September Canvas (8 page)

The young man working nights at Miranda’s dorm had apologized profusely for disturbing Deanna in the middle of the night. Afraid that something serious had happened, Deanna had begun to dress with one hand while she was still on the phone. The night staff member told her that Miranda had been upset ever since her surprise visitors left earlier in the evening.

“What surprise visitors? Why the hell didn’t you call me right away?” Deanna asked as she struggled into her jeans. “You know I’m only twenty minutes away.”

“We thought we were handling it, Ms. Moore. Miranda looked calmer just before bedtime. But when she woke from some nightmare or something, we couldn’t reach her. She won’t let us near her, and I don’t want to have the nurse on call medicate her if we can avoid it.”

“No, you’re right. Don’t give her anything. I’m on my way out the door as we speak. Tell her Dee’s coming.” Deanna drove as fast as she could through the empty streets of Grantville, her mind whirling with questions. Sometimes her mother decided to spring a surprise visit on Miranda, and this time she might have had her husband and any or both of his brats with her. Usually Miranda tolerated her stepfather fairly well, but the two teenyboppers were too much for her. If Deanna had been on speaking terms with her mother, she would have demanded that the superficial little horrors be banned from visiting, as well as making any
surprise
visits. As things were, the only communication between her and her mother was the notes they both made in the binder in Miranda’s room. Staff and next of kin communicated via the binder when it wasn’t possible to have a face-to-face meeting. It also functioned as a diary of Miranda’s progress.

They were well into their twelfth binder after nine years now.

“Dee?” Miranda pulled back. “Read.”

“What, honey? You want me to read to you?”

“Read.” Miranda removed a book from the shelf and placed it between them. She never gave anything directly to anyone, but it was still clear what she wanted.

“Which one is this?” Deanna examined the book. “Aha. One of our favorites.
Charlotte’s Web
.”

“Friend.”

“Yes, that’s right. It’s about true friendship.” Deanna helped Miranda crawl back into bed, as always feeling utterly protective of the girl. Anyone who gave Miranda a quick look would probably guess her age to be about twelve. Deanna tucked her in beneath the soft down duvet and moved up to sit next to her, one hand on Miranda’s cinnamon-colored hair, while she opened the book with the other. She began to read the story of the loyal, intelligent spider that saved the life of her friend, the pig, and as she kept reading the classic story, her own anger began to dissipate.

She couldn’t help Miranda if she allowed her temper to rule. Her sister needed her calmness as much as she needed love and affection.

Deanna refused to give her mother’s actions another thought. She would do what she always did—write a no-nonsense message in Miranda’s chart. Nine years ago she vowed never to speak to her mother again, and she had kept her word.

Angela Moore decided to place Miranda in this facility when she was only seven. Though it was progressive and cutting-edge, Deanna was infuriated because their mother had betrayed both of them. Angela had sworn they’d always be together, be a family, after their father passed away when Deanna was eighteen and Miranda was two.

Five years later when she met Percy, that all changed. He was a widower with two daughters Miranda’s age, and it didn’t take him long to convince Angela that Miranda was better off in an institution.

Deanna did everything possible to keep her original family together, and when Angela wouldn’t listen, but talked on and on about how the staff at Tremayne’s worked miracles with autistic children and that it would be good for all of them, Deanna gave her mother an ultimatum.

She could still see the pained, angry expression on her mother’s face. Deanna told her mother that unless she reconsidered sending Miranda away, she would leave and never talk to her mother again.

Ever. Angela pleaded with her, but also refused to budge. The incident ended in total chaos. They shipped Miranda off to Tremayne’s, and Deanna left without saying another word to either Angela or Percy.

Determined to keep her anger at bay, Deanna focused on the story.

Miranda’s head rested on her shoulder and grew increasingly heavy as the story of Charlotte, the spider, unfolded. After only forty-five pages, Miranda’s breathing was even and she had slid farther down under her duvet.Deanna carefully dislodged her arm and rose from the bed. She made sure Miranda was comfortable and carefully brushed the silky hair out of her face. Her sister was the epitome of cuteness, with her slightly freckled, upturned nose and huge blue eyes. Deanna wanted Miranda to have every opportunity—not only the ones available for anyone with her diagnosis, but
any
chance possible for happiness and fulfillment. Did Angela see how amazing her youngest daughter was and the progress she had made the last few years? Miranda’s language skills had picked up enormously when Tremayne’s enrolled five of their students in a trial program devised by the University of Vermont.

Deanna had to admit that Tremayne’s
had
been good for Miranda, and that the feud between her and her mother didn’t benefit her sister at all. Still, they reached total gridlock nine years ago, and after the nightmare two years ago when all hell broke loose around Deanna at Grantville High, she saw no end. If not for the all-consuming sisterly love she felt for Miranda, Deanna would have disappeared a long time ago. She would have changed her name and moved to another state, perhaps even to Canada. Instead she was stuck in a life that revolved around her sister and her work.

Deanna grabbed a binder from a shelf, browsing through the latest entries jotted down by the staff, to see if they had recorded anything the last few days to explain what had happened. Irene Costa had made a short entry the previous day, written in dynamic letters, and Deanna’s trained eye immediately detected that Irene had pressed the pen hard against the paper, a sign of her displeasure.

Miranda’s mother and stepfather visited and brought Miranda’s stepsisters. 
I tried to advise against it, since it has yet
to benefit Miranda to be around children
her own age, especially if they show very
little concern or appreciation toward her.
Angela Moore Bodell insisted that it is in
Miranda’s best interest to learn to interact
with her entire family, and when I tried to
suggest that it might be too much for her to
meet both girls at the same time, Mr. Bodell
interfered, clearly feeling I had criticized his
daughters, which was never my intention.
It didn’t take the Bodell teenagers long
to make Miranda mute and fidgety. She
eventually started rocking and tugging
at her eyelashes, a familiar sign that she’s 
under significant stress. Luckily, the Bodell
family left before things escalated, but I had
to remain isolated with Miranda in her room
for an hour, brushing and braiding her hair
over and over to calm her. I’ve seen her sister
Deanna do this on several occasions, and it
seemed to work after a while. Miranda is
still not talking now when my shift is over,
which is never a good sign.

Irene Costa

Deanna set her jaw and gripped the pen hard in turn. She had to force herself to not use the harsh language and profanities that first came to mind as she wrote.

I received an emergency phone call
from Tremayne’s tonight, when they risked
having to sedate Miranda if I couldn’t
manage to calm her down. I held her and
later read to her, and it is obvious to me
that our mother’s selfish way of thinking,
and her husband’s all-too-great faith in
the benevolence of his daughters, caused
Miranda to regress into old behavior when
subjected to stress. If our mother can’t see
this and keeps acting in ways that are not
in Miranda’s best interests, I’m afraid that
Miranda will suffer further setbacks that
will ultimately become obstacles she can’t
overcome. This type of spur-of-the-moment
visit cannot be allowed to occur again.

Deanna Moore

Deanna replaced the binder on a shelf and tiptoed out of Miranda’s room, leaving the door slightly ajar and the nightlight on, as always.

She walked up to the day room where the two young men who had the night shift were watching TV with the sound barely audible.

“Hi, guys. She’s calmed down and gone to sleep now.” Deanna put her jacket on. “Can you make sure Irene Costa knows about what happened tonight?”

“Absolutely, ma’am. She’s working the day shift tomorrow, so she’ll get the report right away.”

“Excellent. Well, don’t hesitate to call me if Miranda has another setback. Good night.” Deanna nodded briskly and walked down the corridor. The night air cooled her temper somewhat, but now she had room for other, more confused feelings—about Faythe. Their morning together, paddling the canoe, and the way Faythe managed to coax words out of her that Deanna never thought she would utter. The entire experience flooded her senses as she drove back to her cabin. They had almost alienated each other.

At one point, Deanna felt so cornered she lashed out,
wanting
to distance herself from Faythe, to go back to the status quo where she felt safe. She hadn’t counted on Faythe’s innate ability to bypass her apprehensions. Why did her smile make Deanna forget everything about her resolve—
about my need for self-preservation
—and go completely mushy?

The empty streets did little to distract Deanna as she drove through Grantville. The way Faythe hugged her when they said good-bye after their picnic preyed on her mind. Meant only as a hug between friends, it had been like pouring water on a withering plant. Afterward, in her panic, Deanna pulled back quickly, since she knew in her heart that such touches would endanger her peace of mind.

The sweetness of the memory overshadowed any discomfort.

Faythe’s aura of innocence and goodness drew Deanna in. Faythe would never be unfair or unjust about anything; she obviously possessed a strong moral code. This quality should have been reassuring, but instead it made Deanna uneasy. If Faythe ended up believing and siding with the people in Grantville who pegged her as an immoral cradle robber…

Deanna gripped the steering wheel harder. Faythe was practically a stranger to her. It shouldn’t matter what she thought. She had hardened herself against Gloria Mueller and her posse of “ladies-in-waiting” for two years now. Their method of making sure every person who counted in Grantville knew their “truth” made it hard to pretend she didn’t care, but she managed. Now she should be able to jut her chin out and disregard anything Faythe might think of her.

When Deanna considered that possibility, the pang in her chest told her she was kidding herself. What Faythe thought of her was beginning to matter a lot, and ultimately that vulnerability might undo her.

Faythe opened the door, a broad grin on her face. “Jeez, can you believe this weather?”

“I can.” Deanna removed her rain coat and looked around. “Where can I hang this so I don’t mess up the floor?”

“Here. Hand it over.” Faythe took the coat and carried it quickly to the mud room on the opposite side of the kitchen. Returning, she noticed that Deanna had placed her rubber boots on the small welcome mat and now stood hesitantly in the doorway to the living room. “I have everything ready. Popcorn, Coca-Cola, unless you’re a Pepsi kind of gal, and extra pillows and blankets.”

“Extra pillows?” Deanna raised an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me. You need something to hide behind if we watch something scary.” Faythe felt her cheeks flush. “Eh, well, so I’m a chicken.”

“Any thoughts on what to rent?” Deanna sat down on the far end of the couch.

“I browsed the pay-per-view options, and since I’m a sucker for romantic comedies, I looked up their current selection of those first.” Faythe sat down next to Deanna. She supposed she should have opted for the other corner of the couch, but she wanted more physical contact with Deanna. She hadn’t been able to get the quick hug out of her thoughts.

“Romantic comedies?” Deanna flipped through the list of films available. “Not really my cup of tea. What do you think of Bogart and Bacall?”

“As in Humphrey and Lauren?” Faythe wrinkled her nose. “They were brilliant, but the movies are a bit dated.”

“They’re not dated. They never could be dated—they’re classics.” Deanna shook her head. “All right, look here. They have
Lawrence of
Arabia
.”

“God. Another ancient one. How about
Love Actually,
or that new one,
Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day
?”

“Let me read the blurbs.” Deanna’s tone wasn’t encouraging, and Faythe wondered if they’d be able to figure out something to watch.

She should have pegged Deanna for being a deep person even when it came to movies.

“Oh, boy.
Love Actually
is apparently one of those romantic comedies that has barely enough substance to hold it together. What’s with you and these no-brainer romances?” Faythe slammed the popcorn bowl down. “They’re not no-brainers!
Love Actually
happens to be brilliantly put together with a great message.
Miss Pettigrew
got fantastic reviews and the actress playing Miss Pettigrew, Frances McDormand, is an Oscar-winning character actress.” Faythe glowered at Deanna, feeling as if her taste in movies had put another nail in the coffin when it came to proving how shallow she was.

“No worries, I didn’t mean to upset you. I was just teasing. We like different things, that’s all.”

“So you’re not being snobbish about my taste in movies?” Faythe inhaled deeply and slowly let the air out through her nose.

“Perhaps a bit.” Deanna looked apologetic. “I’m sorry.” Faythe knew a sincere apology when she heard one. “God, Deanna, I’m overreacting. You can pick any movie you’d like. You’re my guest.”