Ghost Girl (2 page)

I knew immediately who this was—Jade Ekdahl-simply because she was the only girl in the class. What had caught my eye immediately in reading Jade’s file was the fact that she was an elective mute. Although reportedly she talked at home, at school she had never uttered a word to anyone. Indeed, not only did she not talk, she also did not laugh, cry, cough, burp, hiccup or even sniffle, which, tales had it, left snot to drip inelegantly down from her nose into her lap. She had been retained an extra year in kindergarten in hopes that time might help her overcome her speaking difficulties, but nothing had changed. She’d been promoted on to first grade, where she seemed competent enough at her schoolwork, but she was dismally isolated. Still not speaking at the end of that year and by now almost eight, she was moved down the hall to this room.

The reason that Jade’s case had caught my eye was that for the better part of the previous ten years, from college right through my work at the Sandry Clinic, my special research interest had been elective mutism. Fascinated by this disturbance, in which an individual is physically and intellectually capable of speaking normally but refuses to do so for psychological reasons, I had worked with these children extensively. Now I found it quirky that on finally deciding to end all that, who should turn up in my class but another elective mute. You’re blessed with them, Mr. Tinbergen had remarked when I pointed out this coincidence. I’d replied something along the lines of not so much being blessed with them as haunted by them.

“Good morning, Jadie,” Mr. Tinbergen said. “Come on in. This is your new teacher. Your real teacher, not just another substitute.”

Jadie—as everyone called her—glanced up at me briefly and then scuttled by to hang up her coat in the cloakroom. What I noticed immediately was her posture, quite unlike anything I’d previously encountered while treating elective mutes. Hunched over almost double, she had her arms crossed and tucked up under her, as if she were clutching an unwieldy load of books. I made a mental note to inquire about scoliosis.

The two final pupils arrived by bus and so came into the classroom together. Six-year-old Philip was a small skinny black kid with a horsey-looking face. His hair was cut very short and his two front teeth stuck out, emphasizing the equine likeness. Born in Chicago to a mother addicted to hard drugs, Philip had had a very unpromising start to life. He’d been premature, addicted himself, and had failed to thrive throughout much of his first year of life. As he passed through a series of foster homes during the times his mother felt unable to cope with him, his development had been slow, erratic, and often unreported so that when, at age three, he was finally taken permanently from his mother’s care, no one had any realistic idea what Philip was capable of. When he was five, he was placed in a long-term foster home with a local couple who had taken several other “hard-to-place” children and were raising them successfully. Without a doubt, the newfound warmth and stability were good for Philip, but he had made dishearteningly little progress. Although he grunted and gestured, he still had virtually no speech. He urinated in the toilet but would only open his bowels when wearing a special diaper, which had resulted in horrific bouts of constipation and frequently soiled pants. And he had made almost no academic progress in two years at school. A class for mildly mentally handicapped children probably would have been a more appropriate placement for his educational needs; however, Philip’s behavior made him unwelcome. Racked with fears, he was withdrawn and unwilling to approach new situations, and when frustrated, he responded with panicky violence.

The final student was Jeremiah, eight. A native American of Sioux descent, he was the oldest of five children in a family eking out a living doing God-knows-what on a five-acre tract of land littered with rusting car bodies and old stoves. Jeremiah was a fighter. His pugnacious behavior was so extreme, his mouth so foul that the parents in his previous school had banded together to keep him from returning, even with resource help. So he’d ended up here in a last-ditch attempt to save him from custodial detention. I had an irrational love for this sort of kid, for the loud, feisty, streetwise ones who never knew quite how to quit, and the moment I saw him with his black hair stuck straight up, as if it had never seen a comb, and his cocky little rooster strut, I knew I’d found another one.

“Well, children,” Mr. Tinbergen said cheerfully, when everyone had arrived, “guess what? This is your new teacher.
Your
new teacher. Not just another substitute, but your own teacher. Miss Hayden. Miss Torey Hayden. And she says you may call her Torey. That’s what her other boys and girls have called her. So let’s say hello to Torey.”

All four children stared at me. No one spoke.

“Well, come on, now. Let’s make Torey feel welcome. Reuben? Can you say good morning?”

“Good morning,” Reuben echoed in a singsong falsetto.

“Philip?”

Philip grunted and hid his head in his arms.

“Jeremiah?”

His grunt was not much more intelligible than Philip’s.

“And Jadie says hello, too, don’t you, Jadie?” Then Mr. Tinbergen turned to me. “Welcome to P.S. 168. Welcome to our school.”

I smiled self-consciously.

“And now, I’ll let you go. I’m sure you’re anxious to get on with things.” With that, Mr. Tinbergen finally went out the door.

Pressing it gently shut behind him, I turned back to the class, to the four of them sitting around the table. “Well,” I said, “good morning. Good morning to you, Philip. And to you, Reuben. And to you, Jeremiah. And good morning to you. Jade—Jadie? Is that what you like people to call you?”

“She don’t talk, so you might as well not make a point of it,” Jeremiah said.

“I can still talk to her,” I replied.

“Oh Jesus,” Jeremiah replied and rolled his eyes. “You’re not going to be one of
them
teachers, are you? Not one of them always wanting her own way.”

“Is that what you’re worried about?” I asked.

“Is that what you’re worried about?” he mimicked perfectly. “Oh Jesus, you guys, listen to her. Listen to that boogy old broad.”

I grinned. Back in the saddle again.

T
hat first morning was hell. No use pretending otherwise. Jeremiah was a nightmare. Every time my back was turned, he bolted out the door. He never went far, usually didn’t even leave the building, but since he knew the building, whereas I didn’t, he had no trouble eluding me. If I left him to his own devices and refused to chase him, he dashed up and down the corridors, banging on the other classroom doors. On one occasion, he got into the office and messed up all the internal mail. On another, he pulled off toilet paper and blocked all the toilets in both the boys’
and
the girls’ rest rooms. And one time when I did chase after him, he got back into the classroom when I was out looking for him and locked me out. This was all before 11:30.

In contrast, Philip huddled in his chair and whimpered, cringing away from me every time I approached. When I tried to encourage him to join in the singing or listen to a story, he clamped his hands over his ears, squeezed his eyes shut, and rocked the chair frantically back and forth.

Reuben was in a frenzy most of the time. Up, out of his chair, he sailed around the room, deftly touching the wall with his fingertips as he moved and all the while making a soft, whirring sound. Then he’d stop, momentarily mesmerized by a dangling pull on the roller blind or some other odd object, but before I could corral him and try to reorient him, he would shoot off again. And toilet trained he may have been, but twice he whipped down his pants and peed into the trash can beside the bookshelf.

In the middle of all this was Jadie, carrying on as if she were in a completely normal classroom. Without being instructed to do so, she ferreted out her workbooks for math and reading, sat down and completed a few pages, returned them to be corrected, found a spelling sheet on the shelf, did that, handed it into the basket on the teacher’s desk, then sought out a cassette, put it into the recorder, and slipped the earphones on. Occasionally, she would glance in my direction as I struggled with the boys, but otherwise she seemed impervious to my presence.

I felt immense relief when the lunch bell rang. Jeremiah, whom I’d just recaptured, heard it, too, and was out the door and down the hall before I could catch him. The second-grade teacher, whose room was next door to mine, was already out in the hallway lining up her children when I bolted by after Jeremiah. She smiled warmly and put her hand out. “I’ll catch him on the way down,” she said.

“Thanks,” I replied in a heartfelt tone.

I must have looked as overwhelmed as I was feeling, because she smiled again in the same warm, sympathetic way. “Want me to take your others with mine? I’m going down to the lunchroom anyway.”

“That’d be really great.”

Going back into the classroom, I was dismayed to discover that now Jadie, too, had disappeared. I returned to the hall with Philip and Reuben.

“Oh, she goes home for lunch. She lives just across the street, so she doesn’t eat here,” the teacher replied when I explained that I’d lost another one. She abruptly extended her hand. “By the way, I’m Lucy McLaren. Welcome aboard.”

I hung out my tongue in an expression of exhaustion. “I usually do better than this. Even on first days. But they’ve got the advantage at the moment. They know the ropes and I don’t.”

“Don’t worry about it. You’re doing all right. You’ve already lasted longer than a couple of the substitutes. There was one that left after about half an hour.” And she laughed.

Back in the empty classroom, I threw myself down into one of the small chairs with the idea of catching my breath a moment before going down for the grand entrance into the teachers’ lounge, an experience almost on a par with facing a new class. Five minutes’ relaxation, I thought, and then I’d get my lunch and go down.

Abruptly, a scuffling rattle came from the cloakroom. Relaxed almost to a point of sleepiness in the silent classroom, I was badly startled by the noise. Jerking upright in the chair, I could feel my heart pounding in my throat.

Jadie appeared in the cloakroom doorway.

“You’re still here? I thought you’d gone home for lunch.”

Because of her hunched posture, Jadie had to tilt her head back at a difficult angle and peer through her eyebrows to see me, but look at me she did, her gaze steady and intent.

I, too, studied her. Her hair was very dark, almost black, as were her brows and lashes. Her eyes, in contrast, were a clear, pure blue. With her scruffy homemade clothes and tangled mass of hair, she wasn’t exactly pretty, but there was a knowing, almost come-hither kind of expression in her eyes that lent her a certain beauty.

“You want to know something?” I asked.

No response. No step nearer, no blink, not even a breath that I could see.

“Come over here.” I patted the chair next to mine at the table.

Laboriously, she hobbled across the classroom. Her eyes remained on me but her expression was unreadable. She didn’t sit down.

“You know what I did before I came here?”

No response.

“I worked in a special clinic up in the city and you know what? I worked with boys and girls just like you, who had a hard time talking.”

Jadie’s eyes searched my face.

“Isn’t that amazing, that first I was there and now I’m here with you? Boys and girls just like you. It was my own special job, helping them.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Did you know there were others like you? Who found it impossible to talk at school?”

A long pause and then very, very faintly, she shook her head.

I sat back and smiled. “There are. Not very many, which is why it’s a bit of a coincidence, your being in this class, but I’ve known a lot of them. And it was my own special job, helping them be able to talk again.”

The pupils of Jadie’s eyes dilated, and for the first time she let slip the expressionless mask. A look of incredulity crossed her features.

Lowering my head like an ostrich in need of chiropractic help, I stuck my neck out and peered upward into her face to see her fully. I smiled. “You don’t quite believe me, do you? Did you think you were all alone in feeling like you do? Did you think nobody knew about these things?”

No response.

“It’s scary, isn’t it, being all alone, not being able to tell anyone how you feel.”

Again, the very faint nod.

Again, I smiled. “Aren’t we lucky that you and I are going to be together? I’ve helped all those other children. Now I’m here to help you.”

Her eyes grew watery, and for a brief moment, I thought she was going to cry, but she didn’t. Instead, she clutched her unbuttoned coat closed, turned tail, and ran, shutting the classroom door firmly behind her.

Over the lunch hour I set up the painting easel and mixed several pots of tempera paints. Within minutes of getting back into the classroom, Jeremiah discovered the paints and busied himself stirring the colors together. I separated him and the paints and then went off to catch Reuben, only to come back moments later and find Jeremiah painting lunchboxes. This distressed Philip immensely, as his Superman lunchbox was now a pale shade of mud brown; so I sent Jeremiah back to the sink with the lunchbox to wash it before the paint dried. The potential for mess created by combining Jeremiah, a sinkful of water, and a paint-covered lunchbox was not something I had fully appreciated until that moment, and by two o’clock I was making the acquaintance of Mr. O’Banyon, the janitor, and his mop bucket. Compared to the morning, however, this was an improvement.