Bridget arranged the dress around Lucy’s form, flouncing, straightening, and fluffing as Lucy worked the many buttons. “No, he said he didn’t want to disturb you and to just give you a note.” She pulled a piece of paper from her pocket.
“Thank you, Bridget.”
Bridget left, and Lucy perched on her bed to read the note.
As you instructed, I have bought a suitable property for your very worthy enterprise. We can build on your endowment through subscriptions, like any other charity. I would like to be your first benefactor and have therefore increased the amount of money invested with a contribution of my own. The spirits are well served by your good and kind nature, dear girl.
Lucy’s eyes welled with tears. “I’m not that good,” she murmured. “But maybe this will help fix all the harm we did to Lindsay.”
She tucked the note into her bag and hurried to finish getting ready. She had things to do.
“I’m surprised to see you again so soon.” Alan gestured for Lucy to take the chair in his office. “I hope there hasn’t been any…unpleasantness with Bryce. I assume you did tell him that you had warned me off the investment.”
“Yes. And he and I are no longer keeping company.”
“Ah. I hope that isn’t too disappointing to you.”
Lucy smiled. “I’ve discovered that I don’t actually seem to mind.”
Alan smiled back. “I’m glad. I’d hate to be the cause of any pain to you.”
Lucy looked at him, thinking how happy she was that she wouldn’t have to end her friendship with him. He flushed under her scrutiny, and she realized she’d been admiring the curve of his lips, noticing the shape of his eyes. Now she also blushed.
“There’s something I want to talk to you about,” Lucy said, breaking the moment. “I would like your help with a…project of mine.”
“I don’t know what help I’d be communicating with the spirit world,” Alan said. “I often have difficulty communicating with the people right in front of me.”
“I have done something, something big,” Lucy said. “I hope it’s going to work. I can’t do it myself. I don’t…know enough. Maybe Harriet will help me too.”
“What is it?”
“I have invested well,” Lucy explained. “And I’ve asked my adviser to use all my money to create a place for girls. Girls like Katie, who have nowhere to go but don’t want to go to a mission. Everything you talk about. And Harriet talks about. Well, I’ve done it!” Excited laughter poured out of her. She was having trouble sitting still.
Alan stared at her. “You what?”
Lucy tried to catch her breath, but her words came out as gasps. “I have opened the Phillips Girls Center! Well, not exactly opened it,” Lucy said, finally breathing properly. “I’ve bought the building, and now I need people to actually help the girls.”
“How extraordinary!” he cried.
Lucy laughed again, and now Alan laughed with her.
“I can’t believe…It’s just astonishing. I would never have guessed…”
“That I could be so charitable?” Lucy asked, but her eyes twinkled.
“No, no. Well, yes.” Alan grinned at her. “I’m terribly glad I was wrong. I had a feeling about you. From the start. You were…are…different from anyone I’ve known. Much more surprising.”
“Will you help me? I don’t know if I can pay you—I’ll have to ask Mr. Smithton about things like that.”
“Of course I’ll help you. And I’m certain Harriet will too.”
“I’m so glad. I don’t think I would have considered it without knowing you and hoping you’d be on my side.”
“I’m honored.”
“Now I have a very strange favor to ask you,” Lucy said.
“Name it.”
“First you must promise not to ask me any questions.”
Alan’s forehead furrowed as he looked at her, puzzled. “All right,” he said slowly.
“Do you know the saloon on Seventh Street? It’s known as McSorley’s?”
“It’s a favorite among students.” He grinned. “So I’ve heard.”
“That’s all right; I won’t ask you any questions either,” Lucy teased. She pulled a card out of her pocket with the address for the future Phillips Girls Center. She held it out to Alan. “I need you to go to that saloon. Put this card in an envelope and slip it between the icebox and the wall. Make sure it is near enough to pull out but not visible. Don’t let anyone see you.”
Alan took the card. “You’re right. This is a strange favor. But I’ll do it.”
“Thank you.”
Now all she could do was hope that the Phillips Girls Center still existed in Lindsay’s time.
“I know you’re in there!”
Lindsay covered her ears, trying to block out the sound of the pounding on the door, the hotel manager’s gruff voice. It didn’t work.
“Pay up today if you want that room any longer!”
Lindsay rolled over on the bed, huddling into the nest she’d made of her spare clothes. It had grown colder and colder the last few nights, a real autumn cold snap. At least her stomach had stopped growling. This was the second day she’d gone without eating.
What was she going to do? Lindsay was certain Tanya would lend her money, but that meant risking a call to the house or showing up at the school. Her mom might have called Tanya again, knowing that Lindsay was still out on her own.
“You’re in or you’re out, kid,” the manager shouted. “Just like everyone else in this place.”
Lindsay stood slowly to keep from getting too dizzy.
“Lindsay!”
She startled. “Lucy?”
“Lindsay, you have to go to McSorley’s. I left you an address. I want you to go there.”
“What?”
“I told you,” the manager shouted. “Pay up or get out!”
“They might be able to help you. I hope they can. Go to the address on the card.”
“I can’t talk now,” Lindsay said. She didn’t want the manager to think she had someone in the room with her.
“Oh. Well, don’t forget. And tell me what happens.”
Lindsay opened the door.
“Do you have someone in there with you?” the manager demanded.
Lindsay opened the door wide, stepping aside so he could peer in. “Nope.”
“So, are you going to pay for the next week?”
“I—I have to go get the money. Give me until the end of the day, all right?”
The manager looked at her, then shrugged. “Till the end of the day. But that’s it.”
“Thank you.”
The manager trundled down the hall, and soon Lindsay heard him pounding on someone else’s door upstairs. She grabbed Tanya’s coat and headed for McSorley’s.
How would Lucy have an address for anything in the twenty-first century? And what had happened last night with Bryce Cavanaugh and Alan Wordsworth? What had Lucy decided to do?
Inside, the place was nearly empty. She dropped down and reached into the dark, dusty space between the fridge and the wall. She pulled out an envelope and inside found a card.
“‘Phillips Girls Center,’” she read. The address was on Saint Marks Place, around the corner. Why would Lucy want her to go there? Then she realized. Phillips. That was Lucy’s last name. This just gets stranger.
Lindsay stood unsteadily and slipped the card into her jeans pocket. She had nothing to lose; might as well check it out.
A small plaque on the door told her the address was still the Phillips Girls Center. Little bells jangled as Lindsay walked into the compact four-story brownstone.
A girl with a nose stud and pitch-black hair streaked with magenta and midnight blue glanced up from a messy desk. She put down a magazine and smiled. “What can I do for you?”
“I don’t really know,” Lindsay admitted. “I don’t know what you do here.”
“How’d you hear about us?” the girl asked.
; Lindsay fingered the card Lucy had sent her from the past. “A friend.”
“I think you should talk to intake.” The girl picked up a phone, pushed a button, and said, “Newbie.” She hung up and smiled. “Don’t look so scared. We’ve all been there. Most of us, anyway.”
Lindsay nodded, still not understanding where she was, what Lucy had in mind, but it was better than being outside.
“Sit if you want,” the girl said, nodding toward a worn sofa. “Molly will be out in a minute.”
“Who’s Molly?” Lindsay asked.
“She runs the place. I’m Chandar, by the way.”
“Lindsay.”
“Settle, Lindsay,” Chandar said. “Nothing here to freak you.”
“Okay.” Lindsay sat on the sofa and leafed through a three-month-old magazine. She glanced at Chandar. “So, what is this place?”
Chandar laughed. “Wow. You just go wherever your friend tells you? Don’t go all huffy,” she added, waving a hand. “It’s just that most people arrive here with a list of demands.”
“What kind of demands?” Lindsay asked.
“Give them money, let them live here, fix the ozone layer. Stuff like that.”
“So what do you do?”
“You hungry?” Chandar asked.
“Yes.”
“Well, here’s one thing we can do.” Chandar got up and went to a large fridge. “How’s a chicken burrito? We just got a donation from a neighborhood Mexican restaurant.”
Lindsay had to restrain herself from grabbing Chandar in a bear hug. “That would be great.”
Chandar popped a packet into a microwave, and in three minutes Lindsay was scarfing down a cheesy burrito.
A short, slightly chunky woman in her twenties appeared in the reception area. Lindsay had been so focused on her burrito that she never noticed the woman approach. It was as if she simply appeared by magic.
“Hello, I’m Molly Skinner,” the woman said. She had long, thick wavy hair she held clipped back from her face with little rhinestone-studded combs. Her wide face made Lindsay think of full moons and smiley-face icons. “What can we do for you?” She plopped down beside Lindsay on the sofa.
“I don’t know,” Lindsay admitted.
“I see Chandar has given you something to eat. That’s a start, right?”
“I guess….”
“You’ve never been here before. Let me give you the tour.”
“Okay.”
Lindsay followed Molly as she guided her through the building. “Down here we have the community rooms for group events. The kitchen, some offices.” They climbed a flight of stairs, and Molly kept up a nonstop patter. “We have girls ranging from young teens, say, thirteen, to young women in their early twenties who need a helping hand. There are some rules, but we don’t think they’re too hard to live with.”
She led Lindsay out onto the next floor. “These are all private offices for medical exams”—she glanced at Lindsay—“which I recommend, and the one-on-one counseling rooms. We have a gynecologist on staff—she’s in with someone right now, so I can’t introduce you—and there’s a GP on call. We have two psychologists and a social worker, other than me, and they all have offices here.”
She brought Lindsay to another floor, which had several rooms set up with computers, with girls sitting at the keyboards. “This is for tutoring, studying. Girls getting their GEDs, learning computer skills, stuff that will help them get jobs, even go to college, use these rooms.”
On the next floor, Lindsay peeked into a dorm room.
“Short-term only,” Molly said. “This may be a haven—that’s how I think of it—but it’s not a shelter. We try to find housing, jobs, all that, but there’s only so much we can do. This is a place where girls who want better than what they’ve got can come and we do all we can to help them.”
“Wow,” Lindsay murmured. “She really was worried about me.”
“Who?”
“The person who sent me here.”
“Let’s do an official intake,” Molly said.
Inside Molly’s office it was small and crowded but full of homey touches: a comfy armchair with a soft afghan, a small sofa with mismatched pillows, stuffed animals on the shelves, and lots of books. Molly sat behind the desk and gestured for Lindsay to take the armchair.
On the wall behind Molly was an oil portrait of a young woman in an old-fashioned dress. A little bronze plaque on the bottom of the dark frame read Lucy Phillips Wordsworth.
Molly smiled. “You’re looking at our founder.”
Lindsay’s eyes stayed riveted on the face. That’s her. She’s totally real.
The painting was cracked, giving the youthful face wrinkles, and seemed to be slightly coated with years of grime. The painter had made the skin luminous against what had probably been a dark background even when fresh. The girl looked straight at the viewer, and even though her mouth was serious, she seemed to have a glint in her blue eyes, as if she thought posing for a portrait was absurd but amusing.
She chose the truth, Lindsay realized, and she wound up marrying Alan.
“So, what can we do for you?”
Lindsay finally stopped staring at the painting and looked at Molly. “I have no idea,” she confessed.
“Well, would you like to shower?”
Lindsay’s throat tightened, so she just nodded.
“Come on,” Molly said, standing. “I know I always think better after a nice hot shower. In fact, it’s where I do my best thinking.”
She led Lindsay back upstairs to a locker room. She opened a locker and pulled out towels, then another one full of clothes. “If you’d like to change, these are all clean. You should be able to find something your size.”
Lindsay clutched the scratchy, bright white towel, smelling the bleach.
“Soap and shampoo are in the showers.” Molly looked at her. “Do you think you’ll be able to find your way back to my office?”
“Yes,” Lindsay said, wondering why she was whispering.
“In a few.” Molly went out, and Lindsay stood staring at the open lockers, already imagining how the water would feel.
A few minutes later, Lindsay sat facing the painting. She had transferred the card into a pocket of the new pair of jeans.
“So, I’m guessing you’re in trouble,” Molly said. “Maybe on the street. Possibly using—”
“No,” Lindsay said, shaking her still-damp hair. “I hate drugs.”
Molly looked at her. “Well, all I wanted to say was if you are and you want to get off, we have resources, But there are things we don’t actually pry into. The girls we help have to be proactive. We have rules and boundaries, but we don’t tell you which of our programs to utilize.”
“I hate drugs,” Lindsay insisted. “Alcohol too.”
“So, Lindsay, what do you want to tell me about yourself? That will give me an idea of what we might be able to do for you.”
Lindsay nodded. Nodded again. She looked up to Lucy’s portrait. Her eyes never leaving Lucy’s face, the words suddenly came out in a torrent. Her mother’s drinking. The Husband. The fights. Molly asked questions so gently and unobtrusively that Lindsay barely registered them as questions. She just kept talking.
“I ran away from a hospital.”
When she said that, the words stopped.
Molly nodded. “What had you been hospitalized for? An injury?”
“I called my mom day before yesterday,” Lindsay said. “She doesn’t want me to come home. She wants him more than she wants me. I can’t go there.”
“No, it sounds like that isn’t a safe place for you.”
“I never finished my paper for Mr. Nunez.” Lindsay started to cry. “It was my favorite class. But he thinks I’m crazy now, and I’m not. I’m not.”
Molly’s face remained neutral.
“I know that’s what crazy people always say,” Lindsay continued. “But I swear. Really.”
Molly tapped her pencil on the pad.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?”
Lindsay swallowed and slumped in her chair. I should have kept my mouth shut. She cleared her throat. “Someone stole my money and my ATM card,” she said. “I was afraid to go into the bank and I didn’t have any ID. So I can’t pay the hotel bill.”
“Any girl staying here must be seen by Michael. He’s the psychologist. We have to be sure we aren’t putting the other girls in danger.”
“They said I was schizophrenic, but I’m not!” Lindsay blurted. “They tried different pills and they didn’t work; they just made me really dopey and stupid. The other kids—I saw how it worked for them. But not me.”
“What brought you to the hospital?” Molly asked.
“I freaked out. I—I thought I was hearing voices, and I know that’s a really bad sign. But I don’t anymore.” She kept focused on Molly and avoided Lucy’s painted eyes.
“Hmm. Thank you for telling me this, Lindsay. But you’re still going to have to see Michael if you want to stay here. And it’s only a temporary fix. Because you are underage, there are also certain legal requirements we must follow.”
“Okay.” Lindsay figured it was a good sign that Molly didn’t just automatically toss her out.
Molly picked up the phone and hit some numbers. “So how busy are you?” she said into it. “Great. I’m sending someone in to see you.”
Lindsay woke up in a dorm-style room listening to two girls arguing about Ludacris versus 50 Cent. Someone snored, and someone else shushed the two music critics. She stretched, a long, catlike, contented stretch, and gazed up at the ceiling.
As soon as she’d been given permission to stay, Lindsay had gone back to the hotel for her stuff and to tell the manager he could have his smelly old room back. Still, it had been tough saying goodbye to that room, as horrible as the hours spent there had been. Not all of them, she reminded herself. There were times she had felt safe, even if only for a little while, and there were the soothing hours of teaching Lucy to read.
Lucy. How was she going to talk to Lucy? She had called to her while she was in the room, but there had been no answer. We can find another place. Maybe even here, she thought, sitting up on the cot. Lucy must spend time here.
Silent Echoes Page 24
