Hannahwhere

by John McIlveen

  After sitting for nearly five hours fact-finding and form-filling, on top of far too little sleep the previous night, Debbie started getting woozy. The letters on the laptop screen started swimming and melting together, and she suffered a couple head-jarring nod-offs, once nearly dropping her computer. If she didn’t close the cover to her laptop, it would inevitably hit the floor. She needed to stand; to go for a walk and get a coffee, if she could only keep her eyes open. Sleeping on the job was unacceptable, but her eyelids were so heavy and closing them felt so nice…

  She is standing high on a lush green hillside overlooking endless fields of flowers in vibrant splashes of yellow, orange, white, pink, purple and blue, their little flower faces turned toward the brilliant sun, suspended high in a cloudless sky. Along the distant horizon stand odd-looking ochre hills, alien in their glassy rising surfaces. A light breeze nudges her toward the breathtaking view. She steps forward and she is standing on a precipice easily a thousand feet above the pastel fields, so beautiful, so magnetic, and so high the vertigo sways her. She is nudged from behind and falls forward. She plummets toward the multicolored fields, flailing in terror and grabbing at the passing cliff side. Protruding branches blur past her, and finally she grabs onto… nothing.

  The cliff is gone, and there is only open air as she free-falls to the earth, now miles beneath her. The wind batters her face, making it impossible to scream, but her panic builds as she flails. In the buffeting tumble, a small, incredibly cold hand grips hers. She looks over and sees Hannah on her left, falling at the same velocity. There is no fear present on her pretty face, just a peaceful expression. Her hair, so perfectly white and so impossibly long and flowing, the streaming strands billow behind her like a single cloud in the perfect blue sky.

  Hannah looks at Debbie, her eyes shining and calm, and speaks in a whisper that is clear and crisp despite the roaring wind. “Just fly,” she says.

  Hannah closes her eyes, her flawless face composed, her arms outstretched, and her body an inverted cross as she plummets downward, leading Debbie toward the miles and miles of flowers that blanket the world below. Just before impact, Hannah levels out above the floral sea, pulling a frantic Debbie alongside her.

  They’re not falling. They are flying, and flying fast… incredibly fast! Are we going a hundred miles an hour? Debbie wonders. Five hundred?

  Hannah reaches her hand down into the vibrant, colorful blur beneath them and withdraws a small fistful of… what are they, pansies? Jonquils? Debbie can’t place them. She has never seen flowers like these before. Hannah brings them to her face and breathes in and she then offers them so Debbie can also inhale. The essence is wonderfully enticing and bold… ambrosia.

  Hannah yanks Debbie downward into the field, where they catapult into God’s garden. They somersault and cartwheel through the endless stretch of flowers with soft and silken petals. Intoxicated and breathless, they come to a rolling stop. Debbie lies on her back as a wealth of sensations wash over and through her. Hummingbirds hover and dart among the flowers, weaving amongst bumblebees, and sipping nectar with long, needle beaks. A large, white rabbit bounds up beside Debbie, sniffs her inquisitively, and then leaps away. A yellow kitten springs playfully beside her, swats mischievously at her hair, and then lunges after the rabbit. A sleek cardinal, vibrant red and tufted, settles on her chest and hops once towards her face. He quickly cocks his head, looking as if he has a question.

  “Hey! I know you,” says Debbie.

  Djou! declares the bird. Chirby-chirby-chirby-djou-djou! With a quick beating of wings, he is gone.

  Debbie hears the giggles of the child who lies near her. She rolls over to see Hannah, who is also lying on her back, luminous with joy as she drags two great sweeping armfuls of the strange flora over herself. As she pulls the flowers from the ground, more seem to fold up to replace them. Hannah stands, her arms laden with a vibrant bouquet, and throws them into the air. As blossoms flutter down over her, Debbie watches the delighted, transformed child, her snowy hair even longer now, flowing well past her waist… so long.

  Debbie awoke in an instant, as if reality switched on and she was back in the hospital room. How vivid the dream had been. She could still smell the flowers as if she had carried the scent back with her.

  She was irritated with herself for dozing off. It was entirely unlike her, and the unprofessionalism of it distressed her. Even an unintentional catnap, if anyone noticed, could cost her job. She considered running down to the cafeteria for a large cup of coffee when she heard the muted rub of Hannah’s bandaged feet on the floor. The bathroom door creaked open and Hannah emerged, heading back for the bed. Debbie had not awakened when Hannah got out of the bed, and the presence of Hannah’s meal meant even the food services delivery hadn’t wakened her. Usually a very light sleeper, she was upset that someone had seen her sleeping after all.

  Wrestling with her better judgment, but unable to resist the beguiling atmosphere left behind by the dream, Debbie extended her arms toward Hannah, offering to embrace the sad whisper of a child. Hannah floated by her without a hint of acknowledgement, leaving Debbie feeling thwarted and somewhat emptier, as if denied something essential. The child climbed onto the bed and settled behind the food tray.

  Debbie removed the cover for Hannah, revealing haddock, rice pilaf, and diced carrots that looked too orange to be natural. She set the cover on the nightstand and nearly dropped it when she noticed Essie sitting silently in the subdued light on the opposite side of the bed.

  “My God, you startled me!” Debbie said.

  “Sorry, just watching behavior patterns, is all,” said Essie, offering an apologetic smile. “You were sleeping when I came in. I didn’t want to disturb you, but nearly changed my mind. You were having quite the dream.”

  Debbie smiled meekly but nervously. “I’m so ashamed that I dozed off. I’ve never done that before in my life. On the job, I mean! It couldn’t have been more than a minute or two.”

  “It happens to the best of us. I won’t tell if you don’t,” Essie said with a friendly smile. “Do you always toss about like that when you sleep? You’re so restless. I’m sure I can squeeze you in for an appointment.”

  Slightly relieved, but still mentally scolding herself, Debbie said, “I seldom remember my dreams, but this one was a doozy. Hannah was in it.”

  “Yeah, she’s been sticking to my conscience, too,” Essie admitted. “Have you been here all day? Don’t you have kids at home?”

  Debbie understood Essie’s concern and heard her not-so-subtle request. “I suppose I should go to lunch and then to the office. I could stay a little late to get some work done,” she said. She wasn’t sure why she was defending herself to Essie. Her status as a parent was of no consequence to the job, nor was her time spent in the hospital. Debbie’s insecurity made her feel a little childish.

  Essie must have seen the irritation reflected in Debbie’s eyes. “I’m sorry, that was rude of me,” she said. “Please stay. Without Hannah’s history I’m at a bit of a loss as to how to communicate with her, and I need to if there’s any hope of finding out who she is.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that, too,” said Debbie. “I think she does communicate, but in the most prudent sense, like everything else she does.” She unplugged her laptop and slid it into her bag. “She wastes no words, movements, or emotions. Think of what she’s said to us so far. It’s as if she’s afraid an excess of anything will upset some balance.”

  “The unseen child,” Essie acknowledged. “They’re often from homes where anger and violence reign. They live their lives walking on eggshells and hiding in the shadows, trying to remain unseen and unheard so they don’t rouse negative reactions. They become living ghosts. Hannah may be a little lost ghost.”

  They watched Hannah eat her meal in nearly perfect, metered bites.

  How could she not be missed? Debbie wondered, wanting to protect Hannah. How could anyone mistreat this little kitten? Embarrassed by her grow
ing attachment to the girl, she averted her face. She shuffled her files so they lined up, slid them into the bag beside her laptop, and started gathering the power cable.

  “Debbie. Stay, please,” Essie said. “I’d like the company… and the help, actually.”

  Debbie looked at her laptop bag thoughtfully, contemplating the request. She chanced a quick glance at Essie and then returned her attention to the bag on her lap. “The truth is, there’s no one at home,” Debbie confessed. “There hasn’t been for about four years. Kenny and I got married twelve years ago, and like most new loves, it was great. We couldn’t get enough of each other.”

  Ease up, Debbie silently reprimanded herself. She looked at her clasped hands, appalled that she was spilling her guts. She looked at Essie, who said nothing, but held her in a sympathetic gaze.

  “He knew… he knew I couldn’t conceive,” Debbie continued, not able to stop the spill of words. “He said it would never change things between us. We could adopt, he said, but when the newness wore off—as it always does—it did matter.”

  But that isn’t all of it, is it? a voice within her said. Debbie pushed it away.

  “Kenny’s remarried. He has a son with… her. They live in Pelham, New Hampshire.” Her throat tightened as tears built up and Debbie barked a painful laugh. “I had a cat, but I gave her away, too,” Debbie continued.

  “Too?” Essie asked softly.

  “I did say that, didn’t I? I felt guilty because she was alone most of the time.” She patted the bag of case documents on her lap affectionately. “These are my children. I get to bring them to work with me every day and they come home with me every night… we’re inseparable. They are all the family I have and probably will ever have. I’m very protective of them.” Debbie looked at Hannah and offered a weak smile. “So I do appreciate that you want me to stay. Who knows, I may do something useful.”

  Essie could have said so many things from a psychiatric angle or about professional separation, but a good psychiatrist knew when words would work in an adverse direction. She remained silent.

  Debbie pulled a hair tie from around her wrist, gathered her hair into a ponytail, and tied it. She smirked at Essie. “Damn, you’re good. Five minutes and you already have me confessing everything. How do you do that?”

  “I just listen, is all,” said Essie. “It sounds to me like you’ve been hauling a lot of pain inside of you. It wants to come out. Maybe you should think about seeing someone.”

  Debbie shrugged uneasily. “I had for a while… didn’t work.” She watched Hannah lift a spoonful of pudding to her mouth. “I think we’re missing our window.”

  “You’re right,” Essie said with a self-deprecating chuckle. She turned to Hannah and maneuvered into her line of sight.

  Debbie saw the slightest eye shift in Hannah and it dawned on her that despite a convincing display of disconnection, Hannah was paying attention, at least to a degree.

  “Hannah, I know you can hear and understand us,” Essie said. “We’re here to help you. We won’t hurt you. That’s a promise.”

  Hannah stopped chewing. Most wouldn’t have noticed, but coming from Hannah, this gesture was like a waving red flag.

  Careful, Debbie thought. Hannah was like a hummingbird. She could interact, but the slightest wrong move and she’d dart. Wisely, Essie waited until Hannah started chewing again.

  “What did I say that bothered you, Hannah?”

  No response.

  Essie continued. “Did someone promise you something? Did someone break a promise?” Hannah stopped chewing again. “Who broke their promise, Hannah?”

  “She…” Hannah whispered, and then sighed with resignation as if the thought or effort was futile.

  “Who is she?” Essie asked.

  “Mom,” she said without voice, but it was easy to read on her lips.

  Debbie covertly flexed her fingers, trying to get Essie’s attention. It threw Essie for a moment, and then she looked at Hannah’s hands fisted tightly beneath the over-bed table. Essie’s expression made it clear she was aggravated at herself for not noticing. Debbie knew it was part of a psychiatrist’s job to notice body language, but in Essie’s defense, the rest of Hannah’s body looked entirely at ease. Whatever her angst was, be it tension, anger, or grief, it was localized in those hands.

  “How old are you, Hannah?” Essie asked, hoping a different approach would relax her.

  “I think I’m seven-and-a-half years old,” she said. Although she sounded like a child-sized automaton, it was the first thing Hannah had said that held childlike intonations… those ever-important half years.

  “That’s a good answer,” said Essie. “You said ‘you think’. Are you not sure of your age?”

  Hannah gave the slightest shrug. “Maybe eight. I don’t know.”

  “You’re a very brave girl being on your own like that. I don’t think I could handle it nearly as well, even at my age.”

  Hannah shrugged again.

  “Hannah, what’s your full name?” asked Debbie.

  “Hannah Joelle Amiel-Janssen.”

  “Wow, that’s a mouthful,” Essie said. She eyed Debbie who was already searching her purse for a pen. “What a beautiful name! Did your mother pick your name?”

  Hannah’s already tenuous attention immediately started to digress at the mention of her mother. Essie quickly changed direction. “Hannah, can you tell me what Hannahwhere is?”

  “Where,” Hannah corrected.

  “But what…”

  “Safe,” Hannah said. “It’s…”

  A loud rap on the door startled the three of them, knocking any sense of the intimacy they had built right out of the atmosphere. Debbie could actually feel the door of Hannah’s mental barricade slam shut as her eyes set straightforward and she sat bolt upright. Her sitting up gave evidence that she had allowed herself to settle in a little and be at ease. Translated: she had finally opened up a sliver of trust.

  A heavyset man opened the door and stepped into the room. He was of average height—about five-ten—mostly bald with a thick walrus mustache in need of a trim. What hair he had was an unkempt, mouse-brown laurel wreath, three or four days overdue for a good shampooing. Debbie thought he looked like a walrus. She wanted to jump all over this clown.

  You don’t rap loudly in hospitals! You’re supposed to remain quiet, tiptoe into rooms, and murmur greetings.

  The man took a hesitant step backwards as if feeling the heat of her thoughts.

  “What’s all that banging about?” Essie demanded. She wasn’t pleased, either.

  “Hello? Umm, I’m Detective Phil Davenport, Riverside Police CACU, that’s the Crimes Against Children Unit. Is Deborah Gillan here?” His voice was oddly low yet exceedingly nasal and gave Debbie the sudden urge to blow her nose.

  “That’s me,” Debbie said. She wondered if she was just being judgmental because he interrupted them.

  “And who are you?” the detective asked Essie.

  Nope, his voice sucks, Debbie thought, her stomach doing a little flip.

  “I’m Essie Hiller. I’m Hannah’s psychiatrist.” Essie had composed herself, but the tightness around her mouth remained and she looked ready for a battle.

  “Okay. It’s probably just as well you’re here, and not just for the child’s sake,” he said, though it sounded more like Ongay, Int’s prombly nyust as well. “Hell, I might just hire you.”

  Debbie realized that the detective had a cleft palate, which made her feel like a wide-ranging piece of shit.

  “How can we help you, Detective?” Essie asked.

  “I have some information regarding your little girl, here,” he said.

  “Why don’t you tell us about it, Detective, but down the hall in the visitor’s lounge,” Essie said. “Hannah’s likely incoherent, but let’s just play it safe.”

  In the visitor’s lounge, Essie and Debbie sat on a hideous orange sofa that was as uncomfortable as it was unsightly, which was saying a l
ot. Phil Davenport stood opposite them, rubbing his face warily with both palms. In the amplified lighting, it was clear how exhausted the detective was.

  “This little gem of a story has everyone at the station flummoxed, not to mention NCMEC. That’s the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children.”

  Debbie and Essie both nodded, acknowledging that they knew what NCMEC was.

  “Having her first name helped. It turns out our little girl here is named Hannah Amiel-Janssen, born September 14, 2000,” Davenport said and paused. It was hard to tell if the pause was intentional to be dramatic, or if Phil Davenport was truly feeling the turmoil that showed on his face.

  “Two thousand? That can’t be right, she’s seven,” Debbie said.

  “And a half,” Essie added. “We just found out her middle name is Joelle.”

  “That’s right. It’s definitely her,” he assured them. He pulled a folded square of paper from the breast pocket of his blazer, unfolded it, and handed it to Debbie. Both women stared at it with creased brows.

  “Hannah’s a twin?” Debbie asked.

  “Hopefully,” Davenport said. “The other sister, Anna, has yet to turn up.”

  Debbie looked at the printout again. She had seen her share of twins, and despite the fuzzy resolution of the copied photograph, it was clear Hannah and Anna Amiel-Janssen were about as identical as two sisters could be. There were no discernible physical differences, and both were dressed in matching ankle-length nighties like a two-pack of Cindy Lou Whos. The words Double Trouble printed on the front of their nighties, above twin wide-eyed and remorseful puppies. Hannah and Anna stared into the lens, their heads tilted slightly towards each other. They both had sweet but infinitely sad smiles on their angelic faces. If not for the length of their hair, which cascaded in silver-white splendor over their shoulders to past their waists, the photo could have been taken that morning. An NCMEC date stamp clearly showed the date March 19, 2008, more than two years earlier. The present date was June 25, 2010.