Rose for Rose: Book Two in the Angels' Mirror Series (9 page)

Eight

Gloucester, Massachusetts… August 11, 1930

The longer the boys kept looking for their sister, the more terrified they were.

Poor Michael kept working himself into a silent, brooding frenzy, and Peter and Warren became hysterical a handful of times within the first few hours of their search, even as they continually insisted she had “discerpeared.”

Steven, the oldest of the boys, at thirteen, did his best to keep Peter and Warren calm, but he was having an even harder time with it himself. And he wasn’t entirely sure what to do with Michael at all, because he and Warren had always been very shy and quiet, in different ways. But now, with this new dilemma, Steven wasn’t sure how to cope with the silent angst he saw in his little brothers’ faces.

Poor Michael… he was always so quiet anyway, but now, he spoke so little. Why, if Steven didn’t see him standing there, he wouldn’t even know he was present.

The boy brooded; he walked in circles; he sat in a huddled ball; he watched out the window when nothing was really happening, or seemed not to see what was going on when there were men loading and unloading their fishing and sailing boats. The lines for the water occasionally went right past their house
. For those whose boats aren’t on the water full-time, anyway
, Steven thought. This was one of those times he just knew Michael wouldn’t see them even if he stared straight at them.

It had been nearly five hours since they had stopped their wrestling and begun to look for their sister in earnest, and Michael was even less interactive than ever.

Though Steven had been able to keep it together on the outside, on the inside, he wanted to scream and kick his feet against the wall and punch his way to the truth.
If only Father would come home from sea a day early,
Steven thought, knowing the schedule by heart.

Father always came home on Tuesday and went back out on Thursday, leaving the children to either fend for themselves or have neighbors drop by to check on them the rest of the time.

Sometimes one of the Schultzes, Mrs. Mac Bradaigh, or Mrs. Gafril would stay overnight, or stop in early and then later in the day, but when these storms hit… it wasn’t as easy.

The aunts and uncles living in the States were close, but not close enough to really be of much help: Peter and Angela Rose Wishart were closer… about twenty-five miles, but Uncle Lochlann and Aunt Una, along with the rest of the MacDougal clan, lived closer to forty miles away. So, it had just been easier for one of the neighbors to step into the role of helper whenever Father was out on a fishing expedition.

Their house was so close to both Western Harbor and the Harbor Cove, sometimes the water ran right through the bottom of their house… and that of their close neighbors. The roads would flood up, the beaches would gather together the rain with high tide, and it would be a complete mess!

Steven grabbed hold of his St. Peter’s medal and rubbed it as he prayed the waters wouldn’t come in this time… not to the homes.

Then, heart resolved, he glanced around him, forcing himself to shake off the thoughts of doom: better to think on Father.

He’s come in early due to a storm before, maybe today… Dear God, help Father be okay and… and come home. We need him, and we need You to do something. But… where is Rosie? Where’s she at? I didn’t mean to almost kick her, God! Are You… are You punishing me? I just want her to come back!

Twelve year old Warren, seven and a half year old Michael, and six year old Peter were still watching the mirror every time they passed it, their big blue-green eyes – so like a turbulent sea – wary. They kept insisting that Rosie had fallen “into it and then discerpeared,” as Peter had said once they got to talking. They had never lied to him before, but the other two had shaken their heads vigorously when he’d asked if it were the God’s honest truth.

Steven wished he could believe them, but how could he? People don’t just fall into mirrors without them breaking. They didn’t “discerpear” like that.

How could they?

It was just… impossible.

The mirror was just… strange, that was all.

The thing was strange and old and creepy during storms, but in the sunlight, sometimes he thought it rather beautiful.

God wouldn’t allow something like that to happen, would He?

But what if He did?

Steven already knew to be wary of the mirror. He’d read Nanama and Gram-Papa’s letter to Mother once – a letter expressing their ideas about the mirror’s origins and why it was so special -  and never told anyone about it. He knew there was something fishy with it. Everyone did… but… people disappearing? Was that mentioned?

He’d have to try to sneak away from the boys to read it again. He didn’t think that…

His Gram-Papa and Mother both said to all of them, Father reiterating, it was good they “be wary of that mirror in a storm,”… but Steven had never asked why.

He didn’t have to.

He’d always had an odd sense about it.

You couldn’t see your reflection; it was almost always black as night during a storm, as though covered in a cloak as dark as a starless sky from the inside. It was the strangest mirror he’d ever encountered, even if it was beautiful to look at when all polished up and the wood was dusted.

If only Nanama and Gram-Papa Wishart was alive now… then maybe…just maybe…

But that was impossible.

“Michael, Warren, Peter, come here please,” he called loud enough to be heard over the rain that continued to pummel their roof. “I want to talk with you.”

After the younger boys had come and sat in the little chairs their father had ordered made for them a couple of years back, of oak wood, Steven continued.

“I don’t know when Father will be back, or even if he will. I have been praying, and I know you have, too,” he said, knowing their hearts. “So I want to make a pact with you. Can we make a promise together?”

How was he to couch his next words?

Would they agree, or rebel?

Warren looked at him with his ever-questioning and observant eyes… eyes that always reminded Steven of a wave as it curled under and plowed into the sand, a never-ending revolution for water.

For emotion.

For his brother’s heart.

Peter was looking down at his hands, fiddling with a stray thread in one of his sleeves. It was forever a nervous habit; he would pick a thread until it unraveled all that it could, ever since Mother had died.

And Michael…

Well, Michael never said much after Mother and Sarah Jene died, either.

He’d seen the whole thing, having run inside to retrieve something to read. Little did any of them know until the doctor had said something days later, when they found the little boy uncommunicative.

“Our Rosie is gone, and we don’t know how or why, but she is. We’ve searched the house, and you even said she disappeared but I don’t understand your explanation… what you’re trying to say. But when Father comes home, and she isn’t here, he will demand an explanation. It is stormy out,” Steven began, his palms beginning to sweat, and a small tic enticing his right eye to action.

“I’m going to take a set of her clothes from the closet, and I’m going to take them… outside.”

“But Stevie, why?”

Little Peter’s eyes were now wide blue skies looking down on him as he sat of the floor before his brothers. Those eyes had changed color three times since they began looking for their sister. What was it about emotion that shifted Peter’s eyes darker and lighter blue?

He thought that was something reserved primarily for hazel eyes.

“Why take her clotheses, when she’s alweady gone?”

Warren began to cry, and Peter’s eyes began to well. Michael solemnly watched, but said nothing. His blue-green eyes, so much like Rose’s – and Mother’s – had a haunted look to them. And then… for the first time since they wrestled, he spoke:

“Why, Steven?”

This wasn’t going as good as he’d hoped, but so far, none of them were screaming, and that was good.

“I’m going to take a set of clothes and throw them into the ocean,” he said finally, barely able to believe his own words. “I’ll… I’ll get to the church, and I’ll… walk down to the water from there, so I’m at Inner Harbor. That’s a little further away, and…”

He took a deep breath, swallowed the lump in his throat, and continued.

“And I want you to promise me that instead of telling Father that Rosie fell through the weird old mirror that she went to look out at the sea to watch for his boat. And that she just never came back.”

The stunned, jaw-dropped, open-eyed looks on his brothers’ faces shamed him.

Their tears resumed, and it was as if the storm had moved inside of his heart, and that of his brothers.

Will we ever be the same again,
he asked himself,
and will Father believe us?

Nine

Portland, Oregon… August 12, 2013

Rose awakened to the sound of birds outside her window. When she finally opened her eyes, she was startled, and then realized what had occurred the night before.

Oh, how she missed her brothers, and her dear Father.

Was he alive?

Were her brothers missing her, or jubilant that they didn’t have to listen to
Someone to Watch over Me
any more now that she was gone? It was her favorite song in the whole world, and now, she didn’t have her record to remind her of her dear Mother.

Oh, how she missed Mother, too… maybe more than Father and the boys.

She wasn’t sure.

All Rose was sure of was that she missed her family, her home, her harbor, and even the neighbors who Father’d had come check on them every day or two when he was out fishing.

What had that Edward guy meant when he’d said someone might be looking for her? Was it possible she still had family, after all?

And if so, who was it? How would they receive her if…?

No, I can’t. I can’t torture myself thinking about that right now.

Quickly, she sat up, forcing her mind to take in the surroundings more carefully.

As she looked about her, she noticed cerulean blue walls covered with drawings and paintings of various kinds of birds, and a red tartan quilt covering her, keeping her snug in the little twin bed. There was an odd-looking radio on a dresser to one side of the bed, too –and a closet as big as her parents’ had been –filled with clothes of so many colors, it took her breath away.

She went closer, and realized a few of them might even fit her, to her relief and astonishment.

The night before, she hadn’t even thought about what she’d do for clothing.

Rose looked down at her crumpled dress, glad she might have a way to clean up and change, even if she was somewhere she didn’t feel like she belonged. She hoped there wasn’t anyone in the restroom she’d thankfully been shown before going to sleep.

Though she was still at the Jeffries’ place, she’d been told that might change in a day or two. They would have to talk with other people a little bit, they’d said.

Mark had looked quite relieved at the possibility of having her staying elsewhere, but had assured her that he cared what happened to her, and he would talk to Edward and his wife – what was her name again? – about whether or not the man looking for “a missing Rose from Massachusetts” could possibly be her family.

Oh, Papa God…
she prayed.
Please help someone be alive and remember me and welcome me back home! I just want to be home again, in the arms of my Father, and playing with my brothers, and oh, how I wish You hadn’t taken Mother and baby Sarah Jene, too! But… since it sounds like that won’t…
she stopped herself, tears rolling down her cheeks.
If that won’t do, God, can you at least help me find out if any of my family is still alive at all? Are they really looking for me?

Self-consciously, she began caressing the St. Peter’s medal about her neck, thankful nobody had asked her to remove it. She had noticed nobody else wearing a medal at all, though they had assured her they were Christians.

But if they were Protestant, what did that mean for her?

Had things changed so drastically?

As the night had worn on, after she began to get over the shock of learning she’d jumped time, and meeting Edward, they had agreed to trade stories once they were both more rested.

With finality, Rose decided she would help however she could. If the mirror had truly been moving people through time, there had to be a good reason; some explanation, right?

Was that why it was always dark and unclear during a storm?

On tiptoes, she ventured to open the door, then peeked around the corner.

“Good morning, Rose!”

There was Eugenie, not three feet from her door, with a tray of food in hand, and Mouse at her feet. “I was just about to come and see if you were awake and hungry,” she said.

Rose looked at the woman, thankful for her presence.

If Rose could have landed anywhere, at any time, she was glad it was a time and place where the people, for the most part, were friendly. She wasn’t sure about that Mark fellow Eugenie was married to, but…

In some ways, Eugenie reminded Rose of her own dear sweet Mother; not so much in looks, as Mother had had gentle red hair and eyes even more green than her own. But they were both tiny women, plump, with big hearts.

How it had taken her this long to see the connection, she wasn’t sure, but she was glad for it now.

Rose smiled calmly, and then walked over to meet her hostess in the hallway.

“I don’t mind eating in the dining room,” she said. “When Mother was alive, we always ate in the dining room. Nowhere else but around the table, telling stories of the day and sharing prayers and thanks to the Holy Virgin Mother and to St. Peter’s for keeping Father safe in the seas. And then, three times a week, we used to go over to Our Lady of Good Voyage and light candles for the men out in the water. Once in a while, we’d also take a candle to that big Man at the Wheel cenotaph that that Craske guy created in… um… 1925?” Her smile became wistful, and she didn’t try to hide it.

Oh, how she missed Mother. Did it show?

“But, um… I need to go to the restroom first. Can I meet you in the dining room when I’m done?”

Not only did she need to relieve herself, but she really wanted to tidy up a bit; even if she couldn’t change clothes.

“Sure thing, Honey,” the woman replied, smiling, her blonde hair shining like a halo from behind due to the hall lighting. “And, by the way, some of those clothes in your room should fit; I went through my old things from when I was your age, and so did Paloma… Mr. Edward’s wife. Between the two of us, and a stop at the store for some essentials, I think there should be enough clothes to last you a little while.”

The woman was a Godsend.

Thankful once more, Rose was tempted to hug her.

When was the last time a woman had hugged her? Was it Mother, a day before she died? Or Mrs. Schwartz, or that nice Mrs. Mac Bradaigh? She knew it wasn’t Mrs. Gafril, but…

Had it been that long?

“Thank you kindly, ma’am. I mean… Eugenie,” she corrected herself, having been told to use first names. It went against her upbringing, and it felt odd.

Her mother had always said, “Never use an elder’s given name – at least not in their presence. They’ll think you think you’re their equal.” And because of this, Rose had been very careful not to ever do so, even when the adults weren’t around, because what if she slipped out of habit?

So much was the same here, and yet… so much was different.

She wasn’t sure what to think.