Revealing the Dead

by Sheila Connolly

  She moved closer to Ned and laid her hands on his chest. “But thank you. For keeping me on track, and for trusting me when I do go off track. And I’m grateful to your mother, and Christine, and I feel privileged to know Ellie and to have the chance to help her if I can.”

  Ned laid his hands over hers, and Abby felt the surge of electricity between them. “And I’m with you all the way,” he said and leaned in for a kiss.

  Abby pulled back only long enough to say, “I can still do over the powder room and laundry, though, can’t I?”

  “Of course. And the Maguires are useful additions to our small circle, even if they don’t know it.”

  • • •

  After cleaning up from lunch, Ned went off to do whatever chores he was working on, and Abby sat down at the dining room table and opened up her laptop. When it booted up, she called up her résumé and stared at it. Solid degree, and two years experience with young children. That was good. Then there was a year working at a nonprofit agency in Pennsylvania—Brad’s idea—which had ended abruptly when he got a better job in Boston and dragged her along with him. She had barely gotten oriented in her new place when she’d booted Brad out the door, into the waiting arms of his shapely blonde coworker. Luckily Ned was already on the scene, and he’d put her in touch with Leslie, who had, as it happened, needed a museum tour docent slash teacher ASAP. Which had been great as long as it lasted, until Ned and Abby had discovered their shared psychic trait and Ned had passed it on to Ellie and Abby had recognized it in the child and the whole thing had blown up. And next to none of the past two years belonged on a résumé, but a lot of blanks didn’t help her case. She wasn’t going to lie to any prospective employer, but she’d have some fancy explaining to do to fill in the gaps so she didn’t sound undependable.

  Having patched together what she could with the résumé, she turned to looking at autism research, and what the current topics and buzzwords were. Abigail, pretend you’re a normal, non-psychic person—what do you need to know?

  After two hours of meandering through websites about early-childhood education and regulations about disabled children in schools, then moving on to what independent schools offered, she was depressed. And the sun had gone down. Ned finally emerged from his workspace and said plaintively, “Dinner?”

  “Sure, if you’re making it,” Abby told him.

  “No problem,” he said. “You want the light on? It’s kind of dark in here. Have you been sitting here since I went downstairs?”

  “Yup.”

  “You don’t sound happy,” he commented.

  “I’m not. It’s a mess.”

  “You want to talk about it while I cook?”

  “Might as well. I’ve got to make some sort of order out of all this information, because nobody else seems to have done it.”

  “What kind of food are you in the mood for?”

  “Anything you feel like cooking.”

  Abby followed him into the kitchen, where Ned started opening and shutting cabinets and poking around. “I think we’ve got all the fixings for Thai, if I can find any protein,” he said.

  “I think there’s a leftover chicken breast lurking in the back of the fridge—I was kind of saving it for lunch, but you’re welcome to it.”

  “Found it!” he crowed. “We’re good to go. Want a glass of wine?”

  “Definitely. Do you mind working and talking at the same time? It might involve thinking, too.”

  “I’m pretty sure I can handle it.” He filled two glasses with pinot grigio, then went back to collecting ingredients. When he had all the components neatly lined up, he said, “What’s the problem? Were you looking at job listings?”

  “I thought I’d start at the beginning, like finding out what the current definition of autism is.”

  “And?” he said, opening cans of water chestnuts and bamboo shoots.

  “Problem number one: there is no single definition of autism. There are some consistent characteristics, which we all probably know. Or maybe I should get used to saying ‘autism spectrum disorder,’ which is more current. But after that it gets really murky. Here’s what I’ve learned so far. The big three characteristics seem to be different kinds of trouble with social interactions. One, autistic people often lack empathy for the feelings of others, have trouble making friends, and so on. Two, they have trouble with verbal communication, both speaking and hearing meanings. And three, they may have narrow, often intense interests and a reliance on rigid routines. None of these makes it easy for them to find friends. It’s much more frequent in boys than in girls, and it usually starts between ages two and three. Which kind of corresponds to when young children start using language, doesn’t it? Something to think about later.”

  “Sounds like you’ve made a good start there. What comes next?”

  “Based on what I’ve had time to read, which certainly is limited, I think a lot of schools for children with special needs focus on training them on how to behave, if you believe their websites. I think that strategy misses what’s really going on in the children’s heads. I’ll admit that’s a lot harder to alter.”

  Ned put down the knife he was using and turned to face her, leaning against the counter. “But you believe there’s more going on in those children, and you think you have a chance to reach that, at least some of the time, and maybe make things better all around?”

  “I’d like to hope so, but I haven’t a clue how.”

  The landline rang, and Abby picked it up quickly. “It’s Christine,” she mouthed to Ned. “Hey, what’s up?”

  On the phone, Christine said, “I talked to my friend, and she’d be glad to meet you tomorrow after school lets out—say, four o’clock?”

  “That’s great! Will you be there?”

  “If I can. You know my job can be unpredictable.”

  “Got it. Just tell me where to meet her and I’ll be there. If things don’t work out, so be it—at least I’ll have had some practice talking the talk, after so long. Christine, I really appreciate your help. So, give me the info.”

  Abby grabbed a pencil and a pad and scribbled the name, location and phone number. “If you’re not there, I’ll report after—or you can call me, if you’re busy. Thanks again!”

  Abby hung up and turned back to Ned. “Do you ever get the feeling that things are meant to be? Or that they happen for a reason?”

  “Now and then, usually when I stumble over another ancestor in a cemetery and didn’t even know he was there.”

  “Yes, exactly. I had a brainstorm today that I’d like to have lunch with Christine, and she was free, and now I’ve got an appointment to meet with a friend of hers tomorrow, and I can begin asking questions about the very things I need to know. See? The universe is in alignment.”

  Chapter 16

  Sunday

  “You know, talking with Christine really helped me focus,” Abby said thoughtfully, “and so will talking with her friend, I hope. Being able to function in society is important, of course. I know that.”

  “At the risk of sounding crass, that’s what most parents need,” Ned pointed out. “After all, they’re paying the bills for the school.”

  “Of course,” Abby said impatiently. “But what about the kid who’s inside, who sees and hears and even understands, but can’t get out of his own head? And then he’s called stupid, by other kids, and that makes him angry because inside he knows he’s not stupid, and the whole situation just gets worse?” Abby stopped for a moment to collect herself. How had she gotten so invested in these kids she didn’t even know? “My point is that maybe, just maybe, I can reach them, help them understand their own problems. I don’t see any way to ‘fix’ them in any permanent way, but maybe if they understood . . . Oh, I don’t know. But I want to try.”

  She took another breath. “Ned, I touched Danny for only a moment, but he was there—and scared, and angry, and frustrated and more. And he was trying so hard to keep it all together. That was just a sin
gle moment. What if I could work with him over time, no pressure, and he knew that he could trust me? You think he might relax and open up more to me—or us? Or is that wishful thinking?”

  Ned smiled. “The only way we’ll know is if we try, so we’ll have to find a way to make it happen. Not just with Danny, but for other kids too. I think Christine is right—you need an inside job in an established school so you can see more of these kids, both singly and in groups. But keep in mind that it’s entirely possible that what you’re describing won’t work with them, or with only a small percentage. I can imagine that it would be easy for you to get discouraged.”

  “Yes, I know there is no one set of symptoms or a single time line for autism—it’s all over the place. So what works for one person might not work for another. But somebody’s got to try.”

  “And you’re prepared to deal with that?” When Abby nodded, he went on, “And you’ll have to put together enough successes that the administration will keep you on. Unless you want to hang out a shingle and go solo as a consultant. But for that you’d need a track record to attract people.”

  Abby wilted slightly. “Any school is going to wonder why I can’t show other people to do the same thing. I can’t just brush it off and say, ‘Oh, I’m psychic, that’s all.’ But those other people won’t have the ability, or only a very few of them, no matter how hard they try or how good their intentions.”

  “Abby, did you expect this to be easy? Look, I know you’re smart, and that you’re willing to work hard. But we both need to be careful. Think of yourself as going undercover in whatever school hires you. You can’t reveal your secret, but you can get the job done. The only drawback is that you’ll have to watch what you say, and to whom.”

  “Abigail the Spy. Cute.”

  “Look, I agree with you,” Ned said. “These are real people, even if they have trouble communicating with anyone.”

  “Exactly! Maybe you could play a role too. It seems that most researchers accept that there is some sort of organic cause underlying this condition, but they don’t know what. Oh, and since far more males than females are affected, you might want to look at a more specific genetic factor, like the Y chromosome.”

  “Noted. Abby, I think you’re on to something, and I’m not just saying that to make you happy. You’ve got a secret weapon, but we both can learn a lot from what you experience in a school setting. If this works out.”

  “And then we’ll go on and win the Nobel Prize.” Abby grinned briefly. “Are you actually going to cook tonight? Because all this research and thinking has made me hungry.”

  “I’ll get right on it. I think your autism problem—or maybe its solution—can wait until morning.”

  After their spicy Thai dinner, Abby drifted toward the parlor, keeping her eyes averted from her still-open laptop. Ned was right: the problem would be waiting for her in the morning, or maybe for the rest of her life. She knew her brief research had been superficial, but she had wanted only to gather enough materials to know which parts she needed to take a harder look at. And enough to apply for some kind of relevant job without sounding like an idiot, although she wondered if that was even a problem. Most of the websites she’d looked at for schools with autistic children had proudly stressed their student-teacher ratio, and that meant they needed a lot of teachers. She’d have to figure out where her niche might be in a school.

  Not a school that tried to address all possible psychological communication problems—she couldn’t help make life easier for someone with a serious brain injury, for example. That would narrow her choices from the start. On first glance, she didn’t think that what she classified as a “touchy-feely” place, that tried to treat problems along the autism spectrum by sheer love, sounded particularly effective—kids needed some structure, of course, but they needed a balance. She wanted to work in the best of all worlds, where science, technology and common sense produced real results. Maybe no one could fix these kids, but it must be possible to make their lives better.

  What age cutoff should she use? Her quick survey of the literature suggested that it might be better to target the youngest children, who were still more open to change. Single-sex? Definitely before puberty, which would only add to the confusion. Heck, from what she remembered, boys of a certain age had trouble making eye contact with any girl of their own age, much less stringing together a coherent sentence.

  Or maybe she should start out working only with girls. In the past, girls with any autistic tendencies were often overlooked, because they were naturally more sociable and interactive. They also had better social skills and more active imaginations. That could be fun to look into. But would it be the best use of her abilities? Decisions, decisions.

  Later, as they were getting ready for bed, Abby said tentatively, “You know, I’ve never been on many job interviews.”

  “This thing tomorrow isn’t an interview, is it?” Ned asked.

  “Not exactly, but kind of. Supposedly we’re just getting to know each other, but this friend of Christine’s must know there’s a subtext, right? Sure, I’m looking to spruce up my credentials and my CV, and I’m talking to people who know what they’re doing and what the possibilities are. As far as I know, there’s no job opening anyway—this is just for information. But I still get the feeling that I need to sell myself somehow—why I’d be a good fit for their place, what I can do for them and their students. At the same time, I can’t talk about the special skill that would make me so valuable to them. Or I think that’s true, at least for the moment. Look, would you mind if I offered to volunteer for a few weeks, just to see how it goes? Yes, I know you’ve got plenty of money, but all too often people are judged by how much money they make, so forgoing a salary means something to other people. And I can’t exactly dangle you in front of this women—‘hey, give me a job and my rich boyfriend will make a nice contribution to your school.’ That’s tacky, and I’d rather earn my own place.”

  Ned held up both his hands. “Hey, I’m staying out of this. You play it however you want. Like I said earlier, you’re great with kids. That should take you a long way. Just relax and be yourself. If this opportunity doesn’t work out, there’ll be another one. There’s no rush.”

  “I guess. Unless the indie school grapevine labels me ‘that crazy lady.’ I just wish I knew more about all this stuff.”

  “Abby, you know as much about this as anybody right now, at least about some parts of it. You have a gift, and you’ll find a way to use it. Trust me.”

  “I do.”

  The lights were off when a few minutes later Ned said, “Abby, do you want children?”

  For a moment she panicked. What was he asking? Did she want children? She’d never gotten as far as that discussion with Brad, thank goodness. Oh, God, was this a proposal? Or an offer to breed? What? “You mean, with you? Or in general?” she said cautiously.

  “Whichever you prefer.”

  Not helpful, and not exactly romantic. But he’d asked, and Abby owed him an answer. “In the abstract, yes, I’ve always figured I’d have children. But there hasn’t been a right time, or the right person.”

  “Mmm. I suppose I could say the same thing. You know my history with Leslie. We were together for a while, but we agreed we were simply too different to make it work in the long run. We parted friends. Then when she and George had trouble conceiving, she turned to me. No strings, no commitment. And Ellie and Peter came along. But things have changed since then.”

  “You didn’t know about the psychic thing, or that it could be hereditary,” Abby said.

  “Exactly. And I didn’t know how strongly I’d feel about Ellie. I don’t know whether it’s because of our genetic or psychic connection, but I think she’s a great kid and I’m proud to be her father. Whether or not she ever knows, officially.”

  “What about Petey?”

  “I haven’t spent much time with him, so I don’t know him well.”

  “So the gender connection isn’
t the most important element?”

  “Not that I’ve noticed. Or not yet. Abby, are you ducking my question?”

  “You mean, do I want to have your children? To be honest, I haven’t thought it through. You’re a great father, and I love you, but there’s been so much going on, both inside my head and in our lives, that it hasn’t seemed, well, real.” Abby thought for a few moments, staring into the dark. “I guess if I do think about it, it kind of scares me. You and I have a hereditary link, and it’s pretty strong, right?”

  Abby could feel Ned’s nod, though it was too dark to see it. “No question,” he said.

  “So what happens if we create a child together? Is that power squared? Maybe it would be a superkid, or maybe it would be a mental mess. We have no way of knowing, do we?”

  “I don’t know how to answer that, Abby. We don’t have any facts.”

  “Oh, Ned, I don’t want to say no. Can we think about it for a while?”

  “Of course.” Did he sound disappointed?

  They both fell silent, and Ned appeared to fall asleep quickly. For Abby it wasn’t so easy. At some point—was it only a couple of years ago?—she had thought she and Brad would get married, and they’d figure out if kids fit down the line. Then that relationship had fallen apart, and she was fine with that. Then she’d met Ned, under rather odd circumstances, and there was so much else to figure out that marriage and any kind of future were not high on her list, or his. He was older than Abby, he was established, he had money, he already had a child that he saw occasionally. He had a home and a life, both kind of settled before she had come along.