September Canvas Page 14

  Faythe nearly lost her breath completely. Deanna slid up to her and looked her over seriously. “You seem a bit flustered, my dear. Can I assist you somehow to regain your composure, and your breath?”

  “No. No, I’m fine. Honestly.” Faythe eyed Deanna carefully.

  She hadn’t expected Deanna’s new playful side. “And I can’t help but wonder how come you’re so witty and chipper today.”

  “Oh, that’s easy. I’ve met a deadline. I took digital pictures of my illustrations for the next Bunny Buttercup book, e-mailed them off, and the publisher and the writer both loved them.”

  “That’s fantastic. We should celebrate. As long as I can keep my foot off the floor once in a while, I’m open to suggestions.”

  “Yeah?” Deanna hesitated. “Would you like to go on a picnic?”

  “That sounds wonderful.”

  “It’s a community picnic, of sorts, at my sister’s school. Miranda and all the other students will be there.”

  “Your parents too?”

  Deanna still looked friendly, but her shoulders stiffened. “No, not this time.”

  “Ah. Well, I look forward to meeting your sister. Is she as talented artistically as you are?”

  “I don’t know. She’s not able to concentrate on things long enough for us to notice any particular gifts.” Deanna looked seriously at Faythe. “Miranda has autism.”

  “Oh, I see.” Faythe knew quite a bit about autism, having done a series about childhood disabilities for the network. “How old is Miranda?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “Is she enrolled in a good school?”

  “The best, according to my mother and stepfather.” Her contempt was almost palpable.

  “Well, I look forward to meeting Miranda. When’s the picnic?”

  “At four o’clock.”

  Faythe decided to be completely honest. “I look forward to it. I’ve spent time around kids diagnosed with autism. I won’t approach Miranda until she’s ready.”

  Deanna’s expression softened, a welcome change that Faythe thought she’d never grow tired of seeing. She stopped in mid-thought and couldn’t remember feeling this confused since her parents’ divorce.

  She shoved the disturbing comparison out of her mind.

  “So, how about we order one of those take-out picnic baskets from the bakery on Main Street?” Deanna asked.

  “Sounds good.”

  “I’ll go make the call. You rest, okay?”

  “Bossy, aren’t we?” Faythe thought her broad grin would crack her face. “Okay, okay, I’ll rest.” She leaned back against the pillows and sighed in relief when Deanna left the room. Still, she wanted to call out to Deanna to come back and hold her. She grimaced. “Ain’t gonna happen,” she mumbled to herself. “I’m not her type. Sometimes I wonder if I’m anybody’s type.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The day promised to be one of the last Indian-summer days with a warm, glowing sun in an azure blue sky dotted with cotton-candy clouds. Deanna carried the basket with bread, fruit, and a thermos of coffee in one hand and a cooler full of sodas, brie cheese, and slices of roast beef. There was also a surprise in the basket for Miranda. Faythe had asked if Miranda had a favorite food, and Deanna thought immediately of oatmeal cookies. Miranda would do just about anything for one.

  Faythe had hobbled into the bakery with Deanna and picked out some oatmeal cookies and insisted on paying for them. “They’re a present for your sister,” she said stubbornly. “They’re big enough, you think?”

  “Any bigger and they’ll fill her up like a three-course meal,” Deanna said. “Once she gets going on those types of cookies, she goes crazy. She’s supposed to stay away from sugar, since it boosts her energy too much, but she’ll need a lot this afternoon, so she should be fine.”

  “So if I get three of them? With or without raisins?”

  “Without,” Deanna said, remembering when she’d bought oatmeal cookies with raisins a year ago. Miranda thought the raisins were little bugs and it took Deanna and Irene Costa over an hour to calm her down. Faythe limped back to the car with the small bag of cookies, looking expectantly at Deanna as they strapped themselves in. “Is it far? The school, I mean?”

  “No, it’s on the other side of town, in a beautiful park, overlooking open countryside.” Deanna pulled out into the nearly empty street. She was driving Faythe’s Crossfire since her old piece of junk was at the garage having the radiator fixed.

  “Sounds like a perfect place.”

  “I suppose.” Deanna knew she sounded short, but it was hard to think of the school as beneficial.

  “You don’t sound sure.”

  “Oh, the school is great. Their autism program is cutting edge, and they’ve just opened a new wing for children diagnosed with severe neuropsychiatric disorders.”

  “You mean like ADHD?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sounds good. Disorders can really handicap a kid socially.”

  “So true.”

  “I still get the feeling something bothers you about Miranda’s situation.”

  “Nothing to do with the school.” Deanna sighed.

  “All right. I won’t pry. For now. I’ll attack when you have your guard down, or when I’ve distracted you with my naked body.”

  “What?” Deanna jerked the wheel slightly.

  “Hey, watch the road, driver.” Faythe pointed out the windshield. “Innocent bystanders at two o’clock.”

  “What were you saying about naked body?” Deanna refused to let Faythe off the hook.

  “I’m a ruthless journalist, remember?” Faythe wiggled her well-plucked eyebrows. “I’m not beyond using my assets to get my hands on a story.”

  “Did you just say ‘using your ass,’ Faythe? I’m shocked.” The friendly banter, spiced with sexual innuendo, made Deanna feel liberated.

  “I said ‘assets’ and you heard me.” Faythe stuck her nose in the air and huffed theatrically. “I’ve never used my ass in that manner, my good woman.”

  “Really? You don’t know what you’re missing.”

  “Deanna!” Faythe snorted. “You’re as naughty as I am. Actually, I think you’re worse.”

  “What do you mean? Did you think I was kidding?” Deanna deadpanned. “I was entirely serious.”

  “I think not.”

  Deanna couldn’t stop a wide grin from forming. “No?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, my dear, we’re both saved by the bell. The school bell, as it were.” Deanna turned and drove through some gates where she waved at the guard on duty. She’d been coming here three times a week for nine years, so they recognized her on sight.

  “Just so you know,” Faythe said as Deanna maneuvered the car into the nearly full parking lot, “I may let you go for now, but I have a good memory for details.” She uttered the last word an octave lower, obviously joking, but Deanna shivered.

  “Duly noted.”

  They walked and hobbled respectively toward a big lawn where tables formed a U-shape. People were unpacking baskets and coolers while they were chatting.

  “Deanna. Over here! Look, Miranda. There’s Deanna now.” Irene Costa came up, holding Miranda’s hand. Miranda was dressed in blue jeans and a red and white sweater. At first, she looked like any teenager, but up close, her vacant look, mixed with fear and suspicion, told a different story.

  “Deanna,” Miranda said. When Miranda spoke her name, which she rarely did, Deanna choked up and merely hugged her. She wasn’t surprised or offended when Miranda immediately tried to break free.

  She didn’t like to be touched and could become annoyed quickly, even throw a temper tantrum.

  Deanna gestured for Faythe to follow them to the table Irene had reserved. Miranda had set the table and made the decorations, so Deanna fussed over everything. The decorations truly were exquisite.

  Miranda had combined petals from late-blooming flowers and different grasses to create napkin rings and a cente
rpiece that any florist would be proud to display.

  The sight of Faythe clutching her bag of cookies while trying to balance herself on her crutches made Deanna flinch. “Oh, God, where’s my head? You’ve got to sit down and—”

  “—elevate.” Faythe grinned. “No worries. I’m fine.” She sat down with a thud, in spite of her brave words, and Deanna watched Miranda busily rearrange the napkin rings on the other side of the table.

  “This is so pretty, Miranda,” she said. “You’re really getting the hang of working with plants and flowers.” Miranda didn’t look up, but nodded with emphasis. “Live material.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Irene explained. “Miranda and I have spent the last few days discussing the difference between live materials and inanimate objects.” She smiled encouragingly toward Miranda. “Deanna will be really proud when she finds out how well you understand.” Deanna was stunned. Life, death, and non-living things were abstract concepts that some people with autism had a hard time grasping.

  It was amazing for Miranda to even care about learning the difference.

  “Incredible,” Faythe whispered from her side of the table. “That’s huge, Deanna.”

  “I know.” Deanna smiled at Faythe. “Pretty darn remarkable.”

  “Sure is.”

  Miranda looked in Faythe’s direction. Deanna knew she wasn’t meeting Faythe’s eyes, but looking at her eyebrows or hairline.

  “Miranda, Irene, this is Faythe, a friend of mine.” Miranda kept fiddling with the napkin holder, her fingers working faster and faster. When Faythe didn’t say anything, Miranda became increasingly curious. Until recently, she’d never displayed curiosity or any other emotion. Now she glanced back and forth, probably trying to judge where Faythe fit into the scheme of things.

  Used to waiting while Miranda figured things out, which could sometimes take days, Deanna unpacked the picnic basket. Faythe reached for the cooler, avoiding eye contact with Miranda.

  Deanna checked her watch. It had taken Miranda less than ten minutes to come this far. Was this a day for miracles?

  “Nice person?”

  “Excuse me, honey?” Deanna said, turning toward Miranda again. Miranda didn’t repeat her question, but instead tugged at Irene’s shirt. “What is it, Miranda?” Irene enunciated.

  Miranda took more flowers from a plastic bag and pushed them together on the table. She tugged at Irene’s shirt again. “Nice person.”

  “Oh. I see. Well, here you go, Miranda.” Irene gave her a plastic ring and some nylon strings.

  Miranda stuck the tip of her tongue out the corner of her mouth while she created another napkin ring. When she was done she sat with it between her motionless hands, not looking up at either one of them.

  Irene caressed Miranda’s soft, feathered hair and waited. Deanna held her breath.

  “Nice…person.” Miranda suddenly pushed the napkin ring lined with flowers toward Faythe. “Here-you-go.” Irene nodded at Faythe.

  “Thank you, Miranda. This is beautiful. You’re very talented, like your sister.”

  “Deanna.”

  “Yes, like Deanna.” Faythe grinned and looked at Deanna. “You’re both artists.”

  Deanna watched Miranda mull this over, though anyone who didn’t know would think she was lost in her own world. Letting Miranda alone, Deanna arranged the last of the food they’d brought. Miranda wasn’t picky about food, but she carefully examined everything she put in her mouth, which was time consuming.

  “Good to meet you, Faythe,” Irene said. “I wanted Miranda to take her time and finish her initial greeting before I said hello.”

  “I understand. Nice to meet you too, Irene. You’re one of the teachers?” Faythe extended a hand to Irene.

  “Not officially,” Irene said. “I’m Miranda’s special contact between her and the floor staff in her wing. I’m also an assistant teacher in the arts program.”

  “And Miranda’s a natural, isn’t she?”

  “She is. She perceives space and pays attention to detail extremely well. She can search for hours for the right blade of grass or flower petal.” Irene looked over at Miranda, who nodded solemnly. “And when you do, you can create just about anything, can’t you, Miranda?” Irene looked proudly at her student.

  “Hm-mm-hm-mm-hm-mm…” Miranda drummed her fingertips against the table as she hummed her odd little tune.

  “What’s the matter, honey?” Deanna asked and looked around.

  “Something wrong?” Faythe asked.

  “Oh, Lord,” Deanna heard Irene whisper. “I’m sorry, Deanna. I had no idea.”

  “Mother and Percy…and they brought the brats.” Deanna spoke between clenched teeth. She couldn’t believe her mother would so blatantly disregard everything Deanna had written in Miranda’s folder.

  Determined not to cause a scene that would make things worse for Miranda, she stood as her mother, stepfather, and his two teenage daughters approached. If her mother wouldn’t put Miranda’s needs before her own, Deanna would make sure she herself would.

  “Mom,” she greeted her small, elegant parent now less than ten feet away. Miranda focused on a croissant, and hadn’t noticed the newcomers. “Why don’t we walk over to the parking lot and discuss this initiative of yours.”

  “Discuss?” Angela Moore stood defiant in front of her. “There’s nothing to discuss. I’m visiting my daughter on the yearly picnic as I always do.”

  “You are unbelievable.” Deanna hissed low enough for Miranda not to hear, but everybody else did. “You show up, without even notifying the staff so they could prepare her, and you bring them.” She snapped her head in the direction of Percy Bodell and his two daughters.

  “Pipe down, why don’t you?” the closest one, a pretty, but sullen, blonde said. “It’s not like we wanted to come.” Her voice carried easily over the sound of people talking at the tables around them.

  “Trista!” Percy growled. “What did we say before we left the house?”

  That they’d get another pair of Prada shoes if they came along and played the nice sisters? Deanna was ready to throttle Trista, but the girl backed off when her father glared at her.

  “Apologize to Deanna,” Percy insisted. Trista blushed furiously and Deanna wished he hadn’t pushed it. Didn’t he know his own daughter?

  “I won’t.” Trista raised her voice again. “She’s not part of our family.”

  “Deanna?” a small voice said from behind. Deanna whirled and saw Irene Costa there with Miranda in her arms and Faythe right next to them. Miranda was breathing in fast, shallow breaths. “Deanna? Mama? It’s Saturday. S-Saturday.”

  “Gawd, look at her. What a waste,” Trista said.

  “One more word out of you…” Deanna said quietly, and her obvious vehemence seemed to find its mark because Trista paled and took a step back. Turning to Miranda, Deanna held out her arms.

  “Honey, it’s all right. Come here. It’s all right.”

  “No…not all right. No napkins. No plates. It’s Saturday.” Miranda stood there shaking, her mind obviously trying to take everything in.

  Deanna looked at her mother. “Why did you have to do it this way? She’s working herself up to a state.”

  “You’re the one who started shouting,” Angela said angrily.

  “Not true,” Deanna said so quietly she was nearly whispering. “Lower your voice and Irene might just help her through this without having to sedate her. She’s looked forward to this picnic for a long time.”

  “Sedate her? Is that what you do here? Drug her senseless?” Angela was obviously too angry by now to lower her voice, and Deanna’s heart broke when Miranda cried out behind them.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Faythe had never seen such fury on Deanna’s face, or anybody else’s. Pale, she pressed equally white lips together as she stalked toward her mother, who stumbled back as Deanna towered over her. “Angela,” Deanna said, “you’ve caused enough trouble with your though
tlessness. Take Percy and the kids and leave.”

  “You’re the one causing a scene,” Percy chimed in. “If you hadn’t, we’d be all having some barbecue by now.”

  “Percy, shut up.” Deanna was trembling visibly as she gestured in Miranda’s direction. “Can’t you see?”

  Miranda had stopped wailing, but was whimpering like a wounded animal. Faythe reacted without thinking and moved closer to Irene and the distraught girl. “Hey, Miranda,” she whispered, and plucked a few leftover flowers from the table, while balancing on one crutch. “Here, sweetie. Hold on to these. They’re yours, aren’t they?” Miranda, still sobbing, reached out for the flowers and held them gently in her hand. She let go of Irene and cradled her other hand around the flowers in a protective gesture.

  Irene came to the rescue also. “Faythe, why don’t Miranda and I move to the other side of the lawn? The last wildflowers are still in bloom. Take your time on those crutches. We’ll be right over there.” She pointed at a small cluster of maples. Nodding curtly toward the Bodells, she guided Miranda across the lawn. Faythe shuffled on her crutches behind them.

  When they reached the maples, Miranda simply sat down in the grass, caressing the stems up to the petals.

  “Good thinking, Irene.” Faythe maneuvered into a sitting position on a stump, trying to ignore her throbbing foot.

  “Comes with experience and from knowing Miranda. It was clever of you to distract her with the flowers. Have you worked with autistic kids before?”

  “No, only come across them very briefly.” Faythe glanced at Miranda. “She’s a sweet girl. She shouldn’t be exposed to all those rampaging emotions.”

  “I know. They rarely visit on the same day. I can understand Angela wanting to be part of the picnic celebration, but I never thought she’d blatantly disregard her agreement with the clinic and Deanna.”

  “Jesus, I thought they would throttle each other.” Faythe couldn’t forget Deanna’s fury. “Will you be okay looking after Miranda here? Now that she’s out of earshot, Deanna probably won’t hold back. She needs to consider the other kids here too.”