Revealing the Dead Page 13

  When they had come together, it had been explosive. But would that last, or would it burn out? Was it truly personal, or was it a by-product of the electric or magnetic connection they had, and would that fade over time? How could they know?

  She believed she loved Ned, and that he loved her. She had no idea where their lives were going to go, singly or together. She did love children, but the idea of combining their genes scared her, as she had told him. But the one thing she did know was that she was not going to run away from whatever they had or could have.

  Chapter 17

  Monday

  Despite a relatively late night, Abby woke up early and lay curled against Ned, with a quilt wrapping them both, and tried to decide what she thought about the planned meeting with a school administrator. Was she really just flailing around, out of boredom or frustration? Was this even a good idea? Her life had changed so much over the past year that she wasn’t sure she even knew herself now. Many of the changes had been for the good, but how many of them were permanent? Which organization was it that used the motto First do no harm? She didn’t want to start something and then walk away. If the whole psychic link thing didn’t work out with this or any other school, would she leave? After how long? And what would she do then?

  She was startled when she felt Ned’s hand on her back. “Stop worrying,” he said softly.

  “Why do you think I’m worrying?” she said defensively.

  “Because you’re tense. Anyone could tell that—it doesn’t take a psychic link. Don’t be, Abby. If this first try doesn’t work out, there will be others. You’ll find your niche.”

  Abby tried to relax her shoulders. “I hope so. What’s up for today?”

  “Work for me, I’ll be going into the office.”

  “You did promise to take some real time off,” Abby said, hating the whiny tone in her voice.

  “I did, and I will, as soon as we figure out what we’re doing. If this new thing works out for you, maybe I can find some parallel research, so we’d be working together but not, if that makes any sense.”

  “Well, we made a good start with those scary brain machines. But that’s definitely not something to use on children, or at least, not yet.”

  “You’re right. But it gave us a clearer image of the physical layout of the brain, and where some things are happening. It’s a place to start, anyway.”

  Downstairs over breakfast, Ned asked, “When do you expect to hear from the plumbers?”

  “Today or tomorrow, I hope. I’d like to get started on that project before I get sucked into something more time-consuming. And I don’t think they’ll take very long. You want to go with Victorian-style tile in the back? Or something more neutral?”

  “You’re asking me?” Ned’s eyebrows went up. “Okay, I’d say keep the colors light and make sure it’s easy to clean. I’ll trust you on the rest.”

  “And you’re sure you don’t want to get your hands dirty with the plumbing?”

  “No, thanks, I’ll leave that to the experts. I know my limitations.” He stood up. “I’d better go. See you at dinner. Your turn to cook, right?”

  “Uh, yes, I guess. Have a good day.”

  When Ned had left, Abby spent an extra couple of minutes finishing her coffee and staring into space, watching random thoughts drift by. What should she wear to the interview that wasn’t really an interview? Nothing too upscale, because that wouldn’t look kid-friendly. Should she do some more online digging about autism? No, probably not. She didn’t want to sound like she was reciting a textbook. Would there be kids around when she got there, or would they already have left for the day? No idea. They probably had working parents, because this kind of school must come with some hefty costs, so they might need after-school supervision. She’d really like to have the chance to see how a group of autistic children acted together, particularly at the end of the day when they must be frazzled. How would they react to a stranger—her—in their midst.

  She realized she was working herself into a real-life tizzy and decided to think about the new bathroom instead. Funny—when people talked or wrote about houses in prior centuries, nobody devoted much time to describing the spaces where basic bodily functions occurred. Attractive floor plans seldom seemed to include the inevitable outhouse. And didn’t they have to relocate those at intervals, if they became filled? And what about inside functions? She’d seen only a few chamber pots in her life, but they’d all seemed very small: how did adults manage to hit the mark, in the dark of night? She had to smile at her own silly speculations, yet it made some sense to wonder how people got water into an old house and waste out. She’d be willing to bet that bathing was much less frequent in those days. Combine gamey people and decaying garbage and outside animal odors, and it would have been a rather ripe world, but since most people were living under similar conditions, they wouldn’t really have noticed. Still, she was glad she lived in the modern world.

  As if on cue, there was a knock at the front door, and on her way to answer it Abby noticed the Maguire Plumbing van parked out at the curb. She pulled open the door. “Jack, hello! I wasn’t sure when you’d be coming by. Have you got something to show me? Oh, please come in. Do you want coffee?”

  For some reason Jack looked uncomfortable. Was he still troubled by what had happened the last time he’d been at the house? Embarrassed? Frightened?

  “Coffee’s fine, if it’s made.”

  “Of course—I often drink it throughout the day. Come on back.” Abby led the way to the kitchen. When they reached it, she said, “Sit down, I’ll pour.”

  Jack had been carrying a roll of papers, which he proceeded to spread out on the table, as Abby filled a mug for him. When she handed it to him, she looked at the drawings. “Wow, these look so professional! I don’t mean to insult you, but you haven’t had much time to work on these, but they look ready to go.”

  “That’s Bill’s work,” Jack said with more than a hint of pride. “He’s really good with computers and such. We put together a couple of different options, but there’s not a lot of room to work with, so they’re pretty similar.”

  “Explain them to me, please,” Abby said, resuming her seat.

  Jack seemed to relax when talking about things he was familiar with. “I think we talked about that you didn’t want to see the toilet as soon as you walked into the kitchen, so I put the powder room off to the side here. That means your washer and dryer are straight ahead. You need room to hang and fold stuff, so I tried to fit in some work space and rods or small clotheslines. Some of these fold up and out of the way. And I figured you’d want to keep the window, so you’re not sorting socks in the dark.”

  “You’ve got that right. I really like what you’ve done. And those are full-size machines, right?”

  “Yup. They’ll handle anything smaller than a quilt.”

  “How long would it take to install all this?”

  “Ten days, tops, if I order the washer and dryer and stuff today. The appliances are standard and I can get them from my regular supplier. You can look at different porcelain pieces, but I can rough out the connections. You want time to think about it? Or talk to your partner?”

  “No, this is my project. I know you didn’t have a lot of options, with so little space, and I like what you’ve done with it. Let’s do it. Do you want me to sign something?”

  “You mean, like a contract? Nah, I trust you. The whole thing, parts and labor, won’t be too bad, what with all the holiday sales.” He named a figure that struck Abby as very reasonable. “That sound about right to you?”

  “Yes, I think that’s fair. So we have a deal?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He held out his hand, and Abby shook it. She was relieved that there was no out-of-the ordinary-connection between them.

  “When can you start?” she asked.

  “Today’s Monday, right? How about I give you a call on Wednesday and let you know? I’ve got a couple of small things to finish up with Bill, a
nd I’ll need to get the machines.”

  “That works for me. Anything else?”

  Jack had stood up, but he looked kind of uncertain. “About what happened in the attic last time . . .”

  Ah, when he sensed his aunt’s presence in that small sad room in the attic. “Yes?”

  “I musta had a dizzy spell or something. Never happened before. But I’m a pretty healthy guy, so I didn’t want you to worry that I wouldn’t be around to finish your job. And there’s always Bill.”

  “I’m sure it will all be fine, Jack. So I’ll see you Wednesday. And thanks for getting to this so quickly.”

  “Happy to help out.”

  Abby escorted him back to the front door and shut it behind him. She’d wondered how he’d respond to what had happened earlier. He could just as easily have said nothing, but his kind-of explanation confirmed that he had felt something unexpected in the attic. Abby wondered if he’d ever want to talk about it, or would rather ignore it and move on. She wasn’t about to push it—she knew some people would never be ready to accept a psychic experience in their own life.

  She cleaned up the dishes, then wandered over to the space waiting to be remodeled, thinking about colors and finishes. And then nearly laughed out loud: the window over the washer had a terrific view of the cemetery behind the house. And Jack hadn’t even commented on it. Would she put a curtain up? No, she decided: she could commune with the dead—including a few relatives—while she folded clothes.

  • • •

  After agonizing for an hour or so about her pathetic wardrobe selection, Abby decided on dark pants and a casual jacket. She printed out a clean copy of her résumé, in case she needed it, put it in an envelope, and headed out to her car. The school was only a mile or so from her house, so she Googled directions because she couldn’t remember ever having driven or even walked through that neighborhood. She really was still the new kid in town—and it was ironic that she “knew” more dead people than living ones in town. She’d have to work on that.

  She had arrived early, so she wouldn’t have to rush. When she approached the school she slowed, not because she was hesitant but because it was such an imposing building. Probably late nineteenth century, brick, several stories high, capped with a couple of cupolas—and kind of intimidating. Now she was sure she’d never seen the place before—it would be hard to forget. She wondered briefly what the children thought of it.

  The place looked almost deserted, and Abby wondered how many children they had enrolled. Of course, many might already have gone home. She pulled into the long curving driveway and came to a stop when she spotted a cheerful-looking woman sitting on the steps of what must be—a porte-cochere? The woman stood up and dusted off the back of her pants, then came over to Abby’s car. “Hi,” she called out as she came near. “You must be Abigail Kimball.”

  Abby quickly got out of the car and moved to join the woman. “I am. And you’re Carolyn?”

  “I am.”

  “What an incredible building!” Abby said. “I can’t believe I didn’t even know it was here. Does your school own it, or do you lease it?”

  “It’s all ours. It was a gift from a generous donor, many years ago, and its use is restricted to educational purposes. He had an autistic son, and he wanted to do something that might make a difference. Of course, one reason why few people talk about the place is because it was originally built to be the town lunatic asylum. We chose the name Birch School because it didn’t seem so ominous. Come on in and we can talk.”

  As they walked under the portico, Abby said, “I know autism is a relatively new term for—heck, what do I call it? a condition? an illness?—but how did people refer to it in the past?”

  “Mainly ‘retarded,’” Carolyn said. “Sad, isn’t it? But there’s a kind of irony that we are now teaching children on the autistic spectrum in a former lunatic asylum. I hope we do better by them than people did in the past.”

  They reached Carolyn’s office, where the door was open. Behind the desk was a bank of windows overlooking a rolling lawn bordered by trees. Very private, and peaceful, Abby thought. “What a wonderful view!” she said.

  “It is, although I don’t often get to admire it,” Carolyn told her. “So, sit down and stop looking so anxious, will you? I assume you’re clutching your credentials in that envelope?”

  “Well, yes. I didn’t know if you might want them. I’m not sure what Christine has told you about me, or even why you agreed to see me, on such short notice.”

  “Why don’t you just tell me why you’re interested in a place like this?” Carolyn smiled and leaned back in her shabby leather desk chair.

  Abby made an effort to relax. Her story was what it was, so she might as well be honest about it. “I like working with children. That’s what my undergrad degree was in, early childhood education. But in the last couple of years I got sidetracked . . .”

  Carolyn was easy to talk to, Abby realized, after she’d spent half an hour talking about her brief and chequered employment history. Carolyn hadn’t challenged anything she’d said and seemed honestly interested. When Abby finally wrapped up her narrative, Carolyn said, “You must have some questions for me. So ask away.”

  And Abby started again. “What’s your educational philosophy in teaching children with communications problems? What are your goals, and what do you consider success? Do you engage the parents? Do you offer more than speech therapy? Like music, art?”

  Carolyn held up one hand. “Good questions, all. Let’s take them one at a time, okay?”

  Another half hour passed, and Abby realized she really liked this woman. What she’d be like as a boss was still an open question, but she could be a good friend. Out of nowhere Abby asked, “Do you have children of your own? Or is it rude to ask that?”

  “I do—a daughter. She’s a writer, and she’s interning in New York this year. And no, she isn’t autistic. I’ve sometimes wondered if she falls into the Asperger’s category—she’s very observant and expresses herself well, but she’s not particularly empathetic. But she’s interested in journalism, whatever that is these day, rather than writing romances, so a critical eye would be useful.” Carolyn stood up abruptly. “Come on—you can meet some of the children in our after-school care program. There are about fifteen, if they’re all here.”

  “I’d like that,” Abby said and followed her into the wide hallway.

  Chapter 18

  Monday

  Abby wasn’t sure what to expect—how they would react to her, a stranger, or how she would react to them. Reading online information was one thing, but interacting with real people was bound to be different, and as far as she could recall, Danny was the only autistic child she’d had any kind of conversation with, much less a connection. She hadn’t really thought about what it would be like to jump head-first into the reality of the situation.

  Carolyn didn’t bother to explain anything: she simply led Abby down the hall, turned a corner, and opened a door into a spacious high-ceilinged room with large windows along the outside wall. There were desks at one end of the room, and some children seemed to be doing homework, but there was also plenty of open space, and in that space, the children—the oldest looked to be about twelve—both boys and girls, were sitting or sprawling, drawing or reading, some playing two-person games—and Abby was happy that none seemed to be electronic games. Others merely sat and stared at nothing visible, and Abby wondered what they were seeing within their own heads. Nobody seemed to be urging them to join in any of the games or do something more active, and she was obscurely reassured.

  Carolyn nodded to the teacher who’d been keeping an eye on things, who quietly slipped out the door. Only a couple of children turned to look at Abby, then turned away. Carolyn said in a medium-loud voice, “Boys, girls, this is Abigail Kimball. She’s never seen a school like ours, even though she used to be a teacher. Can she ask you some questions? And you can ask her questions too if you want.”

&n
bsp; Before anyone could speak, Abby walked into the center of the room and sat cross-legged on the shabby rug on the floor. “Hi, I’m Abby. I live across town.”

  She watched carefully to see how they responded. Some of the children had crept closer to her when she sat down. Others ignored her and refused to make eye contact, but she’d expected that. A few answered, sounding as though they had been careful to memorize the name of their town.

  Abby carefully chose a question she thought many of them could respond to. “What do you like to do here at school?”

  The responses were varied, and short. “Read.” “Draw.” “Eat lunch.”

  “Do you have any questions about me?”

  One girl spoke up. “Are you married?”

  “No, I’m not. Maybe someday.”

  “Do you have children?”

  “No, not right now.”

  “Did you have children that you don’t have anymore?” one boy said.

  Smart kid—he’d noted how she’d phrased her answer. “No, I have never had any children, before or now, but I’d like to. Do any of you have brothers or sisters?” That was met with a few nods, but no verbal responses. Abby wasn’t sure what that meant.

  “Do you like to go on trips?” When the majority of the students nodded, she added, “Where do you like to go?”

  Again, she got a range of answers. “The zoo.” “To look at the ocean.” “Watching big machines, like where they’re building something.”

  Abby couldn’t say she was a smashing success with this group, but she wasn’t sure what she had expected. They hadn’t acted out. More like they’d ignored her. Maybe that was a good thing—at least they weren’t intimidated by a stranger in their midst.

  She shut her eyes for a moment, trolling for any sort of psychic reaction from the children, singly or together. She got nothing, or maybe it was just so low-key she couldn’t sense it. She knew that for her, that inner contact worked better with touch, but she wasn’t sure how the students—or Carolyn—would respond to her actually touching them. Too soon? Abby opened her eyes again.