"From what I saw of Kimmy, she is a wonderful girl," Doro said honestly, between mouthfuls of egg salad, brown bread and fresh lettuce.
"Oh, yes, that's true. She just seems to want to grow up so fast. I think it's because all her brothers and sisters are gone from home now, so she feels like she wants to fly away too. Hard not to want to escape a dying town like this one. However, if the number of people coming from the city to retire here keeps up..."
Doro congratulated herself on her insight about the town's residents.
"Maybe it will recreate itself into a trendy little village again. Anyway, you didn't come for that kind of history lesson." She put her feet on the floor and picked up a small note pad.
"Before we go to my den of history, give me some info to go on, no matter how small. Then I'll know which files to access. When you see my den, you'll know what I mean. It's stuffed full of clippings and pictures and all kinds of memorabilia. Not to mention what's on my computer."
"The village has no town hall anymore and all records have been sent to the city, so I've kind of taken over the task of amassing the local history. I started with my family and it certainly helped one year when we had a huge family reunion. It turned out that my ancestors have all kinds of ties in this area, not just in the village, but all over the valley. Once I have enough information on the history of the village, I think I'll apply for some grants and see if I can't open a little museum."
She smiled, her soft blue eyes alert and enthusiastic. Her light gray hair curled around her face, making her look much younger than she must be. "So, fire away."
Her manner was inviting, completely disarming. Immediately at ease, Doro began to speak. When she was finished, she had told Cynthia Denis more than she'd ever told anyone. She related the story of discovering the picture and its detailed directions to the farmhouse on the reverse. Of the handwritten birth record of an unnamed child from this very town whose birth date was her own. She described her dreams, those deep memories that she had never before released into the vibrations of the air.
The woman looked up once in a while, face neutral, showing no reaction to what was said, instead scribbling furiously on the writing pad, asking a question of clarity here and there. Though Doro had a vague feeling that Cynthia was taken aback by some of her confessions, the historian masterfully led her visitor from one piece of information to another without judgment.
Doro finally ran out of steam and Cynthia out of questions. The older woman came and sat beside her visitor, taking Doro's hand in her soft plump one. She looked at Doro candidly, studying her face as though searching for answers to questions that could not be posed out loud.
"I think I can find a lot of information for you," she said kindly. "But I have to ask. Are you ready for whatever you discover? Are you sure you want to know where you came from?"
To her dismay, tears slid down Doro's face.
"I have to know," she said, her words definite even as her voice trembled slightly. She placed her hands on her womb. "For the baby, I need to know what happened. I have to banish the nightmares."
"And what if the information just stirs up more?"
Doro shook her head. "It can't get worse. I've lived with this my whole life. And since I've become pregnant, the fear is constantly with me. I am anxious because I know so little about where I've been. I don't want to be nervous during this pregnancy and I don't want the distorted memories hanging over me as I try to be a good parent. I've thought about this a great deal. Sometimes things that are hiding in the shadows are worse than those you can see in the sunlight. I can deal with monsters as long as I can face them clearly."
She wiped her eyes on a napkin and straightened her shoulders. "I know myself pretty well, Cynthia. I'm certain that I can handle the news. What I can't handle is not knowing, or seeing it through a little girl's eyes only. I need to get it out in the light, confront it and if need be, destroy it."
Satisfied, Cynthia Denis stood up. "Doro, I think you're doing the right thing, but I had to ask. Let's go. I'll show you everything I've got and we can try to put the pieces of the puzzle together after we lay it all out on the table. Maybe we'll even do some destroying together."
Cynthia had described her 'den of history' well. A fairly small room, just to the right of the staircase, boasted windows on all three walls. The sunshine, which continued to be fierce and hot even as the afternoon edged on, made the room overly warm.
Cynthia ambled over to the window on the far side and slid it open. A refreshing breeze reached them, waking Doro thoroughly.
Bookshelves lined the far wall under the window. A desk and computer stood in the middle of the room. A microfiche viewer, a desktop copier, a fax and a telephone all sat on smaller tables under the second window, along with more bookshelves filled with history and reference books.
All over the windowless wall to the left of the doorway were bulletin boards stuffed with pieces of paper speared with brightly coloured thumbtacks. Hundreds of pictures and newspaper clippings were stacked everywhere. Three huge filing cabinets took up the rest of the space. On the floor, a myriad of files could be glimpsed in neatly labelled boxes.
Suddenly, faced with all of this information, Doro was apprehensive, just a little afraid of what it might reveal. What she said to Cynthia was truthful. She did want to face her past, but now that it had happened, so easily and so rapidly, she was nervous and sweating.
"I'll pull out some of the files that you will find informative," Cynthia said, "and then I'll go through it with you. I do know some of the history up here." She tapped her head. "So I'll share all of that too. Plus of course, there's all the stuff I've gotten from the Internet."
Despite the amount of material in the room, it didn't take the amateur historian long. Moving quickly around the boxes and cabinets, her large body flowed in the bright yellow shirt and khaki pants. She was focused and efficient, but her cheerful nature kept erupting in murmurs of satisfaction when she discovered something relevant.
"Yes! That's it! I knew this was here. Oh, and you're going to need to see this," and so on.
By the time she was finished, there was an enormous pile of file folders and envelopes towering on the desk. Cynthia pulled up two chairs and patted the other seat for her visitor.
Doro perched more than sat, uncharacteristically quiet, knowing that this was the moment she had been anticipating yet dreading at the same time.
Each of the newspaper articles had been carefully preserved with laminating material or sleeves of plastic. Beginning with the first clipping, her past started to open up before her.
When Doro looked carefully at the photograph of the house shown in the article from a front-page spread, she felt nothing. Contrary to its lofty 'manse' moniker, the farmhouse was rather mundane. A clump of trees encircling it like a curtain, the house was all peak roofs and slats of a yellowish wood. The stone foundation was laid haphazardly in amateur fashion, as though the builder didn't plan for it to last. Attached to the back of the house was a large shed made of the same pale-yellow planks.
The dilapidated barn in the distance looked unused, its grey boards withering in the sun, its windows and doors boarded up and sagging. In all directions, farmland loomed beyond the house, sporting cultivated rows of wheat or corn. Here and there, large plots were abandoned to weeds.
The house did not pull her into the nightmare. She realized that it was the inside of the farmhouse that had dominated her memories all these years. In her mind, it was the walls and doors and closets of the old building that flashed through like film on fast forward.
Chapter 17: Emily
Continuing my daily 'walk-about,' I proceeded down the hall toward the grade two class. Michelle Henderson, one of our newest teachers, was crouched over a table assisting some little ones with their painting. As I came in, she looked up and smiled.
"Look everyone! Mrs. Taylor has come to help us paint." She grinned mischievously at me and I gave her a wry smile in return
.
Next thing I knew, I was seated at a big round table surrounded by paint, coloured water and eager artists showing off their sticky talent.
I sat down next to Vanessa, whose brown curls framed a classically lovely face, but whose beauty would probably not be appreciated until she was an adult. Initially shy about having the principal sit next to her, she began to warm up as she described her artistry.
"It's a bit complicated, Mrs. Taylor," she informed me in her grown-up voice. I did my best to keep from smiling. "First, I used yellow, then I mixed in some pink—that's my favourite color—then this is the sky and this is my house and this stands for all the flowers that grow in the summer…"
Later, I excused myself and sat near James, expecting the same lesson in color and symbolism. I looked down at a mix of purple, white and light blue.
"James, tell me about your picture. What does it mean?"
He looked up at me with huge brown eyes.
"I have no idea, Mrs. Taylor. I'm just a kid," he answered solemnly.
Later, when I mulled over my conversation with Gillian regarding Mrs. Sanderson, I decided it might be wise to speak with Dorothy on my own. I arranged to have her assist me with a school newsletter.
I was obsessed with mistakes in spelling and grammar, so I always had two sets of eyes proofing each newsletter before we printed it up. Thus I was alone with Mrs. Sanderson in the volunteer lounge.
She sat primly, fingers curiously folded together, barely touching the paper. We edited the pages for a moment in silence. Then, as we exchanged sheets, I was able to catch her eye. I smiled.
"How do you like living in a small town, Mrs. Sanderson?"
She looked so startled at the question that I felt compelled to add, "I noticed that you moved from a big city, just like I did. Almost around the same time too."
It was fascinating to see her face close down, like blinds being drawn on windows. She looked down at the sheet in front of her, eyes moving back and forth over the lines. For a moment, I thought she wouldn't answer.
"I'm used to small towns," she finally offered. "I grew up in one, though I lived for many years in Ottawa."
Before I could pursue any other questions, she glanced right back at me. "And how about you, Mrs. Taylor? Do you enjoy the small town?"
Years later I was still at a loss to describe how I responded to the sustained look she gave me. There were layers of colours in her eyes, a disconcertingly large black pupil in the center, surrounded by yellow and green and brown. Slightly squinting, her eyes appeared to be small and cruel. She stared right into me, invasive and sneering.
This was a woman who was not to be trifled with. She knew I was probing and she was throwing that incursion right back. Somehow I felt as though she had searched out all my secrets and was threatening to expose mine if I dared attempt to uncover hers.
Later I thought that perhaps I had overreacted, being excessively sensitive because of my past. At that moment, however, I could do nothing but smile back and offer some kind of inane response. We spent the remainder of the work period in silence.
While their mother was a volunteer, very few incidents occurred involving the Sandersons. The only child who gave any indication of inner turmoil was Meghan. She was an enigma. In the yard, she was gregarious and often mischievous. In the classroom, she was by and large silent.
On the pretext of introducing Meghan's new speech therapist to the Sandersons, Renae once again visited the home. Despite having agreed to the appointment, the same scenario was repeated. Only Mrs. Sanderson was present. The home was orderly though crammed, as could be expected in a household of eleven people. Clean and comfortable, though somewhat threadbare.
The children's names were labelled above coat hooks in the hallway. Shoes stood in a straight line. No clothes or toys were strewn about. Everything had a place. They might have cleaned up and prepared for their visitors, though Renae was of the opinion that life was pretty regimented for the Sanderson children.
Speech Therapist Carol Ann Fraser laid out the responsibilities of the family in treating Meghan to her mother, as well as the services and attention she could provide at school.
Up until this time, the family had not appeared to take Meghan's affliction seriously. Mrs. Sanderson had consistently made responses to the teachers such as, "She's young. She'll grow out of it." or "All my kids are quiet. She'll be fine."
Now that Meghan was in grade one, the therapist stressed, she should have grown out of her silence. The fact that she continued to be mute in the classroom was becoming a serious concern.
To every question or comment, Dorothy Sanderson nodded and agreed to carry out the tasks as recommended.
After the visit from both Renae and Carol Ann, the family seemed to be somewhat more supportive of Meghan. They claimed to follow through with every home exercise that was recommended. They made recordings of her reading at home.
The siblings refused to speak for her in school. They were careful to engage her whenever possible and encourage her to speak in front of others.
Yet Meghan remained stubbornly silent. Her big eyes were always unblinking and defiant, not the look of a subjugated or intimidated individual.
Both Carol Ann and Rebecca Michaels, the school psychologist, agreed with our assessment. 'Selective mute' was the method Meghan used to assert control on an otherwise difficult environment.
I visited Meredith Cole's grade one class often that fall, not just because of Meghan.
Two little boys, Evan and Kelly, had been experiencing a great deal of difficulty adjusting. The teacher, a tall, willowy young woman who'd previously taught junior level classes, was having some trouble getting control of them.
Meredith was kind and understanding, as well as efficient and full of energy. I had no doubt that her efforts would be successful, but I wanted to give her as much support as I could.
One morning, after a particularly fractious week, I decided to meet the boys as they entered the school. Initially they appeared to be obediently following everyone else in line, until I noticed Evan giving the other boy a poke from behind. Kelly's face flushed with immediate anger.
No doubt some quarrel left over from the yard, I thought. The remainder of the class entered the room with their teacher, but I kept the two boys in the deserted hallway.
Hands on hips, my classic principal stance, I looked down at the two red-faced antagonists, noticing the clenched fists and the daggers being thrown with sideways glances at one another.
"I'm going to ask what happened outside," I informed them, my voice controlled but obviously displeased. "And this is how I am going to do it. First, I will ask one of you to tell me what happened. The other one is not to interrupt. Then the second one will get to tell me what he thinks happened. Do you understand?"
Nods from both close-shaven heads.
"Plus, you are not allowed to call each other names or put each other down? Do you know what I mean by that?"
Again, the small round heads nodded.
"All right, let me see now." They looked up at me, expectant. "I think it's Evan's turn to go first today, because Kelly had that chance the last time we spoke."
I didn't actually remember who went first last time, but luckily, neither did they. "So, Evan, you go first and tell me what happened."
"He called me the B word," he answered promptly, his brown eyes flashing with triumph.
I could see he was convinced that this offense was sure to get Kelly in trouble. I wondered what B word Kelly had used. Bad? Bugger? Bum? Butthead? Bastard? Just how offensive was the offense?
"Okay, Evan, so that I know just how bad it was, you can tell me what the B was. You can whisper it in my ear so no one else will hear."
I bent forward and Evan murmured, "Fucking asshole."
I straightened up, letting out a long, thoughtful breath to ease the bubble of laughter. "Oh, that B word," I said.
So much for phonics. I guess we hadn't covered the swear words
yet. It was time to involve our peer-problem-solving program, so I set up a series of meetings with my senior students and these two little munchkins.
As for Meghan Sanderson, in spite of my frequent visits to the classroom, she still would not meet my eyes, nor would she speak to me, even when I said hello directly to her.
Now, with Sydney D'Aubigne's confession, we might have received a break in the case. Perhaps we could prove that Meghan was being abused after all.
Renae called me back in the middle of the afternoon. When she heard what I'd learned from Sydney, she suggested that I speak to Meredith and then to Meghan herself. Renae would return to Burchill later in the day.
If the results of my investigation suggested that Meghan's safety was in jeopardy, I was to keep her at the school until Renae arrived, even if that was past dismissal time. In the meantime, she asked me to call Edgar.
Edgar Brennan was in charge of the Ontario Provincial Police (OPP) detachment in our area. His official title was chief superintendent, but we always referred to him simply, though respectfully, as the police chief.
The unit served our village of Burchill, the adjacent First Nation community and the Provincial Park. The jurisdiction also covered the highways that led into the area and therefore many of the nearby hamlets.
Burchill born and raised, Edgar had a kind, intelligent and caring nature that made him one of our most popular citizens. He was married to Frances Petapiece, one of the police constables in the detachment. In the last few years they had become very good friends of ours. Thus I had no hesitation in calling the station to ask for either of them to assist.
Marty Michano, another member of the OPP team, answered the phone and immediately transferred me to Edgar's office. I pictured him sitting in his leather high-backed chair, in front of the old desk likely piled high with paper.
Ever since the populations of Burchill and the surrounding villages had grown, Edgar's position required more paperwork than he liked. He often had to send Frances or Marty out on calls while he handled the politics and the written reports, which definitely did not appeal to him.
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