“I know,” Lynnie said, her voice in a tone Andrea would call too soft, so they never heard. And she did know what God was, because she’d seen Him on movie nights. Sometimes He was a column of fire that scared people, sometimes He was George Burns and was nice to people. Kate said God created everything and loved everyone. But like reading and being around family and speaking easily, knowing God seemed to be something only other people could do.
She should not think about God now. She should look around at the places she’d never see again. There were so many that reminded her of Buddy, and every single one brought back the sweetest feelings. This tree, where they’d stood hidden in the leafy shade and Buddy had waited with patience as she clumsily practiced his signs. This window, where she’d watched Buddy getting
a cow from the pasture—the same cow whose calf he helped birth not long after, a feat that made her know he could help her give birth, too. Oh, and this tunnel entrance: the very one where she waved good-bye as he ran off to set out the ladders they then used to escape.
Every one of these places made her feel full of all the colors that had ever been, yet trapped in the numbness at the same time. He was gone, the baby was gone, and now Lynnie would be gone. He would never find her when he came back. She would have nothing of him and the baby except memories.
Maybe that was why, as Kate’s office came into view for the last time, Lynnie let herself have a thought she’d never allowed. All this time—
twelve years—
she hadn’t talked to Kate about the baby. She hadn’t even drawn the baby, except that one time in those first few weeks. But for years after, Smokes and Clarence had been around with their dogs, so she couldn’t take the chance, and when they finally left the School, she still feared the fate of the nursery.
Maybe, though, it was time to say something to Kate. Kate had told Lynnie her new home would be safe and secure. Lynnie would have her own key, and the staff who worked there would keep out anyone who shouldn’t come in. If that was really true—if Smokes and Clarence and officials who could put her baby in a School wouldn’t be able to reach her—then it would be all right for Lynnie to talk about the baby. No: about the child. No: about her daughter. These words came to her like comets, leaving glittery trails of pleasure. The baby was now older than Lynnie had been when she’d come here. And she was Lynnie’s flesh and blood. Did she have the artistic gift Lynnie and Hannah shared? Did she like to sing? There were twelve years of page turnings to learn about—her daughter was almost a teenager. And now Kate could help her learn about that teenager. She would ask Kate as soon
as she reached her office: Could she take Lynnie to the old lady’s farm at last?
“Lynnie!” Hannah cried out from behind Kate’s desk. “The big day is finally here!”
Lynnie, standing in Kate’s doorway for the last time, looked from Hannah to Kate. Hannah wasn’t supposed to get here until the parade began. Yet Kate had the file cabinet open and was holding a stack of Lynnie’s drawings, and Hannah was taping up a box.
“You’re early,” Lynnie said, unable to stifle her disappointment.
“You don’t mind, do you?” Hannah said, her smile falling. “I wanted to help Kate.”
“It’s okay.” But how could Lynnie say anything to Kate now?
“You’re speaking so well these days,” Hannah said.
Lynnie understood that Hannah wanted to talk them away from the poor start to the conversation. Andrea had taught her that speaking was about a lot more than breath and volume and pronunciation; it was about knowing when to be the leader and when to let others run the show. Hannah was looking at Lynnie as if her speaking were a huge achievement—which, as Andrea and Kate always said, it was. So Lynnie decided she could talk to Kate later. Then she wouldn’t show her disappointment now and would instead reveal the pride she genuinely felt.
Lynnie said, “I practice.”
“Well, it’s paying off.”
“I want to get better.”
“You will. Leaving this place will make many differences in your life. You’ll be doing more speech therapy. You’ll be learning to shop at stores. You’ll be living like everyone else.”
Lynnie corrected her. “It’s a group home.”
“Well, that’s like everyone else.”
“Not really.”
“Okay. But it’s your own home. Yours and Annabelle’s and Doreen’s.”
“Doreen’s not leaving.”
“She hasn’t come around?”
Kate said, “There are several residents who still wish we were staying open. Some parents, too.”
Hannah sighed. “I’d hoped they’d changed their minds. I guess that’s asking a bit much. They sure had strong opinions at the meetings.”
Lynnie remembered Hannah telling her about the meetings. First, the administrators wanted to make the School better, so the meetings were about fixing buildings, retraining staff, creating activities for residents. Then some parents said the School should just shut down, while other parents said the School was the safest place for their child. People began shouting at one another, and lawyers got involved. Lynnie knew this because Hannah went to all the meetings. “I’m on the side of the ones who want to close it,” Hannah would say. “That doesn’t mean I don’t worry about you being out there. You’re my sister, and I worry about you.” That was how Lynnie knew she could never tell Hannah what happened with the dogs and Buddy and the baby. That was also how Lynnie knew she would live somewhere else someday.
“There’s nothing left in here,” Kate said, closing the cabinet drawer.
“Then we’re done,” Hannah said.
Lynnie wasn’t ready to leave this room so quickly. It had been a place of so much joy, how was it possible she’d never see it again? She took it in now: the radio, the typewriter, the plants. Buddy breaking a sugar cube on her drawing to show her the shapes in the stars.
Hannah said, “I know this is hard. But you’ll like the new place.”
Lynnie nodded.
“Cheer up, sis.”
Lynnie looked down. She remembered seeing Buddy’s feet on this floor. She’d drawn him a picture of when they got out, and how they’d wear nice clothes and good shoes. She remembered putting on the old lady’s slippers. They had made Lynnie feel like a bride.
“Lynnie?”
She looked up.
“Hey, look. I made you a little present.” Hannah reached into her pocket. “I was going to wait until you got to your new home to give it to you, but maybe I should do it now.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s something special you kept in this room. And I know this room was where you did your drawings. So it’s sort of a keepsake, you know?”
Hannah raised her hand from her pocket and opened her fingers.
She was holding a necklace with a silver chain and a glass locket. Inside the locket, preserved from air and time, was the red feather.
Lynnie reached out and ran her finger over the glass case.
“It’s an old monocle,” Hannah said. “I put a back on it and soldered it shut.”
Kate said, “Hannah wanted to use something from your pouch. The feathers were the nicest.”
“Why… why did you pick the red one?”
“I hope it’s okay,” Hannah said, sounding worried.
“Very okay.”
Lynnie took the necklace from her sister and lowered it over her head. The feather came to rest on her chest right where she’d caught it with Buddy that day. “Why the red feather?” she asked
again, glad Andrea wasn’t in this room. She knew her words had memory in them.
“Because red feathers are rare,” Hannah said. “If you find one, you should keep it forever.”
When they reached the path in front of the administrative cottage, the cameras were already running, and stout Mr. Pennington, wearing a suit, tie, and circus master hat, was standing on a platform. “This is a historic day,” he was saying into a microphone as Kate handed Lynnie a pole supporting a banner she’d made last week, a drawing of the School with the gate wide open. “The people of the Commonwealth have outgrown the Pennsylvania Residence for Gifted Children and Adults. It has served us well for eight decades, and now we will honor it one final time.”
Lynnie looked around at the residents. Lined up in rows of two, three, or four, they were all ready for the parade. Here were the people she’d sat near in the dining cottage and watched movies with in the common cottage and folded clothes beside in the laundry. Here were residents who could walk on two feet, who wore leg braces, who held canes, who used wheelchairs. Here were so many individuals she knew, each wearing cool sunglasses or favorite baseball caps or new shirts to signify the importance of the occasion. Some were holding signs they’d made, others were holding horns, tambourines, maracas; and in front of them all stood the camels, horses, and elephant. John-Michael Malone was scribbling notes beside a cameraman, and the lens was pointing at the residents.
Doreen was nowhere to be seen.
Then Mr. Pennington stepped off the platform and got in front of the line. The elephant lifted his hat from his head, and everyone laughed. Mr. Pennington grabbed it back and called out, “Five, four, three”—and everyone joined in, even those who
couldn’t speak—“two, one. Go!” And they marched, making noise on the instruments, cheering, waving to the staff, family, and reporters as they passed by.
Lynnie peered into the crowd, hoping to see Doreen’s parents. She wouldn’t recognize them, so it seemed silly. But still, she looked as they headed toward the cottages. The crowd was sparse, and everyone watching just kept running ahead to the dining cottage, where the parade would end. So it was easy to see all the people along the route, and that’s how she saw Clarence. He was standing off to the side, in jeans and a jacket, seeming even skinnier than before. He was here, on her day. The day she’d thought she’d ask Kate to find her daughter.
And if he was here today, he could be anywhere on any day.
She grabbed the stick the man next to her was using to pound a drum and began beating it against her banner’s pole. This way she wouldn’t hear the dogs barking in her head, the bucket rolling away while she pleaded.
Then she felt a presence beside her and turned. It was Doreen! Falling into line right beside her!
Doreen didn’t look cheerful, though she didn’t look the way she had this morning, either. Instead, she was giving Lynnie a knowing look. “I saw him, too,” she said over the din from the marchers. “And I’m not gonna leave you alone out there, no matter how I feel.”
“You coming with me, then?” Lynnie said.
“I’m coming with you.”
Lynnie shifted the banner so they could both hold the pole. They looked at each other and lifted it high into the air, and the cameras caught them smiling together.
1983
P
ete took the call.
Martha was afraid to listen across their tiny living room. She’d even been afraid to answer the phone, as she was every time it rang on evenings when Julia was out. Martha always hoped the caller would be the basketball coach or one of Julia’s more responsible friends. But since Julia had turned fourteen a few months ago, whenever the phone rang, Pete had lifted his gaze from his book to meet Martha’s worried eyes, then risen to pick up the receiver.
Pete said nothing for a few seconds. Then: “Yes. This is where she lives.”
Not again. She’s a good child. Whatever she’s done, it isn’t who she really is.
“I’m her grandfather,” Pete said, his gaze now locked onto Martha’s. “Her stepgrandfather. She lives with us.”
More silence while Pete listened. What could it be now? A few weeks ago, it was her report card. After an unbroken record of A’s, Julia had begun receiving B’s and even a C. She’d hidden the card from Martha, mumbling that her school hadn’t given them out yet, until Martha said, “I’m calling the principal tomorrow to find out what could possibly be causing this delay.” Julia suddenly remembered she’d received it that very afternoon, though Martha
and Pete could hear Julia bang into her room, open her closet, and dig through who knew what to retrieve it.
This was followed by a call from one of Julia’s teachers. It began with concern about her increasingly lackluster performance, then moved into more generalized distress. “She used to be friends with the studious kids,” Mr. Yelinek said. “But since falling in with this new crowd…”
“What new crowd?” Martha asked, the phone turning to ice.
Apparently, Julia had gravitated toward a clique of girls who wore expensive clothes from the most exclusive shops and shunned almost anyone outside the soccer team. To ingratiate herself, Julia had been getting to school early, changing into the same kinds of sweaters worn by these girls, and joining them after school as they huddled together at the roller-skating rink or sashayed through Hyannis Mall. All while Martha thought Julia’s early arrivals were for basketball practice and late returns for drama club.
Unproductive conversations ensued. To her credit, Julia did admit to her new habits, though to Martha’s—and Pete’s—dismay, her response to Martha’s insistence that she return to being conscientious and honest was to say, face stiff, eyes forcibly deadening themselves, “I’ll try.”