"Martin, Ann M - Baby-sitters Club Mystery 005 - Mary Anne and the Secret in the Attic" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martin Ann M)

"The cemetery is nearby," said Byron. "Can we go check it out?"
"Sure," said Stacey. They hopped on their bikes again, and soon they were exploring the cemetery.
"This is neat," said Adam. Stacey raised her eyebrows. "Creepy is more like it," she said.
The triplets started to look closely at the tombstones. "People sure died a lot younger in the old days," said Adam. "Look at this guy. He was only nineteen, and his wife was seventeen."
"Ooh, listen to this," said Byron, reading an inscription. " 'How many hopes lie buried here.' That's for a little girl who died when she was only three. There's a picture of a lamb on it." "Here's another one," said Jordan. " 'Not
lost but gone before.' That's kind of poetic. Vanessa would like it."
Stacey began to feel unnerved. The cemetery was beautiful and peaceful, but it felt strange to be walking over people's graves. Just seeing their names on the stones Ч Sarah, Otis, Philura, Emeline Ч made them seem so real to her. She hurried the triplets along to Old Hickory's grave, which they thought was "really awesome." Then she took them home.
When I read StaceТs entry in the club notebook, I got an idea. Maybe if I went there I could find my mother's grave (which my father had never taken me to), or the graves of her ancestors. I'd never been terribly interested in finding out more about my "personal history," but now I was awfully curious.
Chapter 6.
It took me over a week to find the courage to go to the cemetery. I wasn't scared, exactly. Or maybe I was scared, but I couldn't tell you what I was scared of. I guess it was just that the idea of opening up my past seemed kind of overwhelming. There were times during that week when I could convince myself I was better off not knowing anything about my past, but my curiosity won out in the end.
I headed for the cemetery on a Tuesday afternoon. I hadn't told anyone I was going, not even Dawn or Kristy. This was something I had to do alone. It was a bright, sunny day, and as I biked to the cemetery I felt optimistic and brave. "What's the big deal?" I said out loud. "It's just a cemetery."
But when I paused at the big wrought-iron gate at the entrance to the cemetery, my palms started to sweat. My heart began to beat fast, and my breath was coming in funny little
gasps. I decided to walk my bike around, just to give myself time to calm down. As I walked, I looked through the fence at the cemetery. It didn't look so scary in the daytime.
I thought about the adventure the BSC had had there, one Halloween. The cemetery had sure looked different at midnight ort the scariest night of the year! These girls from school had tried to scare me into thinking that a necklace I had been wearing was a bad-luck charm. They thought they were tricking us into a terrifying night at Old Hickory's grave, but we scared them out of their wits! Still, it had been a nerve-racking night. I don't think I've been back to the cemetery since then.
By the time I'd walked all the way around the cemetery to the front gates I was ready to go in. I took a deep breath and held it Ч and then let it out with a giggle. I was thinking about when Mallory had told us that she and her brothers and sisters believe you should always hold your breath when you're near a graveyard. It's so the spirits won't bother you or something. Well, there was no way I could hold my breath the whole time I was in the cemetery, so I decided to forget about that old superstition.
I started to walk along the main path through the cemetery. It was kind of a pretty place, if you could forget about all the dead
people. ("People are dying to get into cemeteries!" is one of Watson Brewer's favorite jokes.) Anyway, beautiful big trees were shading the walk, and flowers had been planted near many of the headstones. I had thought the cemetery would be still and quiet, but instead birds were singing happily. I heard the sound of a lawnmower, too, and music coming from somebody's house nearby.
I saw some impressive monuments, like the one that marked Old Hickory's grave, and older, worn stones that must have been standing for a hundred years or more. I bent closer to look at some of the older ones. The writing was faded and hard to read, but the inscriptions were interesting. "There is rest for the weary," said one. "Sweet is the memory of the dead," said another.
That one reminded me of why I was there. It was because I had no memories. I decided to start looking for my mother's grave, but I didn't know where to begin. Little roads and paths led all over the cemetery. How would I ever find the place where she was buried? I needed a map or something.
I started walking, checking the names on every stone I passed. At first I looked for Spiers, but then I realized I should be looking for my mother's maiden name, too. I knew she was buried near some of her relatives, and
their name certainly wasn't Spier. Before she married my father, my mother's name was Baker. Alma Baker Ч isn't that a pretty name?
Someone with that name would have been kind and gentle and patient. Alma. It was such a calm, sweet name. I thought about my mother as I walked up and down the rows of stones, and I started to feel a little choked up. Still, I checked each name. My head was starting to spin. There were common names, like Smith and Brown. There were simple ones, like Fox and Bell. There were unpronounceable ones, like Andrzejewski and Guadagnino, and ones that I thought were kind of funny, like Looney and Stumpf. (I had to giggle at those, even though I knew it was a terrible thing to do.)
But I didn't see any Bakers. The path stretched on in front of me, leading to an apparently endless row of headstones. I was beginning to feel frustrated. "I should know where my mother is buried," I said out loud, angry at my father for never bringing me to the cemetery. Then I saw something that wiped my anger and frustration away.
It was a simple headstone with a picture of a crane etched onto it. There was a small bouquet of wildflowers on the grave, and the yellow and white blossoms almost hid the name on the stone. But I brushed them aside to make
sure I had seen the name correctly. I had. Yamamoto. And underneath that, a nickname: Mimi. Mimi! I felt a wave of sadness, and suddenly I missed Mimi so, so much.
Mimi was Claudia's grandmother. She lived with them for years Ч ever since her husband died Ч and so I knew her all my life. She died not that long ago, and I miss her a lot. She was kind of like a grandmother to me, as well as to Claud. Actually, she was more than a grandmother. She was a special friend. Mimi was comforting, loving, and dependable. If you were upset, she could always make you feel better. And if you were happy, she shared your happiness.
I stood for a moment looking at Mimi's gravestone, and then I began to cry. Now, my friends call me sentimental and over-sensitive, because I cry so easily. I cry during the Movie of the Week, even if itТs not supposed to be sad, and I cry when I read certain scenes in my favorite books, even if I've read them a million times before. So, I admit that I cry pretty frequently. But this time I was crying from somewhere deep inside, and this time crying didn't feel as good as it usually does. This time it really hurt.
Why was I crying? Well, the tears weren't only about Mimi. They were also about my mother Ч but they were connected with
Mimi. Let me see if I can explain. Remember I said I knew Mimi all my life? Well, that means that Mimi knew me all my life, too, including the parts of my life that I don't remember because I was too young. She knew me when I was first born, which means that she also knew my mother. So did other people, of course, but the thing is, I could have asked Mimi all about her, and Mimi would have told me everything she remembered. Mimi would have listened to me when I told her how confused I was about where I came from, and she would have comforted me. But Mimi was gone.
I stood there crying for a long time, until I realized I had to keep working on this mystery that was driving me crazy. " 'Bye, Mimi," I said. "I miss you so much." I wiped away my tears, took one last look at Mimi's headstone, and left the cemetery. I'd had enough of that place for one day.
By the time I reached my house I had decided something. I was going to go back up to that attic, and I was going to keep looking through those boxes until I understood more about who I really was.
As soon as I got home, I headed upstairs. I figured I had about an hour before the rest of my family came home, so I knew I had to work quickly. This time, I didn't have to use a flash-
light. Weak sunshine was coming through a dusty window at one end of the attic, and I dragged the boxes over to an old armchair that sat in the light.
I looked quickly through the first box, reviewing the pictures I'd seen the last time I was up there. There were my parents again, on their wedding day. And there I was, baby Mary Anne, with those two people I hadn't recognized by the light of the flashlight. The sunlight didn't help Ч I still didn't recognize them Ч so I went on looking through the box. The rest of its contents were pretty boring: old spelling tests and social studies reports ("Alaska, Land of Contrasts") that I'd brought home to show my father.
I opened another box, which was marked "correspondence" and picked up a bundle of letters that lay on top. They were addressed to my father. I turned one of them over, looking for the return address, and my heart gave a jump when I saw what it said. The address read "Baker, Box 127, Old County Road, May-nard, Iowa." Were these letters from my mother to my father? I put the bundle down for a minute. Maybe I shouldn't read them. Maybe they were too personal. But I couldn't turn away from them. I picked them up, slipped the top one off the stack, shook the letter out, and began to read.
"Dear Richard," it said.
"We, too, miss Alma with all our hearts." Hmmm. So it wasn't from my mother. My mother was already dead when this was written. I read on. "But Mary Anne brings us such pleasure every moment of the day. She is truly Alma's daughter: her bright, sunny disposition is a joy. And she is so clever! Not half a year old, and already she knows our faces. We owe you thanks for sending her to us."
The letter was signed, "Verna and Bill."
Verna and Bill? Who were they? Why had I been sent to them? I picked up another letter and began to read. "Mary Anne smiled at Bill today," it said. "He nearly keeled over with delight." I read another one. "Enclosed is a picture of Mary Anne with one of our goats. Bill says he's sure our granddaughter will be a farmer's wife someday."
Suddenly my face felt hot and flushed. Granddaughter? That was me. I was Verna and Bill's granddaughter. They were my grandparents. Verna was my mother's mother! I had lived with them when I was a baby, and I didn't remember a thing about it. Not only that, I hadn't ever heard of these people! But suddenly I was sure they were the two people in the pictures I'd seen.
My mind was reeling. This was almost too much to take in. I picked up one more letter,
hoping it would help me understand more about this time I didn't remember.
"Dear Richard," it began. "We are glad to hear that you agree with our plan. Mary Anne is happy with us, and she is safe and secure here on the farm. Thank you for giving us this angel."
Oh, my lord. I couldn't believe what I was reading. My father had given me away. I threw down the letter and stood up. My legs felt shaky, and my head was throbbing. I'd wanted so badly to know more about who I was and where I'd come from. But now that I knew the awful truth, I realized I'd been better off before. I wished I had never found that letter. I left the attic without a second glance at the boxes that lay open behind me.
Chapter 7.
I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling. I wasn't crying or anything Ч I was just lying there. I think I was in a state of shock. What I'd read had made me feel as if my whole life had been turned upside down.
"Mary Anne!" I heard Sharon calling from downstairs. "Dinner's ready. Come help Dawn set the table."
I opened my mouth to answer, but no sound came out. The last thing I wanted to do was eat dinner, but I was on automatic pilot. I swung my legs off the bed, stood up, and walked downstairs, feeling like a robot. Dawn was straightening the blue-and-white place-mats that we use for everyday, so I marched over to the silverware drawer and started to count out forks.
"Mary Anne!" said Dawn. "What's up? I didn't even know you were home."
I smiled at her Ч but it wasn't a real smile.