For Joy's Sake. Tara Taylor Quinn
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AFTER A COUPLE of hours with Joy, followed by a board meeting in LA, Julie pulled back into the Stand’s parking lot just after two on Friday. Joy would be out of “school” for the day, and if she wanted to be with Julie, Julie wanted to be with her. According to Sara, they’d had to put Joy’s aunt in a medically induced coma—Julie wasn’t privy to the details—but it meant that Joy was alone.
A feeling Julie knew only too well. Shortly before the attack that had changed her life, she’d lost her own mother. And her father, too.
Memories of the debilitating fear that had taken over her life crept in even now, eleven years later. And she’d been nearly an adult at the time. Seventeen. Joy was only seven.
She’d coped by losing herself in the memories of her childhood. Expressing them through her drawing. And writing.
Amy, the little girl afraid of her own shadow, had been born during that time in Julie’s life. It was no wonder to Julie, and no mistake, in her view, that Joy clung to the fictional character. To the book.
She couldn’t stand in for Joy’s mother or aunt, but she could be a kind stranger who understood what she was going through during these first difficult days. And if there was a chance that she could help Joy tell someone what had happened the day her mother went missing... If there was any clue to her parents’ whereabouts that the child could possibly disclose, then she’d spend every moment she could trying to help Joy come out of her shell enough to communicate with them.
She’d had an idea and was feeling hopeful as she sat with the little girl in the same private room they’d been in that morning, a room in the school wing of the Stand’s main building. She’d set up two identical easels with a table in between. The table held pencils. Sitting at one easel, with Joy at the other, she started to draw freestyle. She invited Joy to do the same.
“This is how Amy came to be,” she told the little girl, her gaze on the page in front of her. She was drawing Amy. At The Lemonade Stand. Joy might not have figured that out yet. But Julie had faith that she would. “My mom was gone, too, and I was scared, and then Amy came into my head, like an imaginary friend, to play with me. Do you ever have imaginary friends?” she asked.
Kids had them. It was normal. Her minor in child development had taught her that much.
“Mine was a lot like me. I named her Amy. But I wanted her to be out here in the world, you know, so I could see her...”
Amy had been the way she remembered her younger self.
“So I drew her, just fooling around, and I started to feel better. So I drew her some more.”
The fictional face that was so familiar to her was taking perfect shape on the page. Usually Amy’s expressions were more serious; she was a little girl who had fears and learned that the only real thing she had to fear was being afraid. But today, Julie drew her differently. Today Amy’s eyes glowed with hope. There was going to be a grin on her face, too. Not the happy, secure, quiet smile she usually wore at the end of the books. But an ebullient, childish grin. Something she hoped Joy could remember feeling.
As she worked, she chatted. About Amy. Keeping her comments age-appropriate and one step removed. The grin was there on Amy’s face. But something wasn’t quite right. The chin maybe.
“Sometimes Amy thinks she’s the only one who knows stuff,” she said. “And sometimes she knows secrets that she’s afraid to tell because people who are bigger than her might get mad.”
After she’d been brutally raped, Julie had come home to Colin. He’d taken her to the hospital. They’d gone to the police. Her rapist was known to them. But he was the son of a powerful man, and in the end, she and Colin had agreed, understanding the consequences if they didn’t, to let the matter drop.
Amy had taken it all on.
No, the problem wasn’t the chin. She looked at the mouth again.
There was movement beside her. Joy had picked up a pencil.
Heart pounding, Julie left Amy’s face incomplete, moved down to the neck and shoulders, which she could draw without paying much attention. Dressing Amy in a T-shirt with butterflies, she watched Joy—also in a T-shirt with butterflies—out of the corner of her eye.
Afraid to do anything that might distract Joy, she continued to talk about Amy. About the reasons she liked butterflies—because of their soft wings and pretty colors, which was why Julie had always liked them.
Sara had said that she thought Joy was relating to Julie, or maybe to her childhood self, through Amy. She’d told Julie just to be herself.
Joy’s hand, gripping the black pencil, hovered over the page. Black was a color associated with anger. And fear.
But it was also good for outlining.
Julie steadied her own hand. Drew another long stroke. Analyzing Joy’s reactions wasn’t her job.
“Amy used to love chocolate ice cream best,” she said, fixated on that dark pencil in the girl’s hand, in spite of her admonitions to the contrary. “Now she kind of likes vanilla better sometimes.”
She was babbling. But kids liked ice cream. And she didn’t want to scare Joy off.
A circle was forming slowly on the page in front of the girl.
Julie fiddled with the collar of the T-shirt on her own page. Waiting to see what came next in Joy’s drawing.
Two dots, where eyes would go.
And then little broken lines straight down from them.
Julie didn’t need to be a psychiatrist to get that one. Just as Joy didn’t need to be an artist to draw an understandable depiction. Or use words to speak.
The precious little girl, whose father had most likely just abducted her mother, was crying inside.
* * *
LILA MCDANIELS, IN brown pants and jacket, with a top that was a darker shade, met Hunter and Edward in the small public lobby of The Lemonade Stand. Other than the nondescript, tiled room, the rest of the premises were accessible only by pass code or key.
“Edward.” The Stand’s managing director took the doctor’s hand briefly, released it and stepped back immediately. Hunter didn’t know if Edward noticed or not, but he didn’t think the reception boded well. “Hunter.” Lila turned her attention to him with a smile that, while not effusive, still held what seemed like genuine welcome.
What the hell?
“I’m so grateful to you for entertaining my plea,” Edward said, his tone about as far from standoffish as Hunter had heard. He crossed his hands one over the other in front of him and gave the older woman a smile.
She quickly turned to lead them toward a private door...
Shrugging off his impressions, putting them down to his own discomfort, he followed the other two back down the hall. The same hall they’d walked through when they’d come here a few days ago.
Edward’s granddaughter was now a resident at the Stand. Which made him more of a client than the total stranger he’d been the last time they’d visited. The man’s daughter was missing. His grandchild was traumatized. What did Hunter know about the nuances of any of that?
Figuring they were heading toward Lila’s office again, he was surprised when they stopped short before they reached it. They stood in front of an open door that looked like it led to some kind of small but nicely appointed conference room.
Not a lot of space for mingling, he noticed first. But the upholstered chairs at the long table were an attractive touch. Comfortable.
The beige color on the back wall offset the flowered prints. Not his personal taste, but for an event...
He’d