Free Harriet Wolf's Seventh Book of Wonders by Julianna Baggott Page A

heard Tilton correctly. “Did Eleanor have a heart attack?”
    “Yes,” Tilton says. “Mrs. Gottleib is taking me to the hospital to see her.”
    “To see Eleanor because of her heart attack?”
    “Yes.”
    “Eleanor is in the hospital.” I can’t imagine my mother with a head cold, much less in a hospital. Nor could I make sense of the rest of it. My mother was eaten by a house? What on earth did that mean? “Why was there blood on your nightgown?”
    “I hurt my thumb trying to open a window.”
    “Is it okay?”
    “It hurts.”
    “Mom wants you going to see her in a hospital?” This would expose Tilton to germs.
    “I’m sure she doesn’t. But Mrs. Gottleib is taking me there anyway. I want to see her. I’m both agoraphobic and claustrophobic so maybe they’ll cancel each other out.”
    “You’re not either of those things. How many times do I have to say it? You’re fine, Tilton. You’re better than fine. I mean, my God, you’ve been through a trauma and you’re okay!” I am no good at crises myself. It’s one of the reasons I let my ex get custody of Hailey. I was afraid something might go wrong on my watch. “Was it a mild heart attack?” I ask in a soothing voice.
    “Do they come in mild?”
    “Have you talked to a doctor? Will there be surgery?”
    “Maybe Mrs. Gottleib talked to the doctor.” Then Tilton’s voice shifts a little deeper. “Have we come to an impasse?” It’s Eleanor’s voice.
    “Don’t say things like that,” I say.
    “Like what?”
    “Eleanor things in an Eleanor voice!”
    “But have we?”
    “I’m sure Eleanor’s made an emergency plan. A what-to-do in case of X, Y, and Z.”
    “She keeps that kind of thing in her head. But don’t worry. She won’t die,” Tilton says. “Not in a hospital.”
    “Of course,” I say, trying to be positive. “That’s right.”
    “I have to get ready to go,” Tilton says.
    “It’s going to be okay. You know that.”
    “I know!” she says brightly. “Because you’re coming home!”
    “I am?”
    “You are!” she says, and then she hangs up.
    My first thought is illogical: Someone should call my father. He should know. Of course it’s none of his business. I do know how to reach him, though. Six months earlier, I found myself at the university library, doing a quick search for my father in their computer lab. It revealed that he didn’t get far. His real estate practice is in Oxford, Pennsylvania. Within seconds, I had an office number, a fax number, and a home number.
    I haven’t called. I know what it’s like to be the one who left.
    My mother forced Tilton and me to make a pact as kids. “Never look for your father,” she said. “It will only stroke his ego. He doesn’t deserve us!” Our family was big on pacts. I remember the feeling of string winding around my hand pressed to my mother’s and Tilton’s, the too-tight weave, and afterward the red indentations from the string. I rub my hand as if the string is still there.
    Ron reappears with a mug of coffee for me, but I don’t reach for it.
    “What’s wrong?” he asks.
    “Eleanor’s had a heart attack. She’s in the hospital. Tilton keeps saying she’s not going to die, which makes me think she’s going to die.”
    He sets the mug down on the bedside table. “Are you going to see her?” he asks.
    “I don’t know.” I think of Tilton—a child in my mind’s eye, blonde hair, round cheeks, a little bow of mouth. She’s in her nightgown, now bloody. “I abandoned her, you know,” I say.
    “I’m sure your mother never saw it that way. She’s very independent.”
    “No,” I say. “Tilton!”
    “Oh.”
    “Did I ever tell you that in middle school she cut my hair once when I was sleeping? My mother never even yelled at her about it.”
    “Maybe this is the time for all three of you to set things right,” he says. “You should go. It’ll put you on the East Coast, in driving distance to Colette’s wedding and the HWS