Had the girl heard the knock?
“I’ll be right back,” Julia said in a quite ordinary oh-there’s-someone-at-my-door voice. She went to the door and opened it.
Dr. Cerrasin cocked his head to the right, where two white-clad male orderlies stood. One held a large box; the other held a tray of food. “The food and toys are here.”
“Thanks.”
“No response yet?”
“No, and it’s impossible to diagnose her this way. I need to study her. Actions, reactions, movements. That damn bed makes it impossible.”
“Whatcha want us to do with this stuff?” asked one of the orderlies.
“I’ll take the stuffed animals. Store the rest of the toys for now. She’s hardly ready for that kind of play. The food can go on the table. And be quiet. I don’t want to scare her any more than she already is.” To Max, she said, “Does this town still have a library the size of my car?”
“It’s small,” he admitted, “but with the Internet, you have access to everything. The library went online last year.” He smiled charmingly. “There was a parade.”
She felt a moment’s connection to him then. They were the outsiders, laughing at small-town customs. When she realized that he’d made her smile, she stepped back. “There always is.” She started to say something else—she wasn’t even sure what, when it struck her.
Move the bed. How had she missed the obvious?
She spun around and shut the door, realizing a moment too late that she’d shut it in Max’s face. Oops. Oh, well. She went to the nearest orderly, who was just setting down a tray of food, and said, “Take the bed out of here, please, but leave the mattress.”
“Huh?”
“We’re not furniture movers, miss,” the other man said.
“Doctor,” she pointed out. “Are you telling me that you two aren’t strong enough to help me?”
“Of course we’re strong enough,” the taller man sputtered as he set down the box of stuffed animals.
“Good. Then what’s the problem?”
“Come on, Fredo. Let’s move the bed before the doc here starts wantin’ a fridge.”
“Thank you. There’s a child under there. Try not to scare her.”
One of the men turned to her. “Why don’t you tell her to come out?”
“Just move the bed, please. Carefully. Put the mattress in the corner.”
They placed the mattress where she’d indicated, lifted the bed off the floor, and backed out of the room. The door clicked shut behind them, but Julia didn’t notice. All she saw was her patient.
Crouched low, the girl opened her mouth to scream.
Come on, Julia thought, let me hear you.
But there was no sound as the child scrambled back to the wall and froze. She went perfectly still.
Julia was reminded of a chameleon settling into its environment. But the poor kid couldn’t change color, couldn’t disappear. She was all-too-noticeable against the speckled gray linoleum floor and bright yellow
wall. So still she seemed to be carved of pale wood, her only sign of life was her nostrils, which flared as if to pick up every scent.
For the first time, Julia noticed the child’s beauty. Though the girl was wretchedly thin, she was still striking. She stared near Julia, but not quite at her, as if there were a dangerous animal to Julia’s left that bore watching. Her expression was both bland and strangely obsessive; it gave nothing away but missed nothing, either. There was no curve to her mouth at all; no indication of displeasure or curiosity, and her eyes—those amazing, blue-green eyes—were serious and watchful.
Julia was surprised by the lack of fear in those eyes. Perhaps she was looking at the other side of fear. What happened to a child when fear had been the norm forever . . . did it melt into watchfulness?
“You’re almost looking at me,” she said in as conversational a tone as possible. Eye contact was important. Autistics routinely didn’t make eye contact until or unless they’d undergone significant therapy. On her pad, she wrote: Mute? Her sister had said the girl made noises, but Julia hadn’t heard it for herself. Besides, her sister had also implied prodigious jumping and tree-climbing skills. “I imagine you’re scared. Everything that’s happened to you since yesterday has been frightening. It would make anyone cry.”