The Number 7 Page 3

  Dad patted down his leather jacket in embarrassment. “We probably should have brought flowers or something . . .”

  “Like what? We’ve been unpacking all day,” Greta replied unforgivingly as we reached the wooden door. She lifted the heavy brass doorknocker, and we stomped the snow off our shoes.

  Wiping her hands on her apron, our hostess beckoned us inside and took our coats. “Nice to see you again, Christian.” She shook his hand. “Hi, Louisa.”

  Her smile was flawless. She stood tall and casually in flat leather moccasins, khaki pants, and a red wool sweater with a Peter Pan collar. For a middle-aged woman, I had to admit she was quite attractive.

  “Rosemary, this is my older daughter, Greta.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Greta. I hope all of you like pork chops and cinnamon apples?” Rosemary raised her eyebrows hopefully, and Dad nodded on behalf of the three of us.

  “To new neighbors,” our hostess motioned for us to take our seats at her dining room table around heaping platters of steaming food.

  I glanced around at the rustic furnishings. The dark, unpolished support beams that ran along the walls exposed the old architecture of the house. One half of the open-concept room looked like a newer addition to the former structure. This house—or at least half of it—had to be as old as ours. Against the far wall stood a stone chimney that stretched to the ceiling. A stout wood-burning stove jutted out from the hearth and heated the room. A cast-iron steamer sat atop the smooth, black surface and I watched a thin line of white steam escape into the air.

  It had been a long time since my family shared a meal like this one. I glanced at Greta, who looked like she was thinking the same thing. We hadn’t had a meal like this one since Mom was alive.

  I couldn’t figure out Rosemary’s angle. What did she want in having us over for dinner? There had to be more to her than the friendly neighborhood welcoming committee. I didn’t trust her.

  “So, Rosemary, what is it you do?” Dad asked, handing me a bowl of garlic mashed potatoes.

  “I’m a dental hygienist,” she smiled.

  I should have known. Those teeth.

  “And I do a bit of astrology on the side.”

  “What, like horoscopes and stuff?” Greta asked skeptically.

  Rosemary pursed her lips and shrugged. “More like charting planets and interpreting their movements.”

  “Huh?”

  “Oh, you know, a little bit of this, a little bit of that. It’s nothing, really. Just a hobby.” Rosemary wasn’t offering too many details.

  “So can you, like, tell my fortune?” Greta’s question sounded like a challenge. She locked eyes with Rosemary, and I admired her tenacity to hold the wide-eyed woman’s gaze. I still had difficulty looking straight at her.

  “Well, I’m not really a fortune teller, per se,” Rosemary corrected.

  “I was born November first.”

  “Okay,” Rosemary said, resigned, and I wondered if she was about to make up a terrific lie. “You’re a Scorpio with a very strong will. You’re independent. You set goals for yourself and then you strive to achieve them. You can be moody, sensitive, and compassionate. Should I keep going?”

  “You left out dramatic,” Dad chimed in.

  “Happy belated birthday, by the way.” Rosemary winked at Greta and began buttering her bread before changing the subject. “You know, I moved in here eight years ago. I got to know your parents pretty well. They were truly lovely people. I was so sad to hear about Eloise’s passing.”

  “Thank you. It was nice to hear she had neighbors like you looking after her toward the end.” Dad gave an appreciative glance across the table. They were the only two people at the table who ever knew my grandparents.

  “These pork chops are delish,” I said while forking another bite into my mouth. “Thanks again for having us over.” I didn’t mean to sound cynical, but I did.

  I studied the artwork on Rosemary’s walls. No photographs, I noted. It was as if her family had never existed, as if she’d sprouted from the earth as routinely as a daffodil or spring tulip. There must have been fifteen or so framed paintings of various sizes and subjects hanging in organized chaos. Mostly still lifes in oils and acrylics. But there was one painting that I took a particular interest in. It was unassuming and hung in a dark corner, far from the dining table. I only saw it as we got up to leave, and I walked closer to get a better look. An oil portrait of the back of a girl’s head. Her hair was dark gold, the color of straw at harvest, and she was surrounded by darkness. On top of her head sat a crown of wildflowers—daisies, mostly, and some blue cornflowers. An odd portrait, I thought, why gaze at the back of someone?

  “Do you like it?” Rosemary asked, gliding over next to me.

  “It’s strange.” But I couldn’t take my eyes off of it.

  “Your grandmother gave it to me. Apparently, your grandfather painted it and wanted me to have it,” Rosemary informed me.

  “Mom gave it to you?” Dad came closer to inspect the painting himself.

  Greta stayed by the door, a silent plea for us to leave.

  “She said it reminded him of his sister.” Rosemary folded her arms and smiled encouragingly at the two of us.

  “I didn’t know Dad had a sister.” Dad leaned in close, squinting at the canvas, as if waiting for the girl to turn around. What was she looking at?

  “And a brother, apparently. Though your mom requested that I never ask him about them,” Rosemary gently rubbed her right earlobe. “I’ve always wondered what it is she sees,” she sighed looking deeply into the painting. “Isn’t it strange it spoke to you, too, Louisa? Of all the paintings up here, you picked that one.”

  “Lou’s always been one for the macabre,” Dad smiled, turning around to tousle my hair. I moved away from his beneath his hand.

  “Oh, would you call it macabre? I’ve always found it rather peaceful,” Rosemary said with reassurance. “Louisa, what do you think?”

  I didn’t know how to answer. There was something dreadful there. Yes, I agreed with Dad. But what was it?

  “Dad, it’s getting late—” Greta called over to us, literally tapping her foot.

  Rosemary grinned as if waiting for me to answer, but I couldn’t. Or, I wouldn’t. I shrugged my shoulders and went to join Greta at the door. Dad and Greta were already outside while I still struggled with a mitten. I turned around to tell Rosemary good night, but I stopped when I saw her face had turned dark and serious. Her eyes narrowed and looked desperate as they focused on me. I was suddenly frightened of her.

  “Louisa,” she spoke in a voice so low only I could hear her. “You’re a Pisces—I could spot you from a mile away. There’s something about you coming here. Something about that house.” She pointed a long finger up the hill. “I don’t know what it is. All I can tell you is that you need to be patient. You’re going to need to do something; I don’t know what. But it’s important you’re here. You need to be patient and you need to listen.” She paused, and I didn’t know whether I should run or ask her more. Before I had the chance to do either, her gaze softened and a friendlier expression returned. “Let me know if you need anything, okay? I really adored your grandmother. She’d want me to look after you.”

  I mumbled “G’night” and ran into the darkness to catch up with the rest of my party, wondering what, exactly, she knew that I didn’t.

  VI.

  In the dim light of the dark evening, Grandma’s portrait looked longer than before. I stared up at her through the doorframe as we took off our jackets in the mudroom. We were intruding in her space.

  “What was that about, Dad? About me being macabre?” I questioned, offended, still staring up at Grandma’s countenance. Her eyes leered down at me with condemnation.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” he sounded a bit apologetic. “Maybe that was the wrong word. What I meant was perceptive.”

  “But you said ‘macabre,’” I challenged.

  “A slip of the ton
gue,” he explained.

  “From the English professor?” I scowled.

  Greta walked straight through the foyer. Had she ever noticed the painting before? How could she miss it? The portrait of the mistress of the house? The eyes that seemed to follow my every move?

  “That wasn’t there when I was growing up,” Dad gestured, following my gaze. “But it doesn’t surprise me she had one commissioned. She was always a bit traditional in that way. And proud.”

  “Was that why you stopped talking? Her pride?” I turned and faced him head on wanting so badly for him to tell me the story. “Or yours?”

  “Maybe,” he murmured retreating into the parlor. He wasn’t ready.

  Greta and I hadn’t expected Dad to make us start school so soon, much less on the Monday before Thanksgiving. Dad reassured us that this school year would be the beginning of something great. He tried to convince us that this was a better school than our old one, but Greta just gnawed hopelessly on her toast smothered in brown beans, an English staple in her otherwise American diet. I stared out the window into the darkness. Even the sun was still sleeping.

  Greta had her college applications in their manila envelopes, signed and sealed. She placed them carefully in our metal mailbox as we headed out the door, but there was something wrong with the way she handled them. She held the envelopes loosely with both hands, cradling them as she lifted the mailbox lid clumsily with her elbow. It was unnatural to see her fumble. Greta saw my concern but answered me only by tugging her sleeves further over her gloves. She didn’t want to talk about it, and she left me on the front step to start Dad’s Subaru in silence.

  The air was cold. Really cold. The hairs in my nostrils froze, prickling. I wore an oversized, flowy sweater that fell off my shoulder and a new pair of boots Greta encouraged me to buy last Christmas. Truthfully, I felt ridiculous. I’d have felt more comfortable in a pair of plain jeans and Chucks, but I decided to do something totally different: listen to my sister’s fashion advice. I pulled a loose-fitting knit cap over my chestnut bob and inhaled slowly, ready to start the first day of my new life. I wanted to get this first part over.

  In the car, Greta looked over at me. “You look really pretty, Louisa.”

  Usually, I was content just knowing my hair was brushed and my clothes wrinkle-free. Rarely did I feel beautiful—or even pretty—with my boyishly long limbs and stubby little nose. But now that Greta said I looked pretty, I felt validated. Because Greta said it, I believed it.

  “Welcome to Andrew Wyeth High! We’re so happy for you to be here,” the principal’s secretary said as she handed us two folders.

  I smiled as I opened the packet and leafed through the inserts: my class schedule, a map of the school, a list of contact numbers, e-mail addresses, my locker number, my lock combination, and fliers from each afterschool sports team and club. I was mostly interested in my schedule:

  7:20 A.M. – 8:10 A.M. Speech Mr. Duncan, Rm. 222

  8:15 A.M. – 9:05 A.M. Algebra II Ms. Nestles, Rm. 145

  10:10 A.M. – 11:00 A.M. English Mrs. Proctor, Rm. 215

  11:05 A.M. – 11:55 A.M. Lunch Cafeteria

  12:00 P.M. – 12:50 P.M. Film Photography Mr. Franz, Studio I

  12:55 P.M. – 1:45 P.M. History Mrs. Laughlin, Rm. 100

  1:50 P.M. – 2:40 P.M. Earth Science Mr. Topes, Lab IV

  Dad had signed me up for Film Photography. Art wasn’t my best subject, but it was something I was excited to learn. I’d attempted a couple self-portraits in the past—one in smudgy charcoal and one in Crayola blue violet. The latter I had titled “Louisa in Lavender.” Neither had been very good.

  The secretary looked up at the clock on the wall. “Let me know if you need anything. The first bell’s going to ring in fifteen minutes.”

  Greta and I exchanged schedules while we walked together. She had Tennis first period. I dropped her off at the gymnasium. We agreed to meet back at the front of the school at the end of the day. And then I was on my own—to venture into the vast wilderness of Wyeth High. Survival was not guaranteed. Room 222 was tucked at the end of a long hallway upstairs. Mr. Duncan greeted me at the front of the class and showed me to a seat in the back of the room.

  As one of the first students in class, I had the opportunity to study my peers as they entered the room. Most girls entered in pairs or flocks. High school girls always reminded me of geese, waddling in groups and squawking as they strutted from one spot to another. None came to sit with me.

  I suddenly missed the comfort of North Carolina. I missed familiar faces and names. Here, everyone knew each other. They already had their places and social circles. Even if they were geese, at least they had their gaggles.

  At long last, a back-row companion came to join me. He had tan skin and long, half-hearted curly brown locks. He wore a tie-dyed shirt, frayed jeans, and a pair of leather flip-flops. Seriously, I thought, flip-flops in November?

  “You new?” His voice was deep. Really deep. His backpack fell off his shoulder and to the floor.

  “Yeah.”

  It was all I could think to say.

  “I was new here last year,” he said indifferently looking to the front of the class. I couldn’t really tell if he was speaking to me or just thinking out loud. Every word he said was monotone. Stoner, I assumed dismissively. Then he turned to me and smiled.

  “So where you from?” It was a nice smile. A smile, I thought, he probably didn’t flash often enough. And his eyes were large and lovely beneath his big eyebrows. His skin looked sun-kissed for so late in the year.

  “North Carolina.”

  “I backpacked the Trail through Damascus once,” he leaned over to me—close enough for me to smell his cheap, musky body spray, close enough to feel a surge of unexpected intimacy—and whispered, “Got poison ivy in places I didn’t know could itch.” He then sat back up, grinning, as the opening bell rang.

  “Chris.” He extended his hand. He had dirt underneath his fingernails, but not in a grimy way. It was more of an “I spend my weekends rappelling from rocks and spelunking water caves” dirt-under-my-fingernails.

  “Louisa.” We shook and then turned to the front as Mr. Duncan wrote “PROPOGANDA” in large, block letters on the blackboard.

  “Today we’re going to watch Triumph of the Will, one of Adolf Hitler’s most famous examples of propaganda,” Mr. Duncan announced as he turned off the lights and began the film. “Think about our recent conversations about propaganda and how this film fits into that genre. We’ll discuss the images and film tomorrow.”

  In English, I sat in the front row and met a girl named Allison. She had deep-set dimples and wore a stiff-collared blouse under a pink argyle cardigan. I didn’t recognize the insignia on the sweater, but I knew Greta would.

  “We’re reading 1984,” she said, handing me her copy at the beginning of class. “It’s kind of weird.”

  “Wait ’til you get to the end.” I glanced at the cover and returned the paperback. “I read it a couple years back.” I didn’t disclose how much the book had affected me. I didn’t tell her how it was one of the most important books in my life. Dad had given me the book to keep my mind off of Mom’s cancer. As if it were that easy. In the hospital waiting room, sometimes in that god-awful armchair at the foot of her bed, I read because I didn’t want to watch the drip, drip, drip. As Mom nonchalantly leafed through her People magazine, I read.

  I sped through 1984 angrily. I wanted to throw the book and shout at her. At Dad. At everyone. This isn’t a normal thing, Mom! Normal people don’t have to sit here and watch their moms hooked up to that! Normal people don’t have to sit here and pretend like this is fine! That’s what I wanted to shout. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. Instead I sat there, furious at everyone for acting like everything was okay. For me, things were not okay.

  “There are occasions when a human being will stand out against pain, even to the point of death.”

  Orwell made me realize my mom might die. And the
n she did.

  “Yeah,” Allison jerked me back to the present. “Well, we’re supposed to be almost done, and I’m only on chapter five.” Allison took her pencil, twirled it around her hair and pinned it up in place. “Are you sisters with that new tall blond?”

  “She’s my older sister.”

  “She and I have Gym together. She’s gorgeous!” Allison sighed. “It’s too bad about her injury. She looked like she’d be a good doubles player.”

  “Her what?”

  Allison popped her chewing gum and turned to face the teacher beginning her lesson on misplaced modifiers. By the end of class, I was surprised to find that I actually knew the difference between a misplaced and dangling modifier. Maybe grammar wasn’t so bad after all.

  “So what do you think of Pennsylvania?” Allison asked as we walked to lunch together.

  “It’s all right.”

  I was still getting adjusted and finding my niche, but I was adapting quickly. Greta still considered the move social torment, but I quietly wondered if even she was beginning to come around.

  “Where do you live?”

  “October Hill Road. The orange house.”

  “Oh man, that place is ancient. Any spooks?” Allison grinned.

  I shook my head and hoped she wouldn’t see my uncertainty. Allison invited me to sit with her friends. It was a godsend. I would have rather sat alone in a bathroom stall than face sitting alone at lunch. But after spending ten minutes at their table, I wondered if the bathroom stall was a better fit for me. Sure, I blended in well—my Greta-inspired outfit matched Allison’s J. Crew table—but I felt like an imposter. I excused myself from the group and made my way to the lunch line. I was glad not to be sitting alone, but I wished I could find another table of girls who were more like me.