“Thanks,” I said.
“Bye now,” she said, her voice softening—probably with relief.
And then she was gone. CALL ENDED flashed on my phone screen.
I put the phone down and looked at Sarah Black’s picture. I tried to decide if the uncertain look on her face frightened me. But really, it just made me sad. There was something familiar in the sadness of her expression, but I couldn’t say from where.
I’d shown that picture to a few different “haunted” alums, to little avail until now. And while emailing Lucia the photo had been kind of weird, she’d been fine—even delighted—with the weirdness of it all until she’d seen the actual photograph of Sarah Black. And then she’d stonewalled.
What did it mean that the strongest reaction to the picture of Sarah Black came from the girl who had supposedly been the least afraid of her? And what did it mean that she was suddenly in such a hurry to get off the phone?
40
Between Lucia Jackson and Bible sleuthing and cram-writing my late Western Civ paper, I was too distracted to think much about Alex. But now she’s on my mind.
Sleeping in someone else’s room. Looking exhausted. Snarling at Maylin and Chloe. Was it just my imagination that she’d caught a glimpse of the picture right before she’d snapped? That something about the picture set her off?
A line from the Darkins report comes to mind: “According to other students and faculty, she had a reputation of being a high academic achiever in previous years but seemed less engaged this year.”
That’s what he said about Student Y—Lucia Jackson. And it feels true of Alex now, too.
I’ve spent so much time worrying about being haunted myself—and about what might happen come February 10. But maybe it’s not really me who’s haunted. Maybe it’s Alex. Alex, who’s trying to pull herself out of it with therapy or pills, but who doesn’t know what she’s dealing with. I need to warn her. Or at least talk with her?
Would she ever say so if she was experiencing something scary, something potentially supernatural? I keep coming back to Alex’s little speech about people making assumptions about her. I’m probably guilty of those assumptions, too. She’s been so steady, so self-sufficient, for as long as I’ve known her.
Like the night of the second peed bed. Freshman year. About two weeks after the first. But it was also the last. Last one forever, fingers crossed.
It was the night before Halloween. That time I awoke in the middle of the night—from a dream that I’d fallen into a giant fish tank and was half-heartedly trying to swim to its surface, admiring a few koi on the way up. Half-awake, and then, with the oh-no-not-again realization, out of bed, on my feet, heart thumping with dread.
I glanced over at Alex’s bed to see if she was awake.
But she wasn’t there.
My heart raced even faster at this discovery. She was in the bathroom, surely to return at any second. Way worse than her being asleep—and me just having to make sure I didn’t wake her up—was her coming into the room just as I was pulling apart my bed or changing.
What would I do if I heard her come to the door? Jump back into the wet bed and then pickle there until I was sure she was asleep?
No no no. It would NOT go that way.
It was with—I felt—almost superhuman speed that I got those sheets into a plastic bag, throwing my pajamas in with them and tossing it all into the back of the closet. I had another set of each out in a few seconds, and struggled to get the fitted sheet on the mattress. New pj’s were thrown on backward. And then I was dressed and the bed was suddenly made, and I was in it.
And I was still alone.
And it was the night before Halloween.
Or rather, three a.m. in the early hours of Halloween.
Now that I was safely back in a clean bed, I puzzled over Alex’s long absence. I wondered if I should check the bathroom. Even though that might be weird since we weren’t friends—since we weren’t supposed to notice things about each other.
I couldn’t go back to sleep. Did Alex disappear like this often? And I usually slept through it?
It was about an hour before I finally heard the door ease open. I shut my eyes. After it closed, I opened one eye just enough to see Alex changing from jeans to sweatpants in the dark. And then she was in her bed.
After a minute or two, I heard her sniffling. A whimper or two accompanied the sniffles, and then there was silence. But it was enough to know Alex was crying.
I wanted to say something to help.
But I was supposed to be asleep.
I vowed to be really nice to her the next day.
And I was. I really was. But she acted the same as she always did. Quiet and studious and self-sufficient. Whatever had taken her out of the room—whatever had upset her—she clearly didn’t want to talk about it. At least not with me.
It was not until months later that I learned of her mother’s diagnosis. It was terrible to think that I could have helped just a little, somehow. But instead, Alex had been all alone.
41
Four Nights Left
Not much longer now. It feels different. It’s almost time.
Time for someone else to know, to carry the burden, to feel this same slippery blood on their hands.
42
Wednesday, February 6
When I woke up, Fleming was still written across my palm in blue ballpoint ink.
And I swiped right to read a new email alert on my phone:
Dear Haley,
I apologize for having to get off the phone so abruptly, and I want to say again how sorry I am to hear about your friend. I am not terribly connected with Windham-Farnswood anymore, am not a very active alumna, so I had not heard until now.
You say you are a fan of my fiction, so I wonder if you have read any of my stories? If you will send me your Windham address, I would like to send you something—my first collection of stories, which was published when I was very young. It is out of print now and I doubt that the Windham Library has a copy, so will have Gwen FedEx it to you.
If you wish, perhaps when you are finished reading it, you could donate the book to the school. In the meantime, I believe you will find the story titled “The Snow Angel” of particular interest.
Call me again sometime if you’d like. I am again sorry I had to go so quickly.
Kind regards,
Lucia
(212) 555-0009
The message had been sent just after one a.m.—again, from her personal email address instead of the one I’d been using to communicate with her assistant. LuciaJ272. Should I feel honored? I wasn’t sure. I really didn’t know what to think of Lucia Jackson.
I knew I’d end up missing breakfast if I tried to compose a meaningful reply or dig up info on Fleming. Besides, I found her sudden warmth confounding. I wasn’t sure if I trusted it.
* * *
In the afternoon I finished my lunch early and went to Taunton Hall, where the guidance offices were, on my way to my next class.
When I got to the main counter, I didn’t bother to ask for my counselor. The front desk secretary was generally nicer and more helpful anyway. When she looked up from her computer, smiling expectantly, I said, “I was wondering if I could get some information about the Fleming scholarship?”
“The what scholarship?”
“The Fleming scholarship.”
She frowned. “I’m not familiar with that.”
“Can you please look it up? Someone told me I would be a good candidate for it.”
I tried not to notice the ease with which the lie came out of my mouth.
The secretary hesitated, fingering a curl behind her ear. “You’re currently on financial aid?”
“Yeah,” I said. “And I’m a senior.”
“I’m
pretty familiar with all of the endowments for students, as well as the scholarships for outgoing students, and that one doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Do you have like a listing of all of the scholarships?”
I knew this secretary was relatively new—the old one had retired when I was a junior.
“Just a moment.” She clicked and typed for a few seconds. “We do, but I’m not seeing anything under that name. Who told you about it?”
“An alumna,” I murmured.
Someone contacted me recently about this one particular scholarship. If I’d make a contribution. That was what Lucia had said.
“Maybe it’s a new scholarship?” I offered.
“Perhaps you can check with her and see if she’s misremembering the name?” The secretary tapped her pen and shrugged. “Did she receive this scholarship herself?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’ll have to check with her. Thanks. I’d actually better get to class.”
“Sorry I couldn’t be more helpful!” the secretary called after me.
* * *
Fleming scholarship
Fleming scholarship Windham Farnswood
Fleming scholarship Lucia Jackson
I was Googling these things on my way out of my last class even though I knew it wouldn’t be helpful. Before I got back to the dorm, I remembered someone else I could ask: my mother’s old friend Michelle—who worked in the main administrative office, and who’d put in a good word for me when I was originally applying. She and my mother had not been best friends growing up together in Heathsburg, but had been neighbors and classmates from kindergarten through high school, and had always been friendly. Their moms had borrowed cups of sugar from each other, bought Girl Scout cookies from each other’s kids, that sort of thing. My admission to Windham-Farnswood had apparently been an extension of that neighborly spirit.
I didn’t see Michelle much—although every December I brought her a little box of chocolates or cookies and a handwritten note. My mother had asked me to do it the first year, and every subsequent year I’d done it on my own.
I asked the front office receptionist for Michelle—who I knew had a cubicle in the farther-back offices.
“Hey, Haley,” Michelle said, emerging about a minute after the receptionist had summoned her. “Everything okay?”
She gestured for me to sit on the plush red couch in the reception area—the one that was usually for visiting prospective students and their fancy parents.
“Yup,” I said, leaning against it rather than sitting. “I just had a quick question for you.”
“How’s your mother?” Michelle sat and pulled her pilling purple cardigan tight over her chest and smiled.
“She’s good.”
“She must be so proud of you. You know where you’re going to college next year?”
“Not yet. Crossing my fingers. I think I want to go to University of Wisconsin.”
Thankfully, she didn’t ask me why I wanted to go there. I felt I had good reasons, but I knew they probably sounded vague to the sensible adult ear.
“I’m sure you’ll find the right situation. So much to look forward to.”
I nodded. “So if you could help me with something—just a quick question. Have you heard of something called the Fleming scholarship?”
“Hmm…no. A Windham scholarship? Or something from an outside institution?”
“I was under the impression it was something directly related to Windham.”
“That doesn’t sound like anything I work with, in terms of the endowments for financial aid students. You might want to check with Guidance if it’s a college scholarship.”
“I’m not sure which it is. I was talking to an alumna, and she made reference to a ‘Fleming scholarship.’ ”
“Are you sure this person wasn’t being sarcastic?”
“Why would that be sarcastic?”
Michelle glanced at the receptionist and made a sheepish face at me.
“Because one of our richest alumnae is Ms. Fleming,” she said quietly. “She’s sort of local. And as valiantly as the alumnae association has tried, they’ve never gotten her to give a penny to the school.”
“Really?” I said.
“Yes. I hadn’t heard her name in years….My understanding is they gave up trying at least a decade ago. It’s kind of funny. The tight-wadded old bird must hate this place. She’s got a couple of charities in her name. But she’s never given anything to Windham.”
“Maybe she figures Windham doesn’t need it?” I pointed out.
There were plenty of rich ladies and gentlemen willing to give donations to their alma mater. Windham-Farnswood wasn’t really suffering.
“Maybe. Anyway, her name is Norma Wozniak Fleming.”
And hearing the name Norma, I remembered why Fleming had sounded familiar to me when Lucia Jackson had first said it. Norma Fleming. Ms. Noceno had mentioned the name. She was the alumna who had bought the ruined picture of Sarah Dearborn, saying she’d have it restored.
“How’d she get so rich?” I asked slowly. “Family money?”
Sarah Dearborn in the black-dress portrait. The Sarah in Black. Not to be confused with Sarah Black—who appeared to the girls wearing white? Quoting the Bible?
“No. She and a business partner had a frozen baked goods company. You probably never heard of Orchard Hill Farms cakes and pies, but they were big in the ’70s and ’80s. They sold the company for millions of dollars. By then I think Norma was married to a CEO of someone in fast food. I think they invested really well, too. And they didn’t have kids.”
“You know a lot about her,” I said.
“Just Windham gossip, you know. My friend Gina in Alumnae Relations used to talk about her all the time—it drove her crazy that they couldn’t make any headway with old Norma Moneybags. But…Norma was more of a hot topic ten or twenty years ago. Now she’s an old lady. I’m waiting for the inevitable news story that she’s died and left her estate to her cats.”
I smiled at this. It made me think of Taylor—of the stray calico cat she’d tried to house in her room the year before last. When she was a junior and I was a sophomore. I hadn’t thought about that in a long time.
“Okay,” I said, pulling on my backpack. “Thanks. Oh! One other thing.”
I remembered something that had been on my mind—since Michelle seemed to know all of the hidden Windham gossip.
“Do you know what happened to Tricia, the old soccer coach, who was the Dearborn RD last year?”
“Yeah. Actually, she got a coaching job here in town, at Heathsburg High. She stuck around because she’s engaged now—to the guy who owns Cosmic Comics.”
“Really?” I said. That comic store was just about a mile farther than the gas station I’d walked to on Saturday. I’d always seen it from the shuttle window when I’d go shopping in Derby. I’d always been curious about it—since I read comics occasionally when I was a kid—but the shuttle didn’t make special stops.
“Yeah. I believe she helps him run the shop now, too. She was there when I went in for stocking stuffers for my son. Seemed happy. No love lost between her and Windham.”
“Huh,” I said. Tricia sounded way cooler than Anna. “Thanks.”
“My pleasure,” Michelle replied. “I ought to get back to work. Say hi to your mom for me.”
On my way back to Dearborn, I wondered what had become of that old cat of Taylor’s. Taylor had never been very clear about where she’d found it or how she was sure it was a stray. She’d named it Dottie and bought it organic cat food and let it sleep in her bed. She got away with it for three weeks because it didn’t meow much, but Dottie went for a stroll once after Taylor didn’t fully latch her door closed when she went for a shower, and the resident director had seen her.
The next day,
she made Taylor take Dottie to the pound. Taylor had cried so bitterly I’d wondered if she was putting on an act, her face so wet and shiny it looked like plastic. Like the dollar-store imitation Barbies my dad used to buy me after long days together raking leaves.
I hadn’t hugged Taylor that afternoon because we weren’t the hugging kind of friends. I’d told her that Dottie was so sweet I was sure she’d end up in a good home. Taylor had kept crying, and didn’t reply. She told me she wanted to be by herself that night, and we never discussed Dottie again.
43
In the late afternoon after classes had finished, I went back to my room and searched Norma Fleming.
A website came up for something called the Fleming Foundation. It appeared to be an organization that gave money to medical research and special camps and activities for children with various medical issues.
I found and clicked on the tab that said Our Founder.
There was a photo of a woman with tight white curls, red lipstick, and a warm smile.
Norma’s philanthropic work began in 1975, when she started the Healing Hearts Foundation. In 1983, she purchased an eight-bedroom home and had it fully remodeled to serve as a rooming house for families of children being treated at St. Catherine’s Hospital. The Robin Hill Family House in Covington, Massachusetts, is funded exclusively by the Healing Hearts Foundation, an arm of the Fleming Foundation, and is run with the assistance of a committed team of volunteers. Norma, who lives intermittently on the home’s property in the Robin Hill Cottage, is still on the volunteer team to this day. Her oatmeal chocolate-chip cookies are a guest favorite.
Below this segment of the bio was a photograph of a large yellow Victorian house with lots of lilies and petunias growing out front and a white swing on the porch. I looked up the town of Covington. It was about twenty-five minutes from Windham-Farnswood. Sort of local, just as Michelle had said.
When All the Girls Are Sleeping Page 24
