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Moments later we heard Fern bouncing down the stairs.
"I'm ready," she announced, a small suitcase in hand. To me it seemed as if she had already had it packed and waiting. She had returned that quickly.
Jimmy smiled.
"Then let's go."
They started away.
"Fern," I said.
"What?"
"Don't you want to say good-bye to Leslie, at least?" She looked back at the woman who had been her mother. A tiny smile formed at Fern's lips.
"Sure. Good-bye, Leslie," she said, and then she turned and rushed forward to open the door.
Leslie Osborne shook her head hard to deny what she was seeing and hearing.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Osborne," I said. "I really am, but this might be the best for everyone concerned."
She sobbed silently but didn't respond.
"Dawn," Jimmy called from the doorway.
I took one last look at her and then joined him. Fern was already at the bottom of the stairs.
"Jimmy," I said, "I hope we're doing the right thing."
"We are. How can it not be the right thing? We're bringing her back to her real family. It's what Momma would want, don't you think?"
"I guess," I said. "I hope so," I added.
"Listen," he said quietly, "if Clayton Osborne weren't guilty, would he be so willing to let us take Fern away without a fight? Obviously he was shocked at how we simply confronted him with the truth. All that anger is merely his way of covering up."
I nodded. What Jimmy said made sense. How could Clayton send Fern out so quickly and easily? After all, she had been his and Leslie's daughter, for better or worse, all these years.
We walked up to the corner to hail another cab. Fern was so eager to get away, she practically ran up the sidewalk, her suitcase swinging in her hand. Now that the traumatic event was apparently ended, we all confessed to being hungry. As soon as we returned to the hotel and put Fern's things in our suite we went down to dinner. At the table she talked a mile a minute, and whenever she did pause, Jimmy fired a question. It was as if both of them wanted to catch up on all the years in minutes. All night I kept watching her and waiting for the reality of what was happening to sink in. I expected her to break into tears when she realized she was leaving the only home she could really remember and the only people she could really have thought of as parents. But she must have really been unhappy and suffered terribly under Clayton Osborne's abuse, for she hardly mentioned either of them.
I couldn't help but be nervous. My eyes continually shifted to doorways, and every time someone new entered I expected to see either Clayton himself coming for Fern, or some police officer, but no one came. When we returned to our suite to retire I anticipated finding a message, but there wasn't any.
The sofa in the sitting room of our suite pulled out into a bed. We had the hotel maid prepare it for Fern. I felt certain that Fern would experience anxiety and fear now that she had to go to sleep in a strange place with people she barely knew, but she didn't cry or express any reluctance. The only thing that upset her was that she had forgotten to pack her toothbrush. I sent down for one from the hotel shop.
While Jimmy prepared for bed in the other room, I helped her slip into her nightgown. She showed me the things she had packed.
She had a half dozen pairs of panties, another training bra, socks, a pair of her favorite sneakers, some blouses and skirts. Under the clothing she had some romance magazines, her hairbrush and a tube of lipstick. She confessed she would never put it on in the house, but only after she had left for school. Clayton forbade it.
When I recalled myself at her age and my own little well-used suitcase, I remembered how important it was for me to be sure to pack my favorite doll. It was a rag doll, so ragged that it had worn thin in the cheeks of the face, showing the cotton filling. Fern had no dolls, no loving mementos. Her suitcase was more expensive than any I would have dreamt of having, and she had more expensive clothing, but she had nothing to remind her of some cherished moment, some loving time. I truly felt sorry for her.
She joined me in the bathroom to watch me brush out my hair.
"I'm going to let my hair grow longer now," she said, "down to the middle of my back. Clayton hates long hair."
"You have to take good care of it when it's long," I pointed out.
"I will. But you have a beauty shop in the hotel, right? Jimmy said so."
"Yes, we do."
