Footprints in the Sand

Martha looked out over the garden she’d grown to love so much. There had been talk of closing the school down altogether. It shouldn’t really affect her, of course, for she was retiring soon, but the large gray stone house had become a home to her over the past ten years, and she felt a huge responsibility to the children in her care. She closed the file, feeling unusually dispirited. In a way, she supposed, she was not unlike those children. Perhaps she, too, needed the discipline and security of Appletree.

* * *

BRYN HEARD THE TEA GONG boom as he whizzed through the air, perched on a bar at the end of a thick brown rope. He threw back his head to feel the wind in his face one last time, then pulled at the rope to slow it down, remembering that the new kid was coming this afternoon. He was on the ground before it stopped, stumbling to keep his feet, then racing across the front lawn toward the curved stone steps, taking them two at a time. The heavy oak door was already open, and children were wandering in from the garden, laughing and giggling and messing around.

“Hiya, Bryn,” gurgled little Kelly Watts. He ruffled her short dark hair and grinned.

“Hiya, Kelly.”

* * *

“ORDER!” MRS. DIBBLE YELLED, and they quickly organized themselves into a line, filing through to wash their hands and tidy up for tea, feet clomping on the shiny wooden floor.

Martha Dibble stood, as usual, in the hallway, watching them pass through with all-seeing eyes. God help a child who attempted to enter the dining room with grubby hands or untidy clothes—Bryn was probably the worst—and the most likely to get away with it. No matter how much he combed his floppy black hair, it always looked tangled, and his face, darkly tanned from a summer of sunshine, seemed to attract dirt like metal to a magnet. He spit on his hands and rubbed his cheeks as he approached the door, probably the only child in the room deliberately trying to catch Martha’s steely glare. She peered at him through her dark-rimmed glasses. He grinned, his brown eyes glowing, and despite herself, she smiled back.

Martha always liked to wait until everyone was seated around their tables before introducing a new arrival at Appletree. She firmly believed that the very act of sitting down and eating together with their future companions would make them feel more immediately at home.

* * *

BRYN TOYED WITH HIS FOOD, making patterns in his mashed potatoes, one eye fixed on the door. Lots of the children who came to Appletree were emotionally disturbed—at least they were if that meant they cried a lot—so maybe this kid wouldn’t be so bad, after all. He cut off a bit of sausage, dipped it in sauce and popped it into his mouth, biting into its hot tasty center. Hostile, though, now that was another matter.

But as soon as he saw her, Bryn realized why all those words had been used to describe her. She was only five or six, but her whole being bristled with ferocity. Mrs. Dibble held her arm, and her tight expression showed just how much trouble the little girl must have caused.

“Stay still, dear,” she said sternly as the child tried to wriggle from her grasp. The new arrival ignored her, snarling like a lion cub, and Bryn’s heart turned over. He could feel her unhappiness, her anger.

“This is Elsa May Malone, children,” Mrs. Dibble announced with a forced smile. “I hope that you will all make her feel very welcome.”

“It’ll take more than us to make her feel welcome,” Timmy Platt giggled. He was a chubby, spotty-faced boy who’d been at Appletree for about six months.

Bryn scowled at Timmy and stepped determinedly forward.

“Hello,” he said. “I’m Bryn.”

Mrs. Dibble smiled gratefully and beckoned him forward, but the little girl glowered at him with such malice that he froze. Her fierce amber eyes, sparkling with green and gold, stared out at him defiantly, her delicate face framed by a curly cloud of sun-bleached brown hair. She really did look like a lion cub, he decided, trapped and frightened, fighting for her life.

“I’m Bryn,” he repeated.

She scowled, poising herself to run.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Mrs. Dibble scolded, grabbing her arm again. The little girl twisted and turned, then stood still, bristling with anger at the entire universe.

“We have ice cream,” Bryn said, holding out his hand. She clasped hers tightly together against her chest, defying him to come closer.

“Come on,” he urged. “You can sit next to me.”

Martha Dibble looked on in amazement as Elsa followed Bryn to their table, drawing her chair very close to his as if to shut out everyone else in the room.

“It was as though they made some kind of instant connection,” Martha later told the social worker, reflecting on the moment when the openhearted little boy had somehow managed to get through to a child who had been branded totally uncommunicative by all the experts in child welfare.

The Appletree staff had been warned that Elsa was emotionally unstable, having been deeply traumatized by her father’s death. Her stay at Appletree was supposed to be a brief stopgap between the foster home that had been unable to deal with her and a unit that would provide more specialized care. After Elsa’s interaction with Bryn, however, Martha managed to persuade Social Services to rethink their plan, insisting that the girl should be allowed to stay for at least a little longer.

Before she met Bryn, Elsa had been pronounced a danger to herself, snarling and refusing to eat, or just sitting in a corner staring into space, but from the moment she followed the dark-haired, warmhearted boy across the dining room to sit at his side and eat ice cream, everything changed. She still rarely spoke, only when absolutely necessary, but she followed Bryn Evans like a shadow, keeping to herself, watching him play and dutifully doing her schoolwork.

He talked to her all the time, telling her anything that came into his head, from the feelings he’d gone through when both his parents were killed in a car crash to his love of drawing and painting and his longing for a dog of his own. It seemed as if she knew every little thing about him, but let out nothing of herself. He didn’t know where she was from, why she came to Appletree or even her likes and dislikes. But somehow none of that mattered to him as long as she was there. The feelings she had raised in him all those months ago, when he first saw her in the dining room, were still as strong as ever.

She was just his Elsa, no more or less than that. Now and forever.

CHAPTER SIX

BEFORE I CAME TO APPLETREE, first there was my dad’s funeral. Mr. and Mrs. Mac didn’t go and I stood beside Ted, holding on very tightly to his hand. Victoria stood on his other side, rigid and still. There wasn’t much singing and my dad’s coffin didn’t have shiny brass handles like Daffyd’s. I hoped he didn’t look like Daffyd, swollen and gray, and I cried because he wasn’t an angel after all.

That was the last time I cried because my crossness came to soak up the tears. Being angry felt better than being sad, so I clung to it as tightly as I could.

I knew they were going to send me away. Victoria wouldn’t let me stay with Ted, and Mr. and Mrs. Mac didn’t like me anymore, so a lady came from somewhere called the authorities. Her name was Susan and she had very shiny hair. I didn’t like her much, but then again I didn’t like anyone anymore, so I just stopped talking and tried to build a wall around me.

* * *

I DON’T REMEMBER MUCH about the first place they sent me to. There was a tall smiley man, who tried to be nice, but I wouldn’t talk to him. And a big boy who pinched me when no one could see, but he couldn’t make me cry. And then they sent me somewhere else. “Somewhere better equipped to deal with you,” Susan said.

She came for me. I dug in my heels and refused to go, but the tall man picked me up and put me in Sarah’s car. She kept talking to me on the drive, but I stared out the window, wishing and wishing that everything could be like it used to. Oh, why couldn’t my dad have been an angel?

* * *

A LADY WITH GRAY HAIR and gray eyes dragged me through a hallway. I stomped on the wooden floor. I liked the sound, so I stomped even harder.

“Shush, child,” she said. “We don’t like rowdy children here.”

There were lots of tables and a sea of faces all staring at me, smiling and whispering. I wanted to go home so much, home to how things used to be.

“This, children,” announced the gray lady, “is Elsa May Malone. I hope you will all make her very welcome.”

I knew they wouldn’t. No one made me welcome anymore, for no one liked me. I closed my eyes and searched for my lump of crossness, the anger that kept any other emotion away. I didn’t care... I didn’t care... I didn’t care. When I opened them again, a boy stood in front of me. His eyes were very warm and he smiled at me.

“I’m Bryn,” he said.

I turned to run away but the gray lady grabbed my arm.

He repeated his name, holding out his hand. It was slim and brown and he held it very straight. I wanted to take it but my crossness wouldn’t let me, so I pulled away, clutching my hands tightly against my chest.

“We have ice cream,” he said, turning away. “You can sit next to me.”

The boy’s words went around and around inside my head. I had somewhere to sit, someone who wanted me to sit with him. I followed him slowly, clinging to him like a shadow. Everyone smiled at him, even the gray lady they called Mrs. Dibble, and I sat right beside him and ate ice cream. Here, I decided, is where I’m going to stay.

* * *

BRYN NEVER ASKED ME anything about myself.

“You can tell me when you’re ready, Emm,” he told me. He always called me Emm because of my initials, Elsa May Malone.