Comes the Blind Fury

“Can’t you see things yourself?”

Amanda’s milky white eyes fixed on Michelle’s face. “I can’t see anything,” she said, “unless I’m with you.” Michelle took Amanda’s hand and started along the path. For some reason, she noticed, it was easier to walk with Amanda next to her. Her hip didn’t hurt nearly as much, and she hardly limped at all.

Amanda led her across the cemetery and along the bluff trail. Soon they arrived at the Pendletons’, and Michelle instinctively started toward the house.

“No,” Amanda said. Michelle felt Amanda’s grip on her hand tighten. “The potting-shed. What I want to see is in the potting-shed.” Michelle hesitated, then, her curiosity aroused, allowed Amanda to lead her toward her mother’s studio.

Amanda led Michelle around the corner of the little building, and stopped at the window.

“Look inside,” she whispered to Michelle.

Obediently, Michelle peered through the window.

The fog, thick around her, seemed to have permeated the studio as well. There was a mistiness inside; everything was indistinct.

And nothing looked quite right.

Her mother’s easel was there, but the painting propped up on it was not her mother’s.

Michelle stared at the painting for a second, then a movement caught her eye, and her glance shifted. There were people in the studio, but she couldn’t see them clearly. The mists swirled around them, and their faces were invisible to her.

Then Michelle heard the sounds.

It was Amanda, next to her.

“It’s true,” Amanda whispered, her voice constricted into a hiss. “She’s a whore … a whore!”

Michelle’s eyes widened in fright at the anger in her friend’s voice. She tried to pull her hand from Amanda’s grip, but Amanda hung on.

“Don’t!” she begged. “Don’t pull away! Let me see! I have to see!”

Her face twisted in fury, and her grip on Michelle’s hand became painful.

Suddenly Michelle wrenched free. She backed away from Amanda, and as their hands parted, Amanda’s sightless gaze fixed on her.

“Don’t,” she repeated. “Please? Don’t go away. Let me see. I’m your friend, and I’m going to help you. Won’t you help me, too?”

But Michelle had already turned away. She started toward the house. The fog seemed to lift a little.

By the time she reached the house the mist had cleared.

But her limp had slowed her nearly to a stop, and her hip was once more throbbing with pain.

CHAPTER 14

Michelle let the kitchen door slam noisily behind her, dumped her bookbag on the table, and went to the refrigerator. She was terribly conscious of her mother watching her, and struggled to control the trembling of her hands. It wasn’t until she had poured herself a glass of milk that June spoke to her.

“Michelle? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Michelle replied. She put the milk back into the refrigerator, and smiled at her mother.

June regarded her daughter cautiously. Something was wrong. She looked frightened. But what could have frightened her? June had watched her come along the path, hesitate for a moment, then continue on to the studio, where she had paused briefly at the window. When she had started toward the house, it was as if she had seen something.

“What were you looking at?”

“Looking at?” June was almost sure Michelle was stalling for time.

“In the studio. I saw you looking through the studio window.”

“But you couldn’t—” Michelle began. Then she caught herself, and glanced out the window.

The sun was shining brightly.

The fog was gone.

“Nothing,” Michelle said. “I was just looking to see if you were working.”

“Mmm,” June said noncommittally. Then: “How did it go at school?”

“All right.” Michelle finished her glass of milk and struggled to her feet, her hip throbbing. She picked up her bookbag and started toward the butler’s pantry.

“I thought you might bring Sally home with you this afternoon,” June suggested.

“She — she had some things she had to do,” Michelle lied. “Besides, I wanted to walk by myself.”

“You mean Jeff didn’t even walk with you?”

“He did for a while. He walked Susan Peterson home, then caught up with me.”

June looked sharply at Michelle. There was something her daughter wasn’t telling her. Michelle’s face was guileless. And yet June was positive she was hiding something, holding something back. “You’re sure nothing went wrong?” she pressed.

“It was fine, Mother.” There was a hint of irritation in Michelle’s voice, so June decided to drop the subject.

“Want to help me with the bread?”

Michelle considered it for a moment, then shook her head. “I’ve got a lot to catch up on. I think I’d better go up to my room.”

June let her go, then returned to her bread dough. As she worked, her eyes drifted outside to the studio.

What was it? What did she see in there? Something that frightened her, I’m sure of it. She pulled her fingers loose from the dough, wiped them off on her apron, then left the house. Whatever Michelle had seen, it must still be in the studio.…

Michelle closed her bedroom door, and sank onto the bed. She wondered if she should have told her mother about the people in the studio. But something had told her not to. What she had seen was a secret. A secret between her and Amanda. But it had been scary. Even as she remembered it, a shiver went through her body.

She got up from the bed and went to the window seat, picking up the doll that was propped there. She raised the doll to eye level, and gazed into its china face.

“What do you want, Amanda?” she asked softly. “What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to show me things,” the voice whispered in her ear. “I want you to show me things, and be my friend.”

“But what do you want to see? How can I show you things if I don’t know what you want to see?”

“I want to see things that happened a long time ago. Things I could never see then … I’ve been waiting for you for so long — for a while I didn’t think I’d ever be able to see. I tried. I tried to get other people to show me, but they never could. And then you came …”

The whispering was interrupted by a sound.

“What’s that?” the voice whispered.

“Just Jenny. She’s crying.” From the nursery down the hall, the wails of the baby increased. Michelle waited a moment, sure she would hear her mother’s tread on the stairs. Then the voice whispered to her again.

“Show her to me.”

“The baby?”

“I want to see her.”

Jennifer’s cries had turned into a squalling sob. Michelle went to the door.

“Mom?” There was no response.

“Mom, Jenny’s crying!” When there was still no response, Michelle started down the hall toward the nursery. She was sure Amanda was with her, beside her: though she could see nothing, she could feel a presence. She