Lucie, chapter 2, part 3

Oliver darts around a corner and disappears.  I’m left all alone in the wood and red room.  I don’t know whether to run out the door or chase after Oliver.  Before I can do either, Ada reappears.

“Do you want to see your room?” Ada asks.

I shrug.  “Sure.  I should plan my escape route.”

Ada walks toward the entryway.  I look for my luggage.  It’s not there.  The red door is wide open, so I can see Uncle George’s back.  Emily is huddled in the backseat of the Ford.  Dad is leaning against the car.  His arm is wrapped around Mom’s shoulder, and Mom is talking to Uncle George.  I can’t hear what they are saying.  It’s probably about me:  How irresponsible and irrepressible I am.  How un-Emily I am.

“Up this way,” says Ada.  She leads me up a staircase just to the left of the entryway.  The stairway is dark.  The stairs are wooden and uncarpeted.  My sneakers clomp against the stairs, and some stairs creak under my feet.  Under Ada’s bare feet, the stairs are silent.  About halfway up, one step moans.

I jump.  “What was that?”

“It’s just an old house.  Sometimes old houses make noises.”  Ada shrugs.

“Yeah, and sometimes old houses have old ghosts that make noises,” I mutter.  I count the steps as I walk.  One, two, three … eleven, twelve, thirteen.  There are thirteen steps.

There is a door at the top of the stairs.  A sign hangs over the door.  “Room of Many Colors,” the sign reads.

“That’s my room,” says Ada.  “Yours is down the hall.”

We turn.  On the right there is a railing overlooking the staircase.  A thin silver chain hangs down from the ceiling and over the top of the stairs.  It must be a light.  I wonder why Ada doesn’t turn it on.  On the left are two closed doors.  We walk past these and I trip over my bags.  How did they get here?  Magic?  Ghosts?

I read the sign above the door where my bags are:  The Tempest Room.  Ada opens the door.

“This is your room,” she says.

In the center of the room is a huge bed, as wide as it is long.  An ivory-colored canopy stretches over the bed and is supported by a post in each of the four corners.  The bedspread is the exact color of the canopy.  The bed is raised so far from the ground that I wonder how I will be able to climb into in.  Ada flips a switch.  Light floods from the bulbs in a brass chandelier, while shadows from the brass supports flit across the bed’s canopy.  Through the canopy the light is filtered and eerie.  Ada walks to the bed.  About halfway between two posts on one side she reaches down and turns over three steps leading to the bottom frame of the bed.  I climb the steps, sit on the bed, and bounce.  The wood is dark, smooth and highly polished.

“Why’s it called The Tempest Room?” I ask Ada.

“Meow.”

Ada has disappeared and Oliver has appeared in her place.  Oliver jumps on the bed and curls up in the center.

“A tempest is a storm, isn’t it?” I ask.

Oliver doesn’t answer, but I’m sure he knows.  If only he could talk, he’d tell me.  I stroke Oliver’s fur as I study the room.

Across from the bed is a dresser and above that hangs a mirror.  The dresser and the frame of the mirror are made of the same dark, reddish wood as the bed.  The mirror is huge – as long as the dresser and twice as high.  It reflects the light imperfectly, as if through a haze or cloud.

Maybe it’s called The Tempest Room because of the cloudy mirror.  I climb down from the bed and wander toward the mirror.  In the mirror my reflection is softer, prettier than usual.  My freckles don’t show up at all, and my hair is more blonde than red, with perfect ponytails.  Even my eyes appear blue instead of green.  I stare at my reflection for a long time.  I look like Emily.  I feel like a queen.  I turn to the left, and then to the right, still staring at my reflection.  Another bed and a reversed Oliver are reflected in the mirror.  Oliver’s raised head follows my movements.

“What do you think?” I ask Oliver.  He yawns and curls up again.

I moved away from the mirror and toward the window.  The curtains are ivory-colored, but heavy, so no sunlight seeps through them.  On the floor in front of the window is a wooden box.  It too is made of reddish-brown wood.  The box is as long as the windowsill.  I sit on the box and pull open the curtains.  Light struggles to enter through dusty windowpanes.  Mom would never let a window get so dusty.  Looking through the window is like watching a television show with a defective satellite.

“Where do you think they hide the TV?” I ask Oliver.

I slide off the box and try to open it.  It’s locked.  Something must be in there.  Maybe it’s the TV.  Maybe it’s a body.

Opposite the window on the other side of the bed and half-hidden in the dark shadows of the room is a wooden closet.  I rush over and pull hard on the closet door-handle, expecting the closet to be locked because the box was locked.  The door flies open and bonks me on the head.  Ow!  Stars spin in the blackness of the empty closet.  A flowery scent tickles my nose.

I stumble out of my room, around the corner, and tumble into a black and white bathroom.  I sit on the edge of the white claw-foot bathtub.  Tears of pain, frustration and loneliness burn my eyes.  I hate this horrible place.  If I ran away, Mom and Dad will be really sorry then.

Something is tugging on my shoelace.  I move my foot.  The tugging continues.  Through my tears I see Oliver playing with my laces.

I shake my foot.  “Stop it, Oliver.”

He stops, stretches and rolls over onto his back.  His soft, furry belly is turned upward.  His face is upside-down and his eyes are half-closed.  “Meow.”

I lower myself to the floor and curl up next to Oliver.  The black and white tile is cold and hard against my face and legs.  Oliver cuddles against me until I feel his purring against my chest.  He cries with me.

When we finish crying, I stagger to the sink.  The mirror hanging above the sink is spotless.  In the mirror, freckles splatter my nose, my hair is reddish and one ponytail is higher than the other.  My eyes are not blue, but green.   In this mirror, I am Lucie.  I am doesn’t-fit-in-with-her-family, irresponsible, irrepressible Lucie Archer.  I try to straighten my ponytails, but only make them messier.