Catherine Palmer - Thread Of Deceit

“She’s kind of a lost child, isn’t she?”

“Invisible. That’s the word I use. She’s not the only one. We have several kids who drift at the fringes, looking on, and trying not to be noticed. They’re like ghosts. Haunting. We do our best to involve them, but we don’t insist that they join the activities.”

He started for the door. “Why don’t you talk to the girl? And put in a load of laundry while you’re at it.”

He was halfway down the hall before he realized he’d left her alone in his office. An unsupervised guest. A snoopy reporter. He swung around, strode back into the room and took her arm.

“This way out, Miss Burns.”

“Ana.”

“Cleopatra,” he muttered, leading her through the front office. He gave her a nudge out into the main area, where the youngsters were playing basketball. “There she is—in her corner. See if you can get through to her. Even a name would be helpful.”

“I don’t have time.”

“Sure you do.” He studied Ana, surprised at the pale wariness that filtered across her face. “We’re not helping her. Maybe you can.”

“I can’t, sorry. I have to make these phone calls.”

“Scared?” he asked, taking a step closer, meeting her almost face-to-face. “You’re happy to announce Haven’s problems in your article, but when it comes to understanding what we really do, what our mission means—”

“I’m not scared,” she snapped back. “I’m just not comfortable with children.”

“You work in your church nursery.”

“One-on-one, I mean.” Her eyes narrowed and her soft lips pursed. “Okay, Uncle Sam. I’ll go talk to her. I’ll talk to the other kids, too. Maybe I’ll find out a few of your secrets.”

“I don’t have secrets,” he called after her as she started to walk away.

“Yes, you do. Wyoming. You and Terell. The Marines.” She shrugged. “And my name is not Cleopatra.”

He watched as she headed across the room toward the shadowy corner. The little girl spotted her and quickly turned away.

The lightbulb pulls on my eyeballs as though they are attached by strings. I fear they will come right out of my head and leave me blind. Seeing nothing but the darkness. Then I will be even more afraid than I am now.

Quickly, I close my eyes, hiding them safely behind the skin of my eyelids. It’s black in this place, and I can feel the pain. Fear tastes like blood on my tongue. It smells like sweat. Not the good sweat of my father when he comes home from work. This is the bad sweat of thieves and murderers and my father when he has drunk too much beer. Darkness curls around me like monster shadows and demon smoke, choking me and flooding my nostrils with the evil smell.

Afraid, afraid, afraid of this pain and sweat more than of blindness, I open my eyes and stare at the lightbulb. My eyes float upward into the light, the shining and shimmering light. It is so bright that my eyeballs must surely burst open…

…and it is the sun, gleaming on my sister’s white teeth as she laughs. She pulls on my hand, urging me into the light, and I run with her. We race down the beach, our feet flying across the loose sand, our toes digging into the soggy, slushy sand, and now we skip out into the water.

I call to her. Hold my hand, Aurelia! Stay beside me!

A wave rolls in and slaps our legs, and we gasp and cry out in shock and delight. So cold! So wet! Oh, we love this water, and the way it beckons us deeper and deeper.

Come! Come on, my sister calls me.

No, Aurelia, I tell her. I squeeze her fingers tightly with my own. Stay close to me. Stay near the shore where it is safe! In the ocean live big fish with sharp teeth to bite us. In the ocean, coral can cut open our toes and make us sick. Sea urchins can stick their spiny needles into our feet, and jellyfish can wrap their poison threads around our legs. Seaweed can pull us under so that we would drown.

Stay with me, Aurelia. Stay near, and I will keep you safe.

We dance in the waves, my sister and me. We march up and down like soldiers. We play trumpets and guitars in our mariachi band. We chase our children, those naughty waves, as they run away from us and then back into our arms again.

Oh, we are wet, and Mama will be angry!

But the sun is hot, and our skirts will be dry by the time we walk all the way home. The sun beats down on us like the drummer in our band, and we sing to it. We fling water upward into the sky like a baptism. And the droplets shower down on us, shiny crystals, God’s diamonds. His blessings fall on Aurelia and me as we play in the sunshine. As we lift our faces to the sun and laugh at the light sifting through our black lashes. Oh, the sun…

…the round, glowing bulb of light. Now the pain is gone, and the fear creeps away, back into the darkness, and I thank God who brought me the lightbulb.

“H i, there.” Ana approached the girl.

Brown eyes focused on the basketball game, the child sat on the concrete floor. With her legs tucked to one side, she gripped the hem of her skirt with both hands, as if she could somehow tug it over her knees. She wore the usual white T-shirt, her arms like thin straws hanging from the cupped sleeves.

“Can you please tell me where the bathrooms are?” Ana asked.

The girl said nothing. Her tongue darted out to moisten her lower lip, but her eyes remained glued to the game. Ana considered walking away. Obviously this child wanted nothing to do with her. She had chosen her dark corner, and she intended to stay in it.

Ana’s palms dampened, and she smoothed down her slacks. She, too, had known the need to hide.

“Los baños, por favor?” she asked in her mother’s native Spanish.

The girl’s brown eyes darted to her.

She had understood.

“Sabe donde quedan los baños?” she tried again, keeping her voice casual.

The child looked away. “No se,” she whispered.

Ana smiled. “Esta bien.”

Taking a step closer, Ana eased down onto the floor nearby. She leaned against the cool wall and took off her shoes. “Oh, my feet,” she said in Spanish. “These things are killing me! Take a look how high the heels are.”

She held out a shoe. The girl shook her head, her attention back on the basketball players.

“You’re smart to wear sandals,” Ana continued. “I’ve been up and down the sidewalks today. I bet I have blisters.”

She levered one leg over the other and examined the bottom of her foot. The child’s dark eyes slid across, studying the woman’s toes as Ana checked them.

“There’s a blister. See?” She angled her foot in that direction. “That really hurts. I need to soak it in some warm water. Do you know where I could do that?”

“Down the hall,” the girl whispered in Spanish. “You have to take the steps to the basement.”

“I wonder if it would be okay for me to go barefoot. There are so many rules here.”

“It’s all right. They won’t notice you.”

Ana sat for a moment, absorbing the dark corner where this little one had found her private haven. Where had she come from? Why had she chosen the shadows? And what made Ana’s heart beat so heavily each time those brown eyes focused on her face?

Was it possible this skinny child had a story Ana needed to tell? Carl Webster, her editor, had asked for several articles on the lead paint as well as accompanying sidebars. The deadline was a week and a half away, and Ana had no time to detour into any other subject. In addition to the series, she had to keep up with the small assignments that landed on her desk each day. If she couldn’t produce quality reporting, Carl would replace her. He had made that clear. There was no way Ana could allow that to happen.