He took a little notebook out of his jacket pocket and slid a piece of paper out from inside. It was my note to Kathleen.
“Mary, your friend gave me this note. This note looks as though was written by someone who is very unhappy. Are you sure, Mary, that there is nothing you want to tell me?”
I shook my head.
He sighed and wrote his name and his number on a piece of paper. He said that I could call him anytime or stop into his office to see him. He said that he would always make time to see me if I wanted to talk. He left the piece of paper on my desk and said that I was clearly a very gifted sculptor and how lovely it had been to meet me.
I leaned over the top banister and listened to him speak to Jane before he left. I couldn’t hear it all, but I heard him say “deeply concerned about her well-being” and that “selective mutism is very isolating,” that he “will report to a social worker” and that he “questioned the care culture at Thornhill.” Jane didn’t look too happy as she showed him out.
I have thought about his visit a lot this evening. I wonder what he would have said if I had told him the truth. I feel silly for having been too scared to tell him.
But mostly I think his visit was good for two reasons: firstly, he said a friend had called in at his office about me so, even though she has gone, I know that Kathleen is still thinking about me; and secondly, I have Dr. Creane’s number. I’ll probably never use it, but it is good to know that I have someone to turn to.
July 12, 1982
With Kathleen gone we don’t eat together, we just go down to take food from the fridge ourselves. I haven’t had anything hot for ages.
She stays downstairs all the time—usually in the TV room, often with Jane and Pete. Although they are “caregivers,” paid to be here with us, Jane and Pete seem to not bother with anything anymore. It is as if all the rules have been suspended. They are supposed to supervise us in turn, but instead they hang around all day together—smooching, watching TV, or shut away in Pete’s room.
There is something about this that is worse. They seem to be treating her as a friend. Sometimes I hear the three of them laughing together. Chatting. Joking. I’ve even seen them offering her cigarettes.
I stand listening, watching them from the top of my stairs, peering over the banister to see where they are and what they are doing. I wait to see if the coast is clear for me to go downstairs without bumping into any of them. If they are all up late, or the door to the TV room is open, it means I wait until everyone is in bed.
The mornings are best. I prefer to go down at five a.m. when it is just light and the birds are singing, and collect enough food for breakfast and dinner, and then sit at my window making puppets until it is time for school. I can go for days without seeing any of them face-to-face, and I don’t think I am missed.
Each time I go down, I feel the hairs on my neck stand on end. I creep about, my hands clammy and cold with the prospect of having to face her.
I keep hoping that Kathleen will write. I haven’t heard from her yet. Instead I am trying to make a whole family at the same time, molding their heads in turn, building the kind of family I’d love to take me. They are round and freckly and I imagine them to be kind and noisy—a bustling, jokey, jolly, noisy family that wouldn’t mind my quietness.
She was up here again last night. She stood silently outside the door. I could see her shadow interrupting the sliver of light on the landing. You would think that with her silence instead of the thumping, I would just sleep; rest. Ignore the fact that she is there. And I want to sleep. I am so, so tired. But I can’t. I lie awake, waiting for her. I lie as still as I can while she stands there, trying to see if I can hear her breathing on the other side of the door. Waiting to see what she will do. I know that the key in my door keeps me safe, but my nerves tingle. I hold my breath and try not to breathe. And eventually she slinks away.
July 15, 1982
Last night was different.
Last night she came up and stood there for the longest time. And then I heard her moving something across the paint on the other side of the door. It wasn’t a scratch—more of a scraping sound. And then she left.
When I got up this morning I opened the door.
At first I couldn’t see anything. There was nothing there. But I was so sure I had heard something. I ran my hands over the surface of the paint. I felt it before I saw it. It was the letter “F” etched into the gloss—not enough to chip it away, but enough to leave a gray scratch that you could only see if the light was just right. How strange. Why would she make that effort to scratch just one letter?
July 16, 1982
The same thing happened again last night—only this morning there was the letter “R” scratched after the “F.”
Why?
What is she doing?
What does it mean?
I spent the day working on my new family. My favorite of the set is the sister. I have given her a little black bob that scoops out at the bottom, and dark eyes that slant up at the edges. And freckles. I think I will make her a neck scarf and jeans. She is pretty and I imagine her happily chatting away to me as I work on her. I have made her the opposite of me.
July 17, 1982
This morning it was the letter “I.”
She has scratched “FRI.”
July 18, 1982
“FRIE.” Each night a little more. I lie awake and wait for the scritch-scratch against my door. What is she writing?
I have stitched a little spotted neck scarf for the sister of my puppet family. It covers where her head will join her body. I think it will look good.
July 19, 1982
Last night she added an “N.” I can only think that she is going to spell out “friend.” What else could it be?
July 20, 1982
I was right. When I got up this morning it was there. The “D.” She has written “friend” on my door. Does she want to be my friend?
I have fallen for it before. I have believed her words—and she has made me feel little and foolish.
She has tricked me. Hurt me. Haunted me.
July 21, 1982
I slept last night. I slept the whole night! She didn’t come up. There was nothing more on my door.
Is it over?
July 22, 1982
Again, last night. Nothing. No sound. No visit.
Two nights’ sleep. Two nights of delicious, deep, uninterrupted sleep.
I think she has stopped.
I have decided to write her a note. All day I wondered about what it should say. In the end I wrote
“FRIEND?”
July 23, 1982
I am so confused. What happened last night has left me questioning all the things I thought I knew.
I had the note. I wanted to slide it under her door so that it would be there when she woke up in the morning.