I had listened with growing concern as Nora recited the events of the past few weeks, beginning with an injured horse and ending with a fire in the common area of the Lodge. “Luckily, we were all out on a hike and the fire never really took hold, but you can imagine how frightened the kids were when they saw what had happened. Thank goodness the groundskeeper, Richard Huffman, smelled the smoke. Otherwise, the whole place might have burned down before we’ve really even gotten started.”
The Platte Lodge for Children was capable of housing up to a dozen children at a time, all with developmental disabilities. The children were divided into groups depending on gender and age, and were treated to a weeklong wilderness experience, as stated in the brochures.
I had to admit as cheesy as the brochures made it sound, it was a phenomenal program, run by experienced clinicians who had the proper training both in the various therapies involved and in wilderness survival techniques. The program was a dream come true not only for the residents of West Virginia but for residents across the country, and a scant two months into functionality the waiting list for families seeking such services for their children was already several months long.
As the plane taxied to the runway to prepare for takeoff I closed my eyes against a wave of sadness. Billy May would have loved to see the end result of her deathbed wish. I had barely managed to make it to Billy May’s bedside in time, thanks to delayed flights, rental car frustrations, and general traffic difficulties outside of Huntington. Entering the hospice at a sprint, I’d nearly run over a nurse in my haste as I desperately tried to find her.
Following the little nurse’s directions I had run to the room and, pausing in the doorway in an attempt to collect myself, had had a single, panicked moment of fear, thinking that after all that, I hadn’t made it in time. The room was dark, and the tiny figure in the bed hardly resembled the strong mountain woman I had come to consider my mother. Then she had opened her eyes, as black and glittering as always, and I had nearly collapsed from relief. I’d made it.
I spent the last few hours of Billy May’s life stretched out next to her on the hospital bed as she drifted in and out of consciousness. “My mountain,” she had whispered at one point, and I leaned close to hear. “That mountain is a healin’ place. It needs to keep on healin’ folks.” Billy May had inherited Crutcher Mountain decades before, and before rescuing me she had lived for nearly thirty years in isolation in the tiny cabin up on its summit.
I hadn’t understood it all at that time—I was, after all, barely thirteen years old when I first met Billy May—but I did know that as a teenager Billy May had been attacked by a group of thugs down in the town. My stepfather had been one of those thugs, a calling he never outgrew. Following the attack, Billy May had chosen to live a quiet life on the mountain, removed from Cedar Hollow.
After I literally stumbled into her life that frigid winter night, Billy May left her mountain home, knowing instinctively that in order for me to heal from the trauma I had experienced, I needed the support of the village. Every so often over the years Billy May had leased the little cabin on the mountain out to one wealthy family or another, people who wanted to spend their weekends or summers getting back to nature.
Those families never lasted long, life on Crutcher Mountain being wilder than they had anticipated. At the first sighting of a bear or the first screech of a mountain lion, they hightailed it back to the safety of the city, where the muggers and bank robbers were at least a known danger and presumably not as frightening. For the majority of the last few decades, aside from those times Billy May and I returned for a few days at a time, the tiny cabin on top of Crutcher Mountain had sat vacant.
“Talk to the pretty little nurse,” Billy May had instructed me in those final hours. “Starlette. She’s got a youngun’s got somethin’ wrong with her. Got some kind of disability, ain’t got enough help for her. Poor woman is plumb wore out, workin’ all the time and takin’ care of that little one. Said they need...what did she call it? Let me think a minute.” Billy May had taken a moment to catch her breath. I smoothed her hair back and wiped the sweat from her face with a cool cloth, giving her time to rest.
“Respite care,” she said finally, her voice wheezy and thin. “Said they need places for them younguns to go to learn things, fun places that can teach ’em things and give their parents a break.” She paused, wracked by coughing. When the fit subsided, she looked at me and squeezed my hand, her grip startlingly strong. “Let ’em use my mountain, Jessie. That mountain can help ’em. You talk to ’em and let ’em use my mountain.”
To my surprise, it had been easier than I’d imagined. A phone call to the West Virginia Bureau for Behavioral Health and Health Facilities had started the ball rolling. In the end, I had found an established, licensed facility in Huntington that needed room to expand their respite program and that was very interested in adding a wilderness experience to their list of services offered.
A small state grant was able to provide some minimal funding for initial staffing and programmatic issues, and my wealthy acquaintances were able to provide even more. Celebrities, I knew from my years in Hollywood, loved to have their name tied to a charity, particularly a charity aimed at helping vulnerable children. The promise of publicity photos was all it took for wallets to open.
With the funding secured, I was able to provide the place. I had flown out for the ribbon cutting ceremony back in August and the first round of children, including Nurse Starlette’s young daughter, had come for a week-long stay in September. And now, thanks to a series of mysterious and unsettling events, everything appeared to be in jeopardy.
Chapter 3
“Your color is not good.”
I awakened to the husky voice of the woman beside me. Opening my eyes, I was startled to find the woman nearly on top of me, scrutinizing my face, her peppermint scented breath an unwelcome breeze against my cheek. The woman waved a long finger at me, the nail a vivid shade of red. Her turquoise bracelets clanked with the movement. “Your color is very bad.”
Taken aback, self-conscious, I leaned towards the window, moving away from the woman’s uncomfortable examination. “I haven’t had enough sleep,” I found myself explaining, pushing my hair back out of my face, defensive.
The woman interrupted. “Not that color,” she shook her head impatiently, dangling silver earrings brushing against her shoulders. “Your psychic colors. Your aura.”
I sat up, rubbing my eyes, my defensiveness giving way to irritation. “With all due respect,” I began, my mouth dry, stuck to itself, “if you’re looking to do a reading, or whatever it is you call it, I’m really not interested.”
I turned to the window and tried to orient myself as the plane banked and the pilot announced that passengers should prepare for landing. I felt unsettled from the time change and the flight, and the nonsensical rambling of the gypsy woman beside me wasn’t helping matters. Behind me, the woman laughed, a pleasant, melodious sound, incongruent with her husky speaking voice.
“No, Seniorita,” she said. “No readings. There isn’t enough to read.” The woman faced forward, checked her seatbelt and, as directed, raised her seat to the upright position.
Against my better judgment I turned back to the woman, insulted by her comment in spite of myself. I saw that she was really quite pretty, the primary colors of her outfit highlighting the tanned color of her skin. She was smiling at me as she adjusted the bright yellow scarf she had knotted at the back of her neck.
“Okay,” I said, securing the snack tray to the back of the seat in front of me and leaning towards the woman. “I’ll bite. What’s wrong with my colors?”
The woman’s smile broadened, revealing straight, white teeth. She leaned back, folding her hands across her lap as the plane touched down. “Your colors are too dull,” she said, as if that made some sort of sense. “You’ve turned them off.”
When she said nothing more, I sighed, holding the back of the seat in front of me for su
pport as the plane taxied to the gate. “That’s it?” I swayed against her with the movement of the plane. “They’re dull? I was really hoping you could do better than that.”
We rolled to a stop and I felt under the seat for my laptop. Before I could stand, the woman reached out and touched my arm with one long fingered hand. “Seniorita, wait.” This time her expression was solemn. Annoyed, I waited, uncomfortable with the coolness of her fingers against my skin. I didn’t like for people to invade my personal space, but this woman seemed intent on doing it.
“Be careful, little girl,” she said softly, her grip tight on my arm, her dark eyes intense. “Turn your colors back on. The universe is talking to you, and you must listen.” With that, she stood and pushed her way out into the aisle, lost in the throng of people impatiently waiting to exit the plane. For the second time that day, goose bumps prickled my flesh. The woman’s words sounded exactly like Billy May.
I didn’t see the strange woman at baggage claim, nor did I see her as I made my way to the rental car area. By the time I’d signed all the paperwork and headed south on I-64, I’d nearly decided she was nothing more than a crazy woman looking for attention. Nearly. But not quite.
The night was a cold one, crisp and tangy, and I lowered my window slightly and inhaled the fresh scent of the mountains, clearing my head of the long flight and the lack of sleep. It was almost midnight. The mountains were dark shadows all around me; for a fleeting moment I felt claustrophobic, as if I might suffocate under their weight.
Beside me on the seat of the rented Subaru Outback my cell phone buzzed. I glanced down to see that it was Michael. He’d left a couple of messages since that morning but I hadn’t had the opportunity to return them. Along with half a dozen work related calls from my assistant, John Johnson had also left a message, still annoyed with me for not allowing him to drive me to the airport. His mother, Corinne, had called too, asking me to stop in as soon as I got to Cedar Hollow.
I’d call Michael when I got settled into a hotel. I hadn’t even told him I was leaving, and I supposed I owed him that. Corinne could wait until morning; it was much too late to call her tonight. Work could also wait; I trusted my assistant to handle anything that came up during the short time I’d be gone. As for John....I found myself smiling affectionately. I’d call John tomorrow after he’d had sufficient time to get over his tizzy.
I signaled my intention to take the exit ramp leading to a Hampton Inn and yawned loudly, exhausted from the long day. I’d have to complete the trip to Cedar Hollow, and Crutcher Mountain, in the morning. It was too late to disturb the elderly owner of the only boarding home in Cedar Hollow, and it would be foolhardy to try to make the drive up Crutcher Mountain in the dark, in spite of the narrow, winding road that had been paved several months ago. I pulled into the nearly vacant lot of the Hampton Inn with relief.
Twenty minutes later, showered and hungrily munching on a pack of stale crackers from the vending machine down the hall, I climbed wearily onto the king sized bed and reached for my cell. I didn’t want to call Michael; I wanted to crawl into bed and put the day behind me, but while I’m a guarded person, I’m not a cruel one, so I scrolled to his number.
I’d barely pressed the send button when Michael’s voice sounded in my ear. “Where in the world are you? I’ve been trying to reach you all day.”
I popped the tab on a can of diet soda and washed a mouthful of crackers down before answering. “I’m in West Virginia.”
“West Virginia! Has something happened?” Knowing that I had been raised in West Virginia, Michael’s tone changed abruptly from irritation to concern.
“Possibly,” I responded, “but I’m not sure. I’ll need to be here for at least a week.” I paused, unsure where to begin. “I’m affiliated with a children’s facility here, a respite program that provides a wilderness experience for children with disabilities.”
I was much too tired to explain all of that to Michael at such a late hour. “It’s a long story. Anyway, the clinical director called this morning to tell me about some strange things happening at the Lodge. We’ve only been operating for a couple of months, and it’s important that we get this all sorted out as quickly as possible.”
Michael didn’t speak right away and I could picture him weighing the information, pacing through his condo, measuring his words before answering. “I had no idea you were involved with a children’s facility,” he said finally. “Some days, I feel as if I don’t know you at all.” Silence again, and then, “Is it something I can help with? I could fly out tomorrow.”
Sitting up on the bed in the hotel, I found myself frantically shaking my head. “No. There’s nothing you can do. I’ll call you later in the week. Good night, Michael.”
I ended the call and leaned my head back against the pillow. Michael was right; he knew very little about my past, only the basics, such as where I’d grown up and that I had no living relatives, at least none that I knew. Explaining my past was something I had no desire to do.
The only person I’d ever attempted to share my life story with had left me for another woman years ago. In the early days of our relationship, when everything had seemed possible, my ex-husband, Charles McIntosh, had assured me that whatever demons I faced we could face together. He’d been wrong.
In the end, when he’d finally realized the battles never ended, he’d left me to fight the demons on my own. Inanna he’d called me the night he left, after the Sumerian goddess of war and discord, a goddess known for her ambiguous paradoxes. I didn’t blame him for his description of me. Nor did I blame him for leaving; the battles were indeed exhausting. What he hadn’t understood—couldn’t understand—was that the external battles were insignificant. It was the internal ones that caused all the damage.
Chapter 4: Robby
Hi my name is Robert Justice O’Brien and I am ten years old and people say I am retarded. The counselors here get very mad at me when I say that word. They say I have a developmental disability called Down Syndrome. They say, “ROBERT! You have a developmental disability caused by chromosomes. Do not say that you are retarded.” It makes me laugh when they say my name that way. People only call me ROBERT when they say it loud. The rest of the time I am just plain old Robby. Ha!
The only one who never got mad at me when I said that word was Grandpa. He didn’t call me ROBERT. He called me Now Robby. “Now, Robby,” he would say, “you know that is not a nice thing to call yourself. Why are you trying to get everybody all riled up?” And he would wink at me and then we would laugh at everybody getting all riled up.
I tell them it isn’t me that says it. It’s everybody else. Maybe the counselors should tell everybody else not to say it. “Other people don’t know any better,” the counselors say. “We have to teach them better.” But when I try to teach them better they don’t listen.
I have Down Syndrome but I am High Functioning. That is what the counselors and teachers say at Staffing. Staffing is when they all get together to talk about me. Sometimes people think I am Low Functioning because I don’t talk right but I am not. Dr. Jiang says I have a narrow pal...pal...palatal vault. I do not know what that means except that it means sometimes people don’t understand my words but maybe they are just Low Functioning. My words are not hard.
Tiffany from down the street is the first one who told me I am retarded. She told me that all the way until she graduated high school. She was my babysitter sometimes when my mom had to work before we moved in with Grandpa. She was very pretty and very mean. Nowadays when she comes home from college to visit her family she is not mean. I don’t know why not. She is still pretty though. Nowadays she is very pretty and very nice. My mom says thank The Good Lord the little slut finally grew up. I do not know what a little slut is but I think it is a good thing. Nowadays Tiffany is a nice pretty grown up little slut.
Mrs. Jamison from church said that my mom was a crackhead when she was pregnant with me and that is why I am retarded. She said, “Robby, h
oney, it isn’t your fault you’re retarded. You can’t help what your momma is.” The counselors here say that Mrs. Jamison is very wrong. They sigh and sound mad when they say it. They say my mom didn’t have anything to do with it. They look at each other and say, “For Pete’s sake, can you believe this?”
I don’t know who Pete is but I know that Mrs. Jamison is right because she is a Christian. That means that she tells other people what is wrong with them and then she prays for them to get better. She has The Lord’s Ear. That scared me until she told me it just means he is listening to her. I would not want somebody’s ear even if it belonged to The Lord.
At first when she said that about my mom I was mad because my mom does not have a cracked head but Mrs. Jamison said crackhead means my mom did a lot of drugs when she was pregnant with me. She said it like it was a bad thing. She had her face all wrinkled up and she used that voice like my mom uses when I don’t wash myself good enough.
Mrs. Jamison prays a lot for herself too because she has arthritis and she is asking The Good Lord to fix it for her. She takes a lot of drugs for her arthritis so I guess she is a crackhead too. She is a Christian crackhead. I guess if you are a Christian crackhead with The Lord’s Ear instead of a pregnant crackhead that is okay. Whatever.
I don’t mind having Down Syndrome. I get to do a lot of special things like coming to this place. They call it the Lodge. This place is very cool. It is the only time I have had fun since Grandpa died. That was a very sad time. It is still a sad time so I will not talk about it.
I get to stay at the Lodge all week. We get to be with horses and we get to go hiking and be in the Wilderness. The people here love the Wilderness. In the mornings we have Group with Dr. Wright to talk about Important Things like Friendship and Trust and Bullying. The people here love Group even more than they love the Wilderness.
Return to Crutcher Mountain (Cedar Hollow Series Book 2) Page 2