“Brown is a fine choice, but why make a turkey everyone else makes? Why not make your turkey a Lucy original?”
“Because turkeys are brown.”
“But they don’t have to be.”
“But if you see a real turkey, they’re brown.”
“Maybe they’re brown because everyone keeps telling them they are. Maybe we need to stop labeling the turkeys and set them free.”
Lucy glances around at my colorful array of turkeys then sorts through the construction paper again. This time she picks purple. I pick out blue and we begin the process of cutting, gluing and coloring in silence. As I tear up green tissue paper and start the daunting task of twisting the ends and gluing them to the wings, Lucy says, “Sawyer won’t believe me.”
I only allow myself a quick glance at her because if I seem too interested she’ll shut up. At least that’s what I would do. “What won’t Sawyer believe?”
The sound of scissors cutting paper ceases, and I look up again to find Lucy staring at me. Sheet-white, her little eyes as big and round as saucers. “You won’t believe me.”
“What if I do?”
Her throat moves as she swallows, then she whispers, “I saw a ghost.”
I watch her for a few more seconds to see how serious she is, to see if she’s testing me, to see if her brother put her up to some sort of joke as there have been rumors about this house. When the fear doesn’t leave her eyes, when her tiny fingers fist the scissors tighter, I know this isn’t a con. “What did the ghost look like?”
“A girl. Like me, but in a dress. Her dress looked weird.”
“Weird how?”
“Not the kind of dress I’ve seen anyone wear. It was longer. Past her knees.”
“Did she hurt you?”
Her forehead wrinkles as if that wasn’t the question she was expecting. “It was a ghost.”
“Yes, but did she hurt you?”
“No.” A pause. “She scared me.”
“Did you ever think that maybe you scared her? I mean, according to my mom, the little girl has lived here a long time, and she’s used to me and Dad, but you”—I point at her with the tip of the glue—“are brand new. How do you think a ghost would feel when they strolled into their old bedroom and surprise! You’re in there and screaming. I know I’d freak out. The proper thing to do would have been to introduce yourself or at least say hi.”
Lucy twists a ribbon from her nightgown around her finger then sticks the ribbon into the corner of her mouth, nibbling on it without thought. “But ghosts are scary.”
“Says who?”
She leans forward on the table to impress upon me the soberness of the situation. “Everyone.”
“Well, Miss Lucy, I’m here to tell you that this ‘everyone’ you speak of is usually wrong on a lot of things. And ghosts are one of them. Ghosts are only people who had to leave their bodies, but they aren’t ready to leave home yet.”
Lucy’s lips turn down and the sight causes my lungs to pinch. I put down the tissue paper and curse that my fingers are so sticky with glue that if I touch Lucy, I’ll be stuck to her forever. “What’s wrong?”
“I miss my home.”
I exhale slowly as I remember my first night in this house and how I sobbed in my mother’s arms as I missed my home, too. “I’m sorry. If it makes you feel better, the ghosts here won’t hurt you. I promise.”
Wetness lines her eyes and her cheeks flush red. “How do you know?”
I do a quick wash of my hands at the sink then stand in front of Lucy. She’s so heartbreakingly young, so desperately scared, so innocent that it’s wrong to keep my secret from her.
But that’s the thing, this is my secret. My secret no one else knows and a secret I want to keep to myself. But who I am to let this poor girl hurt? “If I tell you a secret, my most private secret, do you promise to never tell anyone? And if you keep this secret, I promise in return to let you come up here whenever you want, make as many crafts as you can dream of, eat my food and watch my TV as long as I’m here.”
Lucy nods, and I guess that’s the best I can hope for. I tuck her hair behind her ear, just like my mom did for me. “There are ghosts in this house, and