Lieutenant Do-forva, eating breakfast and reading the newspaper in the dining room, glimpsed Heather emerge from her room, yawning and stretching, at about nine o’clock. She knew the girl would get the next topic from her mail drawer, stop by the kitchen to get juice and say hello, then put on some music in the dance studio.
When a quarter hour had gone by, and Heather had neither gotten juice nor put on music, the lieutenant became a little concerned. The twelve-year-old could be spontaneous, but her Sunday-morning routine was very predictable.
A minute later, a soft whimpering sound began, so Ginny rose to investigate.
She found Heather in a fetal position on the floor, right in front of the mail drawers, crumpled sheet of paper in hand, eyes red and cheeks wet.
“What’s wrong?” Ginny asked, kneeling down.
Having a listener, the girl began crying loudly and clutching at the lieutenant desperately, but spoke no words.
The garage-level security sergeant was quickly up the stairs. “What can I do?”
“Get Doctor Bo-kamla in here.”
He strode into the office and grabbed a telephone.
“Come on, girl, sit up and tell me what’s the matter,” Ginny coaxed.
Heather sat up so she could clutch onto her listener more tightly, but
NEBADOR Book Nine: A Cry for Help 131
continued crying like a baby who had just learned about hot stoves.
“We’re getting Susan. Do you need a medical doctor?”
“. . . no . . .” the lieutenant heard among the crying and whimpering.
“Doctor Bo-kamla’s on the way,” the sergeant informed. “Can I get anyone anything?”
“I bet your blood sugar’s low,” Ginny said to the crying girl. “Will you drink some juice?”
Without waiting for an answer, the sergeant headed for the kitchen. A minute later, he lined up six different cans for Heather to choose from.
“Hey girl,” Ginny asserted, “peek out of those feelings for a moment and pick one, or I will get a medic, and he’ll feed you intravenously.”
Heather made some effort to collect herself, and grabbed a can of juice randomly. Her shaking fingers weren’t ready to open it, so Ginny helped.
Over the next quarter hour, Heather slowly relaxed as she sipped her juice, but still didn’t attempt any words. Lieutenant Do-forva noticed that she continued to clutch the sheet of paper that contained Monday’s topic, so guessed that Heather’s distress had something to do with it. Doctor Bo-kamla arrived and the sergeant let her in.
Susan joined Heather and Ginny on the floor. Heather continued to whimper and gaze around like a lost child.
“She hasn’t spoken a clear word yet,” Ginny reported, “but had enough presence of mind to start drinking juice when I threatened intravenous feeding.”
“And the paper in her hand is . . .” the psychologist questioned.
“Tomorrow’s topic, I think, but she hasn’t let anyone see it.”
“I . . .” Heather started to say, but then lapsed into deep sobs again.
“You can take all the time you need,” Susan said, joining Ginny in comforting the girl. “Anything stressful happen yesterday?” the psychologist asked, looking at the lieutenant.
“Nothing in the security log, and Lisa didn’t mention anything before she went home last night.”
“I’ve been . . .”
Everyone waited as Heather struggled to get her feelings under control.
NEBADOR Book Nine: A Cry for Help 132
“I’ve been pretending all this time . . .” she managed to gasp out before breaking into howls and tears again.
Another quarter hour passed before Heather could explain her statement.
By then, the sergeant had managed to cook up scrambled eggs and bacon, a combination nearly guaranteed to put a smile on Heather’s face.
Still seated in the same spot on the floor, the twelve-year-old ate in silence as the lieutenant and the psychologist sat near, and the sergeant hovered within earshot.
“You know,” Ginny began, “with a score of eighty-seven to one, and that one a matter of subtle word definitions, you’re the very best pretender any program about the future has ever had!”
“I didn’t mean that,” Heather said, then took another bite of eggs. After chewing thoughtfully for a long moment, she pulled another tissue from the box, wiped her eyes again, and added it to the large pile.
“I didn’t think so,” Ginny assured.
“I’ve been . . . pretending to myself . . . that the wonderful life I have . . .
could just go on and on.”
“Are you sure it can’t?” Susan asked.
“Yeah. The end starts tomorrow at . . . you know . . . zero-nine hundred.”
Heather refused to show them the crumpled piece of paper, saying they would find out soon enough. She asked them to not tell anyone else that she was stressed out about it, and they agreed to only log that Doctor Bo-kamla came in for support.
Susan stayed the entire day, and sometimes Heather talked, but never about the next day’s topic. At other times, the girl would just find an environment that seemed to fit her mood, claiming she needed to spend some time preparing.
While washing dishes in the kitchen, she gazed out the window at the green hills. Curled up on her favorite bunk in the bomb shelter, she closed her eyes and imagined what she would say the next morning. Lying on her back on the cold concrete of the parking garage, she let her mind go blank and listened to what she called the music of the spheres.
NEBADOR Book Nine: A Cry for Help 133
Susan was always near in case Heather wanted to talk, but was painfully aware that the mental and emotional needs of this twelve-year-old were unlike any of her regular clients, and unlike anything she had studied in school.
At nearly midnight, Heather got ready for bed so Susan would go home and get some sleep herself.
As soon as the psychologist was gone, Heather changed back into casual clothes. She could think of plants that needed watering, some windows that could use a wash, and a floor or two that needed scrubbing — just enough stuff to keep her busy until the day shift started arriving in the morning.