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ICE CRADLE
22222
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The Book of Illumination:
A Novel from the Ghost Files
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First Edition
For Rob
—mf
ICE CRADLE
22222
mom. A great mom would seize the moment and take her child
sledding at Fresh Pond, then cheerfully agree to host whomever
he wanted to ask back to the house for cocoa and popcorn and
grilled cheeses, and a serenely supervised afternoon filled with
board games and fort building and tent-tunnel making, using
sheets and blankets and all the tables and chairs.
The trouble was, I had work to do, and as a freelance book-
binder working from home, I couldn’t call in sick or take a
personal day. Sure, I could just not work, but our financial cush-
ion, never plump in the flushest of times, had recently been
getting flatter and flatter.
I wasn’t sure why. I didn’t feel like I was bleeding money,
but I hadn’t actually had time to sit down and go through all
the bills and receipts. And what was the point of that, anyway?
It wouldn’t change the simple reality: I was obviously earning
too little and spending too much.
Many single mothers wouldn’t be happy with the agreement
I have with Henry’s father, but it suits me just fine. Declan is
a Boston cop—a detective, to be precise—and by any measure,
a first-class dad. He also happens to be married to someone
else: Kelly, from whom he was separated when he and I had our
little . . . thing. They ended up getting back together. I ended
up having Henry. Then Dec and Kelly had two girls of their
own, Delia and Nell, whom I adore, and with whom Henry
now spends lots of time on weekends and vacations. It’s not the
simplest of family arrangements, but it’s ours, and it works.
Dec and I had the talk about money before I even took
Henry home from the hospital, when we were both over-
whelmed and completely in shock. At that moment, he would
probably have said yes to anything. But I have my pride. I’m
healthy, hardheaded, and college educated. No way did I want
#$$
The Grand View wasn’t the largest hotel on Water Street.
That honor apparently belonged to the National, an enor-
mous white edifice with a porch that could comfortably seat
dozens of sunset-gazing cocktail sippers. The National didn’t
appear to be open for the season yet, but judging from the sound
of power saws and the sight of sheer white curtains blowing out
of open windows, the owners were getting it ready.
If the National was the diamond of Water Street, then the
Grand View was its pearl. Perched back from the road, it was
a quarter of the National’s size, and so perfect in proportion
and scale that it reminded me of a doll’s house.
Some of its weathered shingles had recently been replaced
and stood out like too-white teeth, but a few years of seasonal
exposure would take care of that. Wide chimneys at either end
of the house suggested fireplaces inside, and a cupola just big
enough for a person or two rose above the parapet. In Cam-
bridge, “widow’s walks” topped plenty of landlocked mansions
miles away from the sea. Here, I was sure, the structures were
more than ornamental.
Henry flew up the Grand View’s front steps and stood on
tiptoe, pressed against the front door, straining to reach for
the brass knocker. He looked up at me.
“Go ahead,” I said.
He clacked it as hard as he could, three, four times. He was
gearing up for a fifth when I grabbed his hand.
“Hold on!” I said. “Give them a chance to get here!” I would
clearly have to take him for a long, long walk, or something in-
side was going to get broken.
informed him that the fun and games were over, and it was high
time for him to join his family on the other side. The poor
young spirit burst into tears of relief.
I was able to create the white doorway for him, a skill I
learned from my grandmother. As far as I can tell, this door-
way, which I can imagine and then make real, leads to a shin-
ing tunnel to the other side. I can call it up through an act of
will and imagination, closing my eyes and focusing on a pin-
prick of light, and then making the pinprick bigger and brighter.
When I open my eyes, the light is burning in the real world,
and not just in my imagination. I can project it onto a wall, as
a doorway through which a willing spirit can actually walk,
leaving our world for the next. I heard Silas joyfully calling
out to his parents and sister just before he disappeared into
the light.
Then there was an incident last fall. On Columbus Day
weekend, Declan and Kelly had taken the kids up to a place
Kelly’s brother owns on Lake Sunapee. When Dec brought
Henry back on Monday night, Henry mentioned something
about having heard the crying of a ghost. The story was that a
little girl had drowned in the lake long ago and supposedly,
her cries could still be heard at night. Henry thought he had
heard them.
At the time, Henry was going through a phase in which
Declan basically walked on water, so when Henry asked Dec
if he believed in ghosts, and Declan didn’t respond with a
quick and definite yes— explaining instead that he was open-
minded on the subject— Henry backed down.
It was hard to tell, in that moment, whether a ghost story
told around a flickering campfire had put ideas into Henry’s
head, or whether he’d actually heard the cries of a ghost. Of
know about what they have actually seen and heard, so if ghosts
aren’t present when something is happening or being discussed,
they won’t know anything about it. They can move a light ob-
ject, like a sheet of paper or a piece of jewelry, and they some-
times have enough energy to whip up a whirlwind that can
scare the daylights out of a person. But that’s pretty much where
their powers end.
The little ghost didn’t do any of those things. She drifted
right over to Henry’s bed and perched herself beside him, star-
ing down at his sleeping form. I kept my eyes on the page, but
since she had her back to me, I was able to steal glances with-
out her realizing that I was doing it.
I caught my breath when she reached out and touched Henry’s
cheek. He didn’t move. She leaned over and blew softly in his
face, and he startled and drew away, as though a mosquito were
humming around just above him. But he didn’t wake up.
Then she came over to me and stood between the beds just
staring at my face. I had an awful time keeping up the pretense
that I couldn’t see her, but I didn’t want to talk to her yet.
Even without scrutinizing her closely, though, I was aware that
she was piteously thin, all knobby knees and elbows. Her hair
hung down in two tangled braids, and it was all I could do not
to reach out and fold her into my arms. She looked wretched,
the poor little wraith. I had to do something to ease her suffer-
ing and loneliness as soon as I possibly could.
But not yet.
It was selfish, I knew, but the time had come for me to face
up to the question of Henry’s supernatural abilities— or lack
thereof. Until this afternoon, I hadn’t really needed, or wanted,
to know. But now I did. And I couldn’t just raise the subject
with him in a casual conversation.