Shadows (7 page)

Or, rather, Amy Carlson, since her words were directed only at the little girl, who had now drawn her knees up defensively and wrapped her arms around her legs. “Why do I get the idea you’re not nearly as glad to see me as I am to see you?” Hildie asked, rising from her chair and circling the desk to drop to her knees and face Amy directly.

“Because I’m not glad to see you at all!” Amy said defiantly, her face screwing up in an expression that clearly reflected the fear that threatened to overwhelm her. Amy had been scared ever since she’d first awakened that morning. “I don’t want to come here. I want to go home.” She did her best to glare at the woman, but failed as tears welled in her eyes. She clamped them shut, unwilling to let Hildie Kramer see her cry.

“Well, I don’t blame you,” Hildie agreed. “If anybody had tried to send me away to school when I was ten, I just would have flat out refused to go. I’d have thrown a tantrum so bad my parents never would have suggested such a thing again.”

The words startled Amy. Involuntarily, she opened her eyes again. “You would?” she asked, her expression guarded, as if she suspected a trap.

“Of course I would,” Hildie went on, rising to her feet, and reminding herself once more that she really ought to take about twenty pounds off her too-ample body. “And I wasn’t nearly as smart as you are. If you’ve changed your mind, how come you didn’t figure out a way to make your
parents let you stay home? If I could have done it, I can’t believe you couldn’t!”

“Well, I tried,” Amy told her before thinking about her words. “I even locked myself in the closet, but Mom had a key.”

“Not smart,” Hildie observed. “If you’re going to lock yourself in a closet, always make sure you have all the keys with you.”

Amy’s arms dropped away from her legs, and then her feet edged off the sofa and fell to the floor. The beginnings of a smile played around the corners of her mouth, and she ran her fingers through her shock of red curls. “I already thought of that,” she admitted. “But Daddy said he’d have taken the door off the hinges.”

“Oh, did he? Well, come and take a look at this.” Hildie moved to the closed door of the closet in the opposite wall. After only a moment’s hesitation, Amy got up and followed her. “Is this pretty much like the closet in your room?”

Amy studied the paneled door and its richly carved walnut frame, and then nodded. “It’s not as nice as this, but it’s sort of the same.”

“Then look at the hinges, and tell me what happens if you pry the pins out.”

Frowning, Amy moved closer and studied the hinges for a second, then examined the crack on the other side of the door. “You can’t get it off,” she finally announced. “Even if you take the pins out, the door won’t come off unless it’s open.”

“Very good,” Hildie told her. “Which is why we don’t have any locks on the closet doors around here. Can’t have kids like you locking themselves inside and making us rip out the door frames, can we? Now, what do you say we go take a look at your room?”

Taking Amy’s hand in her own, Hildie led the little girl out of the office, beckoning the Carlsons to follow. Ignoring the old-fashioned elevator whose ornate brass cage fascinated all the boys of the Academy, she crossed the broad hall to the foot of the stairs that swept up to the second floor in a graceful, oddly romantic, curve. Just by the look on the little girl’s face, Hildie knew she was correct in her
guess that Amy would find the stairs far more appealing than the rattling old elevator. With Amy’s parents behind them, Hildie ushered their daughter up the stairs, then up a second flight to the third floor, where there were ten rooms, five on each side of a narrow hallway that ran the length of the house. Halfway down the hall, Hildie opened a door and stepped aside to let Amy enter first.

Amy paused at the threshold and peered suspiciously inside, as if sensing that by going into the room, she would be agreeing to accept it.

Inside, directly opposite the door, Amy peered at a dormer window with a cushion-covered seat in it and brightly flowered curtains pulled back to let the sunlight flood into the room. The room was papered in a rosebud pattern that matched the curtains. Against one wall stood a daybed, heaped with pillows. Opposite it was a chest of drawers, a small desk, and a set of bookshelves. In one corner, its door standing ajar, was a closet.

Without thinking, Amy headed to the closet and examined its latch. “It really doesn’t have a lock,” she said, almost to herself.

“Would I lie to you?” Hildie asked.

“But what if I have something I want to lock up?” Amy asked, then realized the implication of her own question. “I mean, if I decide to stay,” she added.

“Why don’t we figure that out when, and if, it happens?” Hildie paused, then asked gently, “So, what do you think, Amy? Will this be all right?”

“It—It’s pretty,” Amy admitted. “But—” She turned to her mother, her eyes flooding once more with tears. “Do I really have to stay here, Mom?” she pleaded, running to fling her arms around her mother’s waist. “Why can’t I go home?”

Margaret Carlson patted her daughter gently, while her worried gaze met Hildie Kramer’s encouraging smile. “But, honey, just yesterday you were excited about coming here. Don’t you remember?”

Amy did remember. When they’d visited the week before, the big old house had seemed really neat and Mrs. Kramer had appeared to be nice. Now, however, the
thought of being left all alone here made her tremble. “I changed my mind,” Amy wailed. “I want to stay with you and Daddy, and Kitty-Cat!”

“Kitty-Cat?” Hildie Kramer asked. “You didn’t tell me you had a cat.”

“He’s all black, with white feet, and he sleeps with me,” Amy sniffled.

“Well, for heaven’s sake, we have a cat here. His name’s Tabby, and he was wandering around all day yesterday, looking for a place to sleep. But nobody seemed to want him. Maybe he could sleep with you.”

“But—” Even as Amy started to protest, a yellowish cat appeared at the door, almost as if by some prearranged signal. It looked around for a second, then went directly to Amy, rubbing up against her leg and mewing plaintively. Amy hesitated, then squatted down and put her hands on the cat’s head. “Is what she said true?” she asked the cat. “Don’t you have anyplace to sleep?”

As Amy gathered the cat into her arms and sat down on the bed to begin making friends with it, Hildie nodded to Frank Carlson.

Amy’s father, understanding the unspoken signal, went downstairs to bring his daughter’s luggage up.

   Josh was propped up in bed, a new copy of
Les Miserables
that Dr. Hasborough had brought him that morning open in his lap, a piece of Max’s pecan pie sitting half eaten on the bedside table. Outside, a vulture was circling, descending lower and lower, and Josh was waiting for it to land, and wondering what it might have found.

A coyote?

Probably just a rabbit.

Maybe he should get dressed and go see.

After all, hadn’t Dr. Hasborough agreed that he could go home that afternoon? It wasn’t like he was sick or anything. In feet, his wrists didn’t even hurt anymore. So why did he have to wait until his mother was done with work and could come and talk to the doctor? Why didn’t they just let him go? He wasn’t more than a mile from where he lived—what was the big deal if he walked home?

He glanced at the clock, frowning. Where
was
his mother? It was almost five, and she was supposed to be here at four-thirty.

What had gone wrong?

Had they decided not to let him go home after all?

Putting the book aside, he got out of bed and went to the door, peering out into the hallway. Except for the nurse sitting behind the desk, there was nobody in sight.

Maybe he should just get dressed and walk out.

Or, even better, climb out the window?

Except if his mother showed up, she’d be worried about him, and maybe be afraid he’d tried to kill himself again.

He moved back to the bed and decided to wait a little while longer. He pulled the sheet up, then picked up the book again, but instead of starting to read, found himself thinking about yesterday.

Had he really tried to kill himself? He thought about it, remembering what he’d told the psychologist who’d come to see him that morning. “I guess I must have,” he’d said. “I mean, I cut my wrists, didn’t I?”

But now, as he thought about it some more, he began to wonder. Maybe he’d just been mad at his mother—and everyone else, too—and was just trying to get even with them.

And what if he’d bled to death?

He tried to imagine himself dead. He pictured himself in a coffin, lying in front of the altar at church while his funeral was going on. Except, he quickly realized, he wasn’t imagining himself dead at all. He was imagining himself alive, and watching his own funeral.

Images flicked through his mind: his mother, dressed in black, sobbing with grief. All the kids from school looking really sad, sorry now, when it was too late, that they’d picked on him.

Except that if he’d actually died, he wouldn’t have been there to see them, and what good would it have been to make them sorry if he wasn’t even around for them to apologize to?

He started over again, shutting his eyes and trying to block out all the sounds around him. That was it—if he were
dead, everything would be black, and there wouldn’t be any noise.

Except the harder he tried not to hear things, the louder everything seemed to get. All of a sudden the soft ticking of the clock by the bed appeared to be banging in his ear, and the sound of cars going by on the street was a steady roar.

Dead.

What would it really be like? Not that he really wanted to know, he decided, at least not yet. He could still remember how scared he’d been yesterday, when he’d started bleeding. He’d stood up right away, intending to run out to the living room, but then realized how much blood there was, and how mad his mother would be when she saw the mess he’d made. So he’d just stood there like a dummy, not doing anything.

What if he’d actually bled to death?

He shuddered at the thought, and decided that whatever he’d been thinking yesterday, it had been pretty dumb. All he’d done was make a mess and cause more trouble.

But at least his mother had forgiven him. That, he decided, was one of the neatest things about his mother. No matter what he did, or how mad she got at him, in the end she always forgave him. From now on, he decided, he’d try to do better.

He glanced up at the clock again and was about to start dressing when the door opened and his mother came in, smiling at him.

“Hey, you,” she said. “You look pretty good. Feel like going home?”

Josh’s eyes widened hopefully. “It’s okay? They’re really going to let me go home?”

Brenda nodded. “And I’ve got a surprise for you, too.”

“A surprise?” the boy demanded. “What?”

“Well, I’m not sure I should tell you right now,” Brenda teased. “Maybe I ought to wait till we get home, or maybe tomorrow morning.”

“No!” Josh protested. “Now. Please?” He’d scrambled out of bed and was already half dressed.

“Well, all right,” Brenda said, acting as if she’d just made
up her mind to tell him. “How would you like not to have to go back to Eden School?”

In the middle of pulling up his jeans, Josh froze, staring at his mother as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Not go back?” he echoed. “What do you mean?”

“What if you could go to another school, one that was set up especially for kids like you?”

Josh’s mind raced. What was she talking about? And then he thought he knew.

She was talking about a school for crazy kids.

Kids who had tried to kill themselves.

But he wasn’t crazy—he’d already told her that, last night, and then again this morning. He’d just been feeling bad, that’s all.

“Wh-What school?” he breathed, suddenly terrified.

“The one Mr. Hodgkins told us about yesterday. Barrington Academy, up north.”

“B-But you told him it was too expensive—”Josh began.

Brenda didn’t let him finish. “Well, it seems that maybe it might not be,” she told him. “Dr. Hasborough knows them, and called them up. We sent them all your records, and they want to talk to you.”

Josh’s uncertainty deepened. “You mean they want to take me, without even meeting me? How come? Is it a place for crazy kids?”

Brenda’s jaw dropped. “Of course not!” she cried. “It’s not that at all! It’s a place for gifted kids, kids like you!”

But Josh was shaking his head. “You’re sending me away because of what I did, aren’t you? Before I cut myself, you said there was no way I was going there. But now—” His eyes dampened, and he ran to his mother and threw his arms around her. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t really want to die. I was just mad. Don’t send me away. Please?”

Brenda was silent, holding her son while she tried to sort it all out. Clearly, he didn’t understand that she wasn’t trying to punish him, that she just wanted the best for him. “Honey, it’s all right,” she whispered. “I’d never send you away, don’t you know that? This doesn’t have anything to do with that stupid knife. All it’s about is getting you into a
school where you can be happy, and have friends who understand you.”

Josh’s sobs stilled, and he recalled his vow of only a few minutes ago to try not to cause his mother any more trouble. Finally, when he trusted his voice not to crack, he pulled away from her. “Wh-What if I don’t want to go?” he asked.

“Then you won’t have to,” Brenda replied. “Besides, they haven’t said they want you yet. They just want us to come up on Saturday, so they can talk to you and give you some tests. Now that won’t be so bad, will it?”

Josh considered it. Maybe it really
wasn’t
a place for crazy kids. After all, Mr. Hodgkins had started talking about it before he’d held the knife in his hand.… And his mother had said he didn’t have to go if he didn’t want to.

He made up his mind.

“I guess we could go see it,” he said. “I mean, just to take a look, okay?”

“Okay,” Brenda breathed. “Double okay! Now finish dressing so we can get out of here.”

As they emerged from the hospital a few minutes later, Brenda breathed deeply of the desert air. Things, finally, were working out.