Twilight Children (39 page)

Authors: Torey Hayden

BOOK: Twilight Children

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“Is she going to know about me?”

“Yes. All about you. Dr. Ruiz will be ready for you, when you go to see her. She’ll be like seeing a friend that you’ve known for a long time.”

Silence came then, and we played on for several minutes without speaking.

“You know something?” Cassandra said.

“What’s that?”

“You know when I was talking about Dr. Brown?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I didn’t really like her. I was just saying that.”

“Okay.”

“I was just pretending,” she said.

“Right.”

A pause.

“She always kept saying to me, ‘Do what you feel like,’ which was okay, because she had some cool junk. Like she had all this art stuff. Like clay and paints and stuff. And a real easel. But … but I knew I wasn’t there to do art. I felt funny there.”

“How do you mean?” I asked.

“Well, like I was thinking, ‘Why do I have to go here?’ Because it wasn’t a school and it wasn’t a church and it wasn’t Brownies or anything. And I wanted to know why I had to go. My mom kept saying, ‘You’re going there to get better from what your dad did.’ So I thought, ‘Okay. But what’s that? What’s she going to do to me?’ I kept waiting for something to happen. I kept getting really nervous, you know? Like when you’re waiting for something? Because I thought, maybe she’s going to ask me junk. I didn’t know what she was going to ask. So when she kept saying, ‘Do what you feel like,’ it felt like she was trying to trick me. Or … I dunno. It’s hard to say, but I didn’t like it. Because, if she was going to make me better, how come nothing was happening? How come she was waiting?”

“That must have been frustrating,” I said.

“It was just confusing.”

Cassandra took one of her checkers, hopped over two of mine, and reached my side of the board. Taking a spare checker, she turned her player into a king.

“Anyway, I wanted you to know that,” she said.

“Thank you,” I said.

“I mean, not that I liked coming here either …” Looking up briefly, she grinned. “But I wanted you to know I was just saying that about Dr. Brown.”

Cassandra won that game. We spent a few moments discussing if we should play another or if we should switch and play cards. This sidetracked us into discussing possible card games. Cassandra began to tell me at great length about a game called “Booby,” which I’d never heard of and which sounded unusually complicated. Then she remembered it required at least four players. In the end, we returned to checkers.

As Cassandra made her first move, she said, “What’s it going to be like?”

“What’s what going to be like?” I asked.

“That doctor. The one I’m going to see when I leave here. What’s she like?”

“That’s what I told you a little earlier. Do you remember?”

A pause.

“Well …” she said slowly, “
part
of me remembers. Part of me doesn’t, I guess.”

“Her name is Dr. Ruiz. And she’s very nice. She’s very easy to talk to and she’s worked with a lot of kids who’ve had experiences like you’ve had. That’s why Dr. Menotti chose her.”

“Will she be like you?”

I smiled. “She’ll be like her. But she’ll be just as interested in helping as I am. She’ll care just as much about what happens to you.”

Cassandra nodded.

There was a long pause then. Cassandra sat back. Her eyes were still on the checkerboard and the playing pieces, as if she were considering her next move, but she never made it.

Finally, she looked up. “Can I have your phone number?”

I met her eyes.

She tipped her head to the right. “Just in case I need it.”

I smiled. “Yes, of course.” I pushed back my chair. “I’ll get a piece of paper and write it down for you.”

“No, here.” Cassandra leaped up and grabbed a felt-tip from the box on the shelf. She came around to my side of the table. “Here. Write it on my hand.” She smiled at me. “So I can take it with me.”

So I wrote the telephone number of my office across the palm of her hand.

Cassandra closed her hand for a moment. Then she picked up the felt-tip herself. “Here. Give me your hand. I’m going to write something now.”

I opened my hand flat.

In careful letters she wrote, “Cassandra,” then drew a heart beside it. She colored it in. “There,” she said and grinned at me. She folded my fingers in over my palm. “There. Now you take that with you.”

Epilogue

I
received a Christmas card at my office address from Drake’s parents. It was the first time I’d heard from them since we’d parted at McDonald’s that gloomy, overcast Saturday afternoon in early spring.

The card came from a large city almost a thousand miles away. It didn’t say much of anything about either Skip or Lucia, nor about their new life. I had to assume new jobs and a new house. There was, however, plenty of news of Drake.

Over the summer, Drake had been reassessed by a large university hospital in the city where they were living. It was determined that his disability was not part of a progressive degenerative illness, but rather a rare congenital deformity.

During August Drake had had the first of what would be several reconstructive surgeries aimed at making his vocal cords more functional, and even now, Lucia said, he was starting to make some sounds. This wasn’t going to replace sign language, however, as it was unlikely he would ever be able to speak effectively. Thus, Lucia wrote, both she and Skip had been taking signing classes. Drake, though, was so much faster at it!

He had entered kindergarten in the fall in the neighborhood school and was loving it. A full-time classroom aide was helping him make the transition into the speaking world. Drake was already proving to be an able student academically, and it was thought he soon would not need so much support. As ever, he was popular, the other children clamoring to spend time with him and learn how to “speak in code.”

And the very special news, Lucia said, was that Drake was going to be a big brother in April.

This was the only contact I had with the family after they left our area. And I never heard again from or about Mason Sloane.

Cassandra was given an official diagnosis of dissociative disorder in recognition of her “multiple identities.” She remained under the care of Dr. Ruiz, a specialist in treatment of childhood trauma, for almost three years, by which point it was felt she had “reintegrated” these parts of her personality. I followed Cassandra’s progress closely during this time, seeing her once a week during the first year after her release from the hospital unit and once a month thereafter.

Cassandra’s natural father was already serving a prison sentence for abduction and other offenses, mostly drug related. Following Cassandra’s allegations, “Uncle Beck” was also arrested. He too is now in prison.

Cassandra’s journey to recovery has been a long road, however, and troubles have persisted. Lying, in particular, has remained a huge problem for her, and in times of stress, she is still inclined to revert to sexualized lies. When she was twelve, her claims that a male teacher had abused her resulted in a very unfortunate court case, after which Cassandra was taken into care.

Things have changed for the better since this time, however. At fourteen, Cassandra became a member of the local youth theater and in this medium finally found a channel for her very active and creative mind. She has enjoyed playwriting, acting, and the backstage world of theater. The year she was seventeen, she not only wrote but also organized and acted in three one-act plays on teenage subjects. These were acclaimed locally, and her small troupe was asked to perform the plays in several high schools. This resulted in a scholarship to study drama at college. Cassandra is still writing plays today.

I’ve never heard from or about Gerda’s family again and can only assume they continue to live their far-flung lives. I myself think of Gerda often, particularly when I am home in Montana. Particularly when the chokecherries are in bloom.

About the Author

TOREY HAYDEN
is an educational psychologist and a special education teacher who, since 1979, has chronicled her struggles in the classroom in a succession of bestselling books. She currently lives and writes in North Wales, U.K., with her husband and daughter.
Visit her website at
www.torey-hayden.com
.

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TOREY HAYDEN

“Torey Hayden deserves the kind of respect I can’t give many people. She isn’t just valuable, she’s incredible.”
Boston Globe

“[Hayden] persuades us that even the most withdrawn and troubled child can be reached if someone takes the time, pays attention, and sincerely, deeply cares.”
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“She’s awfully, awfully good … She never fails to convey all the tearful and chilling moments this involvement of hers brings.”
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Other Works

Books by Torey Hayden

T
WILIGHT
C
HILDREN

B
EAUTIFUL
C
HILD

O
NE
C
HILD

G
HOST
G
IRL

J
UST
A
NOTHER
K
ID

M
URPHY’S
B
OY

S
OMEBODY
E
LSE’S
K
IDS

T
HE
T
IGER’S
C
HILD

T
HE
S
UNFLOWER
F
OREST

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