As I wound my way up the newly paved blacktop on my way to the Lodge, I thought about my visit with Corinne. It was hard, since Billy May’s death, to see Corinne without thinking of John’s revelations after the funeral. I had spent the last years of my childhood surrounded by the Johnson family. Since I had no known relatives of my own, Corinne comfortably fit into the role of favored aunt. The information John had shared required a shift in thinking, and I wasn’t quite sure how to make the shift.
The issue wasn’t Billy May’s sexuality. I had always believed in a live and let live sort of lifestyle, assuming everyone involved was a willing participant. In my view, love was elusive and successful relationships even more so; kudos to anyone who could make it work.
I wasn’t quite sure what the issue was, but for some reason I felt betrayed. My life had been an open book with Billy May, but Billy May had apparently had a separate life about which I had had no clue. My feelings were difficult to categorize, but something about the unknown, unperceived distance that had apparently existed between us hurt me deeply.
Standing in Corinne’s driveway, preparing to leave, I had been tempted to ask Corinne about her relationship with Billy May, but I hadn’t. I didn’t know how to approach the subject, and looking down at Corinne, her hair forever slipping loose of that bun, blue eyes looking up at me in a smile, I doubted I ever would. Instead, I’d bent down to wrap my arms around my favorite aunt.
As she hugged me back Corinne had pressed something into the pocket of my jacket. Remembering the pressure of her hand as I steered the car carefully around the curves of Crutcher Mountain, I reached under my seatbelt to fish around in my breast pocket. As soon as I pulled out the small leather pouch I knew what it was, and my breath caught in my throat. Billy May’s trinkets. Unable and unwilling to deal with the knowledge at that moment, I shoved the bag quickly back into my pocket. This was not the time.
Rounding the final curve leading to the Lodge, I forced myself to stop thinking about the past and focus on the task ahead. I rolled to a stop under a towering maple, brilliant orange in the fully risen sun, just outside the little cabin that now served as the office for the Platte Lodge for Children. Taking in the sight in front of me, my attention immediately snapped back to the present, all other thoughts shoved aside. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. What the hell?
“What on earth are you doing?” I shouted, throwing open the car door and jumping to my feet in one swift movement, crunching through the fallen leaves. “Get that off of him immediately!” I strode angrily towards an older man who turned to look at me in surprise. Just as I reached him, a younger woman rushed in front of me, holding out her hands in an effort to stop my progress. Both the man and the woman blocked my path, refusing to let me get any closer to the boy, who appeared to be restrained by some sort of straightjacket-type device and who was screaming bloody murder.
“How dare you!” I yelled. “Get out of here immediately, both of you! We don’t allow such treatment here. I’ll be reporting both of you to the Department of Human Resources. Where is Dr. Wright? You’d better believe she’s going to hear about this.”
“I’m right here, Jessie.” The doctor appeared in the doorway of the little cabin and stepped quickly forward. “Paul, Janice, go see to Anthony. I’ll explain to Ms. McIntosh. Jessie, let’s go in my office.”
For a moment I simply stood, dumbfounded, before noticing the group of giggling children peering at me through the doorway of the adjacent Lodge. Confused, the first stirrings of embarrassment seeping in, I looked back at Nora, who smiled. “Come on,” she said to me. “I promise it will all make sense in a minute.” She took me by the arm and led me inside.
“I feel like such an idiot.”
Dr. Wright laughed. “I can only imagine how it must have looked to you. How could you have known? Trained professionals often have the same reaction the first time they witness a patient using a weight jacket.”
“So the child wants to use the jacket to cut down on unwanted stimuli.” I shook my head. “Fascinating.”
“Mmm,” Dr. Wright nodded. “It is, isn’t it? Studies indicate that children with autism experience stimuli much more intensely than most of us, whether it’s visual, auditory, or tactile. The jacket is one way of cutting down on troublesome tactile sensations. Anthony brought the jacket with him, and we have a clinical order in place that allows him to use it when he feels the need.”
“Well,” I grinned sheepishly, running my hand through my hair, “I suppose I owe everyone an apology. As soon as I work up the nerve to face them.”
“They’ll understand. Besides, it’s always nice to run into someone willing to fight for the rights of our children.” Dr. Wright smiled. “We like that around here. Now,” she changed the subject, “how was your trip?”
I pursed my lips and released a tired breath, leaning my head back against the upholstered chair. “Weird,” I said. “That’s probably the best way to describe it. I love Cedar Hollow, but it’s painful to be back. Even this,” I gestured around the office. “It’s hard.”
In the interest of preserving the authenticity of the place, the Platte Lodge for Children had kept the main cabin—Billy May’s cabin—to use as the main office. Although the cabin now had running water and electricity, they’d done a wonderful job maintaining the feel of a rustic hunting cabin. The stove still took center stage, the very stove Billy May had used that long ago night to boil water and herbs to heal my injuries.
It must be worth a fortune now, I thought, though to us its worth had stemmed from its functionality and from the comfort it brought. A braid rug was spread across the floor, much like the one Billy May had had, the one Old Mongrel had lain on, keeping guard and protecting us from the evil he had known was coming. Dear Old Mongrel. He’d passed away our first winter in Cedar Hollow. Billy May had buried him—without permission or even knowledge from the town—adjacent to her own burial plot.
The long counter across the back wall now had drawers underneath and cabinets above. File cabinets lined the wall where Billy May’s bed used to be, and Dr. Wright’s desk, flanked by cushiony office chairs on either side, was against the far wall, where the homemade table and chairs had once stood. The cabin was different, yet it wasn’t.
Billy May’s presence was all around, so much so that it was hard to believe she wouldn’t come clumping in at any moment, dropping split wood into the box behind the door and wiping the sweat off her brow with her sleeve. I shook my head to clear it. I simply could not function if I allowed my grief a way in. I had spent the last eight months holding it at bay, but being there, in that town, on that mountain, in that cabin, was nearly more than I could bear.
Dr. Wright watched me, her expression inscrutable. It was unnerving to remember that she was, in fact, a psychotherapist. I wondered what she must think of me. Her mannerisms were purely professional, her black pantsuit nicely fitted, her dark hair cropped in a sensible bob. It was impossible to see anything other than empathy in the gray eyes behind the scholarly glasses, yet I had the feeling I was being dissected and filed away somewhere in the database of her brain. I was sure I could provide plenty of material for future study, but today wasn’t the day to do it.
I shook my head again. “I can’t allow myself to dwell on any of it,” I said, sitting up straight and crossing my legs, all business. “Let’s talk about what’s been happening here.”
Dr. Wright nodded a quick nod and reached into a desk drawer, withdrawing a single sheet of paper. “As you know,” she began, “I’ve been concerned about some of the potentially dangerous things that have happened the last few weeks.” She set the paper on the desk. “At the risk of seeming paranoid, I couldn’t help but think these things were done deliberately, as much as we tried to rationalize them away. But this,” she gestured at the paper, “this proves that something, or rather someone, is deliberately doing things to undermine the Lodge.” She picked up the paper, reaching across the desk to hand it to me.
It was a copy, scanned, I assumed, from the original. “The police have the original?” I asked.
“They do, but I managed to scan it before handing it over.” She grimaced and looked away for a moment before making eye contact again. “They don’t know I scanned it. I suppose I should have told them, but I worried they wouldn’t allow it, and somehow it seemed important to have you see it.”
“I think you did the right thing,” I said, searching through my purse for reading glasses. “If it’s me they’re asking for, whoever ‘they’ happen to be, it seems only fitting that I view the invitation.” Slipping the glasses on, I held the paper out for a look.
The message was typed, short, and to the point. “Dear Jessica McIntosh,” I read aloud. “What a nice thing you’ve done, providing a retreat for all the little disabled children.” I stopped at Dr. Wright’s snort and looked at her over the top of my glasses.
“Sorry,” she apologized. “I know it’s silly, but they aren’t disabled children. They’re children who happen to have a disability. There’s a difference. Pet peeve of mine. My apologies. Continue.” She sat back against her chair, pressed her fingertips together, and waited.
Adjusting my glasses, I picked up where I’d left off. “It would be a shame if the program were unsuccessful. If, for example, someone got hurt or it burned to the ground. For that reason, we insist that you come back to Cedar Hollow. Your presence will safeguard against any number of tragedies just waiting to occur, and we’re quite certain, given your affluent Hollywood lifestyle, that you can afford the trip. We look forward to seeing you. We have unfinished business to conduct.” I looked back up at Dr. Wright. “No signature, of course.”
“No,” she agreed, “but we can always hope the original has fingerprints. I handled it very carefully for the scan.”
“So, now what?” I held out my arms, palms up. “I’m here. Am I just supposed to hang out and wait for something to happen?”
“I wish I had the answer to that.” She removed her glasses and rubbed her eyes. “My hunch is that the responsible party will make him- or herself known fairly quickly. Otherwise, why summon you? They obviously want something from you.”
Replacing her glasses, she looked at me. “Do you want protection? I haven’t yet told the sheriff’s department that I called you, but I’m sure they’d be willing to set up a patrol outside the Lodge. As it is, they’ve said they’ll make a trip or two up the mountain each night just to check on things until this all gets sorted out. They’re also checking into Virgil Young, the van driver I had to let go. Supposedly, he gave them an alibi for the time the fire was started. It seems he was having the van serviced, but they’ll chase down all the leads and make sure.”
I shook my head. “I don’t think protection will be necessary. This place is like a fortress when it’s locked up tight. We’ll just need to exercise caution and make sure we keep it locked.” I stood, eager for a tour. In anticipation of future visits, I’d undergone all the necessary background checks to volunteer for the program, and I was actually quite excited about participating. “If it’s okay with you, I’d like to take a look around. I haven’t seen the program in action.”
“Of course.” Dr. Wright stood as well. “And let’s get you settled in. You’ll be staying in the south end of the Lodge, across from Mr. and Mrs. Huffman. The day therapists go home after dinner, but we have night counselors that clock in when the day therapists leave. The night counselors do fifteen minute checks on the children throughout the night so there will be some activity, but as you know, the residents are housed on the north end, across the common area.”
I brushed away her concerns. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. I’m used to city noises, remember? If anything, it may be too quiet for me.”
Dr. Wright hesitated, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “We can certainly hope that’s the case, but I sort of doubt it will be,” she said. “Anthony has a way of making sure it doesn’t get too quiet around here.”