Â
Â
L
aura thought a flea market would be fun. It sounded wonderful. “There'll be all kinds of things to see,” her mom had said. “You'll love it.”
But it was just a bunch of junkânothing but a lot of people sitting around in the hot sun trying to sell things that nobody wanted. It was boring. The buyers looked bored. The sellers looked bored. Even the stuff being sold looked bored. And every five seconds her mom would warn her “Don't touch” or “Look with your eyes, not your hands, Laura.”
Right. Like she really wanted to touch any of that junk. She'd have to wash her hands for a week to get them clean after putting her fingers on any of this stuff. Laura looked at the table in front of her. There was a box of moldy booksâ
the same books everyone else was selling. There was another box with record albums.
Records
, Laura thought.
Who in the world would want those ancient things?
There was a ratty old doll with a stained dress and a chip missing from her cheek. Her hair was tangled and stiff.
Yuk,
Laura thought.
“Mom, can we go now? Pleeeeeaaase.”
“In a minute,” her mom muttered. She was studying an old butter dish like it was the lost treasure of ancient Egypt.
Sure. Laura knew what “in a minute” meant. She was doomed. She searched the table again, desperately hoping to see something that would hold her interest for a moment or two. She glanced at the woman in the folding chair behind the table. She must have been ninety years old. She was sitting there, staring off to one side, paying no attention to the items she'd set out for sale.
Laura shivered and looked back at the table. Dancing light sparkled in the sun as Laura moved her head. Her eyes were treated to a flash of red, followed by rainbow bursts. Laura gasped. Right in front of her, nearly lost among the rusty tools and cracked dishes and rotted magazines, was the most beautiful, unexpected treasure.
Could it be? Laura stepped closer, pressing against the edge of the table. Her hand darted out, then stopped halfway. She glanced to the left. Her mom had put down the butter dish and was examining a tarnished fork. Laura gazed back toward the crystal horse. It was the most lovely
thing she had ever seen. The sight brought back memories of a merry-go-round she had ridden long ago. Every detail was carved in this ornamentâthe flying mane, the ribbon-covered pole, the fancy saddle. Laura could almost hear the music and feel the rise and fall of the horse as they rode in circles on a summer day.
She glanced around again. Her mom wasn't looking. The old lady wasn't looking. Laura had to touch that sparkling crystal treasure. It was calling her. She reached out to pick it up. She lifted it.
She felt a snap.
A leg broke. It fell with a small tinkle to the table. Laura froze. She waited for the shouting. There was nothing. The flea market buzzed on around her as if she hadn't just destroyed the most beautiful jewel in the world. Trying not to attract attention, Laura lowered the crystal horse to the table. It started to fall as she put it down, tilting toward where the leg had been. She leaned it against the side of the doll with the chipped cheek.
“Mom, can we go?”
Her mother sighed. “All right, but don't ask me to bring you here again.”
No problem,
Laura thought as she moved from the table. She hurried away, but a burning feeling in the back of her neck made her spin around. Behind her, the woman slowly turned her head toward Laura. She looked right at her. She looked right
through
her. The woman raised her left hand. She touched her left palm with her right forefinger.
Laura watched, not understanding, wanting to explain that it wasn't her fault.
The woman flung her arms apart. Laura jumped. The woman laughed, then whispered several words.
Laura's fingers tingled. She glanced toward the horse. It wasn't there. The woman's laugh echoed in her head. Laura fled to her mom.
That night, when she went to bed, Laura was sure she was going to have nightmares about the flea market. “Sweet dreams,” her mom said as she turned out the light. Laura waited until her mom left the room. Then, feeling just a bit childish, she rushed to her closet and hunted for Mister Hoppy. In the dim glow of the light from the hallway, she searched for the stuffed animal that she had slept with when she was little. It was silly, but she knew she needed Mister Hoppy tonight.
“There you are,” she said when she spotted the stuffed rabbit with the bright blue eyes and floppy ears. As she picked it up, her hand tingled for a second.
She had no dreams that night.
When she woke the next morning, the flea market itself seemed almost a dream. Feeling foolish about her fears, Laura reached to put Mister Hoppy back in the closet.
“What the ⦠?” She couldn't find the bunny. It must have fallen to the floor. She looked. It wasn't on the floor. It wasn't under the bed or tangled in the sheets. It was just gone.
It has to be here somewhere,
Laura thought. She knew she'd find it later.
Laura went down the stairs and into the
kitchen. A wonderful smell greeted her. “Waffles,” she said when she saw what her mom was making. “My favorite.”
“Just in time for breakfast, sleepyhead,” her mom said. “I was getting ready to wake you.”
Laura grabbed a plate from the cabinet and went over to the counter. “There you go,” her mom said, lifting the hot, crispy treat out of the waffle iron. “By the way, I'm expecting an important call this morning, so don't tie up the phone.”
“Yes, Mom.” Laura carried her breakfast to the table. The waffle looked perfect. She could already imagine how fabulous it would taste. As she set the plate down, the waffle started to slide off. She stopped it with her free hand. There was a small tingle in her fingers. Laura let go of the plate and went to get the syrup.
“My word,” her mom said. “You really wolfed that one down. You must have been starving. Would you like another?”
“What?” Laura was puzzled by the question. She walked back across the room and looked down at her plate. It was empty.
“Would you like another waffle?” her mom asked again.
Laura nodded.
This can't be happening,
she thought. She touched the plate and waited for the tingle. Nothing. She touched the table. Nothing. She thought about Mister Hoppy. Had he vanished like the waffle?
Did it only happen to important things?
Laura had to find out. She needed to touch something she cared about. She jumped
from her seat. The chair crashed over as she ran to the living room.
“Laura!” her mom called after her.
What can I try?
Laura wondered. There, on the tableâthe book she was reading. It was her favorite series. She touched it. Nothingâno tingle. She ran to the playroom. She started grabbing, touching, feelingânew toys, old toys. Nothing.
“Laura!” Her mom gripped her shoulder and spun her around. “What is it? What's wrong?”
Laura clutched her mother's hand, wondering how she could possibly explain. “Momâ” She stopped. There was a tingle.
“What is it?”
Laura was afraid to look away. She knew what would happen the second she took her eyes off her mother.
The phone rang.
“Stay there. I'll be right back.” Her mother pulled free of Laura's grip and dashed from the room.
“Wait!” Laura shouted as she rushed after her. She stumbled over one of the toys she'd dropped. She caught her balance and raced toward the doorway.
“Mom!” Laura called.
The phone kept ringing in the kitchen. It rang and rang, unanswered. The ringing filled the room ahead of her.
Laura burst into the kitchen. There was no one there. She was alone.
Laura curled into a ball and grabbed her head in both hands and screamed. And through her screams, through the pounding fear that seized
her mind and the shaking tremors that tore through every muscle of her body, she felt a tingle in her fingers where they touched her face.
The ringing stopped.
Â
Â
I
t wasn't my fault that Dad cut his hand off. I can't take any of the blame for that. Okay, I was in the room at the time, but I didn't do anything to startle him. He cut his hand off all by himself. As he would have said if I had done it, that was one bonehead move, one really stupid stunt.
He sort of messed up the workshop, too. But Dad probably won't be doing much woodworking in the future, and I certainly don't have any urge to tangle with power tools. I think some of them try to get you.
Okay, I guess I've made the point that none of it was my fault. At least, not Dad's accident. But then I had an accident of my own. When the guys from the ambulance came, they rushed away with Dad as fast as they could. Right after they left, I
noticed that they'd forgotten to take his hand. I knew that the doctors could put it back on. Doctors do that kind of stuff on television all the time. It's called microsurgery. It's no big deal.
So I got some ice from the freezer and put it in the little coolerâthe one Dad fills with soda when he's going out to a ball game. I got a bag from the drawer and grabbed the hand through the plastic. It felt kind of weird, like taking a steak out of the refrigerator, except it wasn't cold. Trying not to think about what I was doing, I picked up the hand and put it in the cooler. Then I put in more ice. As I was shutting the lid, the phone rang. I ran to the living room and answered the call. It was my friend Carl. I told him I didn't have time to talk. I hung up the phone and went back to the kitchen. The cooler had popped open, so I shut the lid again. Then I jumped on my bike and pedaled to the hospital.
But somewhere along the way, between the time I picked up the hand and the time I got to the hospital, I must have messed up. When the nurse opened the cooler, there was nothing in it except for the ice.
I'd lost Dad's hand.
This was not good. I went back to the house. On the way, I looked over the whole route I'd taken, hoping to spot the hand. No sign of it. I searched the house. Not a trace. Mom came back from the hospital and started looking. Even the cat sort of helped to look. At least, he sniffed around a lot. None of it did any good. We all came up empty handed.
“Well, where did you have it last?” Mom asked.
If I knew that, it wouldn't be lost,
I thought, but I didn't say anything. I figured I was in enough trouble already. That wasn't really fair since I'd been trying to do a good deed.
As hard as we looked, we couldn't find the hand. After a few hours, it became a dead issue, to use a rather sick phrase. They can only sew stuff back if it's still in good condition. A hand doesn't keep very well if it isn't cold.
Dad came home two days later, but he didn't speak to me very much. I guess he was angry about his hand getting lost, but I don't see how it could have been my fault.
Another week passed. That's when it started. I was falling asleep, just drifting, not really asleep yet but definitely close. All of a sudden, out of nowhere,
WHACK!
Something smacked me on the butt so hard I thought my head would pop off.
I sat up fast, one hand reaching down to rub my stinging flesh. There was nobody in the room.
I thought I heard a faint scurrying, like someone scratching at a rug. But I wasn't listening very carefully. I was too busy trying to ignore the pain in my rear. It felt like I'd been hit by the world's champion of butt-smacking.
I looked around the table at breakfast the next morning, suspecting everyone but knowing that nobody there could have done it. Dad was still pretty weak. Mom was no powerhouse. My brother Ed was a runt, and my sister Darlene was only three. She could have hit me with all her strength and I might not have noticed.
“Something wrong?” Mom asked when she caught me staring.
“Nope,” I lied. “Everything is fine.”
“Fine for you,” Dad muttered as he tried to butter a piece of toast. He'd been making a lot of comments like that the last few days. I half expected him to take me to the woods any time now and leave me stranded, or drown me in a sack in the lake like an unwanted kitten.
Nope, I decided it wasn't any of them. I was beginning to think that I'd imagined the whole thing. I'd been almost asleep. And there was no bruise or anything. I hadn't checked until morning, and it's not all that easy looking at your own butt in a mirror, but there certainly was no sign that anything had actually smacked me.
Real or not, it happened again the next night. This time, I was asleep. At least, I was asleep until I felt the smack. It was quickly followed by a second whack. I rolled over and sat up fast.
There was no one in the room.
I held my breath and listened for the scurrying sound. There was definitely something crawling across the room and scrabbling out the door. It was fast. In a moment, it had reached the hallway. Then the sound changed as the thing moved over the wooden floorboards.
I think, when I heard the sound of fingernails on wood, I began to suspect what I was dealing with. But I didn't want to face that possibility. I just didn't want to believe that Dad's hand had come back to punish me.
Nothing happened that night. But, two days
later, after taking a couple of hard swipes on the rump, I almost managed to catch hold of it. For an instant, our fingers met. There was no doubt. It was a hand. I couldn't identify it for sure as Dad's hand, though it was definitely big and kind of hairy. I doubted there were other hands out there itching with an urge to smack me.
Two thoughts crossed my mind. First, I had to do something to stop this or I'd end up spending the rest of my life avoiding hard chairs. But second, I wondered if the hand could still be reattached. If it could move and spank and everything, maybe it could work normally if it was sewn back on Dad's wrist. I didn't know for sure. Hey, I'm not a doctor. But it certainly seemed worth a try.
So I started waiting for the hand at night. I'd lie there, pretending to sleep, making my breathing do that slow pattern that sounds like someone off in slumberland. It took a week, but finally, as I waited, I heard the click of nails on the wood in the hall followed by a creak as my door swung open. The scratching sound on the rug moved closer and closer to my bed.
I dove to the floor and made a grab, but the hand just managed to dodge from my clutches. I saw it dash through the doorway. I followed, running down the hall.
“What's all the noise about?” Dad asked, looking out from his bedroom.
“Your hand!” I shouted, pointing toward the steps.
Dad must have caught sight of it, because he
joined in the chase. We ran down the steps. I nearly fell, but I managed to stay on my feet. The hand was just ahead of us. It went straight for the front hall. We had this cat door at the bottom of the regular door. The hand went right through it.
Dad and I followed the hand out to the yard.
“Got to catch it,” I said.
“Yeah,” Dad said.
The hand went around the side of the house and headed for the dock. We lived right next to a lake. We'd moved there because Dad liked to fish. He hadn't fished much in the last few weeks. We nearly caught up with the hand as it scampered toward the end of the dock.
“Stop,” I shouted.
For an instant, the hand paused, as if listening to me. Then it dove into the water. Dad and I ran to the edge of the dock. We could see the hand swimming away.
“Come on,” Dad said. He jumped into our little boat. I joined him. The motor had a pull cord. I guess Dad couldn't handle it too well. He just pointed at it. I stepped past him and yanked the cord. The engine roared to life. I cranked it up to full speed and raced after the hand.
I guess it would have been better if I had waited for Dad to sit down. As I gunned the engine and turned the boat, Dad fell into the water. Then, when I tried to go back to help, the boat sort of went over him.
It's a good thing I'd taken that lifesaving course last year. By the time I got Dad onto the dock, Mom had called an ambulance. It could have been
worse. He didn't get hit on the head or anything. But the blade from the propeller had cut him pretty badly. Actually, it had cut his foot right off. There was no chance of finding the foot in the water. But I had a pretty strong suspicion I'd be seeing it again. And feeling it.