Everett, Jeannine Bergers

Gran would have called her a haint. Eliza preferred the term "wanderer." It made her feel like she had a choice in the matter.

She walked the top of the wall. It was much easier to do when she was a girl, before the ivy and the rain and time tumbled the bricks. If she aimed to, she could still manage enough spirit to waffle the leaves around a bit. It wearied her, though, so she saved it for days when the wind was still and people were about, so as someone might notice.

She was still waiting for Papa to come back with the doctor. He told her not to go anywhere, and that he’d be back soon, but he'd been gone ever so long. When he left for the war he said the same and she had counted the days until she ran out of fingers and toes and numbers she could name. The seasons turned over three times before Papa and the men returned, having traded their limbs for nightmares and the sickness they passed around like hardtack.

Papa stood at the gate, and drew a line in the dirt with a stick. “Not a toe past,” he said, and she teased by inching closer to his mark. He knelt down to hold her close and she took in the scent of his tobacco and something strange and metallic that had no place lingering on her father’s breath. He stood, took up his cane and headed towards town while clouds of dust and crickets marked his journey.

Eliza spent a good number of days walking atop the wall, figuring doing so wouldn’t break her promise, while looking for Papa on the horizon, figuring he wouldn’t break his.

Mama left them first, taking the baby with her. Gran told Eliza he’d been born too soon, and Mama was too tired to fight the fever. One by one, they went; first Jack, then Mary, and then Gran, leaving Eliza alone with Willie, who by then had taken sick as well. When his time came, he just toddled away, like he knew where he was bound off to. Eliza wished she’d dared to follow, but Papa didn't brook any misbehavior. She stayed put, pretending the rooms had always been this quiet, until she was too tired to stay. It was then she took to wandering, still keeping watch along the wall.

Later, the people came to burn their belongings to keep the sickness at bay, and to put up the square stones. Eliza asked them if they’d seen her Papa, but they never answered. She would like to think they'd have told her if they knew. To bide the time, she sat by the stones and waited, tracing her fingers along the cuts, trying to remember the letters Papa had taught her—the tent of an A, the circle of an O.

They were fading in her memory, just as the letters on the stone were harder and harder to see, the passing of days having taken their toll. She still knew her name, though. She practiced every day, drawing ELIZA in the air again and again, using the stone as her guide.

Every so often, people would amble by what was left of the house. When they’d come into the yard, Eliza would get up real close up, near like, and watch the hair on their arms rise in greeting. She’d ask, “Have you seen my Papa,” but her words left no more mark than she did.

It had been so long since anyone came by to visit, she didn’t even bother counting anymore. She had only sunrise, sunset, and waiting. Eliza heard the boy before she saw him, picking up pebbles from the yard and dropping them. His mother stood a few feet away, one eye on her toddler, and the other on the square stones.

She said, “There used to be a house here, a long time ago.” She shook her head. “So sad.”

The little boy picked up more stones, babbling to himself. Eliza walked over to him. He reminded her of Willie, smelling of sleep and angels. He opened his fist to give her a rock. As much as she wanted to hold it, to feel the smooth edges, it slipped through her fingers and dropped at the boy’s feet and he laughed.

“Again,” he said, crouching to pick it up. He stood up and shoved his fist out at her. He uncurled his fingers, so she could take the rock. Willie used to drop things too, just to see how many times he could get Eliza to pick them up for him afterwards.

Eliza sighed. She knew it was of no use, and hoped the boy would tire of this game.

He dropped the rock and watched it fall.

"What are you laughing at?" The boy’s mother asked, picking him up and smothering him with kisses. Eliza wanted the boy’s mother to pick her up too.

Thinking about her own mama used to warm Eliza, at least for a few moments. She’d conjure up her image, holding out her hands to feel for the curves of her mother’s cheek, but like the letters, Eliza’s memory of her mother’s face grew dimmer each day. Eliza was always cold now.

The boy touched his mother’s face. "Papa." he said.

"Papa isn't here, goose." The boy's mama pulled his hand to her lips and blew, and he laughed at the squawking sound it made.

Eliza’s fingers tingled warm. “Have you seen my Papa?” She hadn’t asked the question in so long, she wasn’t sure her voice still sounded. When she spoke it was no more than a whisper on the wind.

The boy stopped laughing and looked directly at her. He held out his hand and pointed. “Papa.” His mother turned to look. She furred her brow at the boy. “No one’s here but us.”

The boy was stubborn, though, and kicked his feet until his mother put him down. Once he touched ground, he darted towards the front of the house, Eliza and the boy’s mother following close behind. He ran along the edge of the wall, until he reached the opening where the gate used to be. The boy turned to look back at Eliza, and then pointed towards the opening. "Papa," he repeated.

It had occurred to Eliza over the years that her father didn’t come to her because he couldn’t. She had thought to leave, but she didn’t want the act that finally cut her tether to the land to be one of disobedience. She walked towards the entrance and stood next to the boy. She saw no one walking the road beyond the gate. If she left, she would have to go out on her own.

She put a hand on the boy’s shoulder, and the warmth in her fingers began to spread, and she sensed something new mixed in with the scent of sun and grass and a small child—the unmistakable perfume of tobacco on the wind. Then the boy stepped across the gate, beyond the line that existed only in Eliza’s memory.

"Bye bye," said the boy, waving to Eliza, opening and closing his hands like little ones do.

The boy’s mother laughed. “Bye bye,” she said, to no one in particular.

Eliza felt the heaviness that held her to earth rise like the sun. "Thank you," she said.

The boy's mama shivered. Before she left, Eliza took a few steps back and ran along the top of the wall, making the ivy dance one last time. She could stand to be tired; it was time for her to rest.