she had been inside—save for the episode that had landed her in St. E’s, which she did not remember—and apprehension seized her: What would be different? What would be the same?
And could she bear it?
She glanced down at Whens. She had to bear it.
“There’s a hole.”
She lifted him over the rotten wooden step. She held him on her hip as she slipped the house key from the pocket of her jeans and unlocked the door. She pushed it open, and the musty smell of pent-up years rushed out.
“It’s dark.”
Jill said, “Let’s open the blinds.”
Megan had had the front window repaired. Though Jill didn’t remember bursting through it, she had a scar on her chest from one of the shards. She was lucky not to have cut her throat.
“I’ll do it, Mommy.” Whens pulled on the cord with all his might, hand-over-hand like a seaman raising sail.
The wooden slats clacked. Sunlight brightened the multicolored spines of several thousand books on their built-in shelves. Jill unlocked the tall, wavy windows on each side of the repaired plate glass and raised them. Fresh air washed through the room.
Whens looked around. “It’s pretty. Like
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