REBECCA & HEART
Deanna K. Klingel
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.
Text Copyright © 2018 Deanna K. Klingel
All rights reserved.
Published 2018 by Progressive Rising Phoenix Press, LLC
www.progressiverisingphoenix.com
ISBN: 978-1-946329-60-8
Edited by: Rebecca Willen
Cover artwork “Beauty and the Beast (Little girl in red dress with big black water-dog),” photo number 149531978 by Bonzodog. Copyright BigStock. Used with permission.
Cover design by William Speir
Visit: http://www.williamspeir.com
Book interior design by Polgarus Studio
Visit: http://www.polgarusstudio.com
Table of Contents
Introduction
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Things to Talk About and Think About
About the Author
Introduction
What’s Real and what’s Not…
Dear Young Readers,
The tale of Rebecca & Heart is fiction. This means the story is a creation of the author’s imagination. In fiction we can enjoy amazing things like an elephant who flies, a spider who writes messages, a lion that leads an army, or a fly on the wall who can live a very long time.
There are incidents in this story that are not creations of my imagination, they actually happened. These are called historical elements.
World War II London is written as it is depicted in historical accounts and photographs. The evacuation of the children to keep them safe from the bombing of London, and the distribution of gas masks and buttons did take place. This piece of the story is true and told accurately. You can research and discover photographs of London’s children standing in line at the train depot. The Blitz was the name news reporters used to describe the heavy bombing over Britain in 1940 and 1941 during World War II.
Guy Fawkes Day in England is a festival with fireworks, bonfires, and picnics. In England’s history it dates back to 1605 when a plot to blow up Parliament, of which Guy Fawkes was an initiator, was foiled. It’s commemorated on November 5th. You can research it and learn more about it, and see what the masks look like. Maybe you’d like to make one and have a party!
Until 1943, autism didn’t have a name. Children with autistic behaviors weren’t understood; they were considered “odd.” This often resulted in neglect, maltreatment, and exclusion. In 1943, autism was named and researched by Dr. Leo Kanner of Johns Hopkins University, in Baltimore, Maryland. Even though the causes of autism still aren’t known, treatment and better understanding have been available since the 1960s, allowing autistic children to function, be educated, and grow in their communities with more understanding and compassion. The number of cases diagnosed increases annually, though it isn’t known why.
Autism today affects one in 68 children. That means you are likely to meet someone like Rebecca during your school years. I hope knowing Rebecca’s story will help you understand better, and enable you to love that person; stand up for him as a friend; take time to discover her unique gifts, and help them feel accepted while respecting their space and needs. That is what friends do, isn’t it? Perhaps the viewpoint of the fly on the wall and his unique understanding will help you do this better.
Sincerely,
Deanna K. Klingel
Acknowledgements
From the beginning of this book’s ten-year journey to publication, I’ve learned so much from so many. This was the first manuscript I ever wrote intentionally for publication. In 2007, I had no idea what to do with it after I wrote it. One day at the dog park I told my friend Carley Starr I’d written it, and now I didn’t know what to do with it. Our late friend Larry Butler sat on the picnic table with his dogs and said, “Send it to my sister. It’s what she does. She reads stuff people write.” Larry badgered me about it for a few months, and finally, reluctantly, I sent it to his sister. If Larry were here he’d be celebrating with me. It was Larry who pushed that little manuscript into my career as a children’s author.
Robbie Butler White, his sister, is an outstanding editor who at that time worked with Brubaker and Ford Book Bundlers in London. As a PhD in English, she taught me everything about writing and editing and the desire to know more! Rebecca and Heart’s story was loved by Brent Brubaker and David Ford who took the manuscript to the Bologna Children’s Book Fair. Before leaving they called me and said, “We know you know we like this little story. But, we wanted to tell you how much we love it!” Rebecca & Heart did well in Bologna, they told me, and has had an interesting shelf life ever since, on and off with publishers, traveling here and there, long waits in between. And at every turn, an opportunity to grow and become a better story. I could never put it away; I could never stop tweaking, adding, moving things around, editing, rewriting. Ten years later, with fifteen books published, I’m finally ready to let go of Rebecca & Heart, believing it’s as good as I can make it. I hope it will make a difference in someone’s life.
Robbie, Brent and David, thank you. Robbie patiently gave me the editing skills I needed to become an author, and Brent and David gave me the confidence to continue to write. I will always be appreciative, and I think of you with every book I write.
Thank you to my beta readers Dawn Witzke, Carolyn Fraiser, and Lisa Fowler who helped me rework the ending with their valuable and sensitive input and tender hearts.
Thanks to my daughter Sally who never let me forget Rebecca & Heart was simmering on the back burner. And thanks to my husband Dave whose tireless encouragement made sure Rebecca & Heart would eventually be “finished.”
Thank you to the volunteers whose passion for research for autism enhances the lives of those on the spectrum. In 2007, when I wrote my first story about Rebecca, one child in 150 was diagnosed. Today, ten years later, it is one in 68. I hope loving Rebecca will help young readers develop the compassion they need for classmates or siblings with autism.
And finally, thank you to Progressive Rising Phoenix Press, the publisher, and to Rebecca Willen for editing my finally-finished story. Thank you all, who embraced the story, put the cover on it, and sent it on its way. No one can write, edit, and publish alone. Thanks to everyone who helped me get Rebecca & Heart over the finish line.
Dedicated to Robbie Butler White, Brett Brubaker, and David Ford. It was your professional confidence in my ability that allowed me to succeed as a children’s author.
And in memoriam to Larry Butler, who started it all.
Chapter 1
Rebecca
I’m not just a fly. I am The Fly on the Wall. I’m the one everyone wishes they could be. And it’s no wonder; the fly on the wall really does see and hear everything! A fly’s life is generally short so I must get on with the telling of this tale from my view on the wall. I’m just glad I’ve escaped the relentless fly swatters enough seasons to be able to tell you this story of my friends, Rebecca and Heart.
I’ll start with the first year of my life. I
was born in the garbage heap outside the orphanage known as Somewhere Else here in London sometime in the late 1930s. There were more garbage heaps everywhere in those days. They say it was like that around the world. I wouldn’t know about the rest of the world, but here at Somewhere Else, that was certainly the way it was. In London, the rich were wearing older clothes, eating smaller meals, and the poor, well, they just got poorer. Even the garbage heaps were definitely lacking interest.
This is how Rebecca and the other poor girls came to be at Somewhere Else. Families who had no food sent the girls Somewhere Else, the name of the orphanage on the outskirts of the city. Mothers hoped they would have better nutrition there. Babies were left in their baskets and blankets on the steps of St. Paul’s with all the other hungry little birds. Family pets were turned loose to forage for themselves. The times were hard.
Now, me, I’m not an orphan. In fact, I have a big family with many siblings and cousins. I just happened to be born in the orphanage garbage dump just outside the orphanage classroom. And that’s how I first met Rebecca.
The classroom where Rebecca spends her mornings is in a large factory building, refitted as the orphanage. There were more orphans than factory jobs in those days, you see. Whenever the girls had to leave home, it was just explained “they are visiting Somewhere Else.”
The girls who live at the orphanage have school in the morning and work in the afternoon. The older girls go into the city to work at cleaning homes, tending little children, and running errands. Younger girls, like Rebecca, work at the orphanage, dusting, sweeping, and gardening.
That suits Rebecca. She likes every day to be like the one before, with no change, and no surprises. She wants to be left alone. I’m a little like that myself, actually. I learned a lot about Rebecca from watching her in the classroom. Now that you know these things, let me begin the tale.
On this particular day, I see Rebecca; she’s sitting at her desk swaying to and fro. I rest on the window ledge enjoying the spring breeze that blows into the classroom. The fresh scent of blossoms wafts after the odor of factory smoke and sweetens the enticing aroma of the garbage dump.
Rebecca and I both recognize the new scent of the blossoms immediately. The others in the classroom don’t seem to notice. Rebecca stops swaying. Her eyes look toward the window, but she isn’t looking at me. She cocks her head upward. One branch hangs directly in front of the window. Looking out the corners of her eyes, she studies the blossoms on the branch. I look through my seven hundred and fifty eye facets. We admire the blossoms and their sweet perfume. No one else in our classroom takes any notice.
Suddenly the classroom gets very noisy as the girls file out the door; class is over for the day. Rebecca covers her ears. She doesn’t like the sound of all the voices talking at once clanging together like the pots and pans in the kitchen. She detests noise. It hurts her ears and her mind swirls in confusion when the kettles bang noisily. She hums loudly to drown out the sound of the noisy voices and she rocks to the rhythm of her own soft humming, which only I can hear.
The girls glance at Rebecca as they pass her desk on their way out the door. They roll their eyes to each other, snub her, and giggle. I hear one of them whisper something most unkind. I think about buzzing their rude little faces just to annoy them.
The teacher scowls. “Remember the Golden Rule, girls,” she says.
Well, all right then, I won’t annoy them. This time. You know what the Golden Rule is, don’t you?
As days pass, I notice Rebecca never leaves her seat until all the other girls are out of the room. She sits at her desk with her hands over her ears, swaying to and fro, swirling with the noise and humming to herself until the classroom is empty and quiet.
Over time I come to understand her, as I watch and follow her through her days at the orphanage. What I can’t figure out is why everyone thinks she’s “odd.” Every girl in the class, every girl in the orphanage, is different from another. There are no two alike, that I can see.
Rebecca listens to the girls’ footfalls on the wooden floors. She knows who’s coming by the sound of their step. No two girls walk alike; even I know that.
From the back of the dining hall she watches them eat. Every girl eats differently. Some girls like peas, some don’t. Some gulp hungrily, others pick at their food. Some talk while they chew. Some chew quietly, a long time.
They all look different, too. No two girls’ hair is the same color and texture; some wear braids, some have curls. Some brush their shiny long hair. Others, like Rebecca, never touch their matted and stringy hair.
Girls come in an assortment of sizes, shapes, and colors. I find that fascinating. In my family, Muscidae, we all look exactly the same.
Every girl has a distinct voice. Rebecca can identify each voice without seeing who speaks. She knows which one stutters, who lisps; she knows who whines, which one is bossy. She prefers low voices to high voices. Rebecca’s own voice is rarely heard. When she speaks, it’s a low monotone. It’s not odd, just different. Like everyone else, she is different. Though none of the other girls think she ever looks at them, she, in fact, knows a lot about them.
I notice Rebecca is quite keen on smell. She knows who has washed dishes, polished door knobs, scrubbed floors, or who had a recent bath. She also knows if someone has gone visiting, bringing new smells back to Somewhere Else. I find that interesting myself, and often walk up and down the backs of the girls’ jumpers trying to guess the source of the unique odors.
Why do they think she’s odd? She’s just different, unique, like all of them. Some like to sing, some like to run. Rebecca, I notice, prefers to sit alone and hum. Most girls like to talk. She doesn’t. Some like to be in groups; Rebecca prefers to be alone. Some girls want to hug. Rebecca doesn’t want to be touched. I never land on her or touch her; I just watch her from the wall.
All the girls have different names. Rebecca remembers them all, though the girls would be surprised to learn that. Rebecca doesn’t understand names. She understands nouns. She thinks of her name as Girl. Her teacher is Teacher. The other girls call the teacher Miss Cullen. What do those words, Rebecca and Miss Cullen, mean to her? I wonder, too. I’m just called Fly. If someone called me Jack, well, I’d wonder about that, too. I might think that was odd!
Since everyone is different in an assortment of ways, why is she considered odd? I hear many times that she is “odd.” But, I like her.
I do notice that Rebecca sees and understands things in her own unique way. Some of the girls in class struggle to learn new things in class, which to Rebecca make perfect sense. Teacher often needs to explain something new over and over again to the other girls. Rebecca only needs to be instructed once. She sits in the coat closet and hums waiting to learn something new while the others struggle to learn a math function or spelling word.
Rebecca doesn’t like odd things; she likes evens. Everything in Rebecca’s world that she can control is even – symmetric, numbered, and orderly. Everything outside of what she can control is odd – asymmetric and chaotic. So Rebecca stays in her own ordered world of evens. It makes perfect sense to her, and to me. To others, I imagine, that might seem odd.
Many of the girls at Somewhere Else are adopted by wealthy families who want to help the girls to better education and better life. Rather noble, I suppose. But Rebecca’s opportunity hasn’t come; she’s hidden away in the orphanage. The head mistress of the orphanage despises Rebecca. She complains she doesn’t know what to do with her because she’s so different. I think if she understood Rebecca she might learn to like her for her differences. But, I don’t think that’s ever going to happen.
Chapter 2
Walking across the ceiling of the head mistress’s office, I overhear this conversation:
“Whatever will we do with her?” The head mistress is spouting off to the board of directors. “She’ll give Somewhere Else a bad name. No one will ever adopt her.”
I stop walking and listen when I realize sh
e’s complaining about my friend Rebecca again.
“Well, we must present her in a better light,” suggests Parson, who is on the board of directors. “Let her be seen more. She’s a pretty enough child, sort of. Why not clean her up a bit? Present her at the monthly tea with the others.”
“Humph,” the mistress grunts. “And let the world think we don’t train our girls to have manners; that we don’t train them to be poised? We do, you know. It’s just that Rebecca doesn’t…you know, Rebecca is different. She has an oddity about her.”
“Yes, yes,” says the parson impatiently. “You’ve told us all about that on many occasions. What I’m suggesting is simply that you present her good points rather than her oddities. She might appeal to someone, after all. If the girl never has an opportunity, you know, she will be with you forever.”
The mistress makes a face. She wrinkles her nose and swats as I zoom in closer. I can see she doesn’t like the idea of Rebecca being under her charge forever.
“Oh, all right, I’ll try,” she agrees. “But I can’t imagine who in their right mind would want that child in their home!”
“Now, now,” Parson says. “We must remember she’s one of God’s children, too, odd or not.”
“Humph,” the mistress says.
When the board of directors leave their meeting, they walk around the back of the orphanage to the garage and livery in the alley. They pass Rebecca sitting in her normal place on the back step swaying slightly back and forth with her head down intent on shelling and counting peas under the shade of the big London Platenus tree. She never looks up when the men pass. But, Rebecca sees them, counts them, and organizes them by size, and color of their waist coats. They don’t know that. But I do. I see her count and organize everything she sees. What a wonderful gift she has. With my eyes and her mind, we could make quite a team!
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