September Canvas

by Gun Brooke

  Deanna laughed, surprised. She hadn’t expected to find humor in Faythe’s words, and certainly not in her own. “Juggling poodles?”

  “Yup. Three of them. All were true divas.”

  “They demanded champagne in their dressing room?” Deanna couldn’t stop her silly smile.

  “How did you know?”

  Faythe grinned back, and suddenly Deanna could breathe again.

  “Here, let me help you.” Faythe pulled on the opposite side of the canoe and together they dragged it farther up and turned it upside down. “Ah. There.”

  Deanna brushed a few wet leaves off her jeans and pushed the hair out of her eyes. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” Faythe lifted her hand, palm up, to Deanna, who took it hesitantly. “Want to catch a movie, perhaps later in the week?”

  Deanna could hardly reply. The sensation of Faythe’s soft, slender hand in hers drowned out everything else. It wasn’t the first time they had touched. When she’d held Faythe in a firm grip as she saved her from the water, she hadn’t felt this bittersweet tenderness. Shaken, Deanna gently pulled her hand back. “All right. Absolutely. Why not?” She didn’t think about her words. She just wanted to escape these startling feelings and the innocent touch that caused them.

  “Tomorrow night? I can check which movies are showing. Or would you rather rent something? Aunt Nellie has pay-per-view.”

  “Sounds good. I mean, renting.” Deanna finally realized that going into town to the movies with Faythe would be impossible.

  “I think so too. At seven or thereabouts?”

  “Sounds good.”’

  “See you then.” Faythe stepped closer and hugged Deanna.

  “Thanks for taking me canoeing. Take care.”

  “You too,” Deanna managed. The unexpected full-body contact depleted all of her oxygen, and she stumbled backward. “Bye.”

  “Bye.” Faythe waved and headed toward her house.

  Deanna stood frozen, making sure Faythe was not about to say something more, then spun around and hurried to her cabin. She dumped the backpack on the kitchen table and continued into the bathroom, where she closed the door. She needed as many walls and doors between herself and the outside world as possible. Gasping, she studied her reflection, not recognizing the wild look in her eyes. Normally she kept a cool façade, her temper carefully subdued and controlled. Two years ago, she had let her temper flare, which cost her dearly. Nothing could take away that pain, and she had restrained herself since then, determined not to rock the boat again.

  Faythe was a variable Deanna hadn’t counted on. Although a woman of the world, well dressed, knowledgeable, and with a fantastic career already despite her youth, Faythe possessed a soft innocence, something genuinely good that drew Deanna in despite her best efforts to keep Faythe distant.

  That hadn’t worked, since Faythe had stepped right up and hugged her. Deanna leaned her forehead against the cool mirror. How was she supposed to keep someone as lovely as Faythe away? Every time Deanna tried to create some distance, either by being cold or dismissive, the pained expression in Faythe’s eyes wouldn’t let her follow through.

  “I may have to tell her the whole ugly story.” Deanna grimaced at her reflection, looking at herself cross-eyed since she was so close to the mirror. “Then again, she might be so stubborn that she’ll try to save me from myself.”

  Deanna stalked out of the bathroom and over to her work area.

  Tossing her jacket on a pile of books on a chair, she switched on the light, then opened her sketch pad and grabbed a charcoal pen. She drew a scene from memory, the canoe in the foreground and the lake framed with maple trees in the background. Before she knew it, a slender figure sat in the front of the canoe. With long hair framing her face, the woman glanced over her shoulder at the dark outline of another woman who sat with a paddle resting just above the waterline.

  Deanna stared at the drawing, half finished and sketched in such a frenzied style. Faythe seemed to have invaded every part of her existence, and Deanna could think of only one place where she would find no trace of Faythe. She glanced at her watch. It was time to go see Miranda anyway. She had never needed the comfort of being around her beloved little sister this much. Miranda, the gentlest soul in Deanna’s life, never questioned her. Perhaps that was why Faythe’s sweetness was so compelling?

  Not about to speculate a second longer, Deanna grabbed her bag and car keys and was out the door in record time.

  * * *

  Opening Google on her laptop, Faythe typed in “Deanna Moore Grantville Vermont.” She had to find out what the hell was going on.

  The computer mulled over the entry and found more than ten thousand hits. The first ones were about Deanna’s work, her illustrations and paintings. Deanna had her own section at one of the publishers where Faythe found a small bio, with thumbnails of her Bunny Buttercup illustrations. A guest book was attached, and Faythe clicked on the link, curious what readers thought of Deanna’s work.

  The comments were appreciative and endearing, competing with each other to express how much they loved and adored the illustrations for Bunny Buttercup. Faythe felt proud of Deanna when she read how parents seemed to enjoy the stories and the illustrations as much as their children did.

  Returning to Google, Faythe found another link, this time to a discussion forum for books and their authors. Eventually she was staring at the long row of messages in a thread called “Deanna Moore, illustrious illustrator.” Faythe had stumbled upon vile remarks on the Internet before, but never been personally involved. She read several of the messages but couldn’t manage any more.

  I know what U did. I know the girl U hurt. I don’t think U should work with kids ever.

  You are an immoral bitch who should be locked up!

  You f*cking wh*re!

  Why don’t you move away from Grantville? You’re not wanted here!

  The occasional messages from appreciative readers were lost in the flurry of flames against Deanna. Stunned, with a thousand questions forming in her head, Faythe did the only thing possible. She tracked down the webmaster and requested that he purge the derogatory comments.

  Faythe continued to other sites, and even though she didn’t find such foul language, she discovered similar comments with a clear message. Other people than Kitty-with-heart, probably Grantville residents, clearly felt the same way she did. Frowning, Faythe decided not to log on to the local newspaper’s site. It would be wrong to read what she knew would be written there. She had to ask Deanna herself.

  She owed her that if she wanted to be her friend.

  Friendship was important, but the concept left her antsy and she twirled a lock of hair around her finger, over and over, as she thought about the situation. She had no idea if Deanna found women sexually attractive, but her response to the handshake and the hug earlier spoke volumes—mostly about strong, if repressed, emotions. Faythe had held Deanna’s hand long enough to feel her racing pulse. She had no clue how she had dared to simply hug her, but as brief as the contact was, Deanna had trembled against her. It had taken all her willpower to let go and merely smile.

  Faythe closed her eyes and thought of Deanna’s tormented features when she tried to push Faythe away… She snapped her eyes open again.

  That was it. Deanna was trying to push Faythe away, before the reverse happened. Whatever people were up in arms about, Deanna was certain Faythe would side with them. Stubborn and with a journalist’s desire to find the objective truth, Faythe straightened her back and began to type. She wouldn’t go behind Deanna’s back and dig up dirt on her, that wasn’t fair, but she would write down everything she felt and knew about her. She’d write it like a novel, like a drama documentary, and add little by little. This way she would get to know the true Deanna. She could still write down her own subjective— no, heated—thoughts about her. This was for her own eyes only.

  Faythe’s fingers flew across the keyboard. This was the second best thing to
actually spending time with Deanna. She would discover the truth.

  Chapter Nine

  "Dee.” Miranda rocked back and forth on her bed, her arms wrapped around herself. “Dee-dee-dee-dee…”

  “Honey. Honey, listen to me. I’m here now.” Deanna forced herself to sound calm and reassuring. Her little sister had regressed into a behavior she had displayed the first semester at the Tremayne Foundation and School. She looked so small and young where she huddled, barely coherent. Touching Miranda when she was this distraught was dicey at best. Either Miranda would cling to her or she would recoil like a wound-up spring.

  Carefully, Deanna placed a hand on Miranda’s shoulder. The rocking stopped for a moment, and she didn’t push Deanna away.

  “There you go, honey.” Deanna slid closer and wrapped both arms around Miranda. “You’re fine. You’re more than fine. You’re okay now. I’ve got you.” She kept murmuring in the monotone voice she knew calmed Miranda’s frayed nerves. That, together with slow, circular caresses along Miranda’s back, stilled the rocking motion, and eventually she curled up almost on Deanna’s lap. Her sister’s fresh scent of soap and mint toothpaste was familiar, and Deanna focused on that fact to keep any angry thoughts from showing. “There, you see. You’re doing fine.”

  The young man working nights at Miranda’s dorm had apologized profusely for disturbing Deanna in the middle of the night. Afraid that something serious had happened, Deanna had begun to dress with one hand while she was still on the phone. The night staff member told her that Miranda had been upset ever since her surprise visitors left earlier in the evening.

  “What surprise visitors? Why the hell didn’t you call me right away?” Deanna asked as she struggled into her jeans. “You know I’m only twenty minutes away.”

  “We thought we were handling it, Ms. Moore. Miranda looked calmer just before bedtime. But when she woke from some nightmare or something, we couldn’t reach her. She won’t let us near her, and I don’t want to have the nurse on call medicate her if we can avoid it.”

  “No, you’re right. Don’t give her anything. I’m on my way out the door as we speak. Tell her Dee’s coming.” Deanna drove as fast as she could through the empty streets of Grantville, her mind whirling with questions. Sometimes her mother decided to spring a surprise visit on Miranda, and this time she might have had her husband and any or both of his brats with her. Usually Miranda tolerated her stepfather fairly well, but the two teenyboppers were too much for her. If Deanna had been on speaking terms with her mother, she would have demanded that the superficial little horrors be banned from visiting, as well as making any surprise visits. As things were, the only communication between her and her mother was the notes they both made in the binder in Miranda’s room. Staff and next of kin communicated via the binder when it wasn’t possible to have a face-to-face meeting. It also functioned as a diary of Miranda’s progress.

  They were well into their twelfth binder after nine years now.

  “Dee?” Miranda pulled back. “Read.”

  “What, honey? You want me to read to you?”

  “Read.” Miranda removed a book from the shelf and placed it between them. She never gave anything directly to anyone, but it was still clear what she wanted.

  “Which one is this?” Deanna examined the book. “Aha. One of our favorites. Charlotte’s Web.”

  “Friend.”

  “Yes, that’s right. It’s about true friendship.” Deanna helped Miranda crawl back into bed, as always feeling utterly protective of the girl. Anyone who gave Miranda a quick look would probably guess her age to be about twelve. Deanna tucked her in beneath the soft down duvet and moved up to sit next to her, one hand on Miranda’s cinnamon-colored hair, while she opened the book with the other. She began to read the story of the loyal, intelligent spider that saved the life of her friend, the pig, and as she kept reading the classic story, her own anger began to dissipate.

  She couldn’t help Miranda if she allowed her temper to rule. Her sister needed her calmness as much as she needed love and affection.

  Deanna refused to give her mother’s actions another thought. She would do what she always did—write a no-nonsense message in Miranda’s chart. Nine years ago she vowed never to speak to her mother again, and she had kept her word.

  Angela Moore decided to place Miranda in this facility when she was only seven. Though it was progressive and cutting-edge, Deanna was infuriated because their mother had betrayed both of them. Angela had sworn they’d always be together, be a family, after their father passed away when Deanna was eighteen and Miranda was two.

  Five years later when she met Percy, that all changed. He was a widower with two daughters Miranda’s age, and it didn’t take him long to convince Angela that Miranda was better off in an institution.

  Deanna did everything possible to keep her original family together, and when Angela wouldn’t listen, but talked on and on about how the staff at Tremayne’s worked miracles with autistic children and that it would be good for all of them, Deanna gave her mother an ultimatum.

  She could still see the pained, angry expression on her mother’s face. Deanna told her mother that unless she reconsidered sending Miranda away, she would leave and never talk to her mother again.

  Ever. Angela pleaded with her, but also refused to budge. The incident ended in total chaos. They shipped Miranda off to Tremayne’s, and Deanna left without saying another word to either Angela or Percy.

  Determined to keep her anger at bay, Deanna focused on the story.

  Miranda’s head rested on her shoulder and grew increasingly heavy as the story of Charlotte, the spider, unfolded. After only forty-five pages, Miranda’s breathing was even and she had slid farther down under her duvet.Deanna carefully dislodged her arm and rose from the bed. She made sure Miranda was comfortable and carefully brushed the silky hair out of her face. Her sister was the epitome of cuteness, with her slightly freckled, upturned nose and huge blue eyes. Deanna wanted Miranda to have every opportunity—not only the ones available for anyone with her diagnosis, but any chance possible for happiness and fulfillment. Did Angela see how amazing her youngest daughter was and the progress she had made the last few years? Miranda’s language skills had picked up enormously when Tremayne’s enrolled five of their students in a trial program devised by the University of Vermont.

  Deanna had to admit that Tremayne’s had been good for Miranda, and that the feud between her and her mother didn’t benefit her sister at all. Still, they reached total gridlock nine years ago, and after the nightmare two years ago when all hell broke loose around Deanna at Grantville High, she saw no end. If not for the all-consuming sisterly love she felt for Miranda, Deanna would have disappeared a long time ago. She would have changed her name and moved to another state, perhaps even to Canada. Instead she was stuck in a life that revolved around her sister and her work.

  Deanna grabbed a binder from a shelf, browsing through the latest entries jotted down by the staff, to see if they had recorded anything the last few days to explain what had happened. Irene Costa had made a short entry the previous day, written in dynamic letters, and Deanna’s trained eye immediately detected that Irene had pressed the pen hard against the paper, a sign of her displeasure.

  Miranda’s mother and stepfather visited and brought Miranda’s stepsisters.

  I tried to advise against it, since it has yet to benefit Miranda to be around children her own age, especially if they show very little concern or appreciation toward her.

  Angela Moore Bodell insisted that it is in Miranda’s best interest to learn to interact with her entire family, and when I tried to suggest that it might be too much for her to meet both girls at the same time, Mr. Bodell interfered, clearly feeling I had criticized his daughters, which was never my intention.

  It didn’t take the Bodell teenagers long to make Miranda mute and fidgety. She eventually started rocking and tugging at her eyelashes, a familiar sign that she’s under significant s
tress. Luckily, the Bodell family left before things escalated, but I had to remain isolated with Miranda in her room for an hour, brushing and braiding her hair over and over to calm her. I’ve seen her sister Deanna do this on several occasions, and it seemed to work after a while. Miranda is still not talking now when my shift is over, which is never a good sign.

  Irene Costa

  Deanna set her jaw and gripped the pen hard in turn. She had to force herself to not use the harsh language and profanities that first came to mind as she wrote.

  I received an emergency phone call from Tremayne’s tonight, when they risked having to sedate Miranda if I couldn’t manage to calm her down. I held her and later read to her, and it is obvious to me that our mother’s selfish way of thinking, and her husband’s all-too-great faith in the benevolence of his daughters, caused Miranda to regress into old behavior when subjected to stress. If our mother can’t see this and keeps acting in ways that are not in Miranda’s best interests, I’m afraid that Miranda will suffer further setbacks that will ultimately become obstacles she can’t overcome. This type of spur-of-the-moment visit cannot be allowed to occur again.

  Deanna Moore

  Deanna replaced the binder on a shelf and tiptoed out of Miranda’s room, leaving the door slightly ajar and the nightlight on, as always.

  She walked up to the day room where the two young men who had the night shift were watching TV with the sound barely audible.

  “Hi, guys. She’s calmed down and gone to sleep now.” Deanna put her jacket on. “Can you make sure Irene Costa knows about what happened tonight?”

  “Absolutely, ma’am. She’s working the day shift tomorrow, so she’ll get the report right away.”

  “Excellent. Well, don’t hesitate to call me if Miranda has another setback. Good night.” Deanna nodded briskly and walked down the corridor. The night air cooled her temper somewhat, but now she had room for other, more confused feelings—about Faythe. Their morning together, paddling the canoe, and the way Faythe managed to coax words out of her that Deanna never thought she would utter. The entire experience flooded her senses as she drove back to her cabin. They had almost alienated each other.