Where Bluebirds Fly

Chapter 10



Truman squared his shoulders and inhaled deeply, preparing his mind. Each hour in Occupational Therapy was a physical, mental cage-match.

April, the social worker from their sister orphanage, dragged the slip of a girl down the entrance hall, into the clinic. Her tiny body flopped to the floor, flailing against April’s hand, which encircled her wrist. The woman’s tall frame tottered on her high heels. She looked like a flamingo, tilting on one leg as the writhing girl knocked her off balance.

Truman vaulted to the rescue, taking the little girl’s hand in his own.

Tiny, tearful eyes met his as she howled in disdain. Her eyes darted like a trapped animal, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings.

“So the orders are a continuous feeding at night by the tube and she is now P.O. during the day?”

He automatically lifted his foot, blocking a kick from her tiny tennis shoe without glancing down.

“What’s P.O.?” April looked harried.

Her normally perfect hair hung in her face. She examined her manicure for injuries. Truman fought the urge to roll his eyes.

“I mean she is allowed to eat, now? Her barium swallow came back without precautions? Her file said she was aspirating on thin liquids before, leaking into her lungs—the cause of the frequent pneumonia?”

“Yes, yes. I hope you fare better than us. She’s eaten nothing since we took her in a day ago. If it continues, we’ll have to take her in for dehydration.”

Truman took a mental sigh. “We’re okay. You’re a distraction. I’ll have Sunshine text you when we’re through.”

April’s face was decidedly relieved as she closed the door to the clinic.

Even professionals don’t know what to do with these kids, his mind retorted to her expression.

He released the girl. She backed away, never taking her eyes off him. Black, wild hair flowed from her head, reaching her buttocks. It was woolly with thick tangles and knots.

She was like a little black sheep; welcome to my world, little one. The smile splitting his lips was painful. And familiar.

Sunshine entered, closing the door. The girl bolted forward, intent on escape. The door slammed a second before she could slip her foot out. Her body collapsed to the floor; she flailed, kicking and spitting.

Her tiny chin quivered. A wail, shrill as nails on a chalkboard, ripped from her mouth.

She flipped over, swinging like mad. Her forehead smashed against the floor with a wet thud.

“Oh, come on.”

Truman flew for her, but Sunshine arrived first, pulling the child into her arms.

She hummed a lullaby in her ear.

“Oh, Truman.” She kept her eyes downcast.

She bit her lip, wrestling to keep her professional face on; but her voice had a telling quake.

The girl was getting under his assistant’s skin.

She was outlined in black—the color he associated with physical pain.

Sunshine’s color was red; a direct contradiction to her typical resplendent shade of orange. It now flickered like dappled sunlight as her feelings shifted.

Her dark hair fell in a curtain, hiding her expression.

Truman summoned his emotional wall. “She’s been neglected, I’m guessing since day one. The file says her father was an alcoholic and in jail, and her mother was declared mentally incompetent to stand trial. That hair hasn’t had a brush run through it in years. We might have to shave it.”

He fought the mental slideshow threatening behind his barricade.

His six-year-old self; filthy, smelly. Crying.

No, get it together. That was then. Make a difference now.

He kneeled, squirting warm lotion onto his hands and rubbing them together.

Carefully, he peeled off a tiny sock, leaving a ring of dirt lingering around her ankle.

She smelled like a rest-stop urinal.

He moved his hands in practiced, deep circles of massage and the girl instantly stilled, entranced.

“Wow, that’s working,” Sunshine whispered. “What a difference from Timmy.”

Truman raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Too early for that assumption, Watson.”

He grasped a tiny hand, and began to rub.

A primal scream erupted; she twisted, recoiling as if a million needles lodged under her fingernails.

She lunged backwards in a head-butt. Sunshine juked out of the way.

“You spoke too soon,” Truman said, still rubbing. “She’s tactilely defensive. Her nerves are working overtime. Think Princess and the Pea, but all over. Particularly with her hands.”

Sunshine released her and walked across the clinic, searching desperately for a toy. Anything to distract her.

Wild, dark eyes screamed at him. She lunged, shrieking in his face.

He met her gaze, holding very still. He shifted to the other hand, intensifying the massaging motions.

“If she can’t stand to touch things, she won’t eat either.”

The girl gagged at the word eat, filling his lap with a white, chunky, pile of sick.

He sighed. “Sunny, a little help here?”

* * *

Disgust burns my nose. Only hours have passed since Mercy’s fit, yet here she sits, prim and judgmental; encouraging Anne Jr. to condemn another in this endless night that’s conquered Salem.

“Who was it, Anne?” Mercy prods. “Was it Goody Proctor or Goody Osborne?”

“Yes, tell us child, whose spectral form torments you? Be it Sarah Good?” Anne Sr. prompts.

I peek around the corner to see Anne Jr. on the chair by the fire, her gaze unfocused.

“Someone sits in Grandmother’s chair across from me, even now. She is pale.”

I pretend to sweep near the main room, needing to hear Anne, Jr.’s condemnations.

I do not trust that girl. At times, she does appear afflicted, but others—I think she craves the attention. Needs it like a drunkard to his drink.

“Be it one of the Parris family?

I step into the other room, suppressing my gasp.

John’s stare is quizzical.

“What? What is going on?”

John is unable to decipher emotions. In order for him to understand someone’s anger, the person need strike him or curse him to his face.

The language of the eyes, that’s oft in complete contradiction to people’s words, is foreign to him. I am his interpreter.

My brother isn’t stupid, quite the opposite, but his inability to decipher faces left him constantly guessing, and anxious.

I sigh, wishing that the intensity of my love for him, would heal him. He feels like an immigrant, even among his own people.

“Goodwife Putnam just suggested another! I know not what shall become of this town.”

“Aye, Goody Nurse was always kind to me. Look what happened to her.”

“No, it could not be?”

“Pray what, sister? Speak plainly.”

“The Putnams have argued with the Nurses as long as I can recall about where their land halts, and the Nurses’ begins. Do you suppose they would suggest this to Anne to influence her? To get the land?”

John shrugs. “Some people’s hearts are black as ink.”

I grin. No doubt John took considerable time working out that comparison. And practiced it.

Anne Jr.’s voice rings out, and we both turn toward the sitting area. “Yes, I do believe it was Goodwife Nurse, ma’am.”

My mouth pops open, along with the floodgate of fear.

“As I live and breathe, John. Goodwife Nurse’s breaths be numbered. No soul be safe in Salem.”

* * *