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Back How to Disappear Completely Save as PDF
Chapters (58)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. Epigraph
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. 42
  46. 43
  47. 44
  48. 45
  49. 46
  50. 47
  51. 48
  52. 49
  53. 50
  54. 51
  55. Acknowledgments
  56. About the Author
  57. Back Ad
  58. About the Publisher

And the girl—the girl is a teenaged Gram. Actually, she looks a lot like Lily. Her hair is curled into cheerful ringlets, and she wears a bright, pretty dress, but if you look past those things, you can tell that she’s unhappy. In fact, she’s wearing the very same look she wore that day I came in to find her holding this shoebox. Like some secret sadness had followed her all the way from this picture to that moment.

I gingerly place the photo on top of the poetry book and pick up the last thing in the box. It’s a little notebook, the pages brittle as fallen leaves. Inside, the lined sheets are covered with drawings instead of writing. Little sketches of fairy couples dancing in the moonlight, gnomes peeking out from hollowed trees, a stone palace with turrets spiraling up from each corner. Every page is filled.

I run my fingers over the tiny valleys made by the pen that pressed against these pages so long ago, and I remember the only thing Gram ever told me about her childhood. She used to play in the Spinney as a little girl, too.

Did she do these sketches in the Spinney? Sketches of things she saw, or imagined she saw? And how old was Gram when she did these? Was it before or after that picture was taken? And was the picture before or after her illness?

The truth is, Gram didn’t leave me answers in any of these objects. And the more I stare at the sad girl in the picture, the more I feel like I never really knew her at all.

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When I go down for breakfast on Monday, Lily is sitting on one side of the table. Mom has some blueprints laid out on the other. In one of the bottom corners, it says, O’SHEA HOUSE.

I literally glance at them just long enough to see the name before Mom appears behind me and starts rolling them up. “Don’t look at those, please.”

“Geez, Mom, it’s not like they’re state secrets,” Lily says. “Anyway, you left them out.”

I reward Lily with a smile. I could get used to this whole getting-along thing.

But when I turn around, Mom is staring at me with her eyebrows knitted together in the expression she has when she watches the six o’clock news.

“What?”

“You—you’ve got a new one,” she says, brushing her thumb against the skin beside my nose.

I run upstairs to look in the mirror. Mom is right. There’s a new spot on the right side of my face, just between my cheek and my nostril.