Page 57 of The Daring Times of Fern Adair
The next few days followed the same routine: breakfast, a morning walk on the grounds, a few hours in the library sorting through the stacks and devising a decimal system, an afternoon walk, then dinner. At night, there were activities, from chess to radio programs, to a knitting circle and piano playing. Fern would sit in a corner of the room where the radio console was airing a show oran opera program, and she’d read. The young girl with the hump on her back—Caroline—would sit on a bench near Fern while feeding her pet cockatiel.
“I like the way you do your hair,” she said to Fern one evening as the end of the week drew near.
She hadn’t spoken to anyone really, and the others gave her plenty of space. Perhaps because they knew she was only there for a week.
Fern looked up from her book. “What? Oh. Thank you.” She touched the side of her head, where she’d styled her hair into a side chignon.
“Could you show me how to do mine like that?” Caroline asked.
She was probably thirteen or fourteen, and Fern wondered how long she had been here. If her family ever visited. Had she been dropped off because of her twisted spine?
“Of course. I’ll come to your room tomorrow morning after breakfast.”
Contented, Caroline fed her bird another bread crumb.
When Fern went to the girl’s room the next morning, she realized Caroline must have been at Young Acres for quite some time. Her room was filled with personal possessions—books and trinkets filled shelves, framed pictures of Gloria Swanson, Jack Dempsey, and Josephine Baker hung on the wall, a small dollhouse sat on the floor in a corner, surrounded by other toys that looked as if they’d been untouched for a while now. She even had a Victrola.
“You like it here?” Fern asked as she showed Carolinehow to brush her hair to the side and gather it into a chignon.
“It’s home,” she replied.
Fern showed her how to pin the knot of hair.
“Will you stay?” Fern asked. “When you’re older?”
Caroline turned her head side to side to view herself in her vanity mirror. Pleased, she thanked Fern. Then said with a shrug of her shoulder, “I guess. There’s nowhere else to go.”
Caroline took out the chignon and did it again, this time on her own. She took a silk scarf from the half dozen or so hanging on a hook and tied it into her hair, letting the pointed ends hang down over her shoulder. She looked like one of the starlets on her wall.
The rest of the day, Fern thought about what the girl had said.There’s nowhere else to go.Maybe Caroline was right. For someone like her, whose back was so warped she would never stand straight, never blend into a crowd, never not be stared at, Young Acres was a haven. Fern wasn’t so very different. Maybe there was nothing beyond this place for her either. The notion put a new knot in the pit of her stomach. Her father might have been right: Young Acres might be the perfect place for her.
At least she’d had a taste of freedom with Cal. Though it had been dangerous, and she’d been manipulated and insulted, at least she’d made some choices of her own. She’d gotten outside of her house, faced strangers, and dealt with their stares. After a while, wouldn’t she become numb to the stares? After a while, wouldn’t the people she saw on a regular basis—like theresidents here, living and working alongside one another—become immune to the surprise of her scars? Cal had. And kind people, like Hannah Levy, hadn’t reacted at all.
Friday finally came around, and she went to Mrs. Crane’s office just after her morning walk. She’d been in the orchard, looking at clusters of green apples on low-hanging branches when she made her decision. Fern didn’t want to be here in the fall when it came time to harvest the apples. This place, as serene and safe as it was, wasn’t for her.
“I appreciate letting me stay here the week, and I’m glad that I did,” she told the superintendent. “It really is a beautiful place. But…I’d like to return to Chicago.”
If her father wouldn’t have her in his home—and Fern didn’t want to be there anyhow, not anymore—then perhaps he could help her find a position somewhere. Maybe as a clerk. She did have good organizational skills. Her mother might see it as a way for her to get out and meet new people. Perhaps Buchanan might know of an opening at the bank.
Mrs. Crane’s lips formed an O, then closed again. “Oh, I see. Well, my dear…” She shifted in her wheeled desk chair. Then, when she couldn’t seem to get comfortable, she stood up. “I’m very glad you’ve come to appreciate Young Acres. Your parents did as well, and you see…they were certain that a place such as this would be best for you and that you’d realize this as you carried out your week here. I must say, I’m rather surprised at your change of heart.”
Fern frowned, the small hairs on her arms rising. “There hasn’t been a change of heart, Mrs. Crane. I didn’t wish to stay here for the week at all.”
Mrs. Crane couldn’t possibly believe any differently. She’d been there when her parents told her she’d be staying; she’d seen Fern’s disappointment. She’d seen that Fern had been duped.
“You seemed content here this week.” Mrs. Crane went to the window and folded her hands in front of her. “You enjoyed the library?”
“Well, yes, I suppose, but…I can’t stay.”
She exhaled and paused, seeming to think for a moment. “There is no easy way to say this, Fern, so I’ll be frank. I’ve been in contact with your mother this week, and both she and your father would like you to stay on here.”
The wooden seat of the chair seemed to disappear, and she felt as if she were sinking toward the floor.
“But…it was only supposed to be a trial run, Father said.”
Mr. Carlson would come fetch her if she wished to return home. Another lie? Another betrayal?
Fern stood up, legs shaking. “I want to telephone them.”
