The Window by Jeanette Ingold Read Free Book Online Page B

I going to keep from making a fool of myself? I won't fit in, not at a dance.
    Except ... I like the way he took my hand.
    I hear Ms. Thorn behind me, but I pretend to be so busy that I don't realize she's there. I hope it doesn't show, how mixed up I feel inside.

Chapter 8

    A T HOME Uncle Gabriel puts some money into my hand. Fifty dollars, he tells me, all in tens. "I figured you'd want to start Christmas shopping early the way Emma always does," he says.
    I must look absolutely out of it, because he adds, "Don't forget something for your aunt. Emma's been carrying on about Christmas this year like I've never seen her before."
    "She needn't carry on for me."
    But Gabriel continues as if I haven't said a word. "You know, we almost had a baby once, your aunt Emma and me, a little girl that died at birth. Your being here—for your aunt it's kind of like being given the daughter she was never able to have."
    I know Gabriel means well, wants to let me know I'm not just a burden. But instead he's making me miss my mother so much. Christmastime ... of all the times, that was when we were the most separate from everyone else, and it made us close. It was like we held each other up in a lonely wind.
    Gabriel's still talking about Christmas presents when Hannah shows up. He says, "Maybe you girls can go shopping together."
    Hannah says, "Sure. It'll be fun."
    When we're alone, though, I say, "I don't need your help, Hannah. I can pick things out without help."
    "Mandy," she says, "I know you can, but how are you going to get to the stores? Walk ten miles? Are you ready to find your way around by yourself?"
    That last is not a fair question because she knows I'm not.
    "Besides," she says, "shopping alone is no fun. Now where are the photo albums?"
    I hear her go into the living room, and her voice comes back from several feet away.
    "Mandy," she says, "why don't you give yourself a Christmas present and stop being so prickly?"
    "I'm not prickly."
    "You are."

    We find albums on the bottom shelf of the television cabinet. Hannah pages through the one she says looks the oldest, searching for photos with names under them. Mostly, she says, the pictures aren't labeled, or the labels say things like "My recital dress."
    Aunt Emma comes into the room, bringing us hot chocolate. "I won't bother you girls." Then, "Oh, look at that. Mandy, Hannah's found a picture of your uncles at the beach at Galveston. Abe's so little he's in a diaper instead of a swimsuit."
    A moment more and she's down on the floor with us, which I know because I hear the bones in her knees crack as she lowers herself. "My," she says, "I haven't looked at these pictures in years." <>
    "Here's another one," says Hannah. "They're with a girl."
    "That's Gwen. Their big sister Gwen."
    My heart feels as if it's going to explode out of my chest. I want to ask ... except my cheeks are suddenly so stiff, I don't think I can talk.
    But Hannah says, as cool as anything, "She's pretty, like Mandy."
    "She was Mandy's grandmother," Emma says. "Mandy takes after her."
    "But..." Hannah's voice trails off.
    I know I should say something, should correct Emma. Should say, "Gwen wasn't my grandmother, my grandmother's name was Margaret." But I can't, not with Hannah there. How can I let Hannah know, Hannah with her mother and father and brother and dining room tablecloth, that my family is so spaced we can't even agree on my grandmother's name?
    So I don't say anything, only huddle quietly while Hannah and Emma talk on and on.
    Later, in my room, Hannah says, "Mandy, do you think maybe you've just
imagined
seeing Gwen? That you've known about your grandmother all along, stories tucked in your subconscious? That being here has made them come out?"
    "I haven't been lying," I say, and I feel my face get hot. "I never heard any stories about my grandmother at all because my mom didn't know any to tell."
    Hannah waits, her unasked questions filling my bedroom.
    "Look," I blurt out, "my