Where Bluebirds Fly

Chapter 16



I crouch in the corner of the room Truman calls the O.T. Clinic. He’s trying to coax the little wild boy into a chair.

I flinch and the boy dodges, ready to run if he charges me. His little teeth have already left one raging-red, bite-mark on Truman’s forearm.

I must be fair. My brother is different, but John was never violent. I swallow.

“Verity, it’s okay. He’s just a boy, really. A boy no one understands—but underneath it all, just a child. I call them Lost Boys.”

“Lost Boys?”

“Yes, Peter Pan? Wait, that may have been after your time.”

The boy’s eyes, perceptive and aware, see Truman’s attention has left him.

He bolts, reaching a swing that’s bolted to the ceiling and launches onto it, belly down and spread-eagled, flying into the air.

My hands fly to cover my mouth.

“No-you-don’t!” To my surprise, Truman laughs. A low chuckle that somehow manages to sound sad.

He runs across the room, catching the boy up into his arms. The boy relents, letting Truman wrestle him into a chair.

Truman holds up a toy, Thomas the Tank Engine, he calls it, in front of the boy’s face. His little eyes widen and sharpen. A moment prior, they were dim and unfocused—but now, they’re clear. It’s like watching the breeze blow away storm clouds.

The change is astounding. I hold my breath.

“P-please,” the boy says, concurrently rubbing his chest in a circle.

Truman claps. He turns to me and translates his joy. “That movement on his chest is the sign for please as well! A double success! It’s very difficult for him to communicate, or control himself,” he says, indifferently pointing to the angry bite on his arm.

Truman lays three numbers on the ground, placing the Thomas Engine on the third.

On the number one, he places some stringing beads, and on the number two, some picture cards.

“First this,” he says, pointing, “and then that.” He finishes by pointing to the train, an obvious reward for the boy’s enduring the first two tasks.

The boy’s face screws up into a quivering ball of fury.

A defiant, high-pitched screech rips through the air.

I cover my ears and shrink back. It’s like taming wild animals.

The boy bolts toward the swing, again.

Truman picks up his walkie-talkie, still shadowing the boys every movement. “Sunshine, what day of the week is November 23rd?”

“It’s a Saturday, Truman.” The words are out before I can stop them.

His head whips toward me, mouth agape. He quickly faces the boy again, who is now scaling a ladder, intent on using the slide to take flight.

Sunshine’s voice crackles back, “It’s a Saturday, Truman.”

His eyes narrow. “Are you able to do that, then? Visualize the whole calendar?”

I bite my lip and nod. Another secret, confessed. The months and years of the calendar flip through my head, a kaleidoscope of color.

“It’s also a purple day.”

I smile, but the sides of my mouth are trembling.

I am terrified one of these revelations will make him turn on me.

I want, more than anything else in the world, for this man to accept me. No, love me. Make me his own.

In every way possible.

But he smiles, and another bit of my soul heals.

“I had a patient who could do that. A young man with Asperger’s syndrome.”

“What is that?”

“In a bit, let me get Adam on his way first.”

A half hour passes quickly. Truman expertly coaxes the boy through his tasks, identifying pictures through pointing.

He explains, “The pictures help him to communicate the thoughts trapped in his head.”

The child manages a few words, here and there. Truman wrestles him through an odd whirlwind of activities—bouncing on a ball, and swinging the boy through the air while he whoops in delight.

He calls the combined tasks a sensory diet, explaining the boy’s senses are immature.

Finally, his mother appears and he tantrums—again.

“Honestly Adam, first I can’t get you in here, and now I can’t get you out!”

Truman’s smile is sage. “Yes, I call that the ‘I hate it, do it again’.

Truman is quiet till he hears the outside door click shut.

His eyes are immediately on me, all me.

I’m amazed how calm he is, after an hour of screams. My nerves feel flayed and raw.

“I believe Asperger’s is a way of being, not necessarily a disorder. Some disagree, and say it’s on the autism spectrum. It’s a genetic occurrence.”

“That’s what you said Adam has?”

“Yes. Well, he’s got P.D.D., but people with Asperger’s aren’t good with other people, and can be highly intelligent. I bet half of NASA has Aspergers.”

“What’s NASA?”

“Never mind. They also tend to have limited interests, but can talk your ear off about whatever excites them!”

He laughs, again. It has a warm, musical sound, like a cello.

“That sounds like John. He will speak about his paintings for hours on end, but can’t be bothered with people he doesn’t know.” Tears spring immediately on my lower lids.

I miss him so desperately. Every thought of him punches a ragged, gaping hole in my chest.

And the constant, nagging fear for his life has resurrected the hornets, giving them an endless buzzing symphony.

Even Truman’s comforting presence barely keeps them at bay.

I swallow. Truman is watching me. He is the most perceptive man I’ve ever met. He takes my hand in his.

“He’s a magnificent artist, and that’s his only love, besides me. And he constantly misreads words and intentions, or what people’s faces say about the way they feel. He is doomed without me. I must get back to him.”

I close my eyes. My hands are shaking.

I smell Truman move closer, sliding his arm about my shoulders. “Go out and check the door as many times as you like, love. I’ll be in here, doing more of this, all day long. Come and get me if it’s open. I…” he hesitates. “Take the walkie-talkie with you.”

I open my eyes. I know by the stretched tone of his voice, he’s about to say something important.

His lips press together in a tight line. He thrusts the walkie-talkie into my hand.

His strong, wiry arms hug me fiercely. He presses his forehead against the side of my head.

The desperation seeps into his voice. “I don’t want to lose you. I want to come with you to save your brother.”

I pull back, scrutinizing his expression. “What if you can’t get back through?”

His eyes narrow and seem to take a deep breath of their own.

“I’ve been alone most of my life. I wasn’t adopted till fourteen, and let’s just say I have attachment issues.” He swallows; his prominent Adam’s apple bobs. “I’m wholly attached to you-and I’ve only just met you. You know more about me than anyone alive. There is so much I want to know about you. I want to know everything. I want to be able to finish your sentences. Help you walk when you’re old. Home is in your heart, Verity; so that is wherever you are. Whether in my century, or yours.”

My heart is a wild, fluttering bird. “You love me?”

He smiles widely. “I do.”

A rapturous joy bubbles forth. But danger lies beneath it.

To dare to hope. But that’s all we need, really.

The hornets quiet. Perhaps they die.

I fling my arms around his neck. A singular tear slides down my cheek, dropping onto his chest.

I feel dizzy. I want time to halt. To stay suspended in this perfect moment.

“I feel the same.”

Sunshine’s voice crackles into the clinic through the walkie-talkie. The button was depressed, where I’m leaning on it. She heard everything.

“I hate to interrupt the 90210 episode, but your next patient is here.”

* * *

John’s hands’ shook. Mercifully, someone had provided a sketchbook, perhaps selfishly hoping he would draw and record the courtroom scene.

This could not be further from his mind. He unearthed his favorite memories of comfort. A page-by-page account of his peaceful life with Verity, and the dog they’d had before their parent’s death. His fingers twitched, reliving the feel of his shiny, black fur.

His fingers scrambled across the page, shading and contouring Verity’s face as she sat rocking by the blazing fire. The huge, black dog draped across her feet.

The hot sting of tears came again, but he paid them no mind. They made a tapping sound on the parchment.

He’d given up, giving them free reign. His feelings spun out, unrelenting, like a child’s top.

The colors in his head grew with his exhaustion.

He was so weary.

Tired of fear, tired of pain, and oh so tired of speaking.

The slightest movements caused long streaks of iridescent lights to slash across his vision.

Sleep was impossible in the coffin cell. His long legs jutted out the bars and he often woke to the scratching claws of rats.

His days were plagued with lightning fast, dizzying colors from the lack of sleep. He only heard fractions of what was said to him.

The world was too bright, people’s voices, too loud.

The inside of his mind was preferable. It was becoming more and more difficult to translate the constant stream of pictures in his mind into words. Like he was slipping away.

And emotions…trying to describe them left him standing at a bright green hill, words lodged half-way between his mind and his mouth. Like being trapped in your own head.

“How do you plead, Mr. Corey?”

Judge Hathorne, nicknamed the hanging judge, stared unflinchingly into Corey’s anguished face.

John’s eyes jumped up and down the defendant’s queued the bench beside him. He was number six once again. Most likely, his trial would be delayed. He secretly felt it the hand of God at work, postponing his trial, till Verity returned to his rescue.

Giles Corey stood mute once again. The old man shuffled his feet, but remained silent. His lips crammed together over his crooked black teeth.

His friend, Thomas Gardner, spoke out of turn. “Giles, enter a plea, save your soul and confess! Please, man!”

“That will be enough, Mr. Gardener. Unless you’d like to be escorted outside,” Hathorne scolded.

A woman whispered beside him, “If he won’t enter a plea, they cannot take his land.”

John’s head swiveled as Hathorne’s booming voice resumed.

“You leave me no choice, Mr. Corey. Death by pressing.”

The world seemed to spiral away. His next coherent thought was the sound of screams, forcing him out of his blissful oblivion.

Martha Corey’s frantic wails echoed through the ordinary. One hand rose futilely as they ushered Giles out the door.

His death march. For what?

John stood, peering out the window. Quickly he turned his head and closed his eyes as his mind shuddered.

Too late. The imprint of the scene burned indelibly on his memory.

He forced himself to watch. His teeth chattered in his head.

Mr. Corey lay face-up in the open pastureland across the street from the jail; while a morbid group of spectators looked on.

John’s view was limited, and he was grateful.

Constable Corwin placed flat boards across the older man’s chest. Other men heaped massive stones on top. John silently thanked God Mrs. Corey had no window near her.

The pressing lasted for two days, long after they’d re-entered the witch dungeon.

The sounds of the pressing echoed through the dungeon.

After one full day of screaming, Mrs. Corey crumpled and lay silent. Motionless on the bottom of her cell.

When the guards returned, he overheard them talking.

Corey could’ve stopped the pressing with a word, a plea of guilty or no.

Instead, the only words he whispered were, “More weight.”

* * *