Hannahwhere

by John McIlveen

  “Not Hannahwhere… Annaplace,” said Debbie.

  Essie contemplated the question. “You’re right, I didn’t catch that. Maybe she created a mental harbor for her sister to return.”

  This line of thought was overpowering to Debbie. How could Hannah know about Annaplace? Had Hannah said it in her sleep and Debbie subliminally overheard it? Could she and Hannah have a psychic connection and share dreams?

  That’s stretching it, Debbie thought. She figured she’d wait for a simple answer that would put logic to it all. If no answer came… well, that was an answer in itself. This was a standard progression for Debbie. When unsure, deny it more.

  “Hannah, can you see and hear us when you’re in your… in Hannahwhere?” Essie asked.

  Hannah nodded. “Half here, half there,” she said.

  Essie looked at Debbie and said, “Good thing we moved Davenport to the family lounge.”

  Debbie hadn’t thought about it. How horrible it would have been for Hannah to have to go through that, reliving all of it through their words.

  “A collective concern with children—and people overall—who have experienced dire trauma and have created an asylum to hide in, is their desire or their ability to stay in the perceived shelter of their asylum,” explained Essie. “They build a comfort zone there, and returning to the here-and-now can become more difficult if their dissociative states become longer or more frequent.”

  “If they decide they want to stay there, can they become unreachable?” asked Debbie.

  “They can, and we especially want to avoid that with Hannah. She already spends so much time there.”

  “Is that what she means by ‘half here, half there’, that she’s not fully inside her harbor?”

  “I think so,” Essie admitted. “Hannah, what would happen if you went all the way into Hannahwhere?”

  Hannah mulled over this for a while and said, “Then all of me is there, not here.”

  Debbie snorted a quick laugh at Hannah’s simple logic, but the significance of it made her nervous. What if Hannah found that comfort zone? She wondered. Would she be trapped there and fall into some trance or a coma? Could it happen to me?

  “Why do you go to Hannahwhere?” asked Debbie.

  After a long pause, Hannah replied, “It’s pretty. It doesn’t hurt if we fall.”

  “It’s safe when you go away,” Debbie said.

  Hannah confirmed it with a small nod.

  “Safe from what, Hannah?” asked Essie.

  Hannah started shrinking inward.

  “Different subject,” Debbie said softly. She ran her hand tenderly over Hannah’s back and felt a degree of satisfaction when the child leaned slightly in her direction.

  Changing course without missing a beat, Essie asked, “Hannah, how did you end up behind the dumpster?”

  “I jumped out,” Hannah quickly answered. To Debbie it sounded defensive.

  “You jumped out of the dumpster?” Essie asked dubiously.

  “No!” Hannah said. There was now an underlying element of humor to her tone, as if the suggestion was absurd. “I jumped out of Hannahwhere. I was mad.”

  Essie glanced warily at Debbie. She asked Hannah, “How do you jump out of Hannahwhere?”

  Hannah shrugged. “Me and Anna needed help. I got scared and followed the red bird behind the dumper,” she said, as if it made complete sense.

  The red bird? thought Debbie. Reality tipped a little bit further.

  “What did you get mad at?” asked Essie as Debbie asked, “What red bird?”

  Essie again asked, “What did you get mad at?”

  “Anna!” Hannah said, frustration tinting her words. “She can’t leave with me anymore.”

  “It’s okay, Hannah. You’re safe here,” Essie said. “Let’s go one question at a time so we understand. Anna can’t leave Hannahwhere with you?”

  “Hannahwhere or Annaplace. We were supposed to go there, to our safe places. I looked for her, but she didn’t come for a long time, and then she did come. But she got stuck there, and now she can’t come back. She’s been there a long time.”

  Debbie ached to protect her from these questions, but she was also intrigued. “Is Anna there now?” she asked, sounding far too anxious, judging by the curious glance Essie gave her.

  Large teardrops ran down Hannah’s cheeks, falling to mingle with her breakfast. “A little,” she said. “But I think she’s sick… sick and stuck!”

  “Does Anna always go with you to Hannahwhere?” Essie asked.

  Hannah wiped absently at her nose. “She always goes to Annaplace, but Hannahwhere and Annaplace are kind of together.”

  “But she doesn’t anymore?” Essie asked.

  “She’s there, but now she can’t leave.” Hannah’s chin trembled and her lower lip pouted, breaking Debbie’s resolve. She couldn’t fight the tears either.

  “When do you and Anna go to Hannahwhere?” Essie asked.

  “When it gets ugly,” she said, and looked helplessly to Debbie. Her entire body was shaking. Hannah corrected herself, “When he gets ugly.” At these words, Debbie felt a shift within herself, and a blaze of anger.

  “When you say he, do you mean Travis?” Essie asked.

  At the mention of the name, Hannah’s eyes transformed, displaying her alarm. The child became frantic and started looking around the room, terrified, as if she expected him to leap out from the shadows. Debbie wanted to ask Essie, who the fuck do you think she means?

  Hannah started singing, “I am going to Hannahwhere…”

  Debbie took Hannah’s hands in hers and squeezed them encouragingly. They were so small they felt like they were dissolving, shrinking within her hands. Debbie looked at Hannah and she literally began fading from Debbie’s sight while sitting on her lap. Terror and desperation folded over Debbie and her logical mind revolted.

  What’s happening? Oh my God, what do I do?

  A part of her wanted to flee, to escape from it, and find sanity elsewhere. Another part of her, the moral element, knew she had to remain there for Hannah, even though she was the one causing the madness. She looked to Essie, who was unaware and rapidly writing in her notepad.

  Debbie stood, lifting Hannah and holding her firmly to herself. There was no mistaking it. The child was losing substance, dissolving in Debbie’s arms.

  “Hannah, Travis is gone! He cannot hurt anyone anymore. I won’t let anyone hurt you,” Debbie said urgently, pressing the child’s head to her shoulder. Hannah’s arms snaked over Debbie’s shoulders and Debbie clung to her greedily, kissing her head repeatedly, trying anxiously to reassure her. Hannah’s solidity finally started returning and her weight increased in Debbie’s arms.

  Am I going insane? Debbie wondered. Her reality warped and buckled, but she knew she wasn’t imagining it.

  Essie was looking at Debbie curiously. “What’s wrong? You sound panicked.”

  “You saw that, right?” Debbie asked.

  “Saw what?” asked Essie.

  Thoughts traversed Debbie’s mind like bullets from all directions, seeking answers that weren’t there. It was horrifying, and Debbie felt a black panic rising in her that she had to keep at bay. She sat down with Hannah still in her arms.

  Am I bat-shit crazy?

  She had heard that if you could question your own sanity, then you were sane, but how did they verify this with the insane? Too convoluted… next question.

  Okay…What disappears?

  Ghosts, aliens, time travelers, money, and delusions. Brilliant deductions, Einstein.

  Hannah disappearing—if it was indeed real—would draw so much more unneeded attention. It would surely be a celebrated discovery for those of a scientific bent and a giant portent or prophecy among the fervently religious. Who knew what kind of testing and mania Hannah would be exposed to if either community caught wind of it? In their eyes, she would not be a child, a human, or a victim. She would become research or a banner to wave at the non-believers; som
ething they’d tag their name onto for prosperity or recognition, or something even more narcissistic, ominous, or fanatical. That could be as bad as—or worse—than anything Hannah had already survived. Essie had not seen it happen, which, Debbie figured, was for the best.

  “Hannah almost blacked out again,” Debbie said. “Whatever is happening to her cannot be good. No more questions… not right now, okay? She needs a break.”

  Chapter 17

  Hannah calmed down and managed to nap a bit by the time lunch arrived. In spite of the commotion and emotion of the morning session, Hannah stayed in the present and hadn’t withdrawn into one of her dissociative states.

  Hannah started to disappear! Debbie replayed it repeatedly in her mind. It defied explanation and contradicted her solid foundation of reason. A door had opened, and so much that had been unthinkable a week ago had suddenly become possible. What about time travel, aliens, telepathy, telekinesis, ghosts, God and Satan? She had put these on the shelf with magic, mythology, and all things illogical. The stream of questions that now barraged her seemed endless.

  How could the child simply dissolve and reform? How did it happen without pain and without degeneration? It was clearly a defensive reaction, but was it trained into her or genetic? Was Hannah dreaming when she visited Hannahwhere and Annaplace, and did she somehow manipulate Debbie’s dreams? Was she connected to Hannah and Anna on some more profound level? Why her?

  Where has Hannah been for the last two years? It was especially paradoxical when coupled with the observation that she appeared to have aged little in that time.

  How did she end up fifteen-hundred miles from home, and in a place as remote and mundane as Riverside?

  If she were to accept this as tangible, then it opened a realm of possibilities. In fact, was anything not possible?

  Detective Davenport was due to show up at four o’clock that afternoon. He wanted Essie and Debbie present because they—he had the wherewithal to admit—were better versed at dealing directly with children. Debbie figured there was no sense in going home if she needed to be back by four. She lived ten minutes away and it was barely past noon. She knew her logic was twisted, but she would latch onto any motive to stay there with Hannah… especially now.

  In the face of everything, Hannah still had a hearty appetite. She ate her lunch slowly and methodically, and then sat on Debbie’s lap. Debbie brushed and braided her hair into a single whip down her back. When Debbie finished, Hannah scooted down from her lap and walked into the bathroom. Debbie looked at the shower stall behind Hannah, half expecting to see the little boy. Wouldn’t Hannah have reacted to a little boy standing in the shower while she went to the bathroom? She wondered if she could ask Hannah in some subtle way if she saw him. Hannah had been standing before the sink for a rather long spell by the time Debbie returned from daydreaming.

  “Oh, is it okay?” Debbie finally asked.

  Hannah turned to Debbie and said, “Can’t see.”

  Hannah was too short to see herself in the mirror. Either she was the most patient girl Debbie had ever seen or the most disciplined—a disheartening thought. Wondering how long Hannah would have silently waited there, Debbie joined her in the bathroom, encircled her narrow chest and abdomen with her arms, and lifted. Hannah regarded her reflection, checking out the braid from the left, then the right. She looked pleased.

  “Mom made braids for me,” Hannah said, pointing above her ears. “Two.”

  “I can give you two if you’d like,” Debbie offered.

  Hannah met her eyes in the mirror and said, “No, I like just one.”

  Debbie looked at the small figure in her arms and then back at herself. She considered herself on the prettier side of plain, with her long, straight, copper-red hair, pale skin, and a face loaded with freckles. She and Hannah had very different features, yet she felt they looked right together. I could pass for her mother, thought Debbie.

  Debbie and Hannah went for a long walk around the hospital. They looked at the courtyard through the fourth-floor windows, browsed the gift shop, had a slice of coconut cream pie in the café, and finally settled down in the main lobby to watch episodes of SpongeBob SquarePants and iCarly on the widescreen television.

  When Essie and Detective Davenport showed up, Hannah was lounging in Debbie’s lap reading aloud from a book she had selected from the small mountain of gifts well-wishers had sent to the hospital in her name. She read very well for her age—far better than Debbie expected.

  Maybe Debbie was just being mistrustful, but seeing them walk into the room together made her uneasy. She thought about Hannah’s terror earlier that day and realized the child wasn’t the only one who was frightened… she was, too, by what the night might bring and the effect it would have on Hannah. Whatever was in store, she had a gut feeling it was not good. The unknown was something that had never concerned Debbie, but now it was a realm with no boundaries.

  They looked at Debbie and she thought she saw disapproval in the psychiatrist’s eyes. Debbie held Essie’s gaze, refusing to back down or show hesitation. Essie broke the eye contact and moved to the other side of the bed.

  “How’s our enigmatic little girl doing?” Essie asked, sounding light and conversational.

  “We’ve had a very comfortable day,” Debbie said, realizing too late that Essie wanted Hannah to answer her question.

  “Can we talk a moment?” Essie said to Debbie, motioning to the doorway.

  Debbie looked from her to Phil Davenport. “Let’s take our conversation down the hall.”

  Debbie kissed the top of Hannah’s head, silently daring anyone to protest, and had Hannah climb onto the bed. Debbie slowly stood and led them down the hall and into the waiting lounge.

  Once inside, Essie closed the door gently and said, “I don’t want to overstep boundaries, and I ask this with Hannah’s welfare as top priority—and yours, too, of course—but are you sure your involvement with Hannah will not become emotionally damaging for her when it’s time to break the connection and part ways?”

  Debbie felt the weight of Essie’s well-calculated words. The truth that Debbie eventually would have to let go of Hannah was not lost on her, and she dreaded it.

  “I do understand your concern,” Debbie said amiably but with deliberate emphasis. “Please understand that my role as a DCF caseworker is to assure that the children assigned to me are not harmed, get the best care possible, and feel they are loved and feel wanted. This includes treating them with kindness, respect, and yes, affection. I am doing my job.”

  “I appreciate your position and sympathize,” Essie said. “But don’t you feel the excessive amount of time you’re spending with Hannah presents the risk of her feeling abandonment once you do have to let her go? You will eventually have to say goodbye.”

  “That’s exactly why I’m spending extra time with her,” Debbie said with forced aplomb, though a sense of selfishness burned within her and reddened her cheeks. “To waylay the feelings of abandonment I’m sure she is now experiencing. My commitment to her placement in a commendable foster family should shield her from future risks.”

  “Mm-hmm,” said Essie. She raised her eyebrows and deliberately scratched behind her ear, a gesture Debbie found arrogant, though she understood Essie was not being intentionally haughty, but only doing her job.

  Phil Davenport looked from one woman to the other as if he were waiting for either a fistfight or a punch line. They had both stated their minds, they both knew where the other stood, but now they were stuck at an impasse.

  “Right,” he said with some irritation, letting them know they were wasting his time. He straightened his shoulders and plunged his hands into his pants pockets. “Okay. The kid’s loved. Meanwhile, I need to get some answers on this case.”

  “Hannah’s safe here,” Debbie told the detective. “Elizabeth Amiel cannot be revived and the man who murdered her confessed and is doing life without parole. What do you hope to gain by putting Hannah under the sp
otlight and drilling her with questions?” Debbie had found some contentment within her little denial bubble, but the reality was never far away—Hannah had started to fade and Debbie wanted to avoid a recurrence.

  Was it painful when Hannah started fading? She hadn’t fought it. She remained immobile on Debbie’s lap while it occurred, as if it were preferable to confronting the memories the questions revived. Debbie understood… she’d fade away too, if she were Hannah.

  “Hannah and Anna Amiel-Janssen,” Davenport said, displaying a new level of intensity, although his words sounded nasally. Hannanannanna. It severely dampened his authority, and Debbie experienced a moment of sympathy for him. “They’ve been missing for well over two years, and we haven’t a clue as to where Hannah has been, where Anna is, or who they’ve been with. We don’t know if anything horrendous happened to them, or if anything is still happening to Anna. This is an open case. It could be a child abduction case, a child abuse case, or, God forbid, a child pornography or sex market situation. Right now our only clue to anything in this seriously screwed-up case—and maybe our only hope of finding Anna—is sitting in that room.” He accentuated the last three words as if he were talking to a child.

  Davenport’s reference to sex markets hit Debbie in the gut, its cold fingers clenched and twisted within her. That some sick bastard could use these precious girls like that was beyond atrocious. The only comfort was that Hannah showed no indication of sexual abuse—but Anna wasn’t out of the woods.

  Davenport’s words were far more valid than Debbie’s, and arguing them would have been pointless.

  “Can we at least have a mutual agreement that if Hannah starts becoming upset, we hold off questioning her until later and give her time to settle down?” Debbie said. “I’m afraid one of these times she may not return from her states, fugues… whatever they are.” She pointed to Essie. “You, yourself said that people can become imprisoned within their own mental sanctuaries.”

  Essie nodded her agreement.

  “Please!” Debbie said.