Read Online Rachel Alexander 04 - Lady Vanishes by Carol Lea Benjamin - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Carol Lea Benjamin
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in your father’s hand, safe and warm.
When I released Dash, he went right back to where he’d been, his chin on Jackson’s knee, soulful eyes looking up.
For a moment, Jackson remained as he was. So much for that, I thought, and then, watching him staring at the wall, I found myself wondering why, if so many of these people did that, was the wall blank, just a solid sheet of color, when it could be so much more interesting?
But then it happened, something that made me forget all about a mural for the dining room. Jackson stood. Until then, I hadn’t quite realized how tall he was—well over six feet, maybe even six-two or -three. When I looked into his eyes, Jackson was home, looking back at me.
“He wants to run,” he said, his voice soft, almost a whisper, but his enunciation clear.
I clipped on Dashiell’s leash and held the handle out for Jackson. He took the leash and began to lope around the perimeter of the dining room, his long legs reaching out, covering distance with astonishing leaps. I looked around to see if anyone else was as surprised as I was, but no one was giving the moment a bit of attention, as if it were perfectly ordinary for this quiet, skinny old man to take a big dog twice around the dining room, as if it happened on a daily basis.
When he returned with Dashiell, face flushed, he kept hold of the leash.
“I want to do what you did.”
“Go for it,” I said, not exactly sure what he meant, but figuring, something happening is always better than nothing happening, as long as the something was benign and not violent.
Jackson, copying my hand signals perfectly, got Dashiell to sit, lie down, stay, come, and heel. That was when I’d heard it, a choking noise from somewhere behind me. When I turned, it was Venus, standing in the doorway of the dining room, wiping her eyes with the heels of her hands.
At first, I thought something must be wrong. But when I turned back to Jackson, I didn’t see what it could be. He was trying the seek-back, taking a clean folded handkerchief from his pocket, dropping it, walking Dashiell away, then sending him back for the handkerchief with one long, low whistle, the way I’d done with my keys, remembering everything I’d done, exactly as I’d done it, except for this one innovation. I hadn’t had a handkerchief. And Jackson certainly didn’t have a set of keys.
“That was wonderful ,” I said, clapping my hands, meaning it sincerely. “You did a great job.”
Jackson handed me the leash and took his seat again. Remembering the biscuit, I put my hand lightly on his arm. “Dashiell must be hungry after all that running. Do you have something for him to eat?”
Expecting Jackson to reach into his pocket and produce the biscuit Venus said she’d given him, I was surprised when he didn’t. I shouldn’t have been. The tiny miracles, the little windows of communication, action, or insight, touching moments when a very disabled person seems less disabled, never last. A moment later, or the next visit, it is as if they’d never occurred at all. If I came back tomorrow and tried the same thing with Jackson, he probably would not respond in the same way, which, in part, was why he was here.
For me, the saddest part was that these lucid moments, as Venus called them, were never a sign of a cure, not in this population. Here there were no cures, so these incidents were only what they seemed to be—moments, nothing more.
“Check your pockets,” I suggested, but Jackson sat there doing nothing, his eyes looking straight ahead, as mute as he’d been when I’d first sat down.
I told Dashiell to find the biscuit. He began to sniff around, finding it in Jackson’s left pocket and carefully slipping it out with the sort of patience you wouldn’t imagine a dog could display. Jackson didn’t seem to notice, as if he hadn’t moved at all, as if he had never spoken to us, as if we weren’t there and had never been there.
Venus was still in the
When I released Dash, he went right back to where he’d been, his chin on Jackson’s knee, soulful eyes looking up.
For a moment, Jackson remained as he was. So much for that, I thought, and then, watching him staring at the wall, I found myself wondering why, if so many of these people did that, was the wall blank, just a solid sheet of color, when it could be so much more interesting?
But then it happened, something that made me forget all about a mural for the dining room. Jackson stood. Until then, I hadn’t quite realized how tall he was—well over six feet, maybe even six-two or -three. When I looked into his eyes, Jackson was home, looking back at me.
“He wants to run,” he said, his voice soft, almost a whisper, but his enunciation clear.
I clipped on Dashiell’s leash and held the handle out for Jackson. He took the leash and began to lope around the perimeter of the dining room, his long legs reaching out, covering distance with astonishing leaps. I looked around to see if anyone else was as surprised as I was, but no one was giving the moment a bit of attention, as if it were perfectly ordinary for this quiet, skinny old man to take a big dog twice around the dining room, as if it happened on a daily basis.
When he returned with Dashiell, face flushed, he kept hold of the leash.
“I want to do what you did.”
“Go for it,” I said, not exactly sure what he meant, but figuring, something happening is always better than nothing happening, as long as the something was benign and not violent.
Jackson, copying my hand signals perfectly, got Dashiell to sit, lie down, stay, come, and heel. That was when I’d heard it, a choking noise from somewhere behind me. When I turned, it was Venus, standing in the doorway of the dining room, wiping her eyes with the heels of her hands.
At first, I thought something must be wrong. But when I turned back to Jackson, I didn’t see what it could be. He was trying the seek-back, taking a clean folded handkerchief from his pocket, dropping it, walking Dashiell away, then sending him back for the handkerchief with one long, low whistle, the way I’d done with my keys, remembering everything I’d done, exactly as I’d done it, except for this one innovation. I hadn’t had a handkerchief. And Jackson certainly didn’t have a set of keys.
“That was wonderful ,” I said, clapping my hands, meaning it sincerely. “You did a great job.”
Jackson handed me the leash and took his seat again. Remembering the biscuit, I put my hand lightly on his arm. “Dashiell must be hungry after all that running. Do you have something for him to eat?”
Expecting Jackson to reach into his pocket and produce the biscuit Venus said she’d given him, I was surprised when he didn’t. I shouldn’t have been. The tiny miracles, the little windows of communication, action, or insight, touching moments when a very disabled person seems less disabled, never last. A moment later, or the next visit, it is as if they’d never occurred at all. If I came back tomorrow and tried the same thing with Jackson, he probably would not respond in the same way, which, in part, was why he was here.
For me, the saddest part was that these lucid moments, as Venus called them, were never a sign of a cure, not in this population. Here there were no cures, so these incidents were only what they seemed to be—moments, nothing more.
“Check your pockets,” I suggested, but Jackson sat there doing nothing, his eyes looking straight ahead, as mute as he’d been when I’d first sat down.
I told Dashiell to find the biscuit. He began to sniff around, finding it in Jackson’s left pocket and carefully slipping it out with the sort of patience you wouldn’t imagine a dog could display. Jackson didn’t seem to notice, as if he hadn’t moved at all, as if he had never spoken to us, as if we weren’t there and had never been there.
Venus was still in the
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