Yesternight (13 page)

“No, but I suppose he could have—” He blinked, his eyes dampening. He turned his face away and smiled in an embarrassed sort of way. “This is harder to talk about than I expected. All I can imagine now is Janie's little face underwater.”

“Oh. . . . I'm sorry. I most certainly wasn't trying to put that image into your head.”

“He—he could have done something without her realizing it, I suppose.” Mr. O'Daire scratched at his lower lip. “Poisoned her, for example. Hit her over the head with something blunt, like a thick branch . . .”

Involuntarily, I gagged.

“Maybe he gave her eight blows,” he added, oblivious to my disgust. “Maybe that's why she says, ‘Watch out for the number eight!'”

Bile charged up my gullet. I doubled over and clamped a hand over my mouth, envisioning children's heads marred by blood in my front lawn.

“Miss Lind?”

I shut my eyes and saw a branch bashing a human skull, cracking bone. My own arm swung the branch through the air, striking my imagined version of Violet Sunday in the head—eight times in a row.
Eight. Eight. Eight. Watch out for the number eight!

“Miss Lind?”

I gasped for air, still doubled over.

“What's wrong?” he asked.

“Why did you say that?”

“Say what?”

“The thing about the branch. Oh, Christ.” I staggered over to the bed. “I'm going to be sick.”

“Do you want me to get you a wastebasket?”

“No!” I waved him away. “I don't want you to see me.”

“Should I leave?”

“Don't ever mention someone getting hit in the head again.” I collapsed onto my side on the mattress and squeezed my arms around my middle. “I've seen it myself. It's horrifying.”

“I didn't realize—do you want me to drive you to another town for the rest of the weekend? Is it too much to be stuck here?”

I dug my palms into my eye sockets and groaned.

“Miss Lind?”

“I'm sorry. This is so embarrassing.” I laughed and burbled up tears at the same time.

Mr. O'Daire held the doorknob, his mouth tipped open, knees bent, as though he debated between propelling himself forward to assist me and escaping down the hallway.

“Don't worry about me, please. I'm fine.” I sniffed and wiped at my eyes. “Thank you for the food and drink. Once my stomach settles, I plan to enjoy them and then lose myself in a long night's sleep.”

“Is there anything else you need?”

I shook my head. “No. Thank you. Please go, so you don't have to keep subjecting yourself to this.” I pushed myself up to a seated position with the swaying, erratic movements of a lush. Strands of my hair fell down over my eyes, reminding me of blood enmeshed in the locks of little children. “I'm fine.”

Mr. O'Daire hesitated.

“Go. Please!”

He closed the door behind him, sealing me inside the room with my thoughts alone, which was never a good thing.

T
HE BOOZE AND
the food and the rest helped immensely. I awoke the next morning feeling quite foolish for my behavior, and I even
lost a great deal of my enthusiasm for the entire reincarnation line of thinking. Until proof from Kansas traveled west—if proof, in fact, was coming—I resigned not to believe in anything.

After dressing and fussing over my hair, I ventured out of doors and roamed the green grounds of the Gordon Bay Hotel, adhering to stone paths and sidewalks to avoid the swampy sections of mud and standing brown water. To the south, on the westernmost point of the cliff, I happened upon an overlook with a wrought-iron railing, below which the waves continued to perform their impressive display of swelling to great heights and smashing against boulders. The roar and swoosh of the movements reverberated deep within my chest. The water's spray salted the air with an invigorating zest, and it felt splendid to inhale it through my nose.

The scenery relaxed me so entirely, in fact, that I lost all track of time until Mr. O'Daire traipsed my way from some back exit of the hotel, asking how I was feeling. Much blushing and apologizing ensued on my part, and a great deal of “No, no, no, don't worry about it” tumbled from him. The whole exchange ended with him offering to drive me to one of the more populated towns to the north to have lunch with him.

The nail of my right index finger toyed with a patch of rust on the railing. “I can't,” I said. “I'm not supposed to involve myself with any of the parents of the students whom I'm testing.”

He leaned back against the railing, no more than three feet to my right. A breeze tousled his blond hair, mussing the careful comb lines that he looked to have just created before joining me out there. He appeared to have recently shaved, as well, his cheeks smooth, unblemished, with no traces of stubble. I smelled the ginger of his shaving soap.

“Who from the Department of Education is going to see you eating lunch out on the coast with me?” he asked.

“A parent from Gordon Bay might also drive up for a meal. Or one of the teachers with whom I'll be working at one of my next assignments will spot us and raise eyebrows when they meet me.”

“It's merely a meal . . .”

“I would be risking my job. I would be compromising my work with Janie.”

He wrapped his fingers around the rails behind him and sighed—a sound of frustration. Sexual frustration, to be precise, but I wasn't about to say as much. I wasn't entirely sure how we had wandered into such territory after a night in which he had nearly witnessed me vomit. Professors had warned against patients falling in love with their psychologists, due to the intimacy and comfort involved in psychotherapy, but they never suggested that a
school
psychologist might elicit feelings of amour in a parent. Perhaps my vulnerability had made me attractive.

“I wish I could get away for an informal chat,” I said, “but it's simply not possible. Or wise.”

He raised his gaze to mine, and we regarded each other with one of those too-long looks I knew so well
.

I pushed away from the railing and retreated up the stone steps that led to the hotel's back lawn.

“What happens with Janie after you leave at the end of this week?” he asked from behind me, still at the overlook. “What do I do about the discovery of the existence of Friendly?”

I pivoted back toward him on my left heel. “I'm working on some ideas that I'm not yet prepared to discuss. If anything comes from them, I'll let you know.”

“You'll be working in other towns, though.”

“I know where to find you, Mr. O'Daire,” I said with a smile. “I can guarantee that you'll be receiving a rushed telegram or an immediate personal appearance from me if another breakthrough occurs.”

I turned and continued navigating the slick steps, holding out my arms for balance. “Don't worry,” I added. “You'll likely hear from me again.”

“Doesn't it get awfully lonely, this traveling psychologist life of yours?”

“Of course it does.” I peeked over my shoulder. “That is precisely why I'm rushing away from you and your offer of lunch.”

He let go of the railing, and his black coat fluttered like the feathers of a bird catching the wind.

I pressed onward, promising myself that I would grab the Mary Roberts Rinehart book I'd just purchased and hide away in a restaurant, or even the schoolhouse, if that's what it would take to while away the rest of the weekend without succumbing to my stupidity.

J
anie, to my surprise, appeared at school on Monday morning. Or, rather, to my surprise, Rebecca O'Daire
allowed
Janie to attend school, despite my continued presence in the building. The child did not smile at me, or wave, or even look my way when she entered the classroom with her fellow students, and I got the distinct impression that she ignored me on purpose. In fact, when she bustled by me to take her seat at her desk, she forced her irises to the far right corners of her eyes and kept her gait stiff.

The students settled into their seats, and Miss Simpkin led them in the Pledge of Allegiance. Thereafter, I devoted the rest of the morning to testing the twelve-and thirteen-year-olds with Stanford picture interpretations, bow-knot tying, the repetition of five to seven digits, counting backward from twenty, vocabulary testing, dictation, and “What's the thing for you to do?” scenarios. The examinations ran without much fuss; I offered my staple “fine” and “splendid” responses. And, all the while, the smooth right edge of my list of Kansas town names stuck out from the side of the record booklet. Waiting.

An hour before lunchtime, I entered the main classroom,
minding the loudness of my footsteps to keep from interrupting Miss Simpkin's animated reading of Longfellow's “The Song of Hiawatha.”

Janie listened to the poem with her hands folded on top of her walnut-colored desk, her posture impeccable, shoulders lifted, spine straighter than Miss Simpkin's yardstick that hung from a nail on the wall. The child wore a purple ribbon that held her hair back from her pink little ears.

I stopped beside her desk and leaned down.

“Janie.”

Her shoulders flinched. She peeked up at me with eyes round and bright green.

“Would you please join me at the back of the schoolhouse for one more question?” I asked.

Miss Simpkin ceased reading. “Didn't you already test Janie, Miss Lind?”

“I just have one more question to ask her. It'll take two minutes.”

The schoolteacher gave me a small shake of her head, her eyes apologetic. “I'm sorry. Janie is just about to come up front to read.”

“It's rather urgent. I think Janie will find it entertaining. It involves geography.” I mouthed the word
please
to Miss Simpkin.

The teacher sighed. “I would like to review the question with you in the cloakroom first.”

“Of course.”

“Excuse me for a moment, class.” She set the book on her desk and marched down the aisle behind me.

Once inside the cloakroom, I lowered my voice to avoid prying ears. “I'm still investigating Janie's link to Kansas. I've devised one more test to give her.”

“You heard my sister—she doesn't want you speaking to Janie anymore. The only reason my niece is even in this classroom this morning is because she begged to come to school. I swore to Rebecca I would keep you two apart.”

“I witnessed the severity of Janie's nightmares, Tillie. They won't disappear on their own.”

“Rebecca doesn't want you interfering.”

“It's not interfering. I'm a psychologist”—I slapped a hand to my chest—“hired to help children who don't have regular access to mental assistance. I see that Janie is suffering from sleep disturbances
and
in dire need of a more advanced curriculum. It's my professional duty to help her. You yourself called me here to help her. Let me give her one last test.”

Miss Simpkin hugged her arms around herself and breathed through her nose. “What is the test regarding?”

“Kansas geography. I'm curious if any other towns in the state mean anything to Janie.”

“And what will that prove?”

“It will show us how real Kansas is to her. Also, I'm conducting research to see if the Sundays actually exist.”

“
How
are you conducting such research?”

“By writing letters to Kansas.” I closed the record booklet sitting open on the table, not wanting any of my work on display. “You don't know what a risk this is for me, investigating the case of a potential past life. When you first told me of Janie's stories, I honestly wanted to laugh at its preposterousness. I knew I could never seriously go down that path if I wanted to keep my credibility.”

Miss Simpkin's stance relaxed. “Are . . . are you now saying that you believe this to be a case of reincarnation?”

“Not just yet. However, I will say, at this point, I believe in the
plausibility
of reincarnation. I want to either rule out the theory so we can stop getting distracted by its glamour—or prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that Janie genuinely remembers a life lived decades ago in Kansas.”

Miss Simpkin fussed with the collar of her blouse. “As you well know, Rebecca wouldn't ever allow you to put Janie on display at any lectures.”

“I can't give lectures about reincarnation,” I said with a curt laugh. “I'm struggling to be taken seriously as a woman in this field. If I'm suddenly a woman who's also spouting out psychical theories, I'll be laughed straight out of psychology.”

“Then why are you doing this?”

“To help a troubled child—which is what the Department of Education pays me to do. I have no ulterior motives, and I'm most certainly not conspiring with Michael O'Daire to turn Janie into a profitable celebrity. I don't think that's what he wants either.”

“Are you certain?”

“Quite.” I rubbed my arms, which grew cold from a draft. “I know what it's like to be haunted by one's past, Tillie. I would love to free Janie of whatever it is that's perturbing her and let her live her life as just Janie.”

“May I do the geography test now?” asked a small voice that came from behind Miss Simpkin.

The schoolteacher put a hand to her neck and spun around.

In the entryway to the classroom stood little Janie, hanging on to the doorframe. The stoic expression of her little rosebud lips conveyed no indication as to whether she'd just heard our conversation.

“May I?” she asked, her eyes focused on her aunt.

“Do you feel like taking another test with Miss Lind?”

Janie nodded.

“Well . . .” Miss Simpkin lowered her hand to her side. “All right, then. As long as it doesn't take too much time away from the other children's evaluations . . .”

“The test will be brief,” I assured her. “Thank you for allowing Janie to take it.”

Miss Simpkin laid her right hand over the breadth of Janie's head in a nurturing gesture. A protective gesture. After a brief peek back at me—her eyes pleading with me to avoid stirring up controversy—she returned to her pupils.

I pulled out the chair reserved for the subjects of my examinations. “Please, have a seat, Janie.”

The child did as I asked, and I took my own seat on the other side of the table, in front of the record booklet, below five winter coats that smelled like leaky basements.

I clasped my hands together in my lap and sat up tall. “Janie, I don't know how much you heard of our conversation just now. I was telling your aunt how badly I want to help you to understand—to help you get rid of—these nightmares you keep experiencing. The drowning dreams.”

Janie reached out and grabbed a nearby pencil. Using the tips of her fingers, she rolled it back and forth on the tabletop.

“Have you been having such dreams for a long time?” I asked.

Without looking at me, she nodded. The pencil's ridges whirred against the table's surface.

“I've heard that your dreams take place in Kansas, which is so interesting to me because I used to be drawn to that state myself. Have you ever been to Kansas?”

She inhaled a long breath and then nodded
yes
.

“Oh?” I asked. “Recently?”

She shook her head.
No
.

“And you're certain you've never read L. Frank Baum's books about Kansas and Oz?” I asked. “Or did your mother or father ever read them to you?”

Another headshake.

“They definitely haven't?”

The pencil slipped from her fingers and dropped to the ground. Janie leaned over and picked it up with a weighty sigh—the first sound to emerge from her mouth since she had asked her aunt about the test. She then sat upright and fiddled with the pencil again.

I tugged my list of Kansas cities out of the record book. “Janie”—I laid out the sheet in front of her—“I've listed various names on this piece of paper. Can you tell me if any of these words mean anything to you and the time you spent in Kansas?”

She made a sputtering sound with her lips, as though my question taxed her patience. Little bubbles of spit showered the paper.

Yet again, she shook her head
no
.

“I'm getting the distinct impression that you're not speaking to me at all.” I offered her a smile that I hoped conveyed warmth. “Is your voice playing hide-and-seek with me today?”

She wiggled up to a straighter position in her chair and darted her gaze around the table, seemingly in search of something. She lifted the pencil in a position that indicated that she wanted to write with it.

“Here.” I flipped over the paper in front of her. “You may write on the back of this page if you'd like.”

With her left hand cupped in front of the paper to block my view of it, she leaned over and jotted something down. I folded my hands on the table and waited without a word. Out in the main classroom, Miss Simpkin questioned the children about “Hiawatha.” Someone snored in the back row, on the other side of the cloakroom wall.

Janie lowered her hand and angled the paper so that I might read her words.

            
Mommy says no matter what I mustn't talk to you.

“Ah,” I said, and my stomach squirmed over the idea of disobeying a mother's wishes.

And yet, I persevered.

I turned the paper back over to the list of towns. “Would you please, then,
circle
the names that mean something to you.”

Janie put the eraser end of the pencil to her mouth and chewed on the metal band with her back left molars. The fillings in my own molars sang with pain from the remembered sensation of biting down on metal that very same way.

“If any of the names make you
feel
something,” I added, “whether it is a good or a bad sensation, please specify which ones they are with just a little circle or a check mark.”

Her attention strayed to the window, streaked and speckled from the rains. She tapped the heels of her shoes against the floor. The bottoms of my own feet vibrated from her movements.

“Janie?” I asked. “Do any of the names strike you as having a personal meaning? Are there any names that you like more than the others?”

She shifted her attention back to the paper and scribbled down another note.

            
I thought this was a geography test.

“It—it is,” I told her, again smiling. “These are all the names of geographical places. I want to see what you know about them. Can you tell me about any of them?”

She simply stared at the names and blew air through her lips in a way that rustled her bangs. I began to wonder if she had ever before seen the names of any other Kansas town besides Friendly. I also fretted that this exercise was a pointless use of time. The test seemed to be going nowhere, and I felt an imbecile for creating it.

“Why don't you simply circle the names you like best?” I asked, struggling with all of my might not to influence her responses with my wording—to avoid creating significance where none actually existed.

With her other hand back in place to shield her response, Janie bent over and circled a name. The tip of her pencil squeaked against the paper as she did so. Next, she raised the pencil and let it hover over each ensuing word, her eyes moving back and forth. Little shots of anticipation tingled at the top of my spine.

She circled a second name, studied her work, and then let me see the results.

The towns she marked:
Kansas City
and
Yesternight
.

I furrowed my brow. Yesternight was one of the towns I had made up.

The child inserted the end of the pencil back between her teeth.

“Janie”—I cleared my throat—“would you please now write a short note next to those two names, explaining why you like them?”

She bent over the paper once again, her hair swinging forward, brushing the sides of her chin. The purple ribbon drooped down to a spot just above her right ear.

Once she finished with her notes, I craned my neck to read her explanations.

For Kansas City, she wrote,
It has the word Kansas in it. I like that.

For Yesternight, she said,
Pretty name.

“Splendid,” I said, though unimpressed with the inconclusive findings. Clearly, the girl continued to be drawn to Kansas. She also liked my choice of an imaginary town name. That was all.

“Are you extremely bored by this test?” I asked.

Her lips crept into a cockeyed grin, and she nodded.

“Would you like to go back to your seat?”

She shrugged.

“May I ask you another question that has to do with a number, not geography?”

To that inquiry, she replied with a vigorous nod.

“What is your favorite number?”

Without hesitating, she wrote,
23
.

“Why twenty-three?” I asked.

She wrote,
My birthday is June 23
.

“Aha! I see. A good choice for a favorite number. And”—I crossed my legs—“what is a number you absolutely don't like?”

Her eyes shot up with a look of betrayal. A scowl crossed her face.

“Now you're glaring at me,” I said. “Can you tell me how you felt when I asked you that question?”

“Did Aunt Tillie already tell you?” she asked aloud.