Bridge to Forever Page 13

  “Maybe we should . . .” Mrs. Palmer’s expression turned from amazement to eagerness. She appeared about to call Jennie Anne to the desk, but remembering how the girl had reacted to the teacher, Mickelle put a restraining hand on her arm.

  “Please, can it wait? I wanted to ask you about something else first.”

  Mrs. Palmer turned back to Mickelle, raising her thin eyebrows in question.

  “It’s just that . . . the bruise on her cheek . . .” Mickelle suddenly felt tongue-tied. “And then when you touched her shoulder yesterday and again today, she sort of . . . well, cringed . . . as though . . .” Mickelle took a deep breath. “She seemed afraid . . . or in pain.”

  Mrs. Palmer’s gaze changed from confusion to horror. Her eyes flew to the two dark heads and one blond that bent close together over the paper on Belle’s desk. “Do you think she has a—a bruise there, too?” The way she said the words made Mickelle silently repent for having suspected her of any undue harshness.

  “I knew her home life wasn’t good,” Mrs. Palmer went on, “but I believed her about getting hit by the ball. I never dreamed that . . .” Her wide eyes turned to Mickelle. “I’ve never had to deal with something like this, never. What do I do?”

  Mickelle wasn’t sure either. She let her eyes stray to Jennie Anne, whose face wore a small smile. The brown eyes, which had once appeared ordinary, now shone with intelligence.

  “When she looks like that you can see how smart she is, but she can turn it off just like that.” Mrs. Palmer snapped her fingers.

  “What’s her aunt like?”

  The teacher gave a half-shrug with one shoulder. “Her great-aunt, really. She seemed rather ordinary.”

  She was silent, but Mickelle waited for more.

  “Apparently Jennie Anne’s mother died some years back and Mrs. Chase inherited Jennie Anne. From the way she spoke, I don’t think there was any love lost between Mrs. Chase and Jennie Anne’s mother.”

  “So why didn’t Jennie Anne attend kindergarten?”

  “I don’t know.” She leaned forward as though to share a confidence. “It was the neighbors who brought the situation to the attention of the school officials, but the aunt didn’t seem to mind if Jennie Anne came to school just as long as—”

  “As she didn’t have to deal with the arrangements.”

  Mrs. Palmer grimaced. “Something like that. I felt sorry for Jennie Anne, and when the kindergarten teachers protested the possibility of an extra student, I volunteered. But if her aunt is . . . I’m going to have to talk with the principal.”

  “Well, we don’t know anything—yet,” Mickelle said. “But to look at Jennie Anne, well, something’s not right.”

  “It will take weeks to find the truth. I’ve heard some awful stories from some of the other teachers. You’d think that here in Happy Valley we wouldn’t have the problems of the outside world, but we do. And they are increasing.”

  Mickelle knew that only too well. The mental abuse she’d suffered behind closed doors was an ever-present reminder that all was not well in Happy Valley. At least not for everyone. For Mickelle, the idea that a small, helpless little girl could be enduring both mental and physical abuse—practically in Mickelle’s own backyard—was unthinkable. Someone had to stand up for her. Someone.

  I will! Mickelle was surprised at the vehemence of the thought.

  She took a deep breath to steady the flow of images coming from her brain. “I’ll go over to her house and meet this aunt. I would also like to work with Jennie Anne. I could come in during the day. I’ll be starting school myself, but not until January, and until then I can come in for a while to work with her.”

  “That would be wonderful!” Mrs. Palmer’s pale eyes sparkled with gratitude. “You don’t know what this will mean to her.”

  She was wrong. Mickelle did know. Someone had thrown a lifeline to her in her time of need, and that someone had been Damon. “I’d better get going.”

  “Thank you for coming in.”

  They walked over to the children, who were still intent upon their paper. Jennie Anne had the pencil and was copying the word CAT. “Good!” encouraged Belle. “Now write hat!” She sounded it out, exaggerating the sounds of the letters, “Hhhh-aaaa-tttt.”

  Jennie Anne painfully printed the word.

  Jeremy did a drum roll on the desk. “Now you can do rat, fat, sat, and, uh, mat, and . . .”

  “And pat,” Belle inserted.

  “Bat!” Jennie Anne’s face was transformed as she bent over her work.

  Jeremy studied the ABC cards surrounding the wall. “That’s all, I think. No, there’s vat. Vat’s a word, isn’t it, Mom?”

  Jennie Anne’s hand immediately went still. Mrs. Palmer reached out to her shoulder, but hesitated and withdrew her hand at the last moment. “Go ahead, Jennie Anne,” she urged gently. “That’s wonderful you’ve learned all the sounds.”

  For a moment, the girl paused, as though torn. Then she slowly and methodically set her pencil on the desk and folded her hands in her lap. She stared at her hands wordlessly. No one spoke for a long time, not even talkative Belle, though Jeremy’s mouth hung open in confused amazement.

  Mickelle saw that Mrs. Palmer had a sheen of tears in her eyes. “Maybe tomorrow we can work on it some more.” Her gaze went to Mickelle in a silent plea.

  “Yeah, we have to go now,” Mickelle said, thinking fast. “I only have sixty times three minutes before I have to go to my meeting at the church.”

  “Sixty times three minutes,” repeated Jeremy. He was accustomed to her games, though she hadn’t used them much lately. “Let’s see that’s, uh . . .” He grabbed Jennie Anne’s discarded pencil. “Three times zero is zero. . .”

  “One hundred and eighty minutes.” Jennie Anne said, as though the words were ripped from her mouth of their own accord.

  “Uh . . . three times six is eighteen, add them together.” Jeremy paused. “Yes, it’s a hundred and eighty minutes!”

  “Jennie Anne already told us,” Belle answered in disgust. “She doesn’t need any paper, either.”

  Jeremy looked wounded. “Fine,” he huffed.

  Mickelle laughed. “Good job guys, both of you. But come on, we really have to go.”

  Mrs. Palmer watched them thoughtfully as they walked out the door. Mickelle felt triumphant that she had succeeded in getting Jennie Anne to show her ability, but she hoped Mrs. Palmer could also reach the child. After all, she was the one who had fought for Jennie Anne’s education in the first place. So why had Jennie Anne stopped writing in front of the teacher? Did the adults make her nervous? Scared?

  Mickelle drove to Jennie Anne’s place listening to Jeremy and Belle exchange stories of their day. Jennie Anne kept silent. When they arrived at her home, the overwhelming neglect of the place once again demanded Mickelle’s scrutiny. It was more than neglect. Perhaps even abuse.

  Abuse.

  “Can I come in to meet your aunt?” Mickelle asked as Jennie Anne slipped from the car, nearly losing her balance under the weight of her yellow backpack.

  Jennie Anne darted a fearful glance past the willow tree at the shabby house, but when she looked back, she only shrugged.

  “She’s probably not there,” said Belle helpfully. “She usually isn’t.”

  “There’s a car.” Mickelle eyed the rusty automobile next to the house.

  She shut off the engine and slid out of the car. She went around to where Jennie Anne waited, staring at her feet, clad in tattered sneakers that would be no protection against the coming snow. “Is it true your aunt isn’t home much, Jennie Anne?” Mickelle asked, not because she disbelieved Belle’s story, but because her young charge often exaggerated.

  Jennie Anne didn’t reply.

  “You can tell Mickelle,” Belle said through the open car door. “You can tell her everything like I do. She doesn’t tell on you.”

  Jennie Anne sighed, the weight of the world on her shoulders. When she spoke, the words cam
e reluctantly. “She’s home sometimes.”

  “Was she home yesterday when I dropped you off?”

  “No.”

  “What time did she come?”

  Jennie Anne shrugged.

  Mickelle had always prided herself on getting to the truth when dealing with her boys, but this was proving difficult. “Was it dinnertime?”

  Again a negative shake.

  “At bedtime?”

  Another shake.

  A feeling of unease grew in the pit of Mickelle’s stomach. “Jennie Anne,” she asked softly, “did you see your aunt last night at all?”

  “No.” The forlorn word broke Mickelle’s heart.

  “Was anyone home at all besides you?”

  Jennie Anne shook her head.

  The idea of a six-year-old coming home alone, finding something to eat, and getting herself to bed was beyond belief, and yet Mickelle felt the child hadn’t lied, though she had been tempted to do so. Now Mickelle shared Jennie Anne’s burden. She had to do something to help her, but she had to make sure she didn’t betray the child’s trust or make the situation worse.

  Somehow she didn’t think the responsibility would be easy.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Come on.” Mickelle reached for Jennie Anne’s hand. The child began to pull away, but then relaxed and left her hand in Mickelle’s.

  “I’m coming, too!” Belle shouted.

  Jeremy followed her out of the car. “Me, too!”

  Mickelle wanted to order them back into the car but didn’t want to blow the circumstances out of proportion. Surely if Jennie Anne’s aunt was there she would at least be civil to them.

  They walked up the remains of a concrete sidewalk, barely discernable under the layers of fallen leaves and overgrown grass and weeds. Mickelle stumbled once on a broken chunk of cement but regained her balance in time to prevent a fall. Now that she was closer, she decided that the nondescript paint had probably been yellow at one time. The single window in front was dirty, as though covered by a hundred years’ worth of dust. One side of the curtains was open, but Mickelle couldn’t begin to see through the glass pane. There was no porch, just a single cement step that led up to the house. With growing unease, Mickelle followed Jennie Anne up the step.

  Jennie Anne opened the door with a turn of the knob and a swift nudge with her hip. Mickelle stood squinting inside the door, blinking in the dim light. The carpet—or what there was left of it—was green shag. The pathway from the door was worn bare, and the curtain, the one Mickelle had thought was open, was missing. These things in themselves weren’t bad signs, because Mickelle had never believed that poverty was a sin, but the clutter and neglect of the front room were inexcusable. Stacked boxes, towers of magazines, piles of clothes, and miscellaneous mounds of junk filled every corner. Only a path leading to the battered couch was free of everything but several scraps of paper. The couch itself was relatively clear, holding a muddle of thin blankets and a meager stack of folded child’s clothes near the end.

  “We’ll wait here,” Mickelle said to Jennie Anne. “Why don’t you see if your aunt is home?”

  Jennie Anne followed the narrow path through the tall stacks of boxes and clothes that led to the couch. She slung her heavy backpack down and then, slipping through the boxes, disappeared through a doorway into what Mickelle assumed was the kitchen. It was hard to tell with all the stuff jammed on top of every available space. Mickelle glanced into an open box near her and was startled to see rusty pans, a single dirty sock, and a scattering of dried mouse droppings.

  “Mom,” Jeremy whispered loudly. “How come it’s so messy!”

  She put her hand on his shoulder. “Shhh.” The last thing they needed was to alienate Jennie Anne’s aunt.

  Besides, having a house stacked full with boxes and . . . stuff did not mean abuse. During her one year of college Mickelle had become close friends with a woman whose mother had filled her entire house in the same manner, leaving only a narrow path weaving through the house. Every surface, be it countertop, piano, or floor, had been piled at least waist—and often shoulder—high. Yet the family had been clean, talented, and loving, and Mickelle had enjoyed knowing them. So for now she would hold off judgment . . . despite the mouse droppings.

  She took a tentative sniff. There was a dusty taint to the air, but no foul odors. Perhaps this cluttered disorder was simply brought on by a move to a smaller house. There could be many reasons.

  Yet Mrs. Palmer had said that the children at school had complained of Jennie Anne’s smell, and she herself had noticed that the child’s hair was unwashed. Yet what about the new clothes she was wearing today? Obviously someone cared about her enough to buy them for her.

  Jennie Anne came out of the kitchen and disappeared into another room, whose entrance was nearly obscured by the odd collection. She emerged within another minute. “She’s getting out of bed,” she muttered. “She’ll come in a minute.” Her face was frightened and her voice low. She opened her mouth, as though wanting to say something, but shut it again. Her eyes became dull and shuttered.

  “Is this where you sleep?” Belle asked, going down the short path to the couch. “I didn’t imagine your house was like this, even though you told me. There are great places to play hide-and-seek!”

  “I’m not allowed to play in this stuff.”

  “But you get to sleep on the couch.” Belle bounced on it a little. “Where’s your pillow?”

  Jennie Anne shrugged. “I don’t like pillows.” She froze abruptly and Mickelle turned to see a woman come from the other room.

  The aunt was much older than Mickelle had expected, more near her own mother’s age. She was short and rotund with a haggard face that drooped like a hound’s. Her hair was blond—dyed blond, thought Mickelle—and with finger-sized curls that curved under towards her scalp. She had blue eyes that appeared small in her drooping face, and a stubborn square jaw. Her flower-patterned dressing gown was old, but no older than something Mickelle might wear around the house. Except for the haggardness in her face, she was average-looking, someone Mickelle wouldn’t give a second glance to at Wal-Mart.

  “Hello,” Mickelle said, forcing a smile she did not feel. Her heart began pounding and she prayed she wouldn’t have a panic attack. But Damon wasn’t here, was he? So she should be safe.

  She thrust the ironic thought to a deep part of her mind.

  “Can I help you?” The aunt’s eyes were wary as they contemplated Mickelle.

  “Yes, uh, my name is Mickelle Hansen. Our girls are friends at school, and I—” She broke off. She had been going to say that she had given Jennie Anne a ride several times, but didn’t want to get the child in trouble. “I thought it might be nice to meet you. The girls get along really well.”

  The other woman relaxed slightly. “That’s good. Jennie Anne don’t get along with too many kids.”

  “Well, maybe—” Again Mickelle had to stop herself. She had been going to point out that perhaps Jennie Anne had lacked an opportunity to know many children since she had never attended school before. “I think they’ll be good friends,” she said instead. With a brief pause, she continued, “So you’re Jennie Anne’s aunt.”

  “Yeah. Well, sort of.” The woman looked around. “I’d offer you a place to sit, but you can see . . .”

  “I don’t mind standing.” Mickelle glanced over the piles at Jeremy and at Belle, who sat on the couch with Jennie Anne, hoping they wouldn’t say anything rude. “So what’s your name?”

  “Nedda Chase. Jennie Anne’s mother was my niece. She and my boy grew up together, but she died a couple of years back, and there was nobody but me to take Jennie Anne. I always told my sister that Donna May would get into trouble. No siree, my sister shouldn’ta had a child so old. That girl did anything she pleased, and in the end, it killed her.”

  Mickelle opened her mouth to ask what had happened, but Jennie Anne’s aunt continued with barely a pause. “It’s a hard thing, raising some
one else’s child. I couldn’t do it at first, and she had to stay with some other people. But they help me out now—the state—so I can keep her with me.”

  “But Jennie Anne’s mo—”

  “My Troy’s an ungrateful boy,” Nedda went on. “But at least he’s smart. Not like Jennie Anne’s mother. She was an actress, you know. Thought she was real hot stuff at one time, but she never really made it. Had to work nights as a waitress. Worked herself to death, I guess. Got sick and died.”

  Mickelle saw that Jennie Anne was no longer watching them, but staring at her hands clutched tightly in her lap. Mickelle’s heart ached for her. She wanted more than anything to give the child more than this squalor and neglect around her. There certainly seemed to be no love in this old woman’s heart.

  “I wanted to know if it would be okay for our girls to play together.” The words slipped out before she could remind herself that Belle was not technically “her girl.”

  The eyes narrowed and the wariness reemerged in Nedda’s drooping face. “I’m really busy.”

  “They can play at my place. I can help them with their homework and then they can play. Belle has no one but boys around the house, and it would be good for her to play with Jennie Anne.”

  Nedda frowned and her eyes grew hard as stone. “Jennie Anne has work to do here. We stuff envelopes and put on labels for a company. She has her share to get done.”

  Mickelle blinked, stunned for a moment at the idea of Jennie Anne sitting for hours at a table stuffing envelopes, hours that she should have been in school. Was this why Nedda had to be forced into putting the child in school? Because someone found out?

  “Well, I, uh . . .” Mickelle floundered. How could she come up with a way to give Jennie Anne a little desperately needed care? The child had trusted in Mickelle and yet she could find nothing to save her. There was no backing down; she had to try again. “It doesn’t have to be every day. The girls could do homework together. Jennie Anne’s great at math. You should see her. They work well together . . .”