by Laura Best
“Remember, Amy, once Jennie fakes her fit you’ve got to keep Allison occupied long enough for us to slip out the front door. And Jennie, twist and turn, do whatever you have to. Make it look believable. The worst fit you’ve ever had. ” It’s been a while since Jennie’s last seizure—by now everyone’s come to expect them. Still, it disrupts the class. You can’t just leave someone wiggling on the floor.
“What are you two really up to, anyway?” asks Amy, handing down her curiosity like we’ve got time for any of this. I stick my face in close to hers.
“What you don’t know won’t hurt you,” I rattle off in my toughest voice. But Amy’s not satisfied. She’s got this habit of wringing her hands when she’s nervous. I first noticed it the night of the séance, the way she was fiddling and twisting her fingers when Miss Turner showed up on the scene.
“Just do what we say and don’t ask questions,” says Nessa, finishing it off with a, “Or you’ll be sorry!” that finally puts the lid on Amy’s nosiness. Easy to see who’s got clout around here. Amy’s not about to run the risk of crossing Nessa—even I know that.
“What if they figure out I’m faking?” Jennie whimpers like a lost pup. I sigh. I thought we’d been through this about twenty times already. We definitely don’t have time for this, but I don’t want to get snotty with Jennie, seeing how she’s the key instrument in our scheme.
“You’ll do fine,” I say, patting her hand. “I know you will.”
“I hope you’re right,” she says in a pinched voice. I start to wonder if we can pull this off without a hitch. It seems to be getting more complicated by the minute.
“Okay, the coast is clear,” says Nessa, giving Amy a gentle shove. “Now go.”
A small bleat escapes Jennie when Amy takes her hand. The little bird in my chest is beating its wings—please don’t let Jennie back out at the last moment.
“As soon as Jennie’s on the floor we’ll head for the door,” I whisper to Nessa, like that hadn’t been our plan all along. If Nessa is at all worried, there’s no sign of it. My heart makes a hiccough. I draw in a few deep breaths. This is nothing compared to what Evelyn and me used to do back home, so why the nerves?
The thump that follows sounds almost as loud as the time Jeff Nickerson fell out of his chair in Aunt Millie’s kitchen one Saturday night. Amy cries out for someone to help and Allison says he’ll go for a nurse. Nessa and I head for the front door as Amy continues to call out for help. Something in Amy’s voice raises an alarm in me. Either Jennie’s putting on the show of the century or else she’s not faking. Stopping dead in my tracks, I let go of Nessa’s hand.
Nessa whispers, “Come on!” and grabs my hand again. The front door isn’t that far away. My legs go stiff. I wasn’t expecting to hear Jennie hit the floor that hard. It was louder than the night we had the séance—and that was for real. I push my feet into the floor, holding back.
Amy lets out a “Hurry, Allison!” that would curdle milk, and before you know it the lobby’s humming with people and we have ourselves a full-blown racket taking place.
“We can’t go,” I say. “Not now. Something’s wrong.” The words catch in my throat. Our plan isn’t going to work.
“Come on,” coaxes Nessa. “Jennie’s just acting. We talked about this. The cab’s outside waiting.”
I know Nessa’s right. There’s still time for us to make our escape. No one would even know we were gone. A few minutes from now and I could be standing face to face with mother dearest. We start toward the door, but then I suddenly stop. I can’t leave Jennie any more than I could leave Evelyn Merry that day by the river when our plan to blow up Hux’s moonshine still backfired on us. Sometimes you’ve got to let your own wants fall to the wayside. Some things are more important. Nessa pulls on my arm, telling me to hurry. Shaking her off, I turn and run back toward Jennie.
Amidst the commotion a man’s voice calls out, “Taxi! Someone called for a taxi. I’ve been waiting out front. Time is money. I can’t wait around all day.”
A bit of mumbling follows, but no one answers the driver.
“Our goose is cooked,” I whisper to Nessa.
“Look here, someone called for a cab.” By now, the taxi driver sounds miffed. He shifts the hat on his head.
“Can’t you see we have a medical emergency here?” snaps one of the maids.
By this time, Jennie is slowly being helped to her feet.
“Take her to the sick ward. I’d better call for the doctor. That’s quite a bump,” says the nurse.
“Taxi!” repeats the driver.
Mrs. Skinner marches over to the taxi driver. “Are you certain someone from here called for a taxi? I can’t imagine who,” she says, sounding annoyed.
“Look, lady, do you think I’d be here if someone hadn’t called for a ride? The call came in about a half hour ago—said they wanted to go to Burnham Street.” I’m about ready to scramble for my life, but taking off like a streak of greased lightning will only make me look guilty as sin.
“Burnham Street?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Did you call for a taxi, Beth?” asks Mrs. Skinner.
“I only take a taxi home when it’s raining, otherwise I walk,” says Miss Turner.
“That’s what I thought. No one else here lives on Burnham Street. And no one from the school would have called for a taxi. There has to be some mix-up,” says Mrs. Skinner.
“If no one here wants a taxi, I’m out of here.” He stomps across the lobby and slams the door behind him.
Climbing the stairs with Nessa and Amy, I feel like a crumb. This is all my fault, just like last summer when Evelyn got hurt. Me, putting all this time and effort into tracking down a woman who doesn’t even care that I exist. And me, involving other people in something that has nothing to do with them. And of all the strange coincidences, turns out Miss Turner lives on Burnham Street—what are the odds of that? I let out a grunt.
---
Later, one of the maids brings Jennie back to the dormitory. There’s a knob on her forehead the size of an egg. A badly bruised egg, that is. Nessa passes out the penny candy without being asked. We’re all quiet. I go to my locker and give it a whack with my fist. The door swings open. I root around until I find the letter I’m writing to Evelyn. I was thinking I’d finish it off by telling him about this afternoon’s antics, but I decide against it. All that will accomplish is making Nessa and I look like we can’t pull off a simple plan without bumbling it.
Taking my letter down to the recreation room, I read through what I’ve already written—all this business about Ed wanting to adopt me and Aunt Millie saying no. I barely have time to begin my first new sentence before Nessa plunks herself down at the table beside me. She sounds out of breath, like maybe she’s run all the way from the dormitory.
“I’ve got some things figured out,” she says. Just as I form a loop around the “O” I’m writing, Nessa pulls the pencil from my fingers.
“Give me that!” I squawk, reaching to get it back.
“Not till you hear me out.” Can’t imagine that anything Nessa has to say is more important than me writing a letter to Evelyn. Leaning back in my chair, I cross my arms in front of me. Nessa looks from side to side and behind her. You’d think she was about to divulge top-secret information.
“Fine. What have you got figured out?” I snap, thinking this had better be good.
Leaning in close so that she’s scarcely a nose length away, she whispers, “I think Miss Turner could be your mother.”
Chapter Thirteen
Evidence to prove that Beth Turner, alias Brenda Turple, is Cammie Turple’s mother, as put forth by Vanessa Matilda Maxwell:
1. Miss Turner has blonde hair as does Cammie Turple.
2. Miss Turner wears glasses—eye problems are inherited.
3. Miss Turner has blue
eyes like Cammie Turple.
4. Cammie Turple and Miss Turner are both sleepwalkers.
4. Miss Turner’s initials are BT—the same as Brenda Turple’s. (She probably changed her name to throw people off her trail.)
5. Miss Turner got all flustered when Cammie mentioned Aunt Millie. It’s obvious they know each other. Why would she lie about that? And how could they possibly know each other?
6. Miss Turner lives on Burnham Street—the same as Cammie’s mother. Coincidence? I think not.
I rest my case. Let the evidence speak for itself.
Ever since we found out Miss Turner lives on Burnham, Nessa’s been convinced that she’s my mother. I thought she was joking until she presented me with a list of evidence.
“Hey, I was only pretending to sleepwalk!” I yelp, crossing number four off the list. Nessa shrugs. Since I’m not about to believe Miss Turner could do something so cruel as to dump me out at Aunt Millie’s, I agree to come to Nessa’s house for the weekend to put an end to any further speculation on her part.
“Ouija will settle this for us once and for all,” she says at the tail end of her invitation.
“And if it says Miss Turner’s not really Brenda, you’ll back off?”
“You won’t hear another peep from me,” says Nessa, sounding a little too confident for my liking.
If it takes some stupid board to convince Nessa that there’s no way Miss Turner could be my long-lost pop-me-out-and-leave-me mother, then so be it. Let the truth be known.
---
Life has a way of dragging you through a knothole backwards. I didn’t know what those words meant the first time Herb Winters said them. But what I didn’t know back then I’m making up for now. I’ve surely gone through that knothole a time or two since arriving here at the school. This week seems to be one of those times.
I figure something’s in the works when I get word that Mr. Allen wants to talk to me. It’s been days since our muddled attempt at calling a cab, so I’m pretty sure it has nothing to do with that. I’ve been making my bed every morning, so that can’t be it either. I even comb Jennie and Rebecca’s hair in the morning and button their blouses just to help the maids out. (Turns out Jennie’s naturally curly hair isn’t nearly as natural as I imagined. Still, it doesn’t stop me from admiring it up close. Curly beats out limp and straight any time of day.)
My brain picks through all the things that have happened this last while, looking for something I’ve done that would land me in trouble. Coming up empty-handed doesn’t stop the queasiness I’ve got as I walk through the doorway of Mr. Allen’s office.
Mr. Allen smiles and tells me to take a seat. He asks how I like it here and if I’m making lots of friends. I take a breath—so far so good. This chitchat is just to throw me off. He’s working up to his real business, treading into it nice and easy the way grown-ups sometimes do. His words come out like a conversation about the weather—smooth and relaxed, catching me off guard. I could come up with a number of scenarios but never would I expect Mr. Allen to say that Ed’s coming to see me this weekend.
“He’ll be here Sunday afternoon. Now, isn’t that nice?” Nice isn’t exactly the word I’d use to describe what I’m feeling at the moment. Not that I won’t be glad to see Ed—I’m just not sure how I feel about this whole adoption thing Aunt Millie’s been going on about. I can’t figure out why Ed would want to adopt me now. Why the sudden interest in making it legal? There has to be more to this than Aunt Millie is letting on—some other reason her drawers are twisted in a knot. But sometimes ignoring a problem is the only thing left to do when you run out of ideas on how to solve it. I’d already decided I’m not going to bring the subject of adoption up when next I see Ed. Besides, what if Ed hasn’t booed a word about adoption? It certainly wouldn’t be the first time Aunt Millie’s stretched the truth.
“Thank you kindly for the offer, Mr. Allen,” I say after he springs this business about Ed on me, “but I’m supposed to go home with Nessa this weekend. I even have permission.”
If I can skin out of this meeting with Ed—at least postpone it for a little while—maybe I can settle this whole business about Miss Turner being my mother this weekend. Problems solve best when you handle them one at a time. Besides, who’s to say Ed won’t bring Miranda with him? I’ve been giving her some thought at night when I’m lying awake staring at the ceiling. Has Ed even mentioned me to her and the fact that I can’t see so well? Could be she’ll think I’m a burden, a leftover from the days when Ed was in love with another woman.
“I see,” says Mr. Allen, his words stiff as a parlour poker. A few seconds pass before he lets me have it with a double shot of guilt right to the midsection.
“Don’t you suppose you should put your visit with Vanessa off for another time since your father wants to come all the way into the city to see you? It must be important to him—don’t you think?”
“Important? To Ed? Probably not.” I give a shrill laugh, trying to lighten the mood. It wasn’t the right thing to do. Mr. Allan’s body language tells it all.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to put your weekend off this time, Cammie,” Mr. Allen says. “I’ve already told Mr. Hanover that he’d be most welcome to come. I can’t have him driving all the way here for nothing. You should be happy to have your father come visit. Our parents do far more for us than most of us are aware of. It’s part of the responsibility of having a child.”
I want to speak up and say that Ed really hasn’t had the chance to take much responsibility for me, but some things are best left unsaid. I really wanted to put this business about Miss Turner behind me. Now I’ll have to wait. Too bad Nessa hadn’t kept her ideas to herself. There are no cold hard facts to back this whole case up, just a lukewarm speculation on Nessa’s part. I bet her father, being a lawyer, would have something to state about that. While a big part of me thinks it sounds far-fetched, I keep getting jabbed by a finger of a thought that says, regardless of how unlikely it all sounds, maybe, just maybe, it’s true.
When I point out that Mrs. Maxwell has made plans for us to have a tea party and is already knee-deep in planning what squares to bake, Mr. Allen isn’t the least bit perturbed.
“I’m sure Mrs. Maxwell isn’t about to stand in the way of you visiting with your father. Don’t you worry, she’ll understand.” He gives me a big old grin. He’s not going to budge. Case closed. I’ve lost out again.
Chapter Fourteen
“Nervous?” Ed asks, looking over at me with a shining big grin on his face.
I stop twisting the ends of my hair. “Nah,” I say, like it’s no big deal to be driving around Halifax with Ed behind the wheel.
“I’ve never been much for city driving but I can get where I want to go,” he says, looking over at me. I don’t much care for the fact that he’s paying more attention to me than his driving.
“Just keep your eyes on the road.” I cringe for a tiny moment at the sound of my own voice, harsh the way Aunt Millie’s is most of the time. But I don’t want to start blubbering and ruin the whole day, so I’ve got to make myself sound tough as owl meat. Toughness keeps the tears from flowing. It’s not like I’m going to get all choked up just because Ed’s trying too hard.
Seeing Ed waiting in the lobby by the grandfather clock today kind of stopped me in my tracks. I didn’t even know I was missing him until I was standing an arm’s length away. He tousled my hair and asked who cut it, which kind of broke the ice. I was hoping he wouldn’t give me a hug, but having him touch my head the way he did was nice. Ed seems to know the right thing to do. Then I yammered on about all the things we get to do here, like swimming and manual training class, piano lessons for anyone who’s musically inclined. He finally suggested we go for a drive. It’s not like me to rattle on like that. No wonder Ed shut me up.
“Did I ever tell you about the time I hitchhiked to Yarmouth on the back of a potato truck?�
� says Ed as we drive along. When I don’t say anything he asks if I heard him.
“Of course I heard. I’m not deaf.” I sit staring at the road ahead. The streets are filled with traffic—cars and trucks, all colours and sizes, everyone with a destination in mind. Then there’s Ed and me just driving around on a Sunday afternoon with nowhere in particular to be.
I’ve got no right being snarky, but Ed can drag out a story like nobody else I know. On the chance this is going to be one of those stories, I try not to encourage him any. I’ve got more important thoughts in my head, like wondering when he’s going to bring up this whole subject of adoption. Not to mention that, unlike everyone else on the road, he probably hasn’t got a clue where he’s going.
Ed turns the wheel and a car honks its horn. When he comes to a stop sign I’m pitched forward in my seat. When he steps on the gas, back I go. He keeps right on talking like there’s nothing more important than the story he’s telling.
“Do you know what I did when my stomach got to rumbling?” he asks. I shake my head. At least he got us this far without running into something.
“I just peeled myself a potato. Darn near ate though a fifty-pound bag before we got there. I’d have given a dollar for a sprinkle of salt. Can’t say old Tom Jefferson appreciated it any.” Ed lets out a queer laugh, like he’s back there living it all over again.
A fifty-pound bag of potatoes—like I’d believe that! Okay, so I’ve got to laugh at Ed and his ridiculous story. Still jabbering away, he starts telling me things about when he was growing up, like I’m interested in something that happened a hundred years before I was born. He’s stalling for time and we both know it.
“Want an ice cream?” he asks, finally parking the truck, like I’d ever in a million years refuse that.
Gulls screech overhead. I can make out some boats down in the harbour, so big they’d be impossible to miss. The air brings the goosebumps out on my arms even though I’ve got my warm coat on. I didn’t know we were this close to the water. The sea air smells salty. We go into a little diner and step up to the counter. I puff up like a bullfrog when Ed says he wants a double-scoop ice cream for his best girl. We sit by the window looking out at the busy street, people walking by in a hurry. Strange how living at the school can make you forget you’re in a city full of people. Being in a place where everyone understands you, and everything is all planned out, makes you feel so safe.