Secret Brother

“Who?”

“William,” she said.

“Really.” I tried to sound as if I didn’t care, but a part of me was very interested.

“It’s a good sign. He’s reaching out. It’s like someone folded up inside, the way you might make a fist, and gradually, the fingers relax and the hand begins to open again. You could be a big part of that happening.”

“Whoop-de-do.”

“Aren’t you in the least bit interested in him, in where he comes from and what happened to him?”

“If it leads to him going home, yes,” I said. “He’s living in my brother’s room and using my brother’s name.”

She considered. “Well, it might lead to that,” she said. I looked at her hopefully. “Depending on whether it would be a good idea for him to be sent back to that home, of course. It also c

ould lead to an investigation that would result in his going to live with relatives or someplace else.”

“Someplace else? Like a foster home? An orphanage?”

“Possibly.”

“My grandfather wouldn’t permit it, I bet.”

She looked at the equipment. “Well, it’s nice, rewarding, to help him find his way. Just give it a chance, and you’ll see what I mean.” She smiled at me and walked on to the kitchen.

“Not everyone dreams of being a nurse,” I called after her. I was sure she was pretending she didn’t hear me. “Forget this,” I muttered, and went back up the stairs to begin my homework. As I passed Willie’s room, I thought I heard a small voice call my name.

“Clara Sue.”

I stopped and listened, but I didn’t hear it again, or maybe I had imagined it. Maybe I wanted to hear it, because it did sound like Willie calling me the way he used to when I tried to ignore him because I wanted to talk to friends or get homework done. Whenever I had done that, I had suffered aching guilt. There was no doubt that he missed our parents even more than I did and that after Grandma Arnold passed away, he sank even deeper into himself, moving about like someone who had been stung so many times by angry bees that he was terrified of stepping outside. He was still a child at heart. He needed more love than I could give him, and to be truthful, I doled it out the way travelers in a desert rationed water.

Hearing nothing more, I continued to my room and closed the door. I attacked my homework with a vengeance. Every ordinary thing I did now seemed fueled with just as much anger as ambition or responsibility. I was still striking back at the world. I wondered if I would ever stop.

As if he could hear my thoughts hundreds of miles away, Uncle Bobby phoned me. “Hey,” he said. “How’s my Clair de Lune?”

“Surviving,” I said.

“That’s a start. You’re back in school, right?”

“Right. I’m going to a party on Friday, too,” I said, as if something like that was an amazing accomplishment. Perhaps it was.

“Good. Get back into the shake and roll of things. We had a good opening with the show, and I can tell you for sure that I’ll be in New York next year.”

“I’m so happy for you, Uncle Bobby.”

“Thanks. So how’s the general?”

“Busy. You’ll have to check visiting hours before you come next time.”

“What?”

“He’s moving therapy equipment into the den. He’s hired a private-duty nurse and a therapist to be here daily. And there’s the psychiatrist. I’m not sure how often she comes yet. I live in another world.”

“What’s the nurse like?”

“She’s . . . she’s okay. She wants me to help her with the poisoned boy, who, you know, is now William.”

“Just because he uses his room?”