that I had wandered beyond “their” boundaries. It was like a badge of honor to prove that nothing could crush me, not even the “enemy” of the staff at that place. I had told the Wanderer about my gift, and how I could sneak out of the home at night, and though I could never decide whether he really believed me, he didn’t laugh or call me crazy. The only kindness that ever touched me in that place came from him. Hewas the stone in my pocket, something to hold on to, and I thought he would always be there.
I was wrong.
That night, I fell asleep in the wood, my back curled against a tree. When I opened my eyes it was already light. It was still early, but the town was starting to wake up. I jumped to my feet, worried about getting back to the home before anyone spotted that I had sneaked out, then I tried to step through the air again. Nothing happened. I panicked, thinking that I had lost the only thing that I was good at, that truly belonged to me. I didn’t know then that it’s just harder to travel the secret paths in daylight, that it requires greater concentration and confidence in one’s inner powers. And so I ran blindly, until my heart was hurting and my sides ached. I ran all the way back to the orphanage. The doors and gates were locked. I climbed over the wall, scraping my knees, then raced around to the back of the building, where I smashed a window by the kitchen door and crawled inside.
I got back to my room in time, but later that day the broken window was discovered and there was a terrible row. Dr. Franzen was only too happy to create a massive storm about it, going on and on in that smooth, slick voice of his about discipline and respect for property anddelinquent children who were out of control. Someone had to own up to doing the damage and be punished for it, and he would wait all day until someone did…. Just as I was about to step forward, the Wanderer spoke and took the blame for me. Dr. Franzen hauled him off to the cellar before I could find my voice and confess the truth. I remember that Tom turned and smiled at me as he was dragged away. But later, whenever I tried to picture him, I saw a distorted version of his face like a surreal painting: bruised and battered, splashed with blood.
He didn’t show up at breakfast the next day, or the next. The staff eventually said that he’d been sent to a new foster family. The other kids whispered different stories about the Wanderer. That he’d been beaten so badly that he could hardly stand. That he’d escaped and managed to stagger to the town hospital. That he’d been transferred to another home under Dr. Franzen’s control. That his body had been found in the local garbage dump. They told so many stories, and I never knew which one was true. I only know that I never saw the boy they called the Wanderer again.
Was that Dr. Franzen’s fault, or my own?
I was haunted by the fear that my only friend was dead, even though I tried to tell myself that he’d be back one day.I was aching to believe that he would show up again, like he always had. But soon afterward, my mother came and found me and took me to Wyldcliffe. I thought it was a new life, but it turned out to be just another part of the old nightmare. The only comfort I found at Wyldcliffe was in art and poetry, and writing my diary for the Wanderer to read one day. Somehow I imagined that he knew what I was telling him and that one day he would answer. It seemed to keep him alive, even as my heart was breaking. For Tom, for my mother, for the family I never had, for the person I might have been and for the shame I couldn’t recover from. I found a poem in the library that said what I couldn’t say myself, and copied it into my diary:
I turn my face in silence to the wall;
My heart is breaking for a little love….
That was me. That was my secret history. Then I found Evie and Sarah, and Agnes. I had my sisters, and though that was not everything I craved, it was a great
I was wrong.
That night, I fell asleep in the wood, my back curled against a tree. When I opened my eyes it was already light. It was still early, but the town was starting to wake up. I jumped to my feet, worried about getting back to the home before anyone spotted that I had sneaked out, then I tried to step through the air again. Nothing happened. I panicked, thinking that I had lost the only thing that I was good at, that truly belonged to me. I didn’t know then that it’s just harder to travel the secret paths in daylight, that it requires greater concentration and confidence in one’s inner powers. And so I ran blindly, until my heart was hurting and my sides ached. I ran all the way back to the orphanage. The doors and gates were locked. I climbed over the wall, scraping my knees, then raced around to the back of the building, where I smashed a window by the kitchen door and crawled inside.
I got back to my room in time, but later that day the broken window was discovered and there was a terrible row. Dr. Franzen was only too happy to create a massive storm about it, going on and on in that smooth, slick voice of his about discipline and respect for property anddelinquent children who were out of control. Someone had to own up to doing the damage and be punished for it, and he would wait all day until someone did…. Just as I was about to step forward, the Wanderer spoke and took the blame for me. Dr. Franzen hauled him off to the cellar before I could find my voice and confess the truth. I remember that Tom turned and smiled at me as he was dragged away. But later, whenever I tried to picture him, I saw a distorted version of his face like a surreal painting: bruised and battered, splashed with blood.
He didn’t show up at breakfast the next day, or the next. The staff eventually said that he’d been sent to a new foster family. The other kids whispered different stories about the Wanderer. That he’d been beaten so badly that he could hardly stand. That he’d escaped and managed to stagger to the town hospital. That he’d been transferred to another home under Dr. Franzen’s control. That his body had been found in the local garbage dump. They told so many stories, and I never knew which one was true. I only know that I never saw the boy they called the Wanderer again.
Was that Dr. Franzen’s fault, or my own?
I was haunted by the fear that my only friend was dead, even though I tried to tell myself that he’d be back one day.I was aching to believe that he would show up again, like he always had. But soon afterward, my mother came and found me and took me to Wyldcliffe. I thought it was a new life, but it turned out to be just another part of the old nightmare. The only comfort I found at Wyldcliffe was in art and poetry, and writing my diary for the Wanderer to read one day. Somehow I imagined that he knew what I was telling him and that one day he would answer. It seemed to keep him alive, even as my heart was breaking. For Tom, for my mother, for the family I never had, for the person I might have been and for the shame I couldn’t recover from. I found a poem in the library that said what I couldn’t say myself, and copied it into my diary:
I turn my face in silence to the wall;
My heart is breaking for a little love….
That was me. That was my secret history. Then I found Evie and Sarah, and Agnes. I had my sisters, and though that was not everything I craved, it was a great
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