She wasn’t a patient, surely. The Inn didn’t treat kids. Only people over eighteen.
“Children, this is Iris. She’s going to be staying with us,” Gran said. She gave them a warning look. “Iris, these are my grandchildren, Violet and Eric.”
Vi held still, feeling like if any of them moved or talked, the girl would bolt.
It was like trying to get a deer to come up and eat out of your hand in the forest.
Iris looked from Vi to Eric, then back down at the rabbit. She came forward until she was standing right in front of it, her fingers going right for the wound, touching it gently there.
“She’s hurt, but we’re going to fix her right up,” Gran said. “You can help if you like, Iris. You can help us take care of her. Would you like that?”
The girl showed no sign of a response—no words, no nod. She just kept her head down, stroking the rabbit, her fingertips red and sticky with its blood.
* * *
“I THOUGHT THE Inn didn’t treat children,” Vi said when Gran came into Vi’s room to say goodnight. She smelled like cigarettes and gin. She’d carried in a cup of tea for Vi, one of her sleeping tonics. Vi sipped at it—there was so much honey it made her teeth ache. Gran hadn’t changed into her nightgown and robe yet, which meant that she was probably heading over to the Inn again. Or maybe down into the basement to work. Vi looked at the clock. A little after ten.
They’d gotten the new girl, Iris, settled into the guest room, which was right next door to Vi’s. They’d had dinner, watched TV （Little House on the Prairie）， and then Gran had poured Iris a bubble bath using Vi’s pink bottle of Mr. Bubble and laid out some clean pajamas （an old blue set of Vi’s）。 The girl came out of the bathroom with flushed skin and wet hair poking from beneath her grungy orange hat. Vi wondered if she’d bathed while wearing it. She’d buttoned the long-sleeved pajama top all the way up, but Vi could see the bruises on her neck and clavicle and on each wrist. When Iris leaned forward, Vi saw the ragged edge of a cut, the black whiskers of stitches peeking out just under the V in the pajama top. The girl caught her staring and sat up, tugged at her collar. Vi’s face flushed. She looked away.
Iris hadn’t said a word all night. But she’d watched them. She’d watched them all intently, with an odd mixture of curiosity and fear, the way one might watch a pride of lions: fascinated, mesmerized even, but not daring to get too close. She took the pills Gran handed over and dutifully swallowed them down. When Gran announced it was time for bed and led Iris to the guest room, the girl followed obediently.
Eric had gone into his own room with the wounded rabbit, which he’d set up in an aquarium next to his bed. Through the wall, Vi could hear him singing to it.
Vi looked at Gran, waiting for her to answer.
“You’re absolutely right,” Gran said as she sat down on the edge of Vi’s bed, fingers smoothing the old quilt. “We don’t treat children.”
Had the girl come from somewhere else? Gran volunteered at a state-run clinic called Project Hope an hour away. There she treated people who were just out of jail or lived in halfway houses. But Vi had never heard her mention kids at the clinic. It was mostly criminals and drug addicts—people required by the courts to see a psychiatrist.
“Not as a general rule,” Gran continued. “But there are exceptions to every rule sometimes.”
“Who is she?” Vi leaned closer to Gran, set the cup of bittersweet tea on her bedside table. “Where did she come from? Is Iris her real name?” The questions came tumbling out and were answered only with Gran’s sly smile.
“You know I can’t tell you that, poppet,” Gran said, stroking the hair back from Vi’s forehead. She reached for the brush on the bedside table. Vi held still, relaxing, as Gran brushed her hair, carefully working out the snarls and tangles. Gran sang while she brushed, a German song her mother had sung to her: “Guten Abend, gute Nacht.”