by Terry Lee
“I think the blue-thing is way over-done.” The keyboard, hard-drive, monitor…even the swivel chair were the same cobalt blue. “What does it mean?”
Bridget hesitated then ran a finger over the back of the chair. “Blue is for…special assignments.”
Sounds lame, but…whatever. With ID bracelet clutched in her hand, Quinlan slipped into the chair and swirled around, poking the bracelet at the hard drive. “Where does this plug in?”
“First, remove the cap.” Bridget reached for the bracelet. “Here, I’ll help.”
Quinlan snatched the bracelet out of Bridget’s grasp and clutched it to her chest. “No!” she barked, her heart accelerating. In mere moments she could gain access to Gracie. “I mean…I forgot about the end cap. I don’t mean to be…rude.” Her shoulders slumped. “I’m just a little nervous.”
“I can see that.” Bridget cleared her throat and pointed at a small blue box to the right of the monitor. “This is the USB port.”
“For the jump drive thingy?”
“Yes.” Bridget blinked hard. “The…jump drive thingy.”
“But how do I—?”
“Type the name in the text box on the screen.”
“Got it.” Quinlan rubbed her hands together.
“Now, open the drawer to your right,” Bridget said.
It took all of Quinlan’s dwindling supply of self-control not to yell “Stop with all the instructions…can’t you see I’m busy?” She ceased the hand rubbing and followed the order. A sleek, thin device the size of a credit card gleamed from inside the drawer, a set of dual ear buds attached. Of course, blue. “What’s this?”
“Your media instructional device.” Bridget said. “To send and receive messages, and access mediums.”
“Mediums?” The word pin-balled inside Quinlan’s brain.
Bridget tilted her head, her eyes narrowed. “Angela did teach you about mediums, right?”
“Oh. Those mediums. Yes, of course.”
Bridget breathed relief. “On the side of the device is a power switch.”
Quinlan flipped the almost concealed button.
“After you put in your ear pieces, follow the instructions on the screen. It’s self-explanatory.” Bridget’s smile turned serious. “And remember, it’s vital to only use this computer.” Bridget held up a slim finger for emphasis. “Vital.” Her smile returned. “If you need help, just speak my name.” She placed a hand on Quinlan’s shoulder. “And good luck with Grace.”
Wiping her hands on the chair cushion Quinlan inserted the ear buds and then freeze-framed. How did she know Gracie’s name? She turned to ask, but Bridget had disappeared. Quinlan shrugged and swirled back toward the computer and plugged in the jump drive. The screen burst to life with 3-D vibrant-colored vortexes bouncing around the screen. A nice change from the perpetual blue, but enough whirling movement to add motion sickness to her list of physical discomforts.
CHAPTER 34
GRACE
Grace sat on a barstool early Friday afternoon, tapping a pencil on her notepad. Adam’s parents would arrive in a couple of hours and she was a wreck.
It’s just Ben and Lydia, she kept repeating. The words did nothing to calm her nerves. She hadn’t ‘entertained’ without her mother’s supervision since…ever. Chewing the pencil eraser, she checked the list. Shit! Grace bolted from the barstool and took the stairs three at a time, only to find she’d already set out a fresh bar of soap upstairs. Returning to the kitchen at a slower pace, she checked off the item.
__X__ Change sheets - guest bedroom
__X__ Clean bathroom – upstairs
__X__ New bar soap - upstairs
__X__ Guest toiletries – she’d spent an hour at Target, then another arranging an
“essentials” basket for the upstairs guest bathroom
__X__ Mop floors - check
__X__ Vacuum – check
_____ Change A/C filters
_____ Menu
Menu. She flipped to the next page and studied her meal venue. Adam came through with Astros tickets, so tonight’s cuisine would be ala Minute Maid Park. Saturday, continental breakfast stuff. Adam and his dad had a nine o’clock tee time. She planned on taking Lydia shopping, then lunch at La Madeline’s. For Saturday’s dinner, King Ranch Chicken, prepared and waiting silently in the refrigerator, next to the breakfast casserole for Sunday morning.
Earlier this morning, while attempting to get a filled-to-the-brim Pyrex dish to the refrigerator, her foot had slipped on the freshly mopped and still wet kitchen floor. The breakfast casserole had slipped from her hands and belly-flopped, hosing down the cabinets and clean floor with raw scrambled eggs and Jimmy Dean sausage…a minor two-hour setback. Then, she had to dig out an old Spanish-to-English dictionary to decipher the Spanish version of King Ranch Chicken…residual effects of her mother’s attempt to learn Spanish.
Grace flipped back to the previous page.
Menu—check.
As she finished changing the A/C filters, Adam came through the door.
Dropping his iPhone and keys on the counter, he gave her a tight smile, kissed her cheek and opened the refrigerator. He grabbed a beer and pointed to the foil-covered dishes on the top shelf. “You do this?”
“Yeah.” She eyed him, trying to decide if the raised eyebrows registered surprise or approval.
He closed the refrigerator and nodded a couple of times. “Good job.” He twisted off the bottle cap and took a deep swallow.
And there it is, Grace thought. The huge silence that fills the room like a smoke bomb once superficial chitchat dies.
“How was work?” Her attempt at trivial bullshit.
“Fine. Busy,” he said, almost absentmindedly. “I’m gonna change clothes.” He lifted his beer toward her in a half-ass “cheers” salute and left the kitchen.
She drummed her fingers on the countertop and stared at his cell phone. She bit the inside of her cheek and grabbed it, slid the arrow to the side and punched in four numbers. She sighed when the phone came to life. Good sign, he hadn’t changed his pass code.
“What the hell am I doing?” She clicked off the phone and pushed it away.
“You’re checking up on him,” #2 chimed in.
“He’s never given me a reason to doubt him.”
“Till now.”
“But what if I find something? It’ll ruin the whole weekend.” Grace chewed a knuckle.
“Not to mention your life, but hell, we can start with the weekend.”
“I don’t know.” Grace’s hesitancy weakened.
“If you’re going to check his calls, you’ve got to do it fast. Do it.”
Grace grabbed the phone, swore at #2 under her breath, and repeated the log-in. She tapped the “recents” icon at the bottom of the screen. All calls had been cleared.
“Check voice mail,” #2 whispered.
She hit the voice mail icon, and the screen came up empty. All messages had been deleted.
~~~
Biggio came through with the winning RBI in the bottom of the ninth. Woo-hoo! Hot dogs, roasted peanuts and giant pretzels rounded out the evening’s menu, and the traditional Friday night fireworks display sent everyone home all smiles.
Ben and Lydia, both genuinely interested in their grandchildren’s lives, showered Hannah and Josh with much-needed loving affection over the weekend. Their rusty attempts at sign language left them all rolling on the floor during conversations with Hannah. Before they left on Monday, Hannah had a new regulation volleyball and Josh, his official #7 Astros jersey.
Raves from Ben and Lydia on her two prepared meals nudged Grace’s self-esteem up closer to sea level, although both casseroles were a tad burned on the bottom. She sadly watched their mini-van pull away Monday morning. Without her in-laws as a distraction, she couldn’t escape the strained silence between her and Adam. The loud and clear blip on her radar was deafening. Not one to confront, much less press an issue, Grace remained miserably quiet, a
dding to the growing wedge between them.
~~~
Ms. Parker’s email scheduled the appointment for eleven o’clock Thursday morning. Grace sat in her SUV in the parking lot at Sedgwick Elementary, having no idea what to expect. Would she see Cherry? She pulled the visor mirror down, applied gloss, ran a comb through her hair and blew air. “Ready? Begin.”
In the counselor’s office, Ms. Parker introduced her to Carla Withers, the Deaf Ed teacher for first and second grade. Grace learned Cherry had already established herself as the child with the red boots. Big surprise.
Carla, having worked with hearing impaired kids for eight years, led Grace to the classroom while bringing Grace up to date on Cherry’s status. The CPS investigation had proved inconclusive, which meant Cherry was still in the home environment. All school personnel were on high alert for any suspicious markings on Cherry or abnormally bad behavior.
How bad does her abnormal behavior have to get? Grace thought. Heave a child through a window? Set the school on fire?
Before any further discussion the children filed into the room, followed by the teacher’s aide. Grace returned smiles and waves from several students who recognized her from the summer program. Cherry had not returned with the group. The aide explained that she had hit one of the children during PE and had been taken, under protest, to the counselor’s office.
Under protest? Imagine that.
Carla’s eyebrows arched. She placed a hand on Grace’s shoulder. “Good luck. You’re up.”
Grace stood outside the closed door to the counselor’s office, her heart pounding in her ears. She pulled back her hair in a half-assed ponytail and secured it with a covered rubber band she ripped off her wrist. Blowing out her held breath, she knocked.
Ms. Parker opened the door and pointed to two chairs in the outer waiting area. A crease lined the counselor’s forehead.
Grace sat, her palms sweaty.
“Second time this week,” Ms. Parker said, then pointed to her inner office. “She’s in there. I’ll give you a few minutes with her.”
Grace’s stomach knotted. No turning back, no changing her mind, no place to run: she had her big-girl panties on now.
“If she doesn’t calm down, we’ll take her to isolation.” Ms. Parker took a breath. “It’s a special room we have when she’s out of control. We’ll remove her shoes and belt so she doesn’t hurt herself…or us.” The counselor gazed intently at Grace. “You sure you’re up for this, Mrs. Brookfield?”
Grace realized nodding was not an appropriate answer. “Yes,” she said.
“Do you have any questions? We can call this off if need be.”
Grace raised her eyes to the counselor. “Could you call me Grace?”
Ms. Parker smiled and offered Grace a quick hug. “Think we’ll be on a first name basis after this semester?”
Grace swallowed hard and shrugged.
“You’ll have your hands full, even if you’re just here one day a week,” Elena Parker said. “Cherry is in dire need of someone on her side. I’m glad you decided to volunteer.”
“Thank you, Ms. Parker,” Grace said.
“Call me Elena.”
The two women stood. Ms. Parker pointed to her office door as if offering Grace as the sacrificial lamb.
“As I said, a few minutes. I’ll be in the main office if you need me.” Ms. Parker left the waiting area.
Grace pulled her sloppy ponytail tighter, licked her lips and wondered what she had gotten herself into.
“You can do it,” #2 said.
The words Grace most needed to hear. She slowly opened the door to the counselor’s office and peeked inside. Cherry sat in front of the large desk, her back to the door, her feet swinging. Grace gently tapped the child on the shoulder, knowing approaching any deaf person from behind usually evoked the startle instinct.
Cherry swung around, her eyes dark, the “ready to fight” signal flashing. Her lips stretched in a tight line across her small face.
“Remember me?” Grace quickly signed, forcing a smile to mask her fear.
Cherry’s face switched from an impish glare to surprise, then confusion. Her little eyebrows came together. “Why are you here?”
Tugging on the upper edge of her blouse, she made the sign for volunteer.
Cherry eyed Grace and mimicked the sign.
She nodded. “Your class. Thursdays.” She waited for a response, watching the little girl with the tangled ponytail and uneven bangs. She figured Cherry could teach her a slew of signs, all involving profanity.
“You didn’t come to see me!” Cherry’s signing angry and poignant.
Grace winced and studied Cherry’s face. At that very moment, one thing became crystal clear: Do not make promises to this child I can’t (or won’t) keep. She’s over her quota in disappointments.
“I’m very sorry.” Grace exaggerated very and felt a golf ball knot in her throat. “Forgive me?”
After several long moments, Cherry seemed to weigh the situation, a look of indifference on her small face. She shrugged and tapped her chest with her thumb. “Fine.”
Not realizing she’d been holding her breath, Grace exhaled. “Let’s go. Your room. Okay?” Grace extended her hand.
Cherry sat perfectly still for a few very long minutes before lifting herself up and smoothing smudged fingers down her rumpled shirt. She brushed back a tangled mass of loose ponytail hair and turned toward Grace, her eyes cautious. She took Grace’s hand.
Grace caught Ms. Parker’s eye as they left the office, heading down the main hallway toward the Deaf Ed wing. She gave the counselor a ‘thumbs up’.
CHAPTER 35
QUINLAN AND ANGELA
“Good afternoon, Quinlan.” The greeting appeared in the text box on the screen.
“Good afternoon,” she voiced to the monitor.
“You have a name to enter?” the message read.
She typed G-R-A-C-I-E and hit enter.
An immediate reply flashed back. “Do you mean Grace?”
“Of course I mean Grace, you crazy computer.” She smirked and typed Y-E-S, then scanned her surroundings for snoopers. Thankfully, she found the aisle empty.
The next message appeared, listing three options causing Quinlan’s jaw to drop.
Weekly Events
Synopsis
Current Events
Her heart raced. Mere moments away from…whatever. “Where do I start?”
“Remember what you’ve learned.” The voice filtering through her ear buds caused her to jump.
Quinlan’s spine straightened, and a chill shimmered downward. “Angela? Is that you?”
“Take it slow,” Angela instructed.
How’d she do that? Quinlan stood and searched her immediate surroundings for the ground patrol. Nothing. She looked again, feeling she was somehow being watched. Strange. Leaning back in the chair, she chewed on her thumbnail and tried to relax. Take it slow, Angela had said. She set her lips in a tight line and clicked Weekly Events.
The screen blinked blue, then produced a column listing every week of Gracie’s life. Quinlan stared, the page numbers climbing. She massaged her scalp with her fingertips, foregoing any hairdo concerns. “I don’t think…this is what I want.” She blinked hard, knowing just enough about computers to get herself in trouble.
“Try the back arrow in the upper left-hand corner,” Angela said.
She clicked and retrieved the three entries, releasing a barely audible thank you.
“You’re welcome,” Angela said.
While spider exercising her fingers, Quinlan studied the other two options and then clicked Synopsis.
The message box beamed select time frame with a pull-down menu and two small calendars to enter begin and end dates. Quinlan clicked the arrow and scrolled down till she found the time segment of her transition to as near to the present as she could estimate. She hit enter and settled back, ready to read.
Vacations with family at Port Ara
nsas
Concerned about Adam
Gracie in charge during Adam’s absence
Volunteers at summer program
Bonds with emotionally distraught deaf child
Contemplates return to college
Everything past the third item blurred. Gracie in charge? The words burned through her veins like a white-hot branding iron on a pig’s ass. Bile-filled panic clogged her throat. Thoughts of her grandchildren being stranded who knows where, Gracie pouring water on a grease fire…sandwiches for dinner! Could it get any worse?
“Dates. I need dates.” Quinlan jerked the mouse pointer around the page, trying to manage her panic. Was she too late?
“The calendar icon in the upper right-hand corner.”
The sound through the earpieces nearly catapulted Quinlan out of her chair. Bridget? Now she had two voices in her head…besides her own…that she knew of.
“Okay, okay. Calendar icon.” She grabbed the mouse with both hands to steady her shaky fingers and clicked. Dates appeared beside each entry. She scanned the list until she found a trip Adam made to Chicago. She checked the month. June. She scrolled further and found another Chicago trip scheduled for August.
“What’s today’s date?” she yelled, not bothering to lower her voice. Relatively sure June had passed; she only hoped she wasn’t too late for the August trip.
“Upper right corner. Next to the calendar,” Bridget instructed.
Quinlan’s eyes shot up to the corner of the screen and gasped.
October? “How can that be?” Panic-stage resurfaced. “But…that…means….” Quinlan’s excessive rapid breathing caused the oxygen level to increase, forcing out all the carbon dioxide in her system: in short, hyperventilation.
“Quinlan!” Angela’s voice blared through the earpieces. “Get a grip!”
“But…you…don’t…understand.” The words backed up in her throat. Her hands and toes tingled.
With light speed, Bridget appeared at her side with a brown sack.
