An Act of Love Read online

  They drove toward Hedden, stunned.

  “She looked pale, but otherwise all right. Not ill.”

  “There’s so much we don’t know. So much they didn’t tell us.”

  “Owen, she’s gained so much weight.”

  “Perhaps she has an eating disorder.”

  The entrance to the school was marked by a stone lion rampant with a plaque in its mouth inscribed HEDDEN ACADEMY. A private road wound through evergreens past a pond and over a rushing stream until it arrived at what looked like a miniature Oxford. The eight stone buildings were built around a courtyard and ornamented with corner turrets and gargoyles on the waterspouts. The chapel with its grand rose window and soaring spire towered at the front while the new plebeian gymnasium hunkered down at the far end of the campus.

  “Where do you want to go first?” Owen asked.

  “Emily’s dorm.”

  It was early afternoon. As they parked in the visitors’ lot and walked across the fields toward Shipley Hall, students rushed past them toward the football field or the crew house. Others tossed Frisbees or stood talking in clusters beneath trees. Occasionally a student stared at them, then glanced away, embarrassed.

  “They’ve heard about Emily.”

  “I’m sure they have,” Owen replied, and took his wife’s arm.

  Shipley Hall was built especially as a women’s dorm in the late sixties when Hedden, formerly a single-sex school, went coed, and consequently it was cursed with the boring boxy lines of many institutions, but blessed with many large bathrooms.

  Emily’s room was on the first floor. She shared it with Cordelia and Zodiac, and because they’d agreed to take a threesome, they were given the largest room on the ground floor. When Owen and Linda brought Emily in September to begin the new year, the room had been a mess of packing boxes, suitcases, and black plastic bags bulging with new linen and pillows and clothing.

  Now it was neat, attractive. Using the modular desks and chests provided by the school, the girls had managed to divide the room into three areas. Zodiac’s was the most obvious because of the posters of constellations and astrological signs hanging above her bed, which was brilliant beneath a spread of purple silk sprinkled with moons and stars. A gleaming black CD player squatted on her shelf, portable cases of CDs next to it, and on her desk were a camera and a Macintosh computer. All the high-tech equipment was decorated with cosmological signs and surrounded by twists of herbs and clay bowls of what looked like old grass.

  Cordelia’s area could have belonged to a much younger girl. Her bedspread was flowery, and several stuffed animals had been carefully tucked against the pillows. Her bureau top was littered with dainty perfume bottles, lipsticks, and small china bowls filled with rings and necklaces and bracelets. Romantic perfume and makeup ads were tacked to the wall.

  Emily should have had posters of Jason Priestly and Brad Pitt on her walls; Linda remembered carefully rolling them and fitting them into a long cardboard tube for the drive down. Scarves should have been draped dramatically over the bedposts and lamp, and clothes should have been flung everywhere, because Emily was always in a hurry.

  But her walls were bare, except above her bed, where from one nail a silver cross hung on a metal chain.

  “What on earth?” Linda sank down onto the dark green duvet cover she had bought for Emily during a special trip to Boston the past summer. Emily had begged Linda to take her to a sale at Jordan Marsh. Emily had chosen a sky blue duvet cover and matching sheets when she entered Hedden a year ago, but this year she yearned for “a whole new look.” She wanted to be “sophisticated.”

  But her space did not look sophisticated. It looked, except for the rumpled bed on which earlier today she had lain, stark. Bare.

  “Penitential,” Linda whispered. “Why?”

  Last year Emily’s area had been a mess, a flurry of clothes, books, cassettes, journals in pastel notebooks, letters scented with perfume. Now her electronic typewriter and cassette player were lined up on her desk, right angles matching exactly those of her tidily stacked textbooks. Next to the typewriter lay three pens in rigid line. Her bureau top was bare except for—Linda rose to make certain—a Bible, bound in white leather, the one Linda’s mother gave Emily several years ago.

  “Linda.”

  Linda turned. Owen had lifted the duvet to expose, beneath Emily’s bed, boxes of cheese crackers, bags of chips, a pile of chocolate bars, a litter of empty wrappers.

  “Owen. What’s going on?”

  Grim-faced, Owen shook his head.

  “Clothes,” Linda murmured. “She needs a change of clothes. Pajamas. Underwear. Toothbrush.”

  Emily’s bureau drawers were so neat it was as if she had folded the clothes and lined them up with the edge of a ruler. The drawer of underwear, which just this summer Emily had begun to call her lingerie, was full of—underwear. Plain white waist-high, full-cut cotton briefs, the kind that were sold in packages of three or twelve. And sports bras. Only sports bras.

  “Where,” Linda wondered aloud, “is Emily’s lingerie?”

  She found it stuffed away inside a brown duffel bag meant for dirty laundry, all Emily’s pink, lavender, or flowered panties and bras, as well as some shirts and skirts Linda had thought Emily loved. Upending them into a pile on the closet floor, Linda took the duffel bag and filled it with underwear, white flannel pajamas, socks, sweatpants, and sweatshirts, noticing how large everything was. In the top drawer of Emily’s bureau she found her travel kit with toothbrush, deodorant, and soap. Clean hunter green towels and washcloths were stacked on a closet shelf; Linda took one of each.

  “Should I take a book?” she asked Owen.

  “Maybe a novel?”

  Linda scanned the bookshelf and found only texts.

  “Mrs. McFarland?”

  Cordelia Analan entered the room, her large blue eyes dark with emotion, her brow furrowed.

  “Oh, Cordelia,” Linda said, gathering the girl into her arms, “are you all right?”

  Cordelia was the protected only child of two wealthy professionals who had had her late in life. A picture-book girl, as pale as a Botticelli, as sweet and sentimental as a Whitman’s Sampler, Cordelia played piano, dressed in flowing ankle-length dresses, and wore her blond hair to her waist, often tied up in elaborate braids.

  Now her large eyes shimmered with tears. “Is Emily going to—be okay?”

  “She’s out of physical danger. But she has to stay in the psychiatric ward for a while, until we find out what’s going on with her. Do you have any idea, Cordelia?”

  “No.”

  “Anything at all would help.”

  Cordelia turned from Linda and sank onto her bed and with one hand twisted a strand of hair that had escaped from the braids. “She was different this fall.”

  Linda sat down next to Cordelia. Owen quietly settled on Emily’s bed, leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees. “Different, how?”

  “Well, like, this summer she was so much fun? And when school started she was all serious.”

  “Were her classes difficult?” Owen asked, and Linda asked at the same time, “Were her teachers tough?”

  Cordelia shrugged. “Kind of, I guess. They’re all hard.”

  “What about boys?” Linda queried.

  Cordelia’s eyes flew to Linda’s face. “Jorge Avila.”

  “Yes?” Linda prompted.

  “He liked her.” Cordelia shrugged. “But she stopped liking him.”

  “Why?” Linda pressed. “Did he do something?”

  “No. I don’t think so. I mean, she stopped talking to everyone, even to me. She just, I don’t know, she only wanted to be by herself.”

  “Did you talk to her about it?”

  “Sure. I tried to. But she wouldn’t talk. She was kind of weird. And she hid food and skipped study hall and sneaked back into the dorm and ate it. Sometimes we even heard her rustling around in the Doritos in the middle of the night.” Cordelia blushed. “I�
�m sorry.”

  “Cordelia, we need to know.”

  Owen asked, “Did she talk about killing herself?”

  Cordelia flushed and her eyes streamed with tears. “No! Never!” Sobbing into her hands, she cried, “She was my best friend and I don’t know anything!”

  Linda reminded her, “You saved her life today, Cordelia.”

  “I just came back for a book. It was so scary.”

  Owen said, “We should go. We have an appointment with Lorimer.”

  “Will you be okay?” Linda asked Cordelia.

  The girl nodded shakily.

  Linda flashed a look at her husband, then said, “I’m not sure which building is Tuttle Hall. Can you show us?”

  “Sure.” Cordelia blew her nose and took a few deep breaths, then stood up. “I’ll take you there.”

  The campus grounds were still beautiful. Well-tended lawns swept down to tennis courts and playing fields while in the distance giant evergreens watched the campus like sentinels. Yellow mums in stone urns adorned the entrance to Tuttle Hall. The walk and the fresh air revived Cordelia and she said good-bye with a smile.

  Bob Lorimer was waiting for them. After shaking hands, he gestured toward the chairs facing his desk.

  “How is Emily?” he asked.

  Linda answered, “Out of danger, physically. But she won’t talk to us. She won’t even look at us. They want her to remain at the hospital.”

  Bob Lorimer was a kind man, well liked by the students and parents as well. Perhaps because he was so large, he spoke with a soft voice, and in that gentle voice he assured the McFarlands that this sort of episode was more common than they might think, especially among adolescent girls.

  “I’ve spoken with several of her teachers, and they all tell me that Emily started the school year in good spirits. She worked hard and was alert. Responsive. Recently, though, her work was beginning to suffer, and she seemed inattentive in class. Again, this is common among adolescents. It seemed no cause for worry. One thing”—he cleared his throat—“I mention it only because it is one thing we can pinpoint as a change in Emily’s behavior—she has been attending church in Basingstoke. The Methodist church.”

  Linda was puzzled. “We didn’t know that. We don’t attend church regularly at home, except at Christmas.”

  Owen added, “The last we heard, Emily wanted to be a pagan.”

  “The school holds a nondenominational service every Sunday morning,” Bob Lorimer continued. “People attend mostly for the music. I sing in the choir. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Emily there. I don’t know what relevance her church attendance has, if any, but I thought you should know.”

  “Of course. Thank you.”

  “Emily is a good student. Everyone likes her. We’re concerned about her, and what we’d like to propose is simply that we put her on medical leave for a few days. I’ve spoken with the Head about this. As I said, Emily’s grades have been on a downhill slide during the past few weeks, but we know Emily is an intelligent and responsible girl, certainly capable of missing some classes and still passing the courses. If she needs to remain at Basingstoke for a while, we will need to consider some other options. Is there anything else …?”

  “We need to find Bruce,” Owen said. “We want to tell him about Emily and find out whether he knows anything that might help us.”

  “Actually, I called Bruce into my office earlier this afternoon. I didn’t want him hearing gossip from the students. You can imagine how fast word flies around here.” Lorimer rose. “Come out to the main office. I’ll have Mrs. Echevera look up his schedule for you.” Holding the door open, Lorimer said to Owen, “Your son is a great guy. He’s really come a long way in three years.”

  “The school has been good for him,” Owen replied.

  But not quite so good for her daughter, Linda thought, at once chastising herself; Bruce was her stepson. She should be happy for him, proud of him. And she was. She’d never thought Bruce and Emily were in any kind of contest. And she didn’t think that now.

  Chapter Five

  As Owen and Linda crossed the campus, they were so engrossed in their thoughts that it took a moment for Bruce’s voice to register.

  “Dad! Hey! Linda!”

  Coming toward them from the library beneath a canopy of shadows were a trio of healthy young men: Lionel with his shining blond hair, Terry in madras trousers, a flowered Hawaiian shirt, and heavy black Buddy Holly glasses, and Bruce in a sweater and khakis, looking so tall and fine and strong that Owen’s heart lifted with pride and Linda exclaimed, “Oh, Owen, isn’t he handsome!”

  Owen and Linda waved. Bruce spoke briefly to his friends, then began to run toward his parents, a great wide spontaneous smile on his face. Then he stopped, remembering why his parents were there, and his smile dissolved.

  “Hey,” he said somberly when he reached them.

  “You’ve heard about Emily?” Owen asked.

  Bruce nodded. “She okay?”

  “Yes. But she has to stay in the hospital. Psychiatric ward.”

  Bruce flinched. He looked stricken, his face at odds with the helplessly cheerful gleam of his uncontrollable curly red hair and the sparkle of sweat in the curly hairs on his arms. “Sucks.”

  Linda asked, “Do you have any idea what could have caused this?”

  Bruce shook his head. “I don’t see much of her. I mean, all our classes are different. Her dorm’s across campus from mine.”

  “Have you heard anything? Could you ask around? She won’t talk to us at all.”

  “Man, she must be sick if she’s not talking.” The words burst from his mouth before he stopped to think. Grimacing, he quickly added, “Sorry.”

  “No,” Linda told him. “You’re right.”

  They walked toward Bates Hall, passing beneath the shadows of great-limbed copper beeches and extravagant maples and oaks. Several students, enclosed by headphones in worlds of their own, jogged past. A golden lab lumbered along beside one of the students and by the entrance to the dorm another dog lay blissed out in the late afternoon sun. From one direction came the throb of rock music, from another, a capella singing.

  They entered Bates Hall through massive oak doors. Hedden had once been an all-male school, a stronghold for the elite, and the architecture reflected that. From the large foyer, wide stairs wound upward toward a landing baroquely radiant with stained-glass windows. The newel post was a carved and beaded shining gloss of mahogany. Oblivious to such elegance, Hedden boys rushed past the McFarlands, up the stairs to change from sports and prepare for dinner, nodding or mumbling greetings as they passed Bruce.

  “Uh, you want to come up to my room?” Bruce asked. “It’s kind of a mess.”

  “No thanks,” Owen replied. “We’re going to spend the night in Basingstoke. We’d better get over to the Academy Inn and get a room. Want to go out to dinner with us?”

  “Well …” Bruce hesitated. His neck turned pink. “Could I bring a friend?”

  Owen began, “I don’t think this is the appropriate—”

  Linda intervened. “Sure. As long as you don’t mind that your friend knows about Emily.”

  “Everyone knows about Emily by now,” Bruce said with blunt honesty. “It’s just the way it is here.”

  “Linda and I will check into the hotel and get organized and come back for you in, how about an hour?”

  “Great,” Bruce said. “See you then. Oh, uh, Dad—I know this is the wrong time to ask about this, but did you bring my clothes for New York?”

  “We didn’t even think about it,” Owen told him. “I’ll go back to the farm tomorrow and get them to you sometime in the morning. Will that be okay?”

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  “What time do you leave on Wednesday?” Linda asked.

  “Vacation starts at noon sharp. Whit’s parents are springing for a limo to the airport,” he added, unable to check a grin.

  “Very nice,” Linda told him.

  Just
then a tall, exotically handsome boy entered, clad in tennis whites, carrying a racket. His glossy black hair was held back at the neck in a ponytail, accentuating his olive skin and dramatic cheekbones.

  “Hey,” he said to Bruce.

  “Hey, Jorge,” Bruce replied, all at once looking gawky and innocent, a boy in the presence of this man.

  The man’s name set off a warning bell in Linda’s mind: Jorge. Cordelia had said Emily liked someone named Jorge.

  The man took the steps two at a time. When he was out of earshot, Linda asked, sotto voce, “Who was that?”

  “Jorge Avila.”

  “Good Lord. Bruce, I think Emily had a crush on him.”

  Bruce shrugged. “Every girl here has a crush on Jorge.”

  “So we’ll pick you up in an hour?” Owen asked.

  “Great.” Bruce looked up the stairs, half turning to go, then looked at his father and asked, “How long will Emily be at the hospital?”

  “We’re not sure.”

  “Can I visit her? Would it, uh, help?”

  Tears sprang into Linda’s eyes. “Oh, Bruce. Thanks for offering. I don’t know what will help Emily. But why don’t you come to the hospital tonight. It might cheer her up to see you.”

  “And Bruce,” Owen added, “try to think of anything, no matter how insignificant, that would help us figure out what’s troubling Emily.”

  “Sure.”

  Bruce headed off, up the stairs, leaving Owen and Linda to themselves as they stepped out into the dimming light of early evening.

  Basingstoke, once a colonial village, was now a bedroom community for Boston. The Academy Inn was situated on the main street of the small town of Basingstoke and existed mainly because of Hedden Academy and Basingstoke Hospital. A charming, stately Greek Revival building, its many small rooms were pleasantly decorated. The dining room in the front parlor served a limited menu of delicious food. One of the first things the McFarlands learned when Bruce was admitted to Hedden was to reserve months ahead of time for rooms during Parents’ Weekend. Those who didn’t were relegated to one of the many chain hotels situated off Route 93.

  So it was with a satisfying sense of familiarity that the McFarlands checked in and carried their bags through the wide hall to the curving, carpeted front stairs. Their room was pleasantly furnished in reproduction early American. Owen dropped into a wing chair; Linda sank onto the bed, near the bedside table with the telephone.