to the hospital?”
“They weren’t home.”
76 / Beth Gutcheon
“Then the babysitter?”
Lyndie looked at the ground some more.
“They must have noticed this morning, how swollen it is….”
“My dad was kind of upset this morning. I thought if it didn’t get better I’d show Mrs. Shaw.”
Catherine was finding this troubling. Lyndie looked up at her sharply, a pleading look, and then away again. She put her good hand in Mrs. Trainer’s and held it as they walked.
“Didn’t anyone hear you fall?” she asked. Lyndie said nothing.
Catherine patted her good hand, which felt little and hot and gritty.
Lyndie started to cry.
“Mrs. Trainer? There’s a ghost in our house.” The little girl looked up and her face was full of fear.
“A ghost, Lyndie? That sounds terrible. Do your parents know?”
Lyndie shook her head forcefully. “No one can hear it but me! I told my brother, one night when it was crying, and he couldn’t hear it….”
“You heard it crying. Is it a child ghost?”
“No it’s an awful woman, and it weeps and weeps and I hear it after the lights are off, limping up and down the halls. And it comes to my room and stands there outside the door and I’m afraid it will come in.”
“How terrible!”
“It wants something!” said Lyndie. “No one would believe me. If Jonathan can’t hear it, they won’t hear it, and they won’t believe me!”
“Would that be so bad? You could tell your parents, and even if they didn’t believe you, they could comfort you, or help you to feel safer.”
Lyndie looked at her as if she must be mad.
“The ghost pushed me down the stairs,” she said. “It came up behind me and went like this…” she demonstrated a straight arm, such as Catherine had used on Mr. Glarrow when he took her bird feeder, “and I fell down and broke a glass. The glass broke. It hates me, I think it wants to kill me!”
Catherine had stopped, and the child stopped too, and looked at her very directly, as in agitation she finished this story. Catherine met her gaze, as if making her a promise.
Saying Grace / 77
They went into Home.
Catherine and Mr. Dianda together examined Lyndie’s arm. “She fell down the stairs,” said Catherine to Mike.
“Is that what happened?” Mike asked Lyndie gently. Lyndie nodded, holding back tears. “We better get you to a doctor,” said Mike. “Thank you, Mrs. Trainer.” And he and Lyndie went out to drive to the hospital.
In the afternoon, while her class was at PE, Catherine sought out Bonnie Fleming, the school psychologist. Bonnie was a waiflike young woman, a trapezist and a dancer with broken knees, who had learned massage when her own injuries had become chronic.
From physical therapy she had progressed to psychotherapy. Rue had hired her on a hunch to be on campus several days a week,
“making herself available.” Bonnie had a manner about her, quiet but magnetic, that Rue thought might be useful. The day she presented herself for her interview, Rue was showing her the campus when one of the runaway African gray parrots, which never let people get near it, had come down low in the live oaks, followed them from tree to tree, and finally flown out and settled on Bonnie’s shoulder.
“Hello, bird,” Bonnie had murmured to it, completely unsurprised.
“Hello bird. You got away, didn’t you? You got away and now your pin feathers have grown out and you can fly, can’t you bird? Good for you.” Rue had been amazed.
Catherine Trainer found Bonnie sitting under a tree, crocheting what looked like a snowflake in fine linen thread. Bonnie was wearing a black leotard, a long Indian wrap skirt, and ballet slippers.
Catherine tried to guess her age but couldn’t. Her long neck and torso bent and moved as she sat cross-legged, as if she needed to be constantly subtly stretching, warming her muscles in case her dance should begin.
Bonnie looked up at Catherine’s troubled face and gave her a welcoming smile.
“They weren’t home.”
76 / Beth Gutcheon
“Then the babysitter?”
Lyndie looked at the ground some more.
“They must have noticed this morning, how swollen it is….”
“My dad was kind of upset this morning. I thought if it didn’t get better I’d show Mrs. Shaw.”
Catherine was finding this troubling. Lyndie looked up at her sharply, a pleading look, and then away again. She put her good hand in Mrs. Trainer’s and held it as they walked.
“Didn’t anyone hear you fall?” she asked. Lyndie said nothing.
Catherine patted her good hand, which felt little and hot and gritty.
Lyndie started to cry.
“Mrs. Trainer? There’s a ghost in our house.” The little girl looked up and her face was full of fear.
“A ghost, Lyndie? That sounds terrible. Do your parents know?”
Lyndie shook her head forcefully. “No one can hear it but me! I told my brother, one night when it was crying, and he couldn’t hear it….”
“You heard it crying. Is it a child ghost?”
“No it’s an awful woman, and it weeps and weeps and I hear it after the lights are off, limping up and down the halls. And it comes to my room and stands there outside the door and I’m afraid it will come in.”
“How terrible!”
“It wants something!” said Lyndie. “No one would believe me. If Jonathan can’t hear it, they won’t hear it, and they won’t believe me!”
“Would that be so bad? You could tell your parents, and even if they didn’t believe you, they could comfort you, or help you to feel safer.”
Lyndie looked at her as if she must be mad.
“The ghost pushed me down the stairs,” she said. “It came up behind me and went like this…” she demonstrated a straight arm, such as Catherine had used on Mr. Glarrow when he took her bird feeder, “and I fell down and broke a glass. The glass broke. It hates me, I think it wants to kill me!”
Catherine had stopped, and the child stopped too, and looked at her very directly, as in agitation she finished this story. Catherine met her gaze, as if making her a promise.
Saying Grace / 77
They went into Home.
Catherine and Mr. Dianda together examined Lyndie’s arm. “She fell down the stairs,” said Catherine to Mike.
“Is that what happened?” Mike asked Lyndie gently. Lyndie nodded, holding back tears. “We better get you to a doctor,” said Mike. “Thank you, Mrs. Trainer.” And he and Lyndie went out to drive to the hospital.
In the afternoon, while her class was at PE, Catherine sought out Bonnie Fleming, the school psychologist. Bonnie was a waiflike young woman, a trapezist and a dancer with broken knees, who had learned massage when her own injuries had become chronic.
From physical therapy she had progressed to psychotherapy. Rue had hired her on a hunch to be on campus several days a week,
“making herself available.” Bonnie had a manner about her, quiet but magnetic, that Rue thought might be useful. The day she presented herself for her interview, Rue was showing her the campus when one of the runaway African gray parrots, which never let people get near it, had come down low in the live oaks, followed them from tree to tree, and finally flown out and settled on Bonnie’s shoulder.
“Hello, bird,” Bonnie had murmured to it, completely unsurprised.
“Hello bird. You got away, didn’t you? You got away and now your pin feathers have grown out and you can fly, can’t you bird? Good for you.” Rue had been amazed.
Catherine Trainer found Bonnie sitting under a tree, crocheting what looked like a snowflake in fine linen thread. Bonnie was wearing a black leotard, a long Indian wrap skirt, and ballet slippers.
Catherine tried to guess her age but couldn’t. Her long neck and torso bent and moved as she sat cross-legged, as if she needed to be constantly subtly stretching, warming her muscles in case her dance should begin.
Bonnie looked up at Catherine’s troubled face and gave her a welcoming smile.
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