Where Bluebirds Fly (7 page)

Ram looked at him; no,
examined
him. Obviously worried.
 

Truman searched the yard, but no car. The git must’ve used the back entrance.
 

Ram picked up as if their conversation had not been separated by eight hours of work.
 

“That would make sense, actually. If she’s a specter, there’s no way you will have to commit, right? It’s the perfect relationship for you. Even better than an Amish lass,” he said in a pathetic attempt at Truman’s accent. “You won’t have to convert.”
 

Truman covered the phone with his hand. His heart was still skipping. He tried to joke. “Dude, I don’t know what continent that was supposed to be from, but it definitely wasn’t mine. India meets Scotland is completely lame.”

Ram stepped into the house, but poked his head back out a second later. “Also, you might want to quit talking to yourself. I don’t think the state will look kindly on granting us wards if the fearless first-mate is certifiable.”

“You’re one to talk—”

But the phone finally stopped ringing, and a woman’s voice picked up. “Hello, this is Stephanie.”

“Hi Steph, it’s True Johnstone. I’m returning your call for the emergency placement the other night.”

“Yes, well, you’re aware
when
I called.”

“I apologize. We had a wee bit of an incident, and then patients started coming, and this is the first chance I’ve had….”
 

And I’m completely mental. Experiencing love at first sight. Or possibly schizophrenia.
 

“Well, I saved him for you, because I don’t think anyone else can handle him.”

Truman closed his eyes, dipping his head backwards.

That means a family history like Running with Scissors.

He took a deep breath. “What’s his story?”

“He’s five. He’s non-verbal. We think from the trauma.”

“Define
the trauma
.”

He checked his watch, and headed into the clinic—he was running out of time. He scribbled notes on a piece of notebook paper.

“His parents died in a fire. Arson. The police suspect…him.”

“How could a five year old willingly—”

She cut across him. “He was I.Q. tested at head start. It’s at 145. He’s a bona fide genius—I knew you’d relate. The boy’s been writing at a fourth grade level and doing multiplication for a year already.”

“He communicates by writing?”

“Yes, and some sign language.”

Truman sat, his head slumped to the desk, and he gently rapped his forehead against its shiny surface. The wood was cool against his sweaty face. “And…I know there’s more. Don’t spare me.”

“He has a feeding tube, his parents were from the low income housing section, and we suspect neglect at best, at worst—abuse.”

“Always I think you can’t surprise me, yet, you always do. It’s a gift, really.”

“He has sensory problems too. Can we bring him over tonight? He’s an orphan now, True, like you were.”

I swear she uses that to manipulate me. Especially when she knows we’re full.

Ram stepped into the clinic, joking demeanor evaporated. His black eyebrows furrowed and he cocked his head, mocking Truman’s posture. He shrugged his shoulders in question.

Truman sighed and put a finger-gun to his head. And pulled the trigger.

The bus beeped outside, and Ram flew out the door.
 

“Yeah, fine. But he’s absolutely the last one. We’re full now.”

* * *

Chapter 5

7:45 a.m.

“This is ridiculous.” Truman yawned into the back of his hand, and gave the house, and his window one final, longing glance— thinking of his bed.

He turned into the rising sun, and stopped dead in the break in the corn, letting it warm his face.

Ram set aside the time for him…for his own personal therapy; it’d be wasteful to squander it. Which was hilarious as he’d refused counseling all of his life.

He shook his head and resumed walking. “What if I don’t like reflection? What if I prefer denial?”

Then you’ll be perpetually screwed up,
the Ram-voice inside his head chastised.

He much preferred the chaos of the house, where there was no time to think.

His past hovered over his sanity like a stalking, mental, serial killer—just waiting for him to lower his defenses.

Like I’m supposed to do now.

He walked without direction, staring at the bright green and yellow-flecked stalks, noting the corn hadn’t ripened.

Mud squished under his trainers. The notebook in his hand felt leaden; it captured the ghosts of his past, housing them in a scribbled limbo.
 

He loved and loathed it simultaneously.

Its old, leather-bound contents began with the ramblings of his thirteen-year-old mind, right up to last week’s painful recollections.
 

He’d been journaling long before Ram prescribed he do it. But now, maybe because it was a ‘mandate’ to his therapy, it felt forced and uncomfortable. Like someone sewing a scratchy decal onto a well-worn, favorite shirt.

His foot struck wood, sending a pang through his toe.

I’m at the North Bridge.

Once his favorite spot, he’d been strategically avoiding it—since his longing-induced hallucination, had chosen it as her haunting place.

He sighed and walked up to the apex, plopping down.

He cracked the journal open, staring at the evolution of his handwriting. From boyish scrawl to…worse, really.

He ground his teeth together, and pressed the pen to the paper.

~ ~ ~

Am I happy? I’m not really sure what that is? I’ve found a place to be, where I’m needed, for the first time—so I guess that is progress.

~ ~ ~

A crackling sound cut through the early morning calm. The walkie-talkie on a nearby stalk buzzed to life.

“Truman? Can you hear me?”

He jogged down the planks to the stalk, depressing the button. “I’m here. What’s going on?”

“You have an add-on patient at eight a.m. You better get up here.”

“So do I get demerits for not journaling?”

“Shut it.” The crackling stopped as Ram flicked off the talkie.

He ran back toward the house, smiling in smug relief.
 

* * *

The stalks are dying. Soon they shall no longer hide me.

I glance back at the Putnam house, knowing I have only moments, the few stolen ones, alone. I crave quiet and solitude—impossible in a house full of children, masters and John.

I stare at the setting sun, thinking of Momma. The tears still come. Not because of the pain. It’s not sharp, but an old ache, accepted but constant, like an old one’s rheumatism.

When I’m alone—my circumstances overwhelm. Like a recurring nightmare. One that comes every night, that I must endure, step by excruciating step—till morning’s light comes to relieve it.

But for me, there shall never be a morning.

I hear the whisper of the hornets, and melancholy’s deep pressure settling against my chest.

I stop, sucking in a breath. The bridge?

It has returned. The night I saw him….it appeared then, beneath my feet without warning.

My eyes return to the household. I cannot see it, the corn is still high—so they cannot see me.

“Is this the work of the Man in Black?”

My heartbeat doubles in time with my breathing.

A book, face-open, lies at the top of the bridge.

I bite my lip. Is this the dark book everyone in Salem has been so afraid of? The one the Dark Man makes them sign, to pledge their allegiance with their souls?

“Be brave. If it is, you must turn it in. It is your responsibility.”

My courage seems to liquefy, pooling and weakening my knees. I step onto the bridge, balling my dress in my hands. I trip the last step, falling on all fours to stare into its open pages. What if the words bewitch me?

My eyes scan the page and I drop to a sit. I gently gather the book into my hands, gaze racing left to right, left to right as I digest the words.
 

~ ~ ~

I thought of ending it today. I am so alone. Alone with only my abnormalities for company. This is the fifth foster placement. I overheard them whispering about me tonight. About how I’m different—too different to stay with them. They already have 3 foster children—all average. 3 girls. I’m the first boy. I’ve tried not talking, to pretend to be normal. I fixed their computer. Instead of being grateful—they stared at me like the freak that I am. I watch her hold the little ones. I’ve never had a mother hold me. Never tell me everything will be alright—even if it’s a lie.

~ ~ ~

Tears cut through the grime on my face. “Never to know a mother’s love. That be dreadful.”

When the memory of that love is the only reason I rise in the morning. And I have John. Who’s difficult, a constant worry—but who’s my flesh and blood. Alone. I thought I was alone. But this writer—he is truly alone. My eyes dart back to the page.

~ ~ ~

If I can just survive two more years…I can become an emancipated minor. Get grants and go to college. And I’ll be alone, again. But free.

~ ~ ~

“Free.”

The word cuts. The impossibility of it.
I will never be free.

My heart aches for this boy, man…what is he? Where is he? So many words I do not understand?

My heart’s been chopped into sections, reassembled, and sewn back together. But it’ll never beat properly; out of time and disorderly.
 

That is precisely what his words say to me.

Far off, a voice calls, “Verity? Where are you?”

Mistress Putnam.

Fear, and a longing I have no right to, fill me in equal measure.

I open my pack which contains John’s tutoring utensils.

I hastily pull out the ink and bite my lip and touch the quill to the parchment and cringe—praying the Dark Man does not appear.

* * *

6:30 p.m.

“I will be back,” Truman called over his shoulder, already two steps into the corn.

“Where are you going?” Ram’s clipped tone echoed behind him.

“What are you, my wife? I forgot to do something. I will be right back. Ten minutes, tops.”

Truman picked up his speed, angling in and out of the rows. He used to run track in high school. He didn’t have a choice. The coach saw him sprint once…and that was all it took. The man was relentless.
 

He was fast. Still was.

The bridge arrived in no time. He felt better when he ran. His mind cleared and uncluttered of all but his breathing.
 

He let his breath exhale in relief. The journal was still there—and it hadn’t rained. He looked up at the brooding sky.

Yet.

He sprinted to the top, swiping it up. Something caught his eye. A corner was turned down. He never did that—the book was so old it couldn’t take the abuse. It had survived a journey from Scotland to the States, and five foster homes.

He opened the page. His eyes widened and he cocked his head, disbelieving.

“What the…?”

He collapsed to the bridge, legs crossed.

He turned the pages, faster and faster, shaking his head.

His finger followed along the loopy handwriting, page after page of it. Someone else’s words…written in his journal. Someone had written in his journal.

~ ~ ~

It’s as if I’m living in a tale my dear mother told me as a child, before bed. Finding this book. Writing my fears into it—perhaps they will leave my head, now. Dear writer—I understand alone. My dear family…was murdered.

~ ~ ~

A tear must’ve streaked the ink, as the next few lines were blurry, unreadable. This made him anxious.

What did they bloody say? What is this?

He glanced up, half expecting to see one of the high school boys guffawing in the corn. But no-one. Dead calm.
 

He quickly flipped the page.

~ ~ ~

I have a brother with me still. I understand alone. The worst for me, is the time between awake and asleep. Where I have no control—and I don’t know what is real. I feel death looking for me, then. Trying to convince me to come along, after all, my parents await.

So, dear writer, I’m listening. I know these words to be bold, and unconventional—to speak so plainly to someone I know not.

But it’s as if I may confess my heart here—in the pages of your powerful book. And your words are powerful. Trust when I say, I am thinking of you, at this very moment, carrying your words and thoughts with me—like a talisman against the dark.