If You Believe

Her heart thumped like a jackrabbits. In the eight months since her mothers death, Mariah had never once gone into this room, not even to clean. Right after the burial last year, steeped in silent, agonizingly sharp grief, shed come into her mothers sanctuary, alone.

Through a pounding headache caused by unshed tears, shed boxed up her mothers life. Then shed closed the door and walked away. Never once had she ventured back. Until now.

You can do it, she told herself firmly. You can go in here. Its just a room. . . .

Straightening, she reached for the doorknob; it felt cool and slick and unfamiliar in her hand. Turning it, she pushed the door open.

Late afternoon sunlight pulsed through the big window on the east wall, filtering through the expensive lace curtains her mother had ordered through the Bloomingdales catalog. White sheets covered the furniture in a series of macabre, ghostly shapes.

For a moment, she couldnt move. Then, taking a deep breath, she stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. The gunpowdery scent of old dust and cobwebs filled Mariahs nostrils. Coughing, she walked woodenly to the white heap below the window and flung the dusty sheet aside.

Her mothers desk.

She reached out, touched the scrolled woodwork along the top of the oak parlor desk. Images came to her hard, hammered her self-control.

This is a dress for you, baby. For my special little girl . . .

Mariah forcibly shoved the memories away and closed her mind off to more. She couldnt think about her mother. Even now, almost a year later, she couldnt think about her. If she did, shed start crying and shed never stop.

Carefully she eased the desks top open. The inside was almost empty, as Mariah knew it would be. Once, it had been cluttered with stacks of nothings—pencils, papers, photographs in elaborately scrolled frames. Once it had smelled of lavender, for her mother always kept a sprig or two inside it. Now it smelled like wood and dust and disuse.

All Mariah had left in it was a stack of old, yellowing copies of Godeys Ladys Books.

She leaned forward, propping the lid open with the top of her head, and took a handful of magazines. Then she eased back, quietly closing the desk. Pushing slowly to her feet, she whipped the sheet back in place and walked stiffly from the room.

The door shut with a crisp little click that almost broke her heart. Her control wavered.

She squeezed the magazines to her chest and raced for her bedroom, slamming the door shut behind her. Inside her own safe sanctuary, she leaned back against her door, breathing heavily. Memories came at her from a dozen angles, trying to pierce her defenses. She didnt let them through.

Gradually her breathing normalized and she walked to her bed. Perching rail-straight on the edge, she started flipping through the magazines for a hairstyle to replace the tight chignon shed worn for years. She thought about her hair, only her hair, and after a while the suffocating sense of loss began to diminish.

She sighed, relieved. Shed beaten it once again, held it back by sheer force of will.

She was halfway through the third magazine when she heard a strange sound come through her partially open window.

Frowning, she set the book down and crossed the room. Opening the window, she leaned out.

And saw Mad Dog punch Jake in the jaw. The boy yelped and stumbled backwards, slamming into the springhouse.

Mariah gasped. Anger exploded through her, displacing the last nagging sense of grief. Ducking back inside, she raced from her bedroo

m and ran from the house, erupting through the front door with a bloodcurdling scream.

Hair flying, she hurtled across the gravelly path. "What in the hell are you doing?"

she screeched at Mad Dog.

He turned to her, slack-jawed in surprise. "Huh?"

"A brilliant response. " She glared at him, flinging her pointed finger toward Jake.

"You hit this child. "

"Im no child! Im sixteen years old. "

Mad Dog smiled at Mariah. "Well, well, Jake. Appears we got us a riled-up mama hen. " He reached out to touch her.

She smacked his hand aside. "Dont you try to sweet-talk me. You hit him. "