Secret Brother (12 page)

He nodded and smiled.

“Good. So what is it? What's your name?”

“William,” he said. “William Arnold.”

7

I turned and ran out of the room. I was actually trembling when I sat on my bed. I couldn't get out of my mind the look of glee on his face when he suddenly said, “William Arnold.” It was weird. He looked like he believed he really had remembered that was his name. His eyes lit up as if it had just come back to him, and he smiled just the way someone who had been trying hard to remember something would smile. I was shivering. I sat there with my arms wrapped around myself, partly chastising myself for getting so foolishly frightened and acting like it. Maybe that was what he had wanted.

When I heard footsteps on the stairway and in the hall, I rose quickly and shut my door. I didn't want to talk to anybody or let anyone see how disturbed I was and ask why, not even Myra or My Faith, but when the phone rang, I leaped at it. My hello was a little over the top. I'm sure I sounded like someone stuck in a coal mine for days who finally had contact with the outside world.

“Clara Sue?”

“Yes, yes.”

“It's Lila. Hi,” she said.

“Hi, hi, hi.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes, what's happening?”

“Nothing. I was just checking to be sure you're coming to school tomorrow.”

“Yes, I'm coming. I'm fine, fine.” I took a breath and added in a tone of defiance, “And I'm definitely going to Audrey's party.”

I was determined now not to punish myself anymore. Fate had done enough on its own, and the boy next door was compounding it.

“Oh, good. And you know who will be happy about that.”

“We'll see how happy he really is. I think his picture is next to ‘flirt' in the dictionary,” I added, feeling my body soften and calm as a flood of images returned. Boys, parties, music, and laughter. I flopped onto my bed. “Don't forget. You were the one who told me he had ‘bedroom eyes.' ”

She giggled. “You sound more like yourself,” she said. I could almost see her biting down on her lip and holding her breath after uttering those words, and for the first time, I really did feel sorry for her.

When someone is emerging from the darkness of great sorrow like I was, it was natural to be timid about saying anything that seemed like you didn't share that sorrow or respect it any longer. But how long could I expect my friends to be sympathetic?
Who wants to walk continually in the shadows, tiptoeing and watching every word she spoke and checking first before she permitted herself to smile or laugh?

“I'm myself. I'm myself. Never more myself,” I said. “I've got to finish the math. That last problem was a doozy. I put it off for a while because my head was spinning.”

“I didn't even start math yet,” she confessed.

“Well, get to it. I don't want to see you grounded for failing grades.”

She laughed, more relaxed this time. I welcomed the sound of it, but it did seem strange to hear it. When was the last time I had laughed? When was the last time I had heard Willie's laugh? My Faith always claimed that laughter was “the gift of angels.” It certainly beat crying.

“Okay,” Lila said. “I'll get to work. Oh. All the girls in our class are wearing red tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“The joke we pulled on Mr. Leshner. Oh, right. You wouldn't know. It was Rose Mosely's idea. She sent a note to him telling him she had a crush on him and couldn't stand it. She piled it on, claiming it was making her sick. She couldn't sleep; she couldn't eat. She got all the lines out of some romance novel about this schoolteacher who seduces a student, or vice versa. She sent a different note saying something similar for four days in a row, without signing them, and then yesterday in a note, she told him that tomorrow she would wear red so he would know who she was. And so we're all wearing red. Get it?”

“Yes. I'll think about that,” I said.

“Everyone will understand if you don't want to do it.”

“I didn't say I won't. I said I'll think about it,” I snapped back. “I meant I would think about what to wear,” I told her, even though that wasn't true.

“Oh. Great. See you in the morning,” she added, and quickly hung up.

I guessed I had sounded like a ticking time bomb. My nerves felt like they were sparking. Any moment, I might just explode as if I was made of the same ceramic material used to make my old dolls. I swallowed back the urge to scream and scream but sat there until I realized I was still clutching the telephone receiver like someone desperate to keep in contact with the world outside. Finally, I took a deep breath and returned to my math. The solution to the problem was obvious to me this time around. I felt a sense of accomplishment, closed my books, and prepared for bed. As I was brushing my teeth, I heard a knock on my door. For a moment, I considered pretending I was asleep, but then I wondered if it was Grandpa coming to say some nicer things to me.

“Just a minute,” I called, and put on my robe before opening the door. I was only in my bra and panties, and whenever Grandpa saw me that way now, he practically lunged out a window.

It was Dorian Camden, however. She could tell immediately that I was disappointed. Grandma Arnold had always accused me of failing to disguise my feelings. “Women, especially, are at a disadvantage when
they do that,” she told me. “Don't look so pleased so quickly, for example. Boys take an inch to mean a foot. You'll find that out quickly enough.”

How much I missed her.

“Just checking to see how you are feeling after eating,” Mrs. Camden said.

“I feel fine. It's over. Whatever it was.”

“May I come in for a moment?” she asked. I was still holding the door, poised as though I might slam it in her face at any moment.

I nodded, relaxed, and retreated to my desk chair. She entered, closing the door softly behind her.

“I suppose this comes under the title of extracurricular activities,” she began with a smile, obviously trying to establish a lighter mood with me.

She looked around the room when I didn't smile back or respond.

“This is a beautiful room. I didn't really look at it when I came in earlier today. You have very pretty furniture. I like that you have an eastern exposure. You wake up to sunshine.”

“When there is any,” I said dryly. “Every day looks cloudy to me, no matter what,” I added, the bitterness so sharp I could taste it.

She ignored me and looked at the books I had on my bookshelf and the collection of small dolls from other countries. It was something my mother had subscribed to when I was five. We'd get one every two months for years.

“What are all these?”

“Dolls from other countries.”

“Can you tell which country each is from just by looking at them?”

“Yes. The clothes give them away, don't you think?”

“Well . . .”

“If you know the colors in their countries' flags, that is.”

“Oh.” She nodded. “Very smart.” She smiled. “I had a rag doll forever. I even took it to college,” she said. “The other girls made fun of me, but I didn't care. As my mother used to say, accept me for who I am, warts and all, or don't accept me.”

She waited for my response again, but I just stared at her, wondering what sort of wisdom I was missing now that my mother was gone and Grandma Arnold, too.

She turned back to the dolls. “Do you still get these international dolls?”

“They come, but they don't mean as much to me as they did when my mother was alive. She was the one who started my collection.”

She nodded. Then she sat on the Chippendale side chair that matched the bed and dresser. She pressed the tips of her fingers together and looked like she was taking careful measurement of every word she was about to say. “He might not show it,” she began, “but your grandfather is very worried about you.”

“You're right. He doesn't show it,” I said.

“He misses your brother terribly, I assure you. You have to realize he's a bit lost.”

“Like the new William Arnold?”

She dropped her soft smile. I could almost hear it
shatter on her lap. “He doesn't know where to put his energy. This boy has helped him way more than he's helped this boy.”

I was about to say,
What about me? He could put his energy in me
, but she anticipated it or saw it in my face.

“A man, especially a man like your grandfather, is more comfortable devoting himself to sons and grandsons.”

“He's not either one. He's a stranger,” I insisted.

“For now,” she replied, which took me aback. What did that mean? “Look,” she continued, “I don't know how much of a recuperation he's going to enjoy. I've spent time with the doctor, of course, the neurologist, and was given as full a diagnosis as he had, but . . .”

“When?”

“I went with your grandfather before I agreed to take on this position. It was important that I knew where the boy stood in relation to what's happened to him. There is some doubt that he will have a full recuperation. And I'm not even talking about the psychological and emotional wounds. Is he a big problem to take on? Yes, a very big problem. I can't say I'm not surprised at how determined your grandfather is to make a difference in his life, but rather than fight it, why not become part of it?”

“Part of it?”

“Really. You don't have to consider him your brother or anything. Just think of him as a child who needs comfort, support.”

“Not love?” I asked.

She stared at me a moment. She knew I was being quite sarcastic. “Yes, Clara Sue, that, of course, but that's not something you just toss into the mix. It has to be something that develops. I know you're very bright. You're quite attractive, too. I'm sure you're popular in school. You're all that now, and I think you're quite mature for your age.”

“How do you know that? You haven't been here that long, and we've hardly spoken to each other,” I challenged. Both Grandma Arnold and my grandfather had by their example instilled in me an intolerance for false compliments.

“Let's just say you're more mature than I was at you age. I don't have to be around you long or talk to you long to realize and expect it. I've seen it too often. Tragedy makes you grow up faster.”

“Who wants to?” I shot back. “Especially because of all that.”

“We don't have much choice about it. I'm sure you were quite the big sister for your little brother, much more than other girls your age would be.”

She was right, but I didn't feel like agreeing with her about anything, ever.

“Now, what I'm asking you to consider is how you were, too, when your parents were killed in that accident, how lost you were, even though you still had your grandparents, and just imagine it's the same for him. For him, it's like his whole family, whoever they were and how many there were, is gone. He doesn't even have a distant cousin at this point.”

“No one knows any of that for sure yet.”

“It's what we know right now, and you can deal only with what you do know, right?” she said, sounding more like she was pleading.

“It doesn't matter,” I said. “I really don't want to think about it.”

“Look. Maybe this will be a big disaster . . . the medical attention, the counseling, the expensive changes and machinery being brought into the house, but for now, why not contribute something toward the resolution?”

“What machinery?”

She sat back. “Your grandfather is turning the den into a therapy room. He has hired a professional therapist to design it and treat William. It will all be set up rather quickly.”

“William,” I said, as if the name had become profanity. I looked away.

“He's only trying to make him comfortable. Everyone agrees that if the boy feels safe and comfortable, he'll recuperate quicker.”

“Make him comfortable, make him comfortable,” I shot back. “When does he try to make
me
comfortable?”

“You know he does, he has,” she said, with that comforting smile I was beginning to hate. I was sure she was now an expert at deflecting nasty remarks thrown at her by patients soaked in their own self-pity.

“You're just saying all this because you want to keep your job. He's probably paying you more than you usually get, right?”

“I have plenty of offers for work, Clara Sue. That's never been a problem for me.”

“He's paying you more,” I insisted, nodding. I calmed a bit. “He probably should, but he's definitely paying you more than you'd be making anywhere else, right?”

“I'm here to talk about you,” she insisted. “Not me. How you can help make it all easier.”

“There's nothing I can do. I don't know anything about physical therapy.”

“Oh, I'm not asking you to do anything like that. Just . . . give him the sense that he's welcome,” she suggested. “It will please your grandfather, and in the end, you won't be so . . .”