Chapter Two:

Duffel bags—a jumble of tennis rackets—sandy sneakers thrown into the trunk—damp bathing-suits fluttering from car windows like banners. The verandah was overrun with last minute good-byes. "Don't forget to write—don't forget about our paper—call us as soon as you know if you made first violin, Artie!" The elder Mrs. Dr. Blythe was hugging two of her daughters at once. The younger Mrs. Dr. Blythe was running in and out of the house, returning each time with some forgotten small item. Amy's blanket—Avery's specs—one of Gilly Fords blue socks. Each summer, after the exodus was complete, no matter how thorough she had been on the morning of departure, Faith came across a spate of left-behind things. She did not mind. They seemed like relics of the happy summer they had all spent together. It had rained in the night—the Ford twins were jumping in the puddles, drenching each other in tremendous splashes.

Uncle Jerry Meredith's station wagon was the last to pull out of the driveway. Avery was huddled against the seat, sleeping, his shock of frizzy curls hiding his face. Claire had her face pressed against the glass, and was waving with all her might and main. Sally waited until the car had passed the fir wood and then she ran down to the gate. She leaned over, her braids falling over her shoulders, just in time to see the car go 'round the bend in the road. Was Claire waving? Sally couldn't tell, but decided to believe she was. She waved, too, just in case Claire was looking back.

The lilies by the gate, Helen's lilies, were losing their summertime bloom and wore crackly hoods of brown.

Sally went slowly back up to the house. She stood in the walkway and considered it for a long moment. Ingleside was a cheerful house, with its neat white siding and yellow trim. Its neat, sloping tin roof was charming on rainy nights like last night, where they had almost had to shout to be heard over the noisy din of water. Oh, last night Ingleside had been full of friends and fun and noise and chatter.

This morning the house looked a little deflated.

It seemed to slump over and huddle against itself in defeat. Why are people always leaving me? Sally imagined the house saying. She felt her heart turn over in a pang of sympathy. Over a house! But then, Sally loved Ingleside as though it were really a person. Her whole life had been contained in its walls. She had been born there. It seemed incredible to her that she might one day move away—that she might even die someplace else. It seemed impossible, that old story about how Grandmother Blythe had not wanted to come here, but stay in the House of Dreams. The House of Dreams was sweet, but it belonged to the Fords. It was not home.

It was gray and overcast, and the house seemed to be on the verge of tears. Sally threw her arms wide. If she had been able to, she would have thrown her arms around the house, holding Ingleside near.

"Don't worry," she said. "They'll come back. They always do. And we'll love you hard enough in the meantime to make up the difference."

If Ingleside had been able to talk, it might have said: Not always. Sometimes people go away forever. But forever was a long time. And Sally was right. They would be back.

The sun split the clouds and shone down over the world. The windows sparkled, throwing rainbows every which way. Ingleside was happy again.

"Today has been a changeable day," Sally wrote in her journal before bed that night. "I was in a blue mood over everyone leaving-then I cheered myself up-then I quarreled with Cam at the supper table. He said something about Claire being silly—I didn't like that. And so I said that Cam would know silly, since he is silly himself. If I had only just said those words, they might have passed without remark. Only I used my haughtiest tone to say them. And I mentioned that Bess Golden thought Cam was silly, too. Cam has always had a soft spot for Bess—he thinks that she is perfection incarnate, and he said once, 'She makes me feel as though I am my best self.'" He is always on his best behavior around Bess—he would hate to think that he has ever given her cause to think he is a bad boy—and I knew he would hate it if I said she did. That's why I said it. I don't know why I did—other than the fact that I am bad, through and through—but when anybody, even my brother, speaks out against the ones I love, I can't stand it.

Cam's eyes flashed black at me. He has not gone into a rage all summer, but he did then. And it was such a rage. It was as though all the rages he didn't have were rolled into one. He picked up his fork—he brought the handle of it down, hard, in the center of his plate. It cracked clear across. Pandemonium ensued!

Grandfather exclaimed—Daddy cried out, "Gerald Cameron!" Mother leapt up to save the tablecloth from the pool of gravy that was seeping through the plate. Grandmother looked at me, and her face was so, so sorry. Walt said, "For Pete's sake, Sally, why do you egg him on?"

"Egg him on?" I cried. "Cam is crazy—the men in white coats are going to have to take him away to the loony bin!" I looked to Helen for support. She was crying, of course. Her eyes were blue as the morning glories that twine around her garden posts. Helen always comes to my defence.

Only not this time.

"Cam can't help himself, Sally, but you can," sobbed Helen. "Oh, Cammie—don't run off—" For Cam had gotten up from the table, red-faced. When he is in a rage, he doesn't care a whit for anybody else. But when it passes, he is always sorry. He flew through the room and out the back, to Rainbow Valley. Helen followed him.

Nobody came to my defence, and instead of being ashamed, I was angry. If I was to do what Cam had done, Mother would spank me—yes, she would! But Cam never gets in trouble for his rages. Perhaps he can't help them. Dad seems to think his temper is the result of some sort of chemical imbalance and that he will grow out of it as he ages. That might be true—but it isn't easy for us in the meantime, is it?

I went to my room, very pointedly skipping dessert. I thought that everyone would beg me to stay—but nobody did. I heard them downstairs, and knew they were happy, eating gingerbread and whipped cream without me. In a little while, Mother came up and sat on the bed and told me gently that I must make allowances for Cam when he is not himself. While she was talking, I was thinking of the old stories that she and Dad tell laughingly about when us kids were small. Cam was such a difficult baby—and I was so good, they 'sometimes forgot I was even there!' It does feel that way, sometimes—like nobody notices me, even when I am good—which isn't as often as it should be. Still, it has been that way my whole life and I am tired of it. I rolled over and faced the wall, and when Mother laid her hand on my arm, I shook her off.

Mother said, "We will talk about it tomorrow, Sally." Her voice was tired and there was a patient but weary note in it. Oh, I hate when Mother is discouraged with me! And I hate Cam sometimes!

I've just put my pen down for a moment and lain here, thinking. And I've just remembered the vow I made last night—that I would strive to lay off the childish guise of Sally in favor of the graceful airs of Cecilia Rose. Cecilia would never, never provoke her brother. And Cecilia would never hate anybody. She is understanding and serene and kind and gentle. She is all the things St. Paul writes about in his chapter on what is love.

If I am to be all these things, I must guard against doing what I did tonight. No matter how horrid Cam is, I must remember that his horridness springs from some self-critical, self-hating place inside himself. I must, as Helen says, love him hard enough to make up for it. And I mustn't think mean thoughts about Helen for being such a baby at times. It is the way she is, for better or for worse, and I am proud to have a sweet sister, even when I find her exasperating.

And when it comes to Walt—Cecilia would never mind that little habit he has developed, lately, of being superior and a little pompous. He is growing up—and I am beginning to realize that growing up must be so confusing. When Walt is talking down to me, I must remember that look that comes over his face, at times—that look as though he is all of a sudden overwhelmed by life. It must be difficult to wake up one morning and find yourself a different person from the one you always knew, before—with different thoughts—more complicated thoughts—and new and far-off dreams.

Well, I'm crying, now, myself! I really am awful. I suppose nobody can like me very much at all, if I am so awful. And I am awfully displeased with myself, and that hurts, too.

I laid my pen down, again, but this time it was to have a good cry, over the fact that I was cold to mother, and made Grandmother look disappointed. And then what do you think happened, just as I was drying my eyes on the pillow-sham? There was a soft tap at the door, and Helen stuck her head in. In her hand he held a plate of gingerbread—my favourite, like Dad's. She came in and sat on my bed and we ate it together. Helen is a dearheart—she can't stand to see anybody feeling less than joyful. Her little heart aches with pain over it.

"Are you feeling better, darling?" she asked me, worriedly, as she took the plate away.

"Yes," I told her, because I was.

"Are you still mad at Cammie?"

"No," I told her. And it was almost true.

But not quite—because later, I heard Cam's tread on the stairs, and I could tell from his very footfalls that he was disappointed in himself. And I thought, good. He should be.

I am very glad that I have a whole year in which to mould myself into Cecilia. Because sometimes it feels good to be plain, flawed, human Sally Blythe.