Free Yesternight by Cat Winters Page B

pondering if he was just then opening a blank notebook and scribbling down this so-called “record” of Janie’s previous life. And yet, I strove to remain open-minded. My job at the moment was to stay neutral and to collect any and all facts pertaining to the child in need.
    Roughly two minutes later, Mr. O’Daire returned down the steps with a confident gallop, a book tucked beneath his right arm.
    â€œIn June 1921”—he walked up to my table—“Rebecca, my former wife, first started using this notebook to keep track of Janie’s stories of the past. Janie was about to turn three at that point, but she’d already been speaking of her life as Violet for at least six months.”
    On the table before me, he laid a brown leather notebook about the size of a paperback novel, but half as thick. The book reminded me of a travel journal that I carried with me whenever Bea and I took one of our excursions down to California, including the recent trip to that Winchester tourist attraction with the séance room and the tales of vengeful spirits.
    â€œWhen Rebecca began jotting down her notes,” said Mr. O’Daire, “I had been back from the army for over two years. I left for Camp Lewis a little over a month after Janie was born, but since my return in March 1919, I’ve witnessed everything Janie did with my own eyes. I can corroborate all of the incidents Rebecca chronicled, except for the ones that occurred when I was here at work.”
    I pulled the notebook closer. “Where is your mother right now?”
    â€œAt her house, in town. She only helps now and then during the non-summer season. Her back isn’t as good as it used to be. Why?”
    â€œI want to ensure that we’re speaking in confidence right now. I want you to be able to talk as openly and honestly as possible about the contents of this journal. About Janie.”
    â€œOf course.” He lowered himself down in a chair across from me. “I want to get to the crux of what’s happening with my daughter, Miss Lind. I’ve been going out of my mind with worry about her. How do you help a girl who insists she’s homesick for a place she’s never even visited? How do you calm a small child who screams out in terror about the horrors of drowning, when she’s barely ever dunked her head underwater?”
    â€œShe’s suffering, then?”
    â€œOh, God, yes.” He gestured toward the notebook with his head. “Read our notes. You’ll see what I mean.”
    My eyes shifted back down to the scuffed brown leather of the journal’s cover. The lower-right-hand corner had worn away to the palest shade of tan, almost white, as though the book spent a great deal of time sliding in and out of bookshelves and getting gripped by a firm thumb. I took a breath and opened to the first page.
    An entry written in an elegant cursive hand awaited.
    Â Â Â Â  June 7, 1921
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  I fear what may come of describing on paper the curious goings-on with our daughter, Janie O’Daire, but it’s the only thing I can think to do to sort out her peculiarities. I am planning to use this journal as a map; a means of navigating my way around Janie’s stories and nightmares—around her very head—so that we might see if there are any inconsistencies, or any possible truths, to her stories.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Here is what happened just this morning. Janie was playing with her Victorian dollhouse that my parents gave to her last Christmas. I brought a basket of clean laundry into her bedroom to put away, and she turned around and peered at me with the strangest mournful expression.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  “I want to go home,” she said.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  “You are home,” I told her, but she burst into tears and said, “No, my other home. Not the one with the man in it, but my real home. The