Maybe that was the real reason I hated the idea of the boy in Willie’s room. Every day, every time I saw him or passed by the room, I would see Willie dying on that sidewalk, his little body smashed. How could I look at another boy around his age wearing his clothes, playing with his toys, and sleeping in his bed and not mourn Willie? Why couldn’t anyone else see how true that was? Why wasn’t it as true for them?
Anger returned and ironically gave me the strength to get up and move about. I heard Grandpa come home. Because my door was partly opened, I knew he had gone directly into Willie’s room. I could hear him and Dorian Camden talking. They were saying things with a happy tone for the boy’s benefit, complimenting him on doing the simplest things like finishing his breakfast and his lunch or brushing his teeth. The sound of their laughter was as grating as fingernails on a blackboard. Finally, it grew quiet. I waited to see if Grandpa would come into my room to be sure I was not still ill, but he didn’t. He either went to his own room or went back downstairs. My appetite had returned, so I was eager to go to dinner.
When I reached Willie’s room and looked in, I saw Mrs. Camden preparing the bed table for the boy to have his dinner. She was describing the food and the chocolate cake he would have for dessert. He did look more alert and excited about it. I stood there for a few moments and listened to how sweetly she spoke. I wasn’t jealous. I was actually happy she was so good at her nursing, because it occurred to me that if she really was a great nurse, she might get him well faster, and I still harbored the hope that once he was well enough, he would be gone.
Everyone seemed cheerier at dinner this evening. Mrs. Camden joined us at the table. I was surprised at that. I thought she would have to eat her meals with the boy, if not for any other reason than to be sure he ate his food and didn’t choke on anything. Myra rarely ate with us and only ate with me when my grandfather couldn’t be at dinner. There seemed to be this unspoken rule that those who were employed were not dinner guests, but if that was a rule, Grandpa was happy to break it for Dorian Camden. I could see clearly how pleased he was to have her there. For a while, it was almost as if I wasn’t present, but I didn’t mind, because Grandpa was getting her to tell more about herself, and despite everything, especially how I felt about her being here, I couldn’t help but be interested, too.
“So how long were you at the veterans hospital?” he asked her.
“Nearly ten years. As you can imagine, especially for those who had been injured in some military exercise and had suffered the loss of limbs, there was a great deal of psychological counseling. Of course, we had veterans who had been seriously injured doing other things since they had left the service, but the end result was the same: lots of bitterness and depression. Who’d blame any of them for wanting to forget it all?”
“Probably takes more tender loving care than in other hospitals.”
“A bit more, yes,” she said. She looked at me. “I’m glad you’re feeling better, Clara Sue.”
“Thank you.”
She glanced at my grandfather and then turned back to me. “I’m expecting to get our boy up and about in his new wheelchair this weekend. The stair lift should be installed by then, won’t it, Mr. Arnold?”
“Please. Call me William. Yes, it should be done in one day.”
“Good. We can show him more of the house and the grounds. Clara Sue, you can come along and describe things.”
“Describe things? It’s not a museum or something.”
“Well, it’s still your home, not mine. You can talk about it more. It’s a beautiful property. The landscaping is breathtaking.”
“Won some prizes, eh, Clara Sue?” Grandpa said proudly.
“Yes.”
“I’ll have to show you the trophies,” he told her.
“You have a lovely pool, William,” Mrs. Camden said. “Next summer, he can use the pool for therapy, too.”
“Next summer?” I looked sharply at Grandpa Arnold. “He’ll be here until next summer?”
“I suspect he’ll be here a long time, Clara Sue,” he said. “There’s been no progress in learning about his past. I’ve made a formal request to be his foster parent for the time being.”
“Foster parent? But . . .” I looked at Mrs. Camden. “Won’t he remember everything eventually?”
“Dr. Patrick thinks he will be selective about what he does and doesn’t remember. It might not be enough to track back to what happened. Whatever it was, it was so emotionally traumatic that his mind is repressing it, and that might continue for some time yet. You understand?”
“Yes, I understand,” I said sharply. “I understand that he can pretend to be unable to remember just so he can stay in my brother’s room forever, too.”
Neither she nor my grandfather said anything. They simply stared at me as if I were the weird child. I took a breath. What Myra had said upstairs was true, I thought. Every time I said something bitter, I looked like the bad one. I stared back at my grandfather nevertheless.
“I’m never, ever going to call him Willie,” I said. “He’s not Willie.”
Grandpa didn?
?t change his expression. “That’s fine. I’d rather he simply went by William,” he said.
“That doesn’t make any difference. His name is not William, either.”
“We don’t know that for sure,” Grandpa said. “Could be William.”
“Not William Arnold,” I countered. I could feel the muscles in my neck straining.