6. Jessica

BEFORE

School came as a rude shock. To Jessica and Miss Fairchild both.

"I don't want to go," Jessica said on her first day. Her arms were wrapped around Miss Fairchild's legs tightly, a pair of handcuffs. "I'm not going."

The classroom felt loud and cluttered and chaotic and made Jessica yearn for home, where she knew where everything was and who was looking after her. Compared to Wild Meadows, school felt barbaric.

"It's all right, honey," said Miss Ramirez, her prep teacher. She squatted beside Jessica, whose head was buried in Miss Fairchild's skirt. "We're going to have a lot of fun. And at the end of the day, Mummy will be here to pick you up, okay?"

Jessica looked up at her. Miss Fairchild nodded; her eyes were also full of tears.

"Maybe I should stay for a bit…" she started, but Miss Ramirez was firm.

"No. Let's start as we mean to go on."

Jessica howled as Miss Fairchild walked away. And, for the next few hours, she stared out the window, hoping to see her mother hurrying back to declare it was all a misunderstanding. It was only when Miss Ramirez asked her to organize the colored pencils into containers that Jessica turned away from the window. Since she was stuck here, she might as well help.

After the pencils, she did the crayons and the textas. When she was done, she asked Miss Ramirez if there was anything else that needed organizing.

"Jessica!" the teacher exclaimed. "Have you done all this? My goodness, aren't you a miracle. Class, what do we say to Jessica for organizing all our things so beautifully?"

"Thank you, Jessica," they droned at her.

Jessica had to admit that she didn't hate it.

By the end of the day the craft supplies cupboard was in perfect order. It broke Jessica's heart a little to hear that, tomorrow, they'd be getting things out of there again. Just when it was looking so good!

When they burst out of the classroom, Miss Fairchild was standing at the front of a pack of anxious-looking mothers watching the gate. Jessica ran headlong into her arms.

"I was so worried!" she said, bending to cover Jessica in kisses. "Are you okay?"

"Yes!" Jessica said. "I organized the craft cupboard and washed the paintbrushes and sorted the paper into color piles. And I made a friend! Bonnie and I colored in a picture of a fish!"

"Bonnie?" Miss Fairchild stood up straight. Blinked. "How wonderful."

Jessica slid her hand into Miss Fairchild's, ready to answer all her questions and describe every minute of her day. But Miss Fairchild didn't say another word. Didn't ask a single question about school. They walked the entire forty-five minutes home in silence.

That afternoon, Miss Fairchild suggested a swim.

"No," Jessica said. She had a fear of swimming. Jessica had a fear of most things she didn't know how to do. She'd been in the pool just a handful of times, and only under duress while wearing her float. Each time Miss Fairchild had said, "Next time, no float, okay?"

"Come on, you have to learn to swim sometime," she cajoled. "Everyone else at school will be able to swim. You don't want to be the only one who can't swim, do you?"

It was a smart strategy. Jessica wanted to fit in. She certainly didn't want to be the only one who couldn't do something. More important, she wanted to please Miss Fairchild.

"All right," she said. "But I want to wear my float."

Miss Fairchild agreed, but filled the float with so little air that Jessica doubted it would be very helpful.

"It needs more air!" Jessica whined.

But Miss Fairchild was firm. "I'll keep you afloat. You trust me, don't you?"

Jessica nodded, but on the edge of the pool she hesitated.

"Come on," Miss Fairchild said, her arms outstretched. "It'll be Christmas soon."

Jessica jumped. She broke through the water's surface and into the thick, aquamarine silence. It seemed to take forever for her to rise to the top. Panic set in quickly and intensely. Through the water she could see Miss Fairchild's pale skinny legs and navy one-piece swimsuit with the frill. She thrashed her arms wildly, trying to propel herself over to her mother. And it worked—she was getting closer. But just as Jessica reached out for her, the last of her breath disappearing from her chest, Miss Fairchild stepped away.

Jessica thrashed her arms harder. Each time she got close, Miss Fairchild retreated.

It went on and on. Jessica began to feel light-headed. Her panic started to slide into something blacker. Her arms stopped thrashing. Her lungs filled. And then… she broke through the water's surface.

"You did it!" Miss Fairchild was holding her, smiling brightly, beads of water sparkling on her forehead.

Jessica coughed, then vomited—once and then again. When she was finally able to drag in a breath, she rested her head against Mummy's chest.

"You swam, my darling girl," Miss Fairchild said.

"The float didn't work," Jessica told her when she could finally talk, still gasping for air between words.

"No," Miss Fairchild agreed. "Floats can let you down. So can people. But Mummy will never let anything happen to you."

Jessica coughed up some more water.

"You can't rely on anyone or anything except Mummy."

Jessica was too tired to reply, so she just clung to her mother's neck. Judging by Miss Fairchild's smile, it was a good enough response.

The months went by, and Jessica's world became smaller. There were no playdates, no parties, no visitors to Wild Meadows other than the postman. Apart from at school, Jessica didn't see anyone other than Miss Fairchild. Slowly, Miss Fairchild became Jessica's entire universe.

Jessica became intimately attuned to her moods. She learned how to please her, how to charm her, how to soothe her. She knew when it was a good time to ask for something, and when to accept that all was lost. Miss Fairchild was the center of her life, her everything. And if she kept it this way, she'd be rewarded with love, which was all Jessica wanted.

They had a strict routine at Wild Meadows. It involved a great deal of cleaning. Each morning after they woke they made the beds, wiped down the bathroom sinks and mirrors, and carried the laundry downstairs. Then they swept the porch and path, dusted and hoovered and polished, all before breakfast. Only when the laundry had been put on could they start to think about breakfast.

"You are the best helper, darling girl," Miss Fairchild always said.

Jessica was always quick to jump up after breakfast to wash, dry, and put away the dishes (Miss Fairchild didn't like dishes being left to dry in the rack). After that, they hung out the laundry, which was brought in, folded, and put away as soon as it had dried. Any rooms that weren't used in the course of the day were cleaned in the afternoon before dinner.

By the time Jessica was eight, she could clean Wild Meadows from top to bottom single-handedly. It wasn't a chore. Their cleaning routine gave her a sense of purpose that was hard to describe.

If Jessica's purpose was cleaning, Miss Fairchild's was balancing the books. She was obsessed with it.

"People see this place and think we're wealthy," Miss Fairchild often said. "But if we don't keep on top of our costs, we could lose everything in a heartbeat, do you understand?"

Jessica didn't really, but she nodded, as she always did when Miss Fairchild said anything. She knew that Miss Fairchild was careful with money. She made a small income by renting out paddocks to neighboring farms, and she was given a stipend with which to care for Jessica, but it wasn't a lot. To make it last, they needed to be frugal. Electricity and gas were a luxury. Food had to be bought on special or past its best-before date. Clothes were purchased at charity shops, or made on the sewing machine.

"Waste not, want not," Jessica would say, parroting one of Miss Fairchild's favorite phrases.

"Quite right, darling girl."

By the time Jessica was ten, Miss Fairchild's money concerns were becoming more of an issue. Interest rates were going up and, according to her, they needed to tighten their belt. But they lived so frugally that even Miss Fairchild was forced to admit there wasn't much left to tighten.

"Did I pay the electricity bill?" she'd ask from time to time, her eyes widening as she tried to recall. She always had paid it, and Jessica tried to reassure her of this, but Miss Fairchild could never relax until she'd checked for herself.

"I did," she'd say after she'd checked, as if someone was reprimanding her. "See? I did pay it."

When things got really bad, Miss Fairchild stopped sleeping. Jessica knew this because she often felt her slip from the bed in the night and tiptoe down the stairs to "balance the books." Often, on those nights, she never came back to bed.

One day after school, the doorbell rang.

It was… unexpected. They didn't have visitors at Wild Meadows. The only time the doorbell rang was when a package was delivered, and that was always first thing in the morning.

Jessica was so surprised she actually screamed. "Who is that?"

Miss Fairchild smiled and smoothed Jessica's hair back from her face. "No need to overreact, darling girl. Shall we answer it?"

It was Scott Michaels, Jessica's social worker.

It was odd. Usually when Scott was scheduled to visit, Miss Fairchild made sure they had the house in tip-top shape—even more so than usual—and Jessica was dressed in her nicest clothes. Not today. Now that Jessica thought of it, it had been a while since Scott had been to Wild Meadows. At first he'd come every few months. On those occasions, they'd sat alone in the living room while he read out questions from a sheet of paper, ticking off each item on his list with a lead pencil. Jessica always gave Miss Fairchild a glowing report. She supposed that was why he'd decided it wasn't necessary to show up anymore.

"Hello, Jessica," he said to her now, smiling to reveal small yellow teeth. He was just as she remembered: thin and weedy, with dirt under his fingernails. As usual, his shirt was unbuttoned a little too far, and a tuft of black chest hair was visible which Jessica thought was gross.

Jessica had always felt uncomfortable around Scott. She couldn't put her finger on why—he was always polite, and he'd certainly found a wonderful home for her. Yet, the feeling remained. In light of this, when Miss Fairchild told her to go and play while she talked to Scott in the living room, she felt relieved. She didn't go and play, of course. Jessica was a good, well-behaved child, but she could eavesdrop just as well as the next kid.

"There is a girl, around Jessica's age, available for placement now," Jessica heard him say. "As far as payment goes, the allowance would be the same as you're paid for Jessica. It will start the day she is placed with you."

So this was why Scott was here, Jessica realized. This was how Miss Fairchild was going to sort out their money worries.

"I've got to be honest, though," the social worker continued. "She's pretty troubled. She's been in and out of care since she was six and has had several violent episodes. She's claimed some predatory behavior from her current foster father, but I must admit, I have my doubts; she could be—"

"I'll take her," Miss Fairchild interrupted.

Scott laughed. "I know you're desperate, but you might want to take a look at her report before agreeing to anything."

"I said I'll take her."

"All right," he said, as if he thought she was crazy. "I'll get the wheels turning then."

Jessica could tell from the noises in the room that he was standing up. She crept out of the hallway and slipped into the kitchen. As the two adults walked toward the front door, she heard Scott say, "I can also organize for the clothing and miscellaneous allowance to be released immediately, if that helps."

"That would be great," Miss Fairchild said.

When she'd closed the door behind him, Miss Fairchild called, "Jessica, you can come out now!"

Jessica slunk into the hallway.

"I assume you heard that?"

"Another girl is coming to live with us?"

Miss Fairchild nodded. "I'm sure it feels strange—and it will be strange for a while. Change is hard for everyone. It will be especially hard for this new girl."

"Do we really have to do this?" Jessica said, looking up at her. "Scott said that the girl is troubled. Violent!"

"Not everyone has been as lucky as you have, Jessica," she said sharply. "It's time we showed some charity to people less fortunate than we are."

"You're right," she said hastily, in response to her tone. There was nothing she hated more than Miss Fairchild being unhappy with her. "I'm being silly. Of course we should help this girl. I've been so lucky."

That must have been the right response, because Miss Fairchild stepped forward and kissed the top of Jessica's head. But there was something robotic about the gesture. It was as if she'd already moved on from Jessica and was thinking about her new child—the troubled, violent one they were going to save from her unfortunate life.

THE OFFICE OF DR. WARREN, PSYCHIATRIST

"Right," Dr. Warren says. He is wearing a different tie—green today—but everything else is the same: the brown suit, the crossed legs, the manila folder in his lap. I've been sitting in silence for six minutes so I'm surprised when he suddenly addresses me.

I blink. "Right… what?"

"Right… are you ready to talk about Wild Meadows?"

When I shake my head, he sighs heavily. Clearly, he wants to hear about what happened there. Who wouldn't? Despite his show of acting disinterested, he probably thinks it's a real coup, getting to speak to me. It makes me wonder about the kind of man who does a job like his. The kind of stories he must hear, day in and day out… I imagine it does something to a person.

"In that case," he says, "you may as well talk about something else."

He scribbles something in his file. He is probably playing sudoku or doing the crossword. Perhaps if I were in his position, I'd do the same.

"Like what?" I ask.

"Childhood?" he says with a shrug, as if he is making it up as he goes along. "Tell me about a time when you were happy."

"Okay." One thing to be said for having a horrific childhood is that pinpointing the happy parts is easy. "In the early days of my childhood, believe it or not, I was spoiled. No one forced me to eat my vegetables, to make my bed, to contribute much to the household chores."

I try to assess Dr. Warren for a reaction, but his expression is bland. Carefully neutral, or perhaps bored. A sixth sense tells me he'd prefer to hear about the gory stuff.

"I was an only child," I continue. "My dad was my hero. When I was little, I wanted to go wherever he went. Even at dawn, when he got up to milk the cows, I was right by his side. My mum liked to sleep in, so that was a time just for us. When I got older and started school I couldn't go with him to milk the cows anymore, but I still stood on the back porch every morning and waved to him when he left. I did it for years. Then, one morning, he didn't come back. Massive heart attack, apparently. And that's kind of it for the happy memories."

Dr. Warren jots something down. A note about me, or perhaps he just figured out the answer to seven across.

"After that it was just me and Mum," I continue. "The community rallied, as country folk do. People brought food and arrived to help with the farmwork. It was a relief because Mum didn't have the faintest idea how to run a farm—she was a city girl. I overheard some of the neighbors saying that they assumed we would move into town eventually. I hoped they were right. Dad's absence hurt anew every day. I thought a fresh start would be good for us. But six months passed, and Mum didn't suggest we move. When I brought it up, she said, ‘Maybe.'"

Dr. Warren is looking at me now. Whether it is intentional or I just happen to be in his line of sight is unclear.

"She slept a lot," I go on. "She stopped showering, started drinking and taking pills. She sent people away when they came to help with chores, even though they needed doing and she wasn't attempting to do them herself. She stopped opening the bills and notices that appeared in our letterbox, each more urgent than the last. When I drew her attention to them, she threw them in the fire." Even all these years later, I can feel rage building at the memory. "Her ineptitude and her inability to keep us afloat terrified me. It also made me furious."

Dr. Warren cocks his head with something resembling interest. His buffed scalp catches the sunlight, reflecting it brilliantly across the room.

"I don't know how much later it was, but at some point a group of women from the local church came to the house. I recognized a couple of them. They told us the church had funds for people who'd fallen upon difficult times. I'd never been much of a believer but when they said that, I was willing to suspend my disbelief. The women said Mum would be eligible and that they were going to help her get her life back on track. They also suggested that we think about coming to church services. ‘The only one who can help with your spiritual recovery is the Lord,' they said. We weren't churchgoers, but if they were going to help us I didn't care if they represented the Devil himself. They handed me a pocket-sized prayer card on the way out the door. It was the Our Father, printed and laminated. I kept it for a long time. At that point, I thought God might really be the only one who could help. Unfortunately, it turned out that even He couldn't."

Having finally aroused Dr. Warren's interest, I talk and talk. Turns out you start to crave attention after a while, when no one pays you any. Dr. Warren only looks at his crossword once or twice. Before I know it, there is a knock at the door to indicate that our time is up.

"You did well today," Dr. Warren tells me. "See you next time."

I'm still not sure about Dr. Warren, but I have to admit, I blush a little at his compliment. I never wanted to be in therapy, but since I appear to be stuck with it, I plan to graduate at the top of my class.