Shadows Falling: The Lost #2 (12 page)

I read from Ethan Frome (which is a bit dull and was never my favorite), and she has no reaction to my words.

“ ‘I don’t see there’s much difference between the Fromes up at the farm and the Fromes down at the graveyard; ‘cept that down there they’re all quiet, and the women have got to hold their tongues.’ “ I drone on. I peek at Nora. Still no reaction. I snap shut the book. “So, the Fromes up at the farm met up with the Fromes down at the graveyard and they all had strawberry cordials and went to the ball. There was scandalous dancing and heavy petting in the corners and no one minded in the least.”

Nora continues to stare past my shoulder, not meeting my eyes, not really looking at me at all. What has made her this way? Was she like this from the start? No one has ever come to claim her. She was dropped off by someone, a family member, but they never came back. Typical, sadly. Did she have no one who loved her, I wondered? If someone dropped me off, would anyone come looking? I pat her hand then. It
’s soft, like crepe paper, and dry. She snatches it from me, but still doesn’t meet my gaze.

“
All right, Nora. I won’t touch you. Do you want more of the story?” I sigh, dreading her answer though she probably won’t give one. “Book?” I hold it up in front of her face. “More?” I feel silly, like I’m talking to a baby, but in a way, she is one. Most of the patients have to be handled like this, at least the ones that aren’t dangerous.

“
Okay.”

I
’m staggered she has finally spoken to me, and also a little taken aback by the word choice. I remember Rose when the farmer’s son said that to her, and she didn’t know the meaning.

“
Okay,” I repeat, and smile. “But we could switch books if you like. Little Women is much better, I’m just letting you know.”

“
This one is fine.” Now that she strings more words together, I detect an indeterminate accent.

I sigh again and open Ethan Frome. As I open my mouth to pick up where we left off, Nora speaks again.

“I don’t care so much about the ending of this one, so it’s best.” French? I think she’s French.

“
Um, all right. I don’t care much either, but why is that best?” I keep my voice soothing, like I’ve been trained to do with our patients.

“
In case I don’t get to hear the ending.”

“
But why wouldn’t you hear the ending, Nora? Are you firing me so soon?” I smile.

“
No, but I won’t be here long.” She looks down at her crepe paper hands and wrings them like a dish towel.

“
Oh, that’s right.” All the patients say this. “Well, in case you stay longer than expected, we’ll just get into the story, all right?”

“
It’s not all right!” She bursts out. She is still wringing her hands, practically wringing the skin right off. No wonder they look like they are made of the frailest tissue. “No one understands! I won’t be here forever, and I don’t know where I’ll go! I don’t know where I’ll go. I don’t know where I’ll go.” Her voice fades away, softly, trailing.

“
You don’t have to go anywhere, Nora,” I say, gently. “You can stay here as long as you like.”

“
I don’t know where I’ll go.”

“
Then stay here.”

“
I don’t know where I’ll go. I don’t know where I’ll go. I don’t know where I’ll go.”

Her chanting is becoming eerie now. She finally turns her head to look at me, carefully, as if it costs her a great deal to do so.

“Don’t you find it fearsome?” she says. “To be someplace different? To be so lost?”

Perhaps it
’s the abundance of late night diary readings, but I swear the inflection in her voice sounds as though she had said
“to be so Lost.”

16

I struggle through more of Ethan Frome, but my mind isn’t in it. I keep eyeing Nora uneasily, but she doesn’t interrupt me, and her chanting has stopped. I’m being perfectly ridiculous even entertaining the thought of the Lost, but now it’s in my head, and I can’t force it out.

“
What did you mean, Nora?” I finally blurt out, right in the middle of a sentence. She reacts to her own name, I can tell.  “Why do you think you don’t know where you’re going? Are you afraid to be someplace new? When?”

“
Anytime. Soon. Not soon. You don’t understand.” No, not French… Spanish?

“
I’d like to understand. Will you tell me? I promise...” I falter, just a bit, and even look over my shoulder at the door I’ve left ajar. “I won’t tell anyone if you like. Just between us.”

She leans forward, like a little girl with a secret, and smiles.
“I can’t tell you, silly,” she whispers in my ear. “You’ll think I’m crazy.”

This is a common enough fear at Bedlam, ironically enough. Inwardly I sigh, but outwardly, I just give Nora an encouraging smile.
“No, I won’t! You can say anything you like to me.”

“
Can I?” Nora leans back in her chair, fretfully, and tugs her afghan over her knobby knees. “I don’t think so.”

Rather than beg (which I feel like doing), I pat her knee under the afghan.
“Some other time then,” I murmur. “Never mind. Why don’t you take your nap, now? I’ll be back to check on you later.” And if you aren’t here, I’ll know I’m the one who should be committed to this place, I think.

Nora doesn
’t acknowledge me when I leave. She’s switched her emotions off, as effectively as turning a knob or pushing a button. Some people have that ability, and she’s one of them. I, on the other hand, tend to wear my emotions on my sleeve, as they say, and for the rest of the afternoon, I grumble through work. I’m irritated by the lack of Connelly, irritated by myself and my thoughts, irritated with Mack and Mrs. Dobson and Nora. I feel as though I’d like to jump out of my skin. The thought of changing one more bedpan or unpacking one more box nearly has me flying into hysterics.

I
’m saved from embarrassing myself by Mr. Connelly strolling through the doors. Finally! And it’s nearly time for me to be off work altogether. My stomach is growling for its supper, but I wouldn’t miss this time with him for any amount of food. I make short work of polite pleasantries and get straight to the point.

“
Walk with me outside a moment, sir?” I gesture towards the doors he just strolled through.

Mr. Connelly pauses in his task of removing his coat. He hangs in time for a moment, still, and then makes a great show of putting it back on. He even sighs, which I find a bit overdone and insulting. I snag my shawl and lead the way outside. It
’s a rare English evening, still warm, no breeze. I spot his wonderful car parked haphazardly nearby. You can be sure, if ever I were to own such a beautiful thing, I’d learn to park it perfectly. I suppose it’s yet another example of the wealthy taking for granted their riches.

“
Mr. Connelly,” I begin, in what I hope is my most mature and no-nonsense voice. “This business with Rose has me quite consumed, I’m afraid.”

“
So I’ve noticed,” he seems to be smiling, though his cigarette and what would have been a five o’clock shadow a week ago hide it well enough. So does the fact that he is so very tall. Has he always been this tall? “I’m sure she’d be delighted to learn someone has taken such an interest in her. Your hair is very unusual today, by the way, little one.”

I shove a pin back in and glare at him. I
’d forgotten my Swiss maid look. “It was windy this morning, and I was late. Also, a patient hit me with a pillow. As I was saying
—
Are you laughing at me?”

“
No, no. Not at all. I was thinking of something else. Go on.” He
is
laughing, sod it!

I switch tactics and attempt to take him off guard.
“What is your name, Mr. Connelly? Your first name, I mean.”

“
Sam. Why? Are we so intimate then?” He helps me with another pin.

“
Don’t tease. Ow! It goes in the hair, not in the scalp. It just struck me this morning that I don’t know very much about you.”

“
True. And you probably shouldn’t be running off in cars with me or taking lonely strolls through the woods with me, either.” He makes a show of looking dangerous and ferocious, but he mostly looks like a diseased bear.

“
Don’t be silly. This isn’t a wood, and I can take care of myself, should you decide to—” I trail off. Decide to, what? Get frisky? Kidnap me? Rearrange my hairdo?

“
Ravish you? Ruin you?” Now there’s no mistaking; he is definitely laughing. “Well, the thought had crossed my mind once or twice, but I promise to behave. Now what else do you want to know in this sudden burst in inquisitiveness?”

“Stop teasing!
And stop doing that thing with your eyes.” I say, crossly.

“What thing?”

“That twinkling, sparkling thing. It’s distracting.”

The diseased bear with impossibly sparkling eyes, snorts. “I apologize for the state of my eyeballs. I’ll try to contain their – um, twinkling.”

“Thank you.”

“Maybe I could douse them with ashes or something if they get out of hand. Or throw dust in them. Rub some mud in them.”

“I’m considering all those at the moment.” I pull my shawl tighter around my shoulders. I think of Nora’s bony knees as I feel my own shoulders through the thin fabric. Had he really been thinking of ravishing me? “You don’t look like a Sam.”

“
Don’t I? Well, you can call me Samson if you like.”

“
Really? That is unusual.”

“
It’s also not my name, but you can call me it if you like,” he continues, cheerfully.

“
Look,
Samuel,”
I glare up at him. “You are being awfully immature and full of codswallop. I’m trying to have a grown up conversation and get to the bottom of things and you keep...” I almost say “flirting” but stop myself. That couldn’t be what he is doing, is it? I am unaccustomed to flirting, unless it’s with rowdy teenage boys, whom I mostly ignore. Had he really thought of ruining me? “... keep annoying me and getting me off track. Besides, I don’t have a lot of time to talk; I’m positively starving, and I want to go home and eat.”

“
I have a better idea,” Mr. Connelly
—
Sam
—
tosses his cigarette down and grinds it out with the toe of his lovely shoes. “I’ll buy you a nice supper, as an apology for being a rake and for very nearly, almost, practically, considering the mere possibility of ravishing you. You can talk all you like over a nice steak and butter beans.”

I
’d like to feign indifference to the invitation, but my mouth is already watering. I’m afraid to open my lips to speak, for fear of salivating all over those lovely shoes. I manage not to clap my hands in glee like a little girl, but I do smile in what is probably an idiotic manner.

“
That sounds nice enough. Thank you, Sam.”

“
You’re very welcome. Do we need to check with Miss Helmes?”

“
Of course not. I’m off work now. She is only my warden between the hours of eight and six, you know.”

“
Ah.” We are at the Rolls Royce Phantom now, and she is just as sleek as I remember. “Hop in.”

Hopping in is just what I do, a little hop of excitement that I can
’t contain. After a rotten day, things are looking up for me. I have to cross my legs at the ankles just to keep them from happily bouncing in the car and to keep my toes from tapping. I debate asking to drive again, but squelch the desire, since I already know the answer.

“
Where to?” I ask, breezily as we pull away from the hospital. I ask out of curiosity and something to fill the silence with, not because I am well versed in restaurants.  Odds are, I won’t have heard of his answer anyway.

“
There’s a nice place I know of. You’ll like it.”

“
Thanks,” I pause for a moment, “Sam. So, one of the things I wanted to talk to you about—”

Sam shakes his head, firmly.
“No inquisitions until I have a steak sitting in front of me. Be quiet, and enjoy the scenery.”

“
It’s London. I’ve seen it,” I wrinkle my nose, “especially this part. I liked Oxford better. I liked the library.”

“
We’re not going to Oxford; now hush. Good Lord, it’s like having a toddler in the car.”

I swat at him playfully, but when he nearly runs down a dog, I leave him be. Eventually, we pull up at a wonderful looking club, and Sam gives the keys to the Rolls to a young man for parking. I eye him carefully.

“How do you know he won’t just steal it?” I wonder aloud.

“
Turn about is fair play,” Sam replies, mildly.

Whatever does that mean? But there is no time to ask, and the desire is gone anyway, as we have entered the restaurant. Low lighting, rich looking patrons (oh, why didn
’t I ask him to let me change first? I smooth down my wretched skirt), the smell of delicious food wafting by my nostrils. The women wear jewelry that sparkles; even in the dim lighting their bracelets and necklaces catch the reflection of candles and bulbs and twinkle merrily. The men are smartly dressed and handsome. The smoke is thick, and I can’t help but cough. It seems a crude and childlike thing to do, so I try covering it up with a fake sneeze. Sam looks down at me, amused.

“
You shouldn’t have brought me here,” I hiss. “Not that I’m not grateful—and hungry—but I look so out of place! I look like the maid.”

“
You’re fine.”

“
People are going to give me their coats. Just watch.”

“
Then we’ll go through the pockets for change. Come along,” Sam nods to someone I don’t see, and he presses his hand in the small of my back, urging me to walk. We pass a sign that advertises Live Lobsters as a delicacy. Right beneath it is another that boasts, Dancing Nightly. I stifle an urge to giggle.

When my eyes adjust to the lack of lighting and the smoke, I see who we
’re following: a waiter who is impeccably dressed (I’m not even dressed well enough to be the Coat Girl on reflection). He leads us all the way to the back, and I feel like a sideshow freak on display. Gertie and Lulu would have nothing on me, I find myself thinking. In my head, I can see the sign now:

Come see the Urchin Girl! Two bits!

I pull at my braids, which had come down from their pins finally, and wish, desperately, for my red lipstick. I might as well be a dancing lobster; I am so out of place. Thankfully, beyond a few curious glances from the men and dismissive looks from the women, I am mostly ignored. The waiter pulls my chair out for me and even bows. I sit down stiffly and sip from the icy goblet of water near my plate. Suddenly, I choke on it and narrowly stop myself from spitting all over Sam.

I gesture towards something, covering my mouth with my large cloth napkin. I sputter my frantic words into it.

“What?” Sam puts down his own water and looks at me in confusion. “Are you having a fit?”

I gesture again, frenetically, towards two women not far from us. They sip drinks, and one of them, the blonde one, catches my eye and smiles politely. I want to die.

“It’s Lillian Gish and Mary Pickford!” I attempt to talk coherently through my huge smile. I have finished coughing and sputtering, but now I am having a difficult time speaking English. Mary Pickford just smiled at me!

“
Who?” Sam squints across the room.

“
Stop it!” I hiss, yanking his arm and nearly spilling our water. “Stop looking conspicuous! Don’t stare! Oh blimey, I can’t believe it’s them. Stop looking!”

“
You told me to look!” Sam laughs. “Quit having a coronary. Are these chums of yours?”

“
Chums?” I stare at him, incredulous. “Chums? Me? Chums with Mary Pickford and Lillian Gish? Are you knackered?”

“
You’re squeaking.”

“
That’s because I cannot believe you just asked me that. Of course we are not
chums!
What a ridiculous notion. Are you truly telling me you don’t know who they are?”

“
Sorry, little one. Not chums. Enemies then?”

“
Oh, for Pete’s sake. They’re movie stars! Huge movie stars! Haven’t you ever seen a picture?”

“
Ah. Yes, of course, a good many of them. Can I have my arm back now?” He disentangles himself from my clutches, but I barely notice. I am staring dreamily at the women, out of the corner of my eye.

“
You look like you’re having an epileptic fit,” Sam continues, mildly.

“
I’m trying not to stare. Just keep talking to me, and I’ll keep my head pointed your direction. I’ll smile and nod a lot. Go ahead!”