The Murderer's Daughter
Page 13
“It doesn’t.”
“Make no mistake, Grace, I’ll have to watch you like a hawk and you’ll have to stay on the surface every single second, I mean every. No deep-sea diving, no head under, not even for a second. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Ramona shrugged. “Fine, I don’t get why you want to do it but it’s your choice. Also, you’re going to use an old rough towel with holes in it, no way I’m getting that gook on my good towels.”
Grace said, “The gray one?”
“Pardon?”
“The gray towel you keep in the linen closet and never use?”
“Matter of fact, yes,” said Ramona. “Gawd, you notice everything, don’t you?”
“No.”
“What don’t you notice?”
“If I don’t notice it, I can’t know.”
Ramona stared at her, toying with her long white hair. “A lawyer,” she said. “Things could get interesting around here.”
The professor didn’t arrive that day, or the next. Or the next twenty.
Ramona said, “Sorry if I got your hopes up, he got called to do more travel.”
Grace said, “Okay.”
There were few things she cared about. None of them had to do with other people.
—
One morning, she came down for breakfast and the biggest person Grace had ever seen was sitting next to Ramona at the kitchen table, drinking coffee. An oldish kind of man, younger than Ramona but not young. The fingers he used to hold his coffee mug were so thick and wide they covered the handle completely. Even his hair was big, a high pile of dark-gray waves that stuck out in all directions. When he stood, he blocked out a lot of the room and for a second Grace thought he might hit his head on the ceiling. Then she saw she was wrong, he was shorter than the ceiling. But still huge.
Ramona said, “Rise and shine, Grace, this is Professor Bluestone.”
Grace said, “Hello,” in her soft, agreeable voice, the one she’d learned to use a long time ago with strangers.
The man said, “Hello, Grace. I’m Malcolm. Sorry for surprising you.” He smiled.
Grace looked over at the table. Her usual toast and preserves and rubbery eggs were there, along with a stack of pancakes and store-bought maple syrup in a jar shaped like a bear. Seeing the jar made Grace realize that the huge man kind of looked like a bear, with thick, round features, big soft brown eyes, and long thick arms that swung loosely. Even his clothes were kind of bearish: a baggy, fuzzy brown sweater, super-baggy gray pants, brown shoes worn to tan at the toes.
What was different from a bear were his glasses, round and too small for his wide face, with frames like a turtle’s shell. Grace chided herself for the silly thought—that only one thing was different. He wore clothes, he talked, he was human.
But still, kind of like a bear.
Ramona said, “Have some breakfast, young lady.”
Malcolm Bluestone returned to his chair, bumping a shoe against a table leg, like the world was too small for him. When Grace sat and reached for the toast and preserves, he was still smiling at her. When she stopped and looked at him, he speared two pancakes with his fork, soaked them with syrup, began eating really fast.
The way a bear would—even the syrup fit, kind of like the honey bears went crazy for when they came out of hibernation.
Lesson Twenty-Eight: Warm-Blooded Mammals and Temperature Adaptation.
For a while, no one talked. Then Malcolm Bluestone pointed to the pancakes. “Anyone else want these?”
Grace shook her head.
Ramona said, “All yours, m’boy.”
Which was a funny thing to call an old man. Then Grace realized he was Ramona’s dead husband’s younger brother, maybe to her he’d always be a kid.
Malcolm Bluestone polished off the pancakes, wiped his lips, poured more coffee.
Ramona stood. “I’ve got to see about Bobby and that poor little Amber—the one I told you about, Mal, you’re the expert but she looks kind of…down.”
Malcolm Bluestone said, “I’ll have a look at her, later.”
“Thanks.” Ramona left.
Grace nibbled toast she really wasn’t hungry for.
Malcolm Bluestone said, “I know Ramona told you about me but if you have questions, I’m happy to answer them.”
Grace shook her head.
“No questions, huh?”
“Nope.”
“Do you understand why I’m here?”
“You’re Steve Stage’s brother and a psychologist and you’re here to give me tests.”
He laughed. “That just about covers it. So you know what a psychologist is.”
“A doctor you talk to if something’s bothering you,” said Grace. “And who gives tests.”
Malcolm Bluestone wiped his lips with a napkin. A glossy bit of syrup remained on the skin above his upper lip. “Have you ever met a psychologist?”
“No.”
“Are you okay with being tested?”
“Yes.”
“You understand why you’re being tested.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t want to bug you but could you please tell me what you understand? Just so I can be sure.”
Grace sighed and put her toast down.
Malcolm Bluestone said, “I am bugging you. Sorry.”
No grown-up had ever apologized to Grace. First it shook her but then it passed through her like air. She said, “The homeschool curriculum packets are easy so Ramona wants you to find out what more I can have to study.”
Dr. Bluestone nodded. “That’s excellent, Grace. But these tests, they’re not like the ones you’ve had in school. You won’t be getting a grade and the questions are structured—they’re made up so no one can get all the answers. You okay with that?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t mind getting some answers wrong?”
“Everyone gets things wrong.”
Malcolm Bluestone blinked and righted his glasses. “Well, that’s certainly true. Okay, Grace, soon as you’re ready, we’ll go into the living room and begin. Mrs. Stage promises to keep it quiet for us.”
Grace said, “I’m ready.”
—
The furniture had been moved around so that a table that usually stood near a couch was in the center of the room and two folding chairs were positioned opposite each other. On the floor was a briefcase, dark green, with a handle—more like a small suitcase. Gold lettering read WISC-R.
Malcolm Bluestone closed the door and said, “Settle where you’d like, Grace,” and took the chair facing her. Even sitting, he blocked out a whole bunch of the room.
“Okay,” he said. “This test is broken up into sections. On some I’m going to be timing you, using this.” Lifting the briefcase with two fingers, as if it were made out of feathers, he drew out a round, silver watch. “This is a stopwatch. On some of the tests I’m going to tell you time’s up, don’t worry if you haven’t finished. I’ll let you know beforehand if you’re being timed, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Okay…one more thing: If you’re tired or need to go to the bathroom, or need water—which I’ve brought”—pointing to several bottles in the corner—“be sure to let me know.”
“I’m okay.”
“I know you are, but should that—never mind, Grace, I have a feeling you know how to take care of yourself.”
—
Some of the test was fun, some was boring. There were questions so easy Grace couldn’t believe there was anyone who couldn’t answer them, harder questions that she still thought she did okay on. One test was just vocabulary words like in school, another was putting together puzzles. There was math like in the curriculum, she got to tell stories with picture cards, make shapes out of colored plastic blocks.
As he’d promised, Malcolm Bluestone told her when he was going to use the stopwatch. Grace didn’t care, there was plenty of time for almost everything and when she didn’t get something she knew it was okay because
he’d told her it would be like that. Also, she really didn’t care.
When he said, “That’s it,” Grace decided she’d had an okay time. He looked tired and when he offered her water and she said, “No, thank you,” he said, “Well, I’m feeling parched,” and drained two bottles quickly.
As he finished the second bottle, he put his hand over his mouth to cover a burp but a little croaky noise escaped anyway and Grace had to struggle not to laugh.
He laughed. “ ’Scuse me—any questions?”
“No, sir.”
“Nothing at all, huh? Listen, I can score this in a few minutes and give you some feedback—tell you about the things you did especially well on. That interest you?”
“If it helps get me a better curriculum.”
“Yeah,” he said, “I’ll bet you’re incredibly bored.”
“Sometimes.”
“I’ll bet nearly all the time.” His big bear eyes were aimed at Grace and looked extra eager, like he wanted her to agree with him.
She said, “Yes, sir, most of the time.”
“Okay, you can go outside, get some fresh air, and I’ll call you in.”
—
Instead of obeying him—because she didn’t feel like following any more instructions—Grace went into the kitchen where Bobby sat slumped in his special belted-in chair and Ramona was trying to feed Amber pieces of egg and Amber was shaking her head and whining, “No, no, no.”
“What’s up, Grace?”
“Can I have some juice, Mrs. Stage?”
“Help yourself.”
Bobby made a noise and resumed drinking one of those milk shakes Ramona poured for him into small cups because he wasn’t strong enough to hold a big cup.
“That’s right,” Ramona told him, as if she were talking to a baby, “it is delicious.”
Bobby slurped. Amber said, “No, no, no.”
Grace poured herself some juice and hung around near the sink and looked out at the desert but really didn’t focus on it.
Thinking, as she had a thousand times: Special needs, she’s like the others, gets more money for it.
Followed by the question that bothered her: What’s my special need?
Bobby snorted and sputtered and coughed and Ramona rushed over and slapped his back softly until he stopped. Amber started to cry and Ramona said, “One moment, darling.”
Grace had wondered for a while about what made Bobby weak and have trouble breathing but knew better than to ask Ramona about something that wasn’t her business. Instead, she snuck into his room one afternoon when Ramona was downstairs trying to feed him a snack milk shake and had a look at some of the medicine Ramona was giving him. The words on the labels didn’t tell her anything and she already knew about the oxygen tank next to his bed—a bed with side rails, so he wouldn’t fall out. But she did notice a piece of paper on the dresser and it had one of those snake symbols doctors used.
The first line read, County Dependent Medical Status Report: Robert Evan Canova.
The second line began, This twelve-year-old Caucasian with multiple congenital anomalies…
Grace heard Ramona coming up the stairs and scooted to her own room. Later that day, she opened the big dictionary and looked up “congenital” and “anomalies” and figured it out: Bobby had been born with problems. That really didn’t tell her much but she supposed that was all she’d be able to learn.
—
Malcolm Bluestone came into the kitchen. “There you are. Ready?”
Ramona looked at him, her eyebrows climbing, like she wanted to be in on the secret.
Dr. Bluestone didn’t notice, was looking only at Grace and holding his huge arm out, motioning her back to the living room.
Finishing her juice, she washed and dried the glass and followed him.
He said, “Vitamin C, good for you.”
—
Back at the testing table, he said, “First off, you did extremely well—amazingly well, actually.”
He waited. “Astonishingly well.”
Grace said, “Good.”
“Put it this way, Grace, if we were testing a thousand kids, you’d probably get the highest score of anyone.”
Again, he waited.
Grace nodded.
“May I ask how you feel about that?”
“Fine.”
“Well, you should feel fine. You got an amazing—more than that, your abilities are uniform. That means you did great on everything. Sometimes people do very well on one part but not so well on another part. Nothing wrong with that. But you excelled on everything. I hope you feel proud of that.”
“Proud” was a word whose definition Grace understood. But it meant nothing to her.
She said, “Sure.”
Malcolm’s soft brown eyes narrowed. “Let me put this another way: You’re almost nine years old but on some of the subtests—on most of them, actually—you knew as much as a fourteen- or a fifteen-year-old. In some cases, even a seventeen-year-old. I mean your vocabulary is fabulous.”
He smiled. “I have a tendency to over-explain because most of the children I deal with need that. So I’m going to have to watch myself with you. Like defining ‘uniform’ when you know exactly what it means.”
Without thinking, Grace let the words shoot out. “Having the same form, manner, or degree.”
Malcolm smiled. “You read the dictionary.”
Grace felt her stomach tighten up. How had he figured her out so easily? Now he’d think she was weird, put that in a county status report.
Or maybe being weird would help her, keep her as a special-needs ward, so Mrs. Stage could keep getting extra money and Grace could stay here.
He said, “That’s fantastic, Grace, that’s a great way to build up vocabulary, learn the structure of language, philology, etymology—where words come from, how they’re built. I used to do the same thing myself. Back when I was a bored kid, and let me tell you, that was most of the time because let’s face it, for people like us—not that I’m as smart as you—life can get downright tedious if we’re forced to go slow. And that’s what I’m going to help you with. You’re a race car, not a bicycle.”
Grace felt her stomach loosen.
“I mean that, Grace. You deserve to be considered on your own terms.”
—
A week later he brought her new curriculum materials. A week after that, he said, “How’d you like it?”
“Good.”
“Listen, would you mind if I tested you again—just a few questions on the material in the packet. So I can know where we take things.”
“Okay.”
Ten questions later, he was grinning. “Well, it’s obviously time to move on.”
Five days later, Ramona brought a box into Grace’s room and said, “From the professor, looks like he thinks you’re pretty smart.”
Drawing out a textbook, she said, “This is college science, young lady. How’d you learn enough to get to this level?”
Grace said, “I read.”
Ramona shrugged. “Guess that explains it.”
—
Three boxes later, he showed up again and said, “How’s everything going?”
Grace was out by the fence around the green pool, thinking about swimming, not sure if getting all slimy was worth it.
She said, “Fine.”
“I’m not going to test you on the curriculum, Grace, not for a while. You tell me you know it, that’s good enough.”
“I don’t know everything.”
His laugh was deep and rumbly like it came from deep inside him. “No one does, that would be the worst thing, no?”
“Knowing everything?” That sounded like the best thing.
“Having nothing more to learn, Grace. I mean for people like us, learning is everything.”
Almost every time he visited, he said that. Like us. Like he and Grace were members of a club. Like he also had special needs.
She said, “Yes, sir.”
“Okay.”
“You don’t want to know anything about the tests?”
“You don’t give shots,” said Grace. “You can’t hurt me.”
His head drew back and he roared with laughter. When he finally settled, he said, “Yes, that’s true, these definitely won’t hurt. But they’re a little different, there’s no right or wrong, I’ll be showing you pictures, asking you to make up stories. You okay with that?”
“What kind of stories?”
“Anything you want.”
That sounded stupid and despite herself, Grace frowned.
Malcolm Bluestone said, “Okay, no problem, let’s forget it. Because I can’t honestly tell you it’ll help you.”
Then why waste time?
“It’s for my sake, Grace. I’m curious, always trying to understand people, and these tests sometimes help me.”
“Someone making up stories?”
“Believe it or not, Grace, yes. But if you don’t want to, that’s really okay, nothing will change in our—I’ll still bring you curriculum materials.”
“I’ll do it.”
“Well,” he said, “that’s nice of you, but take some time to think about it and next time, let me know.”
“I’ll do it right now, sir.”
“You really don’t need to call me sir, Grace. Unless you want me to call you mademoiselle or senorita, or something like that.”
Again, a word shot out of Grace’s mouth. “Fräulein.”
“You know German?”
“It was in the language packet you gave me last week.” International Greetings.
“Ah,” he said. “Guess I should read the packets myself. Anyway, next time—”
“I can do it now, Professor Bluestone.”
“Do—oh, those picture tests. You sure?”
Grace looked at the green pool. Slimier than ever. Once he left, she’d have nothing much to do but start a new packet. “Sure,” she said.
—
The picture tests were like he’d described, strange. Not photographs, black-and-white drawings of people that she had to make up stories about. Then another one with weird shapes that looked like bats or cats and while Grace talked, Malcolm Bluestone wrote down stuff in a little book.