If You Find Me(34)

My father nods at her words. We all watch him rub his chin as he continues to grin.

To my surprise, he turns to me.

“What do you think, Carey? Sound manageable?”

I’m not sure what I think. I’m still not finished thanking Saint Joseph that we’re not stupid as a hill of beans after all those years in the woods.

“I don’t know.” Then I surprise us both. “What do you think we should do?”

[page]All eyes trail to my leg, which is jiggling wildly.

“I think Jenessa will be fine starting off in second grade. She’s sophisticated enough. And you’ll do fine as a sophomore. I think the woods matured you, compared to girls with more contemporary upbringings,” he says.

I jump when he leans over and curls his hand around mine. He gives my hand a squeeze, and then, just as suddenly, lets go.

“I have no doubts you can handle skipping straight to your sophomore year. There are AP classes if you need more stimulation, and we can always bump you up another grade next year,” Mrs. Haskell says.

I nod, still unsure.

“High school is a social experience,” Mrs. Haskell adds. “It’ll give you time to adjust before you have to start thinking about college.”

College? It’d always seemed as likely as going to the moon.

“Then it’s settled,” I say, woods-firm. Perhaps the woods had made us older. I’d just never looked upon it as a good thing. “I’ll do my best, ma’am.”

I smile at Nessa with all the confidence I can muster.

“You’re absolutely sure?” Mrs. Haskell says, scrutinizing my face.

“Yes, ma’am. Ness and I didn’t have much else to do but study. We both like learning, and Ness is right scrappy. Talking or no talking, she can hold her own.”

“That brings us to the next item on our agenda. Jenessa’s talking, or lack thereof. Carey, you’d mentioned she’d been diagnosed in the past?”

Nessa stares out the window, zoning out. I betray my sister, letting it look like what it seems—l ike Ness is bored by the grown folks’ talk. My heart speeds up, then slows down. Ness would never give up my secret.

“Yes, ma’am. She’s always been quiet, but she stopped talking a little over a year ago.”

“Your mother must have been concerned.”

Annoyed was more like it.

“When she didn’t start talking again, Mama took her to a speech therapist in town.”

“So, who are you?”

Mama waits, her eyes marble-hard.

“Ness is Robin, like Christopher Robin, and I’m Margaret, from Goldengrove unleavin’.”

“You girls and your book nonsense. Okay. Robin and Margaret. Your father?”

“Dead.”

“Your address?”

“You answer that. Ness and I talk little as possible.”

“Good girl,” Mama says, beamin’. “That’s right. Let me do the talkin’.”

Mrs. Haskell pigeon-scratches on her pad. “Do you remember the doctor’s name?”

“No. But I remember the building—it was gray—and there was a child therapist next door. I remember because we went in that office first, by mistake.”

Mrs. Haskell turns to my father. “We probably won’t be able to get the records from that visit, but I’m not concerned. I think a speech therapist is a good idea, though. I’d like to recommend once-weekly visits. Since Jenessa has a stable home life with both a mother and a father, I think once a week would suffice.”

My father turns to Jenessa, his voice luring her from the window view back to us with words soft as an embrace.

“What do you think, kiddo? Would you like to visit with a nice lady who could help you with your words?”

Nessa nods, avoiding my eyes, and I swallow hard. But I smile weakly in her direction, and she smiles an apology in mine, all without looking at me.

I can’t blame her, wanting to be normal. Wanting to let go of the past.

Saint Joseph, please let Ness’s words come slowly so I have time to figure out what to do before she spills the beans.

Mrs. Haskell eyes me in a way that lets me know she knows there’s more, but the moment has passed. Ness has gone back to watching the warblers on the windowsill, and my eyes are empty of the secrets she seeks.

“Does she speak in full sentences when she does speak?”

I rip my eyes from my sister and turn to Mrs. Haskell, feeling two hundred years old, at least.

“Yes, ma’am. Sentences and paragraphs, like anyone else. She doesn’t talk above a whisper, though. She doesn’t want anyone to hear when she does.”

Mrs. Haskell turns to my father. “I’d have to agree, in my professional opinion, that the diagnosis of selective mutism is an accurate one. Her mind is fine, obviously. Just, for some reason, she chooses not to use her voice.”

They both look in my direction, waiting for me to add to the conversation, but I don’t. I can’t.

“So, these will be my recommendations to the court: that Carey enter tenth grade, Jenessa enter second, along with once-weekly sessions with a speech therapist. Any questions?”

I shake my head no and look to my father.

“Thank you, Mrs. Haskell. Do we need to go to the next hearing?”