Her first years on the job, she called her mother from work every day. She got a fifteen-minute break in the morning, and one in the afternoon. Lunch was easy to figure out—that was an hour. You left at noon and came back at one. But fifteen minutes was hard. She would call her mother and ask, full of shame, “Mom? I just got my break. It’s 10:11. That’s what the clock says. When do I go back?” And she’d hear the catch in her mother’s voice as she would say, “At 10:26, dear.” Eventually, Amanda learned how to set her phone timer, and no longer needed to make those calls. But she still remembered the catch in her mother’s voice, and everything it implied.
It had only been in the last year that she got the apartment lease in her name. Before that, she gave her parents the rent and they paid it for her. She remembered the look of puzzlement in the banker’s eyes when she set up the automatic payments, because Amanda didn’t understand that ninety-nine was one short of a hundred. Things like that had always been so hard for her. So hard.
Despite batteries of tests, no one had ever figured out what was wrong with her. Autism had been ruled out, as well as various learning disabilities. Besides a bad case of dyscalculia, she had no diagnosis, and no help.
She had learned to survive with a number of tricks. When paying cash, she always used a large bill, to cover any extra. She filled her gas tank because she didn’t understand halves and quarters. She avoided travel. The trips to the beach had been a big step for her.
She sat on the edge of her bed and surveyed her domain. She kept her apartment spotless. Her desk was covered with stacks of researchabout Molly. Amanda was very good at research. Just like she was good at driving, or anything else she learned through experience.
She thought of Sean. She liked to fantasize that he liked her back. She thought about what it would be like to have him here, with her, right now. He would not be smirking at how confused she got when actors made jokes on television. He would not be rolling his eyes when she counted change. He would be nice to her. That was her greatest hope: a man who would love her as she was.
12
“What are you doing?”
Dennis startled. Martha King was standing above him. She had snuck up on him while he crouched in the bushes, waiting for the rabbit to appear.
It had been almost two weeks since Martha had arrived, and so far nothing bad had happened. If anything, things were better. Martha had told the staff to take notes about the boys, not just when they were naughty but also when they said please and thank you. She told them to stop using the isolation rooms so much, and to write down when they did. She even gave the cook permission to have birthday parties for the boys, and then sat in the corner and scribbled while they sang. An air of prosperity and professionalism settled over the place. Martha was in charge.
“Looking for something?” she asked.
“No, ma’am. Just sitting in the bushes.”
“An odd pastime for a little boy. How old are you?”
“Seven, ma’am.”
“What’s your name?”
“Dennis.”
“Dennis what?”
For a moment, Dennis couldn’t remember his last name. He could smell pine resin, and for some reason, the rubber of her shoes. She wore hospital shoes.
“Dennis Owen, ma’am.”
“How old were you when you came here, Dennis?”
“Four.”
“Tell me again why you are in the woods?”
“A bird, ma’am. I like to look at birds.”
Her face showed her distaste for his lie.
“You’re the one I saw with the custodian,” she said.
He was too smart to lie about that.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Hmm. Has he ever tried anything, you know, inappropriate?”
“No, ma’am.”
“You know what happens to boys who lie, don’t you?”