Part 16 (2/2)

Please call or come as soon as you can. Love, Annie .

I addressed the letter to Luke Toby Casteel, Dormitories, Harvard College, and wrote ”Special Delivery” on the bottom of the envelope. When Millie returned, I called her to the side of my bed to give her special instructions, ”Take this to Mr. Tatterton, please, and ask him if he would put the rest of the Harvard address on here for me and send this right out in the morning.”

”Right away, Annie,” she said.

I watched her go, and thought Luke would surely respond immediately when he received that. Confident that he would be with me in a day or so, I lowered my head to the pillow and closed my eyes. I opened them slightly when I, heard Mrs. Broadfield come in. She took my blood pressure and checked my pulse, fixed my blanket and then put out the light.

With the sun down and the sky overcast again, darkness fell around me like a heavy curtain. It was my second night at Farthy, but unlike the first, I had something to listen for: Rye Whiskey's spirits. Maybe I dreamt it because he had been so dramatic when he spoke, but sometime during the middle of the night, I thought I heard the soft tinkle of a piano playing a Chopin waltz.

Was it only my desperate need to remember, to envision my mother's soft smile as she gazed at me while she brushed my hair? Or was Rye Whiskey right? Was there a spirit that wandered through the house searching and searching?

Maybe he was searching for me. Maybe I had always been expected.

THIRTEEN.

Mystery Man.

Mrs. Broadfield yanked open the curtains so abruptly the morning light burst upon me like a bomb blast. She looked as though she had been up for hours, but I thought she always looked that way.

”You should want to get up early, Annie,” she said without really looking at me. She talked as she moved about the room setting things up--unfolding my wheelchair, getting a robe from the closet, finding my slippers. ”It takes you longer to do everything now, and you will need the extra time.

”After a while you will be able to get yourself up and out of that bed and into the wheelchair to do your bathroom business and have your breakfast, but you're going to have to build up to it, just like an athlete builds up to a task. Understand?” she asked, finally pausing to look at me.

I pulled myself up and sat back against my pillow and nodded.

”All right, then, let's get you out of bed, washed, and into a clean nightgown.”

Still groggy from what had turned out to be a very deep night's sleep, I simply nodded. Quietly, almost as if the two of us were performing a mime show, she a.s.sisted me out of the bed and into the chair. She wheeled me into the bathroom and took off my nightgown. I washed my own face and she brought in the new nightgown. Then she brought me back into the room and left me by the window.

”I'll get your breakfast now,” she said, starting out.

”Why isn't Millie bringing it up?” I was anxious to find out if she had given my letter to Tony to mail. Mrs. Broadfield paused at the doorway and turned back.

”Millie was discharged last night,” she said, and left before I could respond.

Discharged? But why? I had liked her and even thought she would be good company. She was so pleasant and kind. What could she have done to get herself fired so soon? The moment Tony looked in on me, I demanded to know.

”Tony, Mrs. Broadfield just told me you fired Millie. Why?”

He shook his head and pressed his lower lip up and under his upper.

”Incompetent. Made a mess of things from the day she arrived. I was hoping she would improve, but she just seemed to get worse and worse. Jillian wouldn't have countenanced her more than a day. You should have seen the fine help we used to have here, their professionalism, their--”

”But Tony, she was so nice,” I said.

”Oh, she was nice enough, but nice isn't enough. I found out that her references weren't accurate, anyway. She couldn't get a position for some time and worked as a waitress, not as a maid. But don't fret, one of my people is already looking for someone new.”

Mrs. Broadfield arrived with my tray and set it down.

”Well, I'm off,” Tony said. ”I'll let you have breakfast.”

”Tony, wait! I gave her a letter to give to you last night to mail to Luke.”

He smiled quizzically.

”Letter? She gave me no letter.”

”But Tony--”

”I called her in around seven-thirty and gave her two weeks' severance pay, but she mentioned no letter.”

”I don't understand.”

”Why not? It's just as I said: she was incompetent. She probably had it in her ap.r.o.n and forgot it. Honestly, I don't know what it is with young people today; they seem so distracted all the time. No wonder it's so hard to get decent help.”

”It was a letter to Luke!” I cried.

”Your eggs are getting cold,” Mrs. Broadfield pointed out.

”I'm sorry,” Tony replied. ”Write another letter today, and I'll see to it myself this time, okay? I'll return this afternoon to take you on a short tour of this floor. That is, if Mrs. Broadfield approves,” he added, looking her way. She didn't reply.

He left before I could say another word on the subject of my letter, and when I looked at Mrs. Broadfield, she wore her mask of annoyance.

”We have to get to your morning therapy, Annie, and then you have to rest or I can't see you taking any tour. Now, please eat your breakfast.”

”I'm not hungry.”

”You've got to eat to gain strength. Your therapy is just like a workout would be for an athlete, and just as he or she wouldn't be able to do well without food energy, neither will you. Only,” she said, raising her shoulders and straightening her posture to emphasize her point, ”instead of simply losing a tennis match or a football game, you will remain an invalid.”

I lifted my fork and began to eat. Thank G.o.d for Rye Whiskey, I thought as I chewed and swallowed. He had a way of making the simplest foods extra tasty.

My morning therapy session began just like the one I had the day before, but there was something different this time. I was positive I felt Mrs. Broadfield's fingers on my thighs. There was a stinging sensation, like pins being poked through my skin, and I screamed.

”What?” she demanded, looking up impatiently. ”I felt something . . . it stung.”

”That's just your imagination,” she said, and started again. Again I felt the sting.

”I do feel something . . I do!” I protested. She paused and stood up.

”It's what we call hysterical pain. You're in a worse mental state than I thought. Even this is happening to you now.”

”But the doctor said--”

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