About Face

by Fern Michaels

  Casey spied Sandra with Jimmy John Johnson, or Three Jay as he liked to be called. She caught the nurse’s eye and pleaded with her. Hurry.

  The rattle of dinner trays continued and could still be heard over the soft moans and wails of the patients. She watched as Sandra tucked a cloth napkin around Three Jay’s turkey neck. Recent experience told her this could take hours.

  Taking the paper out of her breast pocket, she read her mother’s address for the millionth time. Swan House. What kind of place was it? Would she fit in? What would they think of her? She stuffed the paper back into her pocket.

  She knew from Sandra it was a short walk into town, the island only a few miles long. She would find her way. Alone. Casey glanced at her drab smock. It would have to do.

  Anxious to leave, she gave Mrs. M. a final hug and sped down the hall, not bothering to wait for the change of clothes Sandra promised. She passed several of her friends on the way. Some waved, some grunted and threatened. Some weren’t coherent enough to even think.

  She felt their emptiness, their isolation, their fear. As she turned the last corner, she stopped and gazed around her. The gunmetal gray walls stood like defeated soldiers, their last bout with chivalry lost. Echoes of the wounded wailed in the ongoing war to survive. She would no longer have to fight that never-ending battle. For her, it was over. She was really going home. A life of her own. They had taken ten years from her. Ten lost years she could never reclaim.

  As she stood on the steps of the dilapidated building, she cast a last glance at the second floor and spied her former room. The chicken wire would imprison another. She’d served her time. A thrill tingled down her spine, and her belly knotted in anticipation. For the first time in her adult life, she was free.

  The address on the scrap of paper wasn’t at all familiar to her. She had no recollection of ever having lived there. Nothing.

  Her mind remained as blank as a freshly erased blackboard.

  She was at the edge of Sweetwater Island according to the faded sign nailed on the rotted fence post. Downtown was another mile. Apparently paved roads hadn’t reached this end of the island. Red clay swirled around in small whirlwinds at her feet, leaving a thin layer of dust on her hospital-issued sneakers. The August sun beat down on her pale skin, reminding her where she’d spent most of her life. Outdoors hadn’t been off-limits, yet Casey couldn’t recall spending more than an hour at a time on the hospital’s unkempt lawns.

  Situated at the southern tip of the island, Sanctuary was as reclusive as its occupants. Brick walls prevented a view beyond the grounds. Casey hadn’t dared an attempt to journey beyond them. She surveyed the island as she walked along the dusty road. She searched for a sign of recognition, anything familiar to pivot her stagnant memory into the past and merge it with the future.

  Her life at the hospital had been boring, if you excluded the bouts with the doctors, the fights with the needles. Needles that sent her into never-never land. In a constant fog, she often felt she’d been close to remembering something. At times brief, fleeting thoughts skittered along the edge of her memory, only to be snubbed out by the sharp sting of a needle.

  She’d had no proof. Nothing. Only the gray images that teetered on the brink of her subconscious.

  Now, was another matter. Each dust-covered step led her to freedom. She was getting a late start, but a fresh start. She was free. Free to be. Whatever that was.

  With the spring of freedom to her step, she didn’t mind the late-August heat, nor did she care that her throat was parched. However, she wouldn’t turn down an icy bottle of Coke.

  Sandra had given her a brief history of the island, telling her its inhabitants were a close bunch, and many could trace their ancestry back to Thomas Carnegie, who in the late eighteenth century purchased Sweetwater Island, known as one of the Golden Isles in its day. Carnegie, Sandra said, had built many a mansion on the island, and though it no longer was quite the social gathering place for the nineties, some of the traditions were still very much in place, Casey wondered what those traditions were. South Georgia continued to cling to an ignorance that was better left forgotten. Or by her standards. Though she’d been locked away, Casey had read the newspapers in her moments of lucidity and knew trouble in the form of racism and hatred still lurked beneath the murky waters of Southern gentility. She wondered how the fine folk of Sweetwater would receive her.

  Casey spotted two boys coming toward her on bicycles. Risking injury, she stepped into their path. They stopped and eyed her expectantly.

  The bigger of the two, who looked to be around twelve, snickered as he glanced over his shoulder to a smaller version of himself. Brothers, she thought. Both wore clothes too large, their shorts barely covering their backsides. T-shirts displaying rock stars hung to their scraped knees, and several silver hoop earrings dangled from their ears.

  “Hi, uh . . . sorry, do you guys know this address?” A slight tremor caused her hand to shake as she held the scrap of paper out to the older boy. Casey had no recollection of ever being around children.

  The boy took the offered paper from her hand.

  “Yeah, I know where it’s at. Go three blocks, then turn left. It’s about a mile, then another left. Once you’re at the gate, just tell them who you are, and they’ll let you in.”

  “Tell who?” She asked.

  “The guard, loony-tunes. You live there?” The older boy asked, then looked to his brother, rolling his eyes upward in an exaggerated movement.

  “Uh, yes. Thanks.” She turned in the direction the boy pointed out to her. Loony, he called her. Was it obvious? She looked at the drab brown shift she wore, the white canvas sneakers. Not the current style, she mused. Its having been the mode of dress for so long, she’d never questioned it. Until then.

  On the pocket of the shift, in faded black letters, it read:

  Sweetwater Sanctuary for the Mentally Disabled.

  No wonder they looked at her funny. The benefactors of the hospital hadn’t been kind in their assessment of the facility’s functions, and all who were unfortunate enough to wallow away behind its walls were given the same clothes to wear, telling the patients that trouble stirred when differences arose.

  Casey could never understand the logic of such a statement, but she hadn’t cared. She’d only existed. Her life a means to an end. Yet, she’d never quite figured out just exactly what the end was. Until two months ago, when she’d been told of her upcoming release.

  She walked to the end of the street, took the left turn, and hoped the boy had given her the right directions. She paused. Spying the reflection in the window of a lone car, she stared at the blurry image. Her black hair, once long and shiny, jutted out in all directions. Her face appeared washed-out and sunken. Hairstyles and appearances hadn’t been a primary concern over the last ten years.

  The creak of a rusted sign indicated that Sweetwater Island had a population of two thousand. Casey viewed the small scenic island surrounding her. She needed to prepare for the encounter she had come to dread. The visit that she hoped would cast a light on her past. A past she could only remember as faded and gray. The visit with the one woman who had answers. Yet, if the past was an indication of the future, Casey wasn’t sure how she would extract answers from the unwilling woman. Or, she mused, if she figured a way to get answers from her mother, she felt sure they wouldn’t come forth freely since she had never wanted to talk about Casey’s past. Casey had been too crazy to care. But that was then.

  She strolled down the sun-baked street, guessing the shops were closed for the day. No shoppers littered the sidewalks. Children apparently were under lock and key, and all those who might have braved the August sun found it too hot, or she thought, in a town that size, they were all waiting, lurking behind their lacy curtains, fanning themselves in anticipation of a look-see. An occasional peek through their ancestral sheers would soon provide them with the view they’d expected. Casey mentally berated herself. These people weren’t expecting he
r. They were probably at home taking care of their families. What had she expected after all? A parade? The release of Sweetwater’s most famous inmate. The crazy girl.

  Shops lined the narrow street. Some housed in older homes, others sported a modern look, their newness out of place in the midst of the town’s old-fashioned appearance. Clay pots of geraniums barred the glass-paned doors of Bentley’s Real Estate Office, their protection a joke to a would-be trespasser.

  Smells of mesquite drifting from a smokestack caused her mouth to water. Tempted, she hurried along the sidewalk, the scent of BBQ her guide. Crossing at the intersection of Main and Sweet Way, she followed the scent to Big Al’s. On the sign in big letters it read:

  Best BBQ in the South. Come inside, treat your mouth.

  If the smell was any indication, Casey told herself she was in for the treat of a lifetime.

  A glance at her shift told her she’d have to change before she could enter the restaurant. In pursuit of a clothing store, Casey scanned the street and spotted a sign proclaiming Haygood’s Clothing Store to her north. She should have waited for Sandra to give her clothes. At the time leaving was her only concern. At present, however, she wished for a simple dress. Hunger continued to gnaw at her insides.

  She turned back toward Main Street and wandered north, locating the store. Casey stopped in front of Haygood’s and eyed the window display. A bright, flowered dress draped a lifelike mannequin whose breasts jutted out at her, beckoning her to come inside so she, too, could wear such a dress. Casey doubted she’d fill one out quite as provocatively as the mannequin, whose man-made nipples appeared abnormally large. But she imagined that was the enticement. Men would purchase such clothing for their lovers in hopes that they would fill the upper portion of the dress out as well as the chunk of plaster that displayed it. She eyed the dress one last time before entering the store. She wondered if she’d ever worn a provocative dress for a man. A boy in her case, since she’d been only eighteen at the time of her incarceration.

  About to step away from the window display, she stopped. A shadow caught her eye as she peered into the shaded glass. Two women stood behind her, their heads together, whispering.

  One of the women, tall and thin, pointed a clawlike finger at her. Rooted to the ground, Casey stood still, hoping they would leave. She continued to stare at the contents of the window display until her eyes watered. Casey strained to hear their hushed murmurs.

  “I know that’s her, Cora. I heard Evie talking. For a mother it didn’t sound like she was too happy about the return of her long-lost daughter. Said she needed more time to prepare. She’s only had ten years!”

  She felt the gaze of the thin woman burning a hole in her back.

  “Well, I say, once a nut, always a nut. I always knew that family would come to no good. And look at that Evie, all high-and-mighty now that she trapped poor old John into marrying her. History will prove me right, you just wait.”

  The second woman, rounded with one too many dollops of ice cream, bored an even deeper hole into Casey’s back.

  Casey turned to look at the two gossips. The thin woman raised her pointed chin a notch higher and grabbed her companion by the arm.

  “Come along, Cora, I don’t have time for talking to trash.”

  “But, Vera, I thought you said we were going . . .” The heaviest woman didn’t get to finish whatever it was she was about to say. The scarecrow woman pulled her away from the window and sped down the street, stopping once to stare and point her stubby finger at Casey.

  What had she done? She had never laid eyes on the women, yet they eyed her openly, discussing her as if she were a freak in a sideshow, not caring that she watched them and heard what they’d said.

  Deciding it was best to ignore the gossipy women, she entered the store and found its cool air refreshing. Rack after rack of clothing caught her eye. After ten years in the same style of dress, it was a welcome sight.

  Silver and gold dominated the decor. Heavy silver curtains discreetly sectioned off the dressing area. Queen Anne chairs covered in gold awaited gentlemen, young and old, to grace their plush cushions, rears covered in Fruit-of-the-Looms and some in fashionable cotton boxers. Mirrors trimmed in gold adorned the entire back wall of the store, beckoning all who could to come and view the array of elegantly displayed clothing.

  Casey scanned the store, a display of printed dresses capturing her attention. Some were patterned in sunflowers, others in tiny purple irises. She marveled at the brilliant colors, the casual elegance of the simple designs. Briefly, she wondered if she could fill out the front bodice as well as the mannequin. A glance downward told her the answer was no.

  She removed the iris print dress from the rack and walked over to the full-length mirror. As she held it in front of her, admiring the tiny purple flowers, a salesclerk appeared out of nowhere and snatched the dress from her.

  “Put that back!”

  Stunned at the clerk’s rudeness, Casey turned to her. “I was going to . . .” Intimidation prevented her from finishing the sentence. Did the woman treat all of her customers so badly? She reached for the dress, hoping the woman would let go of it.

  As the salesclerk released her hold on the dress, an angry puff of air escaped her brightly painted mouth.

  “It really is you!” Taking small, deliberate steps, the woman inched herself into a corner. Painted fingernails covered lipstick-reddened lips.

  Not wanting to cause a scene, Casey took the dress from the woman and placed it on the counter.

  “I want this dress. Do you want to take my money?” Her hands trembled as she reached for the folded bills.

  The hateful woman stared at her a moment longer, then hesitantly walked to the cash register.

  “I suppose I’ll have to if I don’t want to report you to Sheriff Parker.” Hostility coated the clerk’s harsh words.

  Feeling she had no alternative, Casey asked in a hushed tone, “Do you know me? Have I done anything to you in the past?” She could tell by the blush staining the clerk’s cheeks that she was taken off guard by her questions.

  The clerk cleared her throat. “Don’t you dare play innocent with me. I know you, and I knew Ronnie, or have you conveniently forgotten him, too?” Chipped red nails fumbled with costume jewelry encircling her jowly neck.

  Ronnie. Her pulsed raced. With unsteady hands she placed her money on the counter and waited for the clerk to take it.

  “What’s wrong, Casey? Do you have a conscience after all? Poor Ronnie. God rest his soul. I’ll bet he’s doin’ flip-flops in his grave right about now.”

  Casey scooped up the wad of bills and ran to the door, the dress forgotten. She had to escape. Her pulse pounding, she felt as if her chest would explode. Once outside she drank in sweet gulps of fresh air, her heart rate slowing to a normal beat as she mentally talked herself down from the panic attack.

  She took one last cleansing breath before she headed in the direction given to her by the boys. The dress and her hunger forgotten, she suddenly found the halls of Sanctuary calling her. In her eagerness to leave the confines of the hospital, she hadn’t considered what she would be up against on her own, without Sandra as a buffer. She wished she’d waited for her ride.

  Casey headed south. In her peripheral vision she noticed a glossy black vehicle snaking its way along the deserted street. She figured more lookey-loos were coming out of their hiding places to watch the freak show. She walked faster, desperate to break into a run, then slowed her pace as the sleek machine crawled alongside, nuzzling close to the curb. Hesitant to leave the security of town such as it was, she stopped in her tracks.

  A sudden wave of dizziness caused her to stumble. The image of the car swam before her. Fearful that she would faint, she reached for a parking meter to steady herself. It was as if her bones had chosen that moment to liquefy. A bright flash of red flickered before her vision, then nothing. A sudden heaviness made it hard to breathe.

  “No! I said no! Get aw
ay! Leave me alone!”

  Casey rubbed her eyes, as if that would remove the unwelcome vision. What is happening to me?

  “Do you need help?” a voice from the vehicle inquired.

  She must be experiencing aftereffects from the panic attack.

  “Can you hear me? Dammit, lady, speak up.” Impatience laced the husky drawl.

  Moistening her mouth, Casey cleared her dry throat.

  Strangely enough, she felt anger that a total stranger would speak to her in such a manner. She lashed out without thinking. “What do you want? Can’t you people just leave me alone!”

  The stranger got out of his car and walked over to her, his gaze questioning. “Look, lady, do you live around here? You look awful. Are you all right? Are you ill?”

  Casey stepped back, panic pouring through her. Not wanting to be the star of another freak attraction, she turned, and muttered, “I’m fine. I think the sun just got to me.”

  Was she in for another round of insults? Did she know this man? She felt his gaze lingering on her as he continued to stare at her. A shiver ran the length of her, and a flame of heat settled in the pit of her stomach. All at once she was desperate for recollection.

  “My name is Blake Hunter, I’m the doctor here in Sweetwater.” The voice that had sounded coarse only seconds before now softened and was full of concern.

  A doctor? He didn’t look like a doctor. At least not the ones she’d been in contact with at Sanctuary. Certain he was lying, Casey let her gaze rake him from head to toe. No way. He looked too good to be a doctor. She knew what they looked like. He didn’t fit the picture.

  Casey was intense as she viewed the man before her and realized the only way she was going to rid herself of this bothersome stranger was to answer him. If all male specimens in Sweetwater were this large, they’d better send whatever they were feeding them to the hospital, since the male species there had a tendency to be thin and scraggly. Shoulders, broad as an oak tree, filled out the worn denim shirt, and trunklike legs defied the elasticity of the khakis. Casey felt another pull deep in the pit of her stomach as her eyes rested on the brown leather belt that cinched the man’s tapered waist.