“The cracker smells like crumbling leaves?” I asked her.
She shook her head.
“Like fresh leaves? Does it make you hear something, or are you describing the actual taste?”
She shook her head again and huffed out a breath of impatience. After drawing several of the leafy shapes in a bouquet of sorts, she returned the red crayon to the box and took out a black one. Then she drew a series of wavy lines above her red leaf shapes. Then she replaced the black crayon with a brown one and drew a small stack of brown horizontal lines beneath the red leaf shapes. I finally realized what her picture was.
“That’s a fire,” I said.
Her expression brightened, and she smiled at me.
“Does the cracker smell like a fire?”
Felicity shook her head spastically, and then touched her ear. Suddenly she reached forward and pinched a section of my hair between her fingers right next to my left ear. It was all I could do not to pull away from her—the movement was so sudden and unexpected, it startled me—but I managed to sit still. She then began rubbing my hairs together between her fingers.
“Ah,” I said with a smile. The rubbing of my hair between her fingers sounded very similar to the crackle of a fire. I gathered from all this that when she smelled the crackers she heard that sound. I decided to try another one. After clearing my throat, I sang, “‘Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream.’” When I was done, I picked up a piece of paper, raised my knees, and placed the paper against my thighs so Felicity couldn’t see it. Then I removed a series of crayons from the box and drew on the paper, keeping it from her sight the entire time.
She watched patiently as I drew, a bemused smile on her face. When I was done, I turned the paper over and set it on the floor with my drawing facing down.
“When I sing the song, does it make you see something?” I asked her. She nodded. I pushed the box of crayons toward her and gave her a blank piece of paper. “Show me,” I said.
I sang the song again, and when I was done, I nodded toward the paper.
Felicity’s smile broadened, and her expression turned sly. She picked up the piece of paper, pulled her knees up the same way I had, and placed the paper on her thighs. Then she proceeded to remove a series of crayons from the box and draw on the paper. When she was done, she put her paper face down on the floor.
“Let’s turn them over when I say three,” I said. “Do you understand?”
Felicity nodded, and reached over to take the edge of her piece of paper. I did the same with mine and said, “Okay, here we go. One, two, three.”
We flipped our papers over at the same time. Felicity clapped her hands with glee and there was a huge smile on her face, a fleeting one because it was gone almost as quickly as it appeared. But a sparkle remained in her eye that told me she was enjoying this little game.
I expected her drawing to be nearly identical to mine, which consisted of a series of different shapes in different colors. Music always presents itself to me that way: boxes, circles, triangles, random shapes, squiggly lines . . . any number of shapes and designs in any number of colors. Each song is a unique combination of these.
Felicity’s drawing had some similar characteristics in that it was a series of colors I imagined would seem random to most people. But rather than shapes and lines, she had drawn numbers. There were single, double, and triple digit numbers drawn in a sequence, a space in between signifying which groups of numerals went together. Each individual numeral had its own color, and the color wasn’t necessarily consistent. For instance, the first number she had drawn was a forty-eight, with the four in green and the eight in red. A few digits later, she had drawn the number eight by itself, but in this case, it was yellow. And in a subsequent number, 452, the numeral four was drawn in purple.
Our colors didn’t match up in any way I could detect, but I did notice that Felicity had written down the same amount of numbers as I had shapes in my picture. This led me to believe she saw each individual musical note as a number with colors, whereas I saw them as some sort of shape with color. Our experiences were somewhat similar, but also vastly different. Regardless, I was convinced Felicity had some form of synesthesia.
Chapter 6
My excitement over this bonding moment with Felicity didn’t last long. The door to the room opened, and Duncan entered with a woman behind him. Felicity shot up from the floor and went back to her hidey-hole, squatting down and staring off into a corner. Duncan did the introductions.
“Mack, this is Julie Parnell, a social worker with DCF. She’s here to take Felicity.” Duncan turned toward Julie Parnell and said, “This is Mack Dalton. She’s a consultant for the police department.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” Parnell said in a rote tone. Even as she said the words, her eyes weren’t on me; they were on Felicity. “Is that room back there where you found her?” she asked with a look of disbelief.
“It is,” Duncan said. “It’s actually a hidden room of sorts. As I mentioned to you on the phone, the child seems to have some severe form of autism.”
“She may be autistic,” I said, “but she understands what’s going on around her better than she lets on. She’s also a synesthete.”
Parnell turned and looked at me with a bemused expression. “She’s a what?” she said.
“A synesthete; someone with synesthesia.”
Parnell gave me a skeptical look. “I’m not familiar with that term.”
“It’s a sensory disorder,” I explained. “I have it myself. My senses are cross-wired so that I experience each of them in more than one way. For instance, smells come with certain sounds for me, and some sounds come with a taste. When Duncan speaks to me, I taste chocolate. When Felicity spoke to me earlier, I tasted strawberries. You, Ms. Parnell, are an exception. Rather than a taste, I get a visual manifestation with the sound of your voice. When you speak, I see tiny sparkles of light.”
I half-expected the woman to look at me like I was crazy and then dismiss me. She did neither. “Are you saying the child was able to speak to you?” she asked.
I nodded. “It wasn’t much, a word or two. And she sang a song. We communicated more through our drawings.” I pointed toward the various crayon pictures spread around on the floor.
“Interesting,” Parnell said, nodding her head slowly and studying the pictures.
“What are you going to do with her?” I asked.
“First, I’m going to have her checked over by our physician to make sure she’s okay, and that there are no signs of abuse. Assuming that checks out okay, I’m going to place her temporarily with foster parents, a couple who specialize in taking care of special needs children like this. I’ve placed other children with them who had similar issues.”
“I suspect her synesthesia may play a big role in some of her behaviors,” I said. “All of that sensory input can be very overwhelming. It makes one feel like they want to hide and withdraw from the world. That little cubbyhole she hides in is perfect insulation for her condition.”
Parnell cocked her head to one side and gave me a tolerant smile. “Do you have some sort of training as a psychologist, or are you a social worker?”
“No,” I said with a smile. “I’m just relaying my own personal experience with this disorder because I think it will help you in managing Felicity.”
“Thank you for your advice,” Parnell said, a bit tight-lipped. “I think I can manage. I’ve had a lot of experience with this sort of thing. If you don’t mind, I’d like some time with Felicity alone.”
I frowned at this, suspecting things weren’t going to be as easy as Parnell thought. But I didn’t want to ruffle any feathers or create a scene, so I got up from the floor and crutched out of the room.
Duncan followed me out, and Parnell shut the bedroom door behind us. I turned around and gave Duncan a pleading look. Before I could say a word, he held up his hand like a cop stopping traffic. “I know, I know, the woman is a bit pushy. But this is
what she does for a living, so let’s let her do her job, okay?”
I bit back the protest I wanted to make, my shoulders sagging with resignation. Duncan steered me back out to Janssen’s dead body, which had been removed from its spot on the floor and was now inside a body bag. As Dr. Spencer zipped the bag closed, we heard a high-pitched screech emanate from the bedroom down the hall. I knew from the sharply tart taste of strawberries that Felicity was the source of that screech. Then I heard Parnell speak Felicity’s name in a clipped, sharp tone. I saw the little sparkly lights, except they were duller than before. With the lights came the sound of indistinct soft murmurs, no doubt Parnell’s attempts to calm Felicity.
I tried to push down thoughts of Felicity and Parnell and concentrate on the crime scene instead, in case there was something else I could detect. But the screeches continued, and hard as I tried, I couldn’t shift my focus away from that bedroom. After a few minutes, a flustered-looking Julie Parnell emerged from the bedroom and walked up to us, her face beet red, her hair out of place, a small scratch on her arm that was red, raised, and angry-looking.
“That child is going to be harder to manage than I thought,” she said, taking out her cell phone. “We’re going to have to restrain her and I’m going to need some help. If you guys can help me hold her down, I’ll call for an ambulance and we can have the EMTs help us restrain her and then take her to the hospital.”
“You don’t need to restrain her,” I said, my tone sharper than I’d intended. “She understands what’s going on if you take the time to explain things to her.”
Parnell shot me an irritated look. “I’ve been doing this for a long time, Ms. Dalton, so if you don’t mind, just let me do my job, okay?”
“No, it’s not okay,” I said, not bothering to temper my tone this time. “She’s just a little girl, and she’s frightened. The more you get in her face, the worse she’s going to be.”
Parnell shot Duncan a pleading look, her way of begging him to make me shut up and go away. But Duncan had already seen how I had connected with Felicity, and while he may not have had a full understanding of the intricacies of her autism, he understood the complications synesthesia added to the picture, thanks to the time he had spent around me.
“There’s no need to cause any undue trauma to the child,” he said to Parnell. “Why not let Mack have a try at it to see what happens?”
Clearly, Parnell had expected unquestioning support from Duncan, and when she didn’t get it, she gaped at him, her mouth hanging open, a deep frown on her face. She stared at him that way for a moment, and when she finally closed her mouth in preparation for speech, Duncan made a move before she could get a word out.
“Come on, Mack,” he said, taking me by the arm and steering me back toward the bedroom. “See if you can convince Felicity to leave with Ms. Parnell.”
We made our way back to the bedroom with Parnell hot on our heels. Evidence of the skirmish that had taken place was obvious. The neat stack of paper that had been on the floor was now spread all over the room, and several of the pictures we had drawn were torn. The crayon box had been spilled, scattering its contents about the room, and a couple of crayons were smashed and broken. Felicity had retreated into the closet and the door was closed. I made my way inside and knocked on the wall.
“Felicity, it’s me, Mack,” I said in a soft voice. “I’m going to open the door, okay?”
There was no response, so after a moment, I pulled on the brace and swung the door open. Felicity was squatting on her haunches atop the mattress, her arms wrapped around her legs, rocking back and forth. I knelt down on the floor beside her, propping my crutches against the wall.
“Felicity, we need to take you to a hospital to get you checked out. The people there need to look at you. They won’t do anything to hurt you; they just want to make sure you’re okay. Once that’s done, you need to go spend the night somewhere other than here. It will be a safe place, and Ms. Parnell will make sure it’s a place where you can have quiet if you want.” I turned and gave Parnell a pointed look. “Isn’t that right, Ms. Parnell?”
Parnell looked irritated, and she answered me with a tight-lipped, “Of course.”
I reached over and touched Felicity’s shoulder. She stopped rocking, but she remained in her wrapped-up position. “Will you come out of the closet please?” I said.
Felicity stayed still and continued staring straight ahead. I was about to ask her again, when she said, “Mack.”
“Ms. Dalton is not trained in this sort of thing,” Parnell said officiously.
I rolled my eyes and sighed. “I can’t go to the hospital with you,” I said to Felicity. “But maybe I can come and visit you later where you’re staying.” This suggestion was met with Parnell’s scoffing harrumph from behind me. I ignored her and continued talking to Felicity. “It’s very important that you do what Ms. Parnell says, Felicity. I promise you no one will hurt you if you do what she says. If you don’t, they may put you someplace where I won’t be able to see you again. I don’t want that to happen.”
Felicity remained motionless, and her gaze remained fixed, but a small tear fell from her lower lid, tracking down her cheek. It broke my heart to look at her.
“Ms. Parnell wants you to ride with her in her car,” I said. “You’ve ridden in a car before, haven’t you? When I’m in a car, the sound of the engine makes me see blue clouds. And whenever I’m in a car that goes over a bump, I taste peanut butter. How crazy is that, huh?”
I saw the corner of Felicity’s mouth twitch up just a hair. There was a hint of a dimple in her cheek. I’d seen the full dimple when she’d laughed earlier. I leaned into the space, got close to Felicity’s ear, and whispered to her. When I was done, she looked me straight in the eye and giggled. It was the sweetest sound I could’ve heard at that moment, and it filled my mouth with the taste of honey.
I clambered to my feet, balanced on my crutches, and extended a hand to Felicity. After a moment’s hesitation, she took it, got up, and came out of the closet. She kept her eyes on the floor and refused to look at Parnell.
“She’s going to need some warm clothes,” I said.
Felicity let go of my hand and grabbed my shirttail. She gave it a tug and then, still holding my hand, she headed for the bedroom door, pulling me behind her. In the hallway, she turned left toward the master bedroom. There were three dressers in the room, and she pulled me toward a white one on the left. She stopped in front of it, let go of my shirt, and stood there with her arms at her sides, facing the dresser, shifting slowly back and forth from one foot to the other.
I started opening drawers, and removed underwear, pants, shirts, and pajamas. After I put them on the bed, Felicity walked over and selected the items she liked and, presumably, wanted to wear. After searching through a closet, I found a small suitcase and started packing the other items in it.
Felicity stood at the bedside hugging the clothing items she had chosen while I did this, watching me pack and then hand the suitcase to Parnell.
I draped an arm over Felicity’s shoulders and said, “Let’s go into the bathroom and dress, okay?” I nudged her toward the bathroom that was connected to the master bedroom, but she slipped beneath my arm and went down the hall toward her closet hideaway and the other bathroom. I wasn’t sure where she was headed, but let her go and choose. Unfortunately, Dr. Spencer was hauling Sheldon Janssen’s body out at that very moment.
Felicity stood rigid in the hallway, watching them carry the body bag out. Even though the body itself wasn’t visible, I sensed Felicity knew what was inside. Though the rest of her body remained stock-still, one hand hung at her side, and she kept opening and closing it into a fist. The uniformed cops, Miguel Ortega and Hank Johnson, stared back at her, and for a moment this grim tableau was frozen in time.
As soon as the body was outside and the front door of the house had closed, Felicity turned and headed into the empty bedroom. I followed, and by the time I got in there I
saw she had gone into her cubbyhole and closed the door. Parnell and Duncan came in behind me, and the three of us stood there in silence, staring at the back of the closet wall. I’m sure we were all thinking the same thing: would she come back out, or had she gone into hiding again?
“Let’s give her some time,” I said finally. “I don’t think we should push her too hard.”
Parnell, looking impatient, said, “Let me know if and when she reemerges. I have some phone calls to make.” She spun around and left the room.
“Charming woman,” I said to Duncan as soon as she was gone, my tone dripping with sarcasm.
“Take your own advice and give her some time,” Duncan said with a wan smile. “You, and this child, are an acquired taste. It can take some getting used to.”
“I suppose,” I said. “But given what Parnell does for a living, I would have expected her to be more open and understanding.”
Duncan didn’t agree; nor did he disagree. After another span of silence, he said, “I’ll leave you to handle Felicity. I’m going to go out to see how the guys are doing with processing the scene. And I’m going to see if I can find out anything more about where Mal might be.”
I heard—and tasted—the worry in his voice. Where was Mal? Was he okay?
And then I got an idea. I took out my phone and sent a text message to Cora, asking her for a favor. A moment later, she answered me back.
I started pacing, anxious for Felicity to come out of the closet—a term that made me smile as I thought it. I busied myself gathering up the spewed crayons and pieces of paper—a task made difficult by the need to manage my crutches—returning the crayons to the box and putting all the papers into two neat piles, one for the drawings and one for the blank sheets. When I was done with that, I decided Felicity had gone back into hiding and wasn’t going to come out. I was going to have to go in and get her.
Last Call Page 6