Hannahwhere

by John McIlveen

  She used the parking lot nearest the front entrance, well away from the emergency room, and stopped in the gift shop to purchase a tin of Altoids and a small stuffed kitten she felt would appeal to a young girl.

  Waif, Debbie thought when she first saw the child.

  She looked six or seven years old, and so tragically pale and petite sitting on the hospital bed she might have been a ghost. Her snow-blonde hair was pin straight, except that it curled ever so slightly inward at the ends, about five inches below her shoulder blades. The unevenness of her bangs gave evidence that someone, probably a hospital attendant, had recently cut her hair without much concern for style, just convenience and cleanliness. It would be awkward and maybe unflattering on most children, but it was endearing, and only complemented her sweet pixyish face, which was cute and perfectly round. Her hazel doe-eyes stared without focus at some anonymous spot on the floor ten feet in front of her. She remained absolutely silent and, according to the intern’s report, had not voiced a single word since the sanitation worker discovered her, filthy and nearly naked, behind a dumpster of all places.

  Her expression was vacant, as it had been since the ambulance delivered her to the North Shore Riverside Hospital several hours earlier. She was immediately admitted, evaluated, bathed, and treated. Beneath all the dirt and an insane tangle of hair, the staff had discovered an adorable little girl. Despite her appearance, she was in much better physical shape than expected, save for dehydration and some minor cuts on her hands. Her feet were the exception, with multiple fissures in the tender skin from exposure, and one deep, dirt-caked gash on her left heel that had earned her five stitches and a tetanus shot. She would be wearing bandage slippers for a week or more, the doctors said, but otherwise, she had healthy teeth, lungs, musculature, and although X-rays revealed she had once fractured her right forearm, it had been properly set and had healed well. Fortunately, there was no physical evidence of sexual abuse.

  Still, with all of the distressing cases she had seen, Debbie had never encountered such a heartbreaking little child. Although she tried her best to be unbiased, she was human, and some of the children—whether because of their appearance, their situation, or a combination of both—hit the heart harder, as did this little girl. She had an ethereal quality that was compelling. Her startling, milk-white hair and her nearly as pale skin gave the impression she was crystalline, delicate and untouchable as a snowflake, yet still a child. Her button nose, spray of freckles, and full lower lip alone could melt the hardest of hearts.

  This was where caseworkers had to be careful. Emotional attachment for a compassionate person in the business was inevitable, but it needed to be closely governed.

  Police were checking with the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children, Amber Alerts, and missing person web sites, for the identity of this little stray soul. Meanwhile, the doctors who evaluated her had advised DCF that the child needed to stay in the hospital for monitoring, at least until she regained her health and became responsive.

  The ward nurses on the morning shift reported that the little girl had woken up responsive to a marginal degree. She had eaten a startlingly healthy breakfast of sausage, eggs, pancakes, milk, orange juice, and a banana, and then decided to remove her own saline drip when no one was present so she could use the bathroom, which she also did on her own. She had then positioned herself on her hospital bed and stared out the window. It was encouraging progress, though she still hadn’t uttered a word.

  It was nearly two in the afternoon when Debbie arrived at the hospital despite anxiously rushing through her morning work pile and skipping lunch. The little girl had long since reverted back to the dissociated state of the night before. Debbie tried speaking to her, but to no avail. She gently patted her head, rubbed her back, and even—though not recommended—softly touched her eyelid, hoping to get a response, but the child didn’t even flutter.

  Pulling a chair beside the bed, Debbie knelt on it, put her elbows on the mattress, her chin on her fists, and stared at the little girl, smiling and hoping to gain her confidence.

  Nothing.

  She doggedly asked questions, gently trying to evoke any kind of reaction. What’s your name? Where do you live? Where are your mom and dad? Do you have any sisters or brothers?

  “Well, you won round one,” Debbie told her, lightly touching the tip of the child’s nose. “But I don’t quit.” She reached out and rubbed the girl’s delicate arm, which was warm and coated with a soft, barely visible down. Lifting the child’s arm, she compared it with her own.

  “I bet I’d be just as pale as you if I got rid of my freckles,” Debbie said. “If only. But that won’t be happening.”

  There was scarcely a patch on Debbie’s body without freckles. It was in her DNA and there was no sense in fighting it, though she had spent a better part of her youth hating it. She was as Scottish as haggis and the Highlands. By the time Debbie graduated college, she had learned to accept her freckles and her blazing red hair as part of who she was… for the most part.

  As it turned out, there was an abundance of people very attracted to freckles, pale skin, and copper-red hair, and Debbie’s hair was the first thing most people noticed about her. She thought the same must be true of this girl whose hair made her think of Edgar and Johnny Winter, who were probably as well known for their flowing white hair as their musicianship. While Debbie had never thought of the Winter brothers as particularly attractive, this child was stunning. Even her eyes were fascinating, her irises a concoction of green, gold, and blue flecks, sprinkled over a light brown field; unjustly, yet best categorized as hazel.

  Which ethnicities support platinum-blonde hair and hazel eyes?

  The thought gave Debbie an idea. Using her iPhone, Debbie opened a web-based translation engine and started asking the child her name in what she thought were the most likely languages: Danish, Swedish, German, Dutch, Russian, and as a last resort, French, Polish, Spanish, and then Greek, before finally giving up… at least for the moment.

  A phlebotomist entered the room and plunged a needle into a stick-thin outstretched arm… not even a reflexive flinch. Debbie started to appreciate just how dire the situation might be. Without outside help or information, getting through to this little girl might prove impossible.

  Chapter 11

  Essie Hiller was a high-spirited dynamo with a fervently positive personality, and exuded more energy than seemed natural for her short, compact structure. She was four-feet-and-eleven-inches of solidly built African-American, piston-legged energy, and normally moved like a super-ball shot from a particle accelerator. She wore a short, black-going-gray hairstyle that fit her personality perfectly. Cut for practicality and ease, all she did was brush it back after showering, whimsically perching it high over her forehead until it resembled a feminine pompadour.

  A highly regarded child psychiatrist with extensive experience in treating abused and orphaned children, she was a natural choice for counseling this particular child. Essie desperately wanted—yet dreaded—the case. It was very high profile with little to work with at this point, just a sweet nameless child with no known history. The success rate for cases like this was on the lower end of the curve, which was not where you wanted to be if you were under scrutiny.

  Essie’s heart instantly went out to the child upon reading her files. In consideration of the circumstances, the little girl had quickly become a ward of the state of Massachusetts, with the Riverside Court assuming responsibility in loco parentis until they solved this little mystery.

  It was just after three in the afternoon when Essie, sensitive to the young girl’s condition, quietly entered room 203, the child’s second day at North Shore Riverside Hospital. She recognized Debbie Gillan, who was sitting in a chair on the far side of the bed, gently rubbing the little girl’s bandaged foot. Debbie had worked on a few cases with her and Essie liked her a lot. She had a gentle demeanor that blew Essie’s assessment of natural redheads being irrefutable fe
ral bitches right out of the water. Debbie was what a caseworker should be: driven, compassionate, forceful when necessary, and focused foremost on the welfare of the child. Essie made a mental note to revise her opinion to most natural redheads.

  Essie studied the child for a moment. She looked so tiny and forlorn seated on the infinite surface of the bed, staring absently out the window. Her hand lay open at her side, not fisted, which was a positive sign. Whatever the child was experiencing in her present state, she was at ease, not angry or conflicted.

  The news had been stirring up quite a fanfare in the days since Isaac Rawls’s discovery. A photograph of the child in a hospital Johnny, looking precious and so very vulnerable, had received front-page coverage across the nation. The same photo, coupled with her brief, sad story, had collectively garnered over thirteen million hits on CNN, Google, and YouTube. The world had fallen madly in love with this odd but endearing little vagabond girl, and gifts, money pledges, and adoption offers had started pouring in right away.

  The press had labeled her The Little Trash Bin Girl, which was certainly a pathetic play on The Little Matchstick Girl. Essie despised the moniker and figured the same dolt who came up with crap like Brangelina probably thought it up. The implications were negative in every possible aspect, especially on an emotional level. How would the child ever live that kind of designation down?

  Why don’t people stop and think? Essie wondered sourly. Instead of considering how it would affect the child, they only saw it as newspapers or magazines sold, or possible career advancement. They were blind to the future torment and name-calling the child would most likely have to endure from mean-spirited peers. She had already suffered enough misfortune without some clueless moron laying more on her.

  The sad truth about being a victim was that it often became a lifelong label, and was almost inescapable despite the various forms of denial, treatment, relocation, and other often futile means of escape. It was an indelible scarlet letter worn by those guilty only of being too different, too small, or too weak.

  Despite the publicity, postings on missing person sites, and tireless police searches, no one knew who this little girl was, and as expected, there were more than a few bogus parental claims. The authorities had followed those to no good end, except for the arrest of a couple of dim-witted but hopeful pedophiles.

  Ignorance is everlasting, Essie thought bitterly, but forced it aside, not wanting pessimism to infringe on her work. She pulled a chair to the opposite side of the bed, its leg rat-a-tatting across the vinyl tiling and startling Debbie from her thoughts. The woman seemed mildly confused, yet genuinely pleased to see Essie. It took her a few seconds to gather herself.

  “Hi, Doctor Hiller,” Debbie said, still a little blurry. She searched her lap and then felt between her hips and the side of the seat before extracting her phone.

  “Essie’s fine, honey,” said the psychiatrist.

  “I’m glad you won the lottery. It’s going to take someone special to get through to this one.”

  Essie smiled and then positioned herself in the child’s line of sight, hoping for a shifting of her eyes or some indication of receptiveness. She fruitlessly waved her hand slowly before the girl’s face. “Hi Sweetie, do you remember me?” she asked the child. “I was here earlier.”

  “She’s clearly still detached,” she said to Debbie. “Can you tell me anything new about our little lost angel?”

  “Did you read the report?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Then you know everything I know,” Debbie said and shrugged. “They say she woke about seven this morning, looked around showing signs of mild curiosity, used the toilet without assistance, and ate like a lumberjack. Apparently her appetite is extraordinary for a child her size; she ate all her breakfast and more.”

  “Where does she put it all? I want her secret,” Essie said with a chuckle.

  “You and half of America,” said Debbie.

  “She speak or respond to anyone yet?”

  “No. She was back in the zone by noon. Zone is my word. It seems the best description for the state she goes into.”

  “Dissociation.” Essie shook her head sorrowfully. “It’s a sad story that no one legit has come forward to claim her or reported her missing.” She looked at the child’s small hands and pressed the fingernails lightly. There was a purple contusion on the top of one hand where an IV drip had breached her skin. It was dark and tender looking, though it probably appeared worse than it was on her pale skin. Essie passed a gentle thumb over the bruise, her mahogany flesh in bold contrast to the child’s alabaster complexion. She said, “The report said she took the IV out herself? Amazing she didn’t cause herself harm.”

  “They believe she removed it to go to the bathroom. They said she did it as well as any nurse could and left it neatly coiled on the side table. She refused to let them reinsert it.” Debbie said. Reaching into her purse, she pulled out a tin of peppermints.

  “She’s too young to refuse,” said Essie.

  “Yes, she is,” said a man at the doorway. “She was adamant, curled up in a ball with her arms tucked in, glaring at her nurses, and shaking her head. They had to call me.”

  He appeared to be in his middle to late thirties, broad shouldered and looked in shape beneath an unbuttoned beige blazer. His straight sandy hair and broad moustache would have screamed nineteen-seventies, but a well-trimmed goatee saved him.

  “Are you Doctor Farren?” asked Essie.

  “Yes, that would be me,” he said. He transferred a small notebook computer from his right to left arm and offered Essie his hand. “And you’re Essie Hiller.”

  “You’ve heard of me,” Essie challenged.

  “Only good things,” said the doctor. He shook Debbie’s hand. “Hi, I’m Doctor Brad Farren. Are you the child’s guardian?”

  “Debbie Gillan, DCF. I’m her caseworker,” Debbie said.

  The doctor gave the touch-screen of his computer a few quick taps, lowered the lid, and set it on the bedside table. “I chose not to put the IV back because her dehydration was minimal to begin with and considering the size of her breakfast—the juice, and the pitcher of water she drained—she’s out of risk… hopefully for good.”

  Debbie tossed two peppermints into her mouth and offered the pack to the doctor, who declined, and then to Essie, who took a couple.

  “I didn’t see any mention of medications,” said Essie. “I’ve attempted a mental status exam. I asked if she knew her name, where she was, what day it was, but she was impassive so I didn’t continue.”

  “Yeah. I’ve requested a neurological consult,” Doctor Farren said. “That should tell us if there’s any organic basis to her lack of responsiveness. We’ll put everything on the table at the case management conference, and we’ll tackle the meds issue from there.”

  “I suggest we wait a couple days before making any decisions about sedatives or antidepressants,” Debbie said.

  “I’m not totally with you on that,” Essie replied. “She’s either been abandoned or she’s lost. No one legitimate has claimed her and she’s clearly traumatized.”

  “True, but the medical record revealed no malnutrition, no dental deterioration, and no physical signs of abuse, thank God. She’s been cared for and fairly recently,” Debbie noted. “She’s had moments of responsiveness, has a voracious appetite, and she’s even removed her IV drip without harming herself.”

  “She certainly has everyone scratching their heads,” Doctor Farren said. “Would you mind giving me a hand? I want to try something and we don’t need her to fall off of the bed.”

  He instructed Debbie and Essie to stand in front of the child in case she reacted, and then he pulled the little girl slowly toward himself until she was lying on her back with her legs still crossed rigidly before her. He lifted the child’s right arm, extended it fully, and returned it.

  “Instant and intense submergence, mm-hmm,” said the doctor. “Some kick out, afraid that they�
��re falling, others resurface from their…”

  “Zone?” Debbie suggested.

  “As good a tag as any,” said Doctor Farren. “She’s a million miles away. This is a first for me. I think I have some researching to do tonight.” He searched for revealing bruises on the child’s neck and face. “Would either of you know if they’ve checked for accidents involving younger folks… twenty or thirty-something? I know it’s probably a long shot, but she has to have parents somewhere along the line.”

  “Hard to do without a name,” Debbie said.

  “I imagine,” said the doctor.

  Essie handed business cards to both Debbie and Doctor Farren. “I have to return to my office. I have a four o’clock patient scheduled. I’d like to keep in touch if neither of you mind. She certainly has me intrigued. Could you keep me in the loop if anything comes up, and I’ll do the same?”

  They agreed and Essie bulleted out of the room. Debbie pulled her wallet from her purse, and squeezed the business card into a slot that was already threatening to burst.

  “She’s twice my age with twice my energy,” Debbie said.

  “Kind of makes you want to trip her,” Doctor Farren said. He smiled and then followed Essie.

  Debbie had spent the afternoon tying up loose ends at her office, but the paperwork took longer than estimated. It was well past six-thirty when she returned to the hospital. It appeared the child hadn’t moved from her earlier spot.