The Many Adventures of Fay Fairburn: Truth and Lies
Ms. Howard leaned forward and fixed the girl who sat on the other side of the desk with her best don’t-you-mess-around-with-me glare. Ms. Howard has been working as Social Worker for over ten years, and knew it did no good to get angry with the kids that came through her office -- no matter how they behaved -- but you sure as hell had to be firm with them. She very calmly and deliberately repeated her question. “When were you born?”
The girl, who said her name was Fay Fairburn, wore a long, faded blue overcoat that was about ten sizes to big and beneath that a ragged looking dress that seemed to be half held together with leaves. Her brown hair was a nest of tangles and her face was marked with dirt. She sat, fascinated by the twirling of a leaf in her fingers, her eyes scanning up and down the whirling green.
Ms. Howard scribbled on one of the forms in front of her: possible drug use.
Without looking away from the leaf, Fay said, “I told you. 1909.”
“Child,” said Ms. Howard rubbing her eyes. “That would make you well over seventy years old.”
According to the police, they had found Fay sleeping in the center of some bushes in Central Park. It had been clear she was homeless and probably a runaway, so they had brought her in and handed her over to Social Services.
Fay looked away from the leaf in her fingers and tilted her head in a look of confusion. “I’m not seventy years old.”
“I know,” said Ms. Howard, deciding to try a new question. “How old are you?”
“Fifteen. Or Sixteen. Or twenty-five. I’m not really sure anymore. Time gets all folded up on itself in fairyland,” she said, making elaborate hand gestures to emphasize her point. “It doesn’t make any sense to anyone but the fair folk, so I can’t really be sure how long I was there. Days. Month. Centuries. I think I saw ancient China from a window in Titania’s summer house once.” Fay leaned forward conspiratorially. “I worked in the queen’s kitchen for a while, and she never even knew.”
“Fairyland,” said Ms. Howard, starting to get a headache. “China.”
“Well, it’s not really called fairyland. It’s called something else. But it’s too hard to pronounce.”
“A’huh.” Ms. Howard started to scribble notes on her forms again.
“What does narcissism have to do with me?”
Ms. Howard looked up from where she had written, narcissistic tendency to lie, and shrieked. Fay Fairburn was standing up on her chair, her toes balancing on the very edge, and she was angling herself over the desk to read Ms. Howard’s chicken-scratched notes upside down. It was a spectacular feat of balance, and Ms. Howard wondered how she didn't just fall out of the chair and tumble onto the desk.
“What’s narcissism have to do with me?” Fay repeated.
Ms. Howard had neither seen nor heard the girl move and she was startled right out of her skin. She grabbed her chest, quite sure she was going to have a heart attack. “Child, you sit down in that chair, right now!”
Fay performed a graceful, acrobatic flop back into the chair, then leaned forward to pick up the copper plate that had Ms. Howard’s name on it. Ms. Howard snatched it out of Fay’s fingers and positioned it back on her desk.
After a few deep breaths to calm herself, she said, perhaps more testily than she intended, “Fay. Do you understand why we’re here?”
“Because I don’t have a home.” It was said matter-of-factly without any self-pity or anger.
It caught Ms. Howard off guard. She nodded and said, “That’s right. I can help you find a home again, Fay, but you have to cooperate with me here.”
Fay shrugged. “Okay.”
“Okay, then. Can you tell me about your family, child?”
“My papa left when I was eight.”
“I’m sorry.” Ms. Howard settled her face into a look of concern, grateful that the conversation was on steady footing again.
Fay breathed slowly. Her expression was pained, but stoic. “He followed the fairies into the dark and didn’t come back.”
Ms. Howard groaned. Fairies. Still with the fairies.
Fay didn’t seem to notice. She grasped the arms of her chair with white knuckled fists. “I had to find him. So I followed. I didn’t know time would get so whishy-washy. I didn’t know I’d come out of there to a time all different and most every one I know all dead. I think Evangeline might have warned me, but I didn’t know, you know?”
Ms. Howard watched Fay in fascination. Every thing the girl said was said with absolute certainty and assurance of it being true. She wanted to write, request psych eval, on her forms, but was terrified of what the girl might do if she looked away for even a second.
Fay relaxed and looked up. “Annie’s still alive though.”
“Who’s Annie?” said Ms. Howard, not sure if she really wanted to know.
“My sister.”
Ms. Howard heaved a sigh of relief. “You have a sister. Great. Where does she live? We can contact her an let her know where you are.”
“She’s in a nursing home on 41st street. I visit her sometimes, but she thinks I’m a ghost because I disappeared so long ago and I’m not any older, like she is.”
Ms. Howard wanted to whimper. There was nothing sane about this case. Every word Fay spoke struck some cord deep within her that made her want to believe, even if it was impossible, even if it was more likely that this kid had concocted an elaborate fantasy world to deal with the horrors of her life. The girl needed help. That was clear, but the more the conversation went on, the more crazy Ms. Howard felt herself.
“Are you alright?” Fay asked. “You look pale.”
Ms. Howard plastered an ill-looking smile on her face. “I’m fine. Do you want something to drink? Water?”
“Something sweet, please.”
“Sure. I’ll be right back.” Ms. Howard lifted herself out of the chair and left the room. She closed the door behind her and felt as though she could breath more easily. She headed for her boss’ office, hoping her could walk her through was she was feeling, hoping he could help her make sense of things. She wanted to help Fay, but it was clear to her that she wouldn’t be able to do it on her own.
[To read more Fay Fairburn stories click here.]
The girl, who said her name was Fay Fairburn, wore a long, faded blue overcoat that was about ten sizes to big and beneath that a ragged looking dress that seemed to be half held together with leaves. Her brown hair was a nest of tangles and her face was marked with dirt. She sat, fascinated by the twirling of a leaf in her fingers, her eyes scanning up and down the whirling green.
Ms. Howard scribbled on one of the forms in front of her: possible drug use.
Without looking away from the leaf, Fay said, “I told you. 1909.”
“Child,” said Ms. Howard rubbing her eyes. “That would make you well over seventy years old.”
According to the police, they had found Fay sleeping in the center of some bushes in Central Park. It had been clear she was homeless and probably a runaway, so they had brought her in and handed her over to Social Services.
Fay looked away from the leaf in her fingers and tilted her head in a look of confusion. “I’m not seventy years old.”
“I know,” said Ms. Howard, deciding to try a new question. “How old are you?”
“Fifteen. Or Sixteen. Or twenty-five. I’m not really sure anymore. Time gets all folded up on itself in fairyland,” she said, making elaborate hand gestures to emphasize her point. “It doesn’t make any sense to anyone but the fair folk, so I can’t really be sure how long I was there. Days. Month. Centuries. I think I saw ancient China from a window in Titania’s summer house once.” Fay leaned forward conspiratorially. “I worked in the queen’s kitchen for a while, and she never even knew.”
“Fairyland,” said Ms. Howard, starting to get a headache. “China.”
“Well, it’s not really called fairyland. It’s called something else. But it’s too hard to pronounce.”
“A’huh.” Ms. Howard started to scribble notes on her forms again.
“What does narcissism have to do with me?”
Ms. Howard looked up from where she had written, narcissistic tendency to lie, and shrieked. Fay Fairburn was standing up on her chair, her toes balancing on the very edge, and she was angling herself over the desk to read Ms. Howard’s chicken-scratched notes upside down. It was a spectacular feat of balance, and Ms. Howard wondered how she didn't just fall out of the chair and tumble onto the desk.
“What’s narcissism have to do with me?” Fay repeated.
Ms. Howard had neither seen nor heard the girl move and she was startled right out of her skin. She grabbed her chest, quite sure she was going to have a heart attack. “Child, you sit down in that chair, right now!”
Fay performed a graceful, acrobatic flop back into the chair, then leaned forward to pick up the copper plate that had Ms. Howard’s name on it. Ms. Howard snatched it out of Fay’s fingers and positioned it back on her desk.
After a few deep breaths to calm herself, she said, perhaps more testily than she intended, “Fay. Do you understand why we’re here?”
“Because I don’t have a home.” It was said matter-of-factly without any self-pity or anger.
It caught Ms. Howard off guard. She nodded and said, “That’s right. I can help you find a home again, Fay, but you have to cooperate with me here.”
Fay shrugged. “Okay.”
“Okay, then. Can you tell me about your family, child?”
“My papa left when I was eight.”
“I’m sorry.” Ms. Howard settled her face into a look of concern, grateful that the conversation was on steady footing again.
Fay breathed slowly. Her expression was pained, but stoic. “He followed the fairies into the dark and didn’t come back.”
Ms. Howard groaned. Fairies. Still with the fairies.
Fay didn’t seem to notice. She grasped the arms of her chair with white knuckled fists. “I had to find him. So I followed. I didn’t know time would get so whishy-washy. I didn’t know I’d come out of there to a time all different and most every one I know all dead. I think Evangeline might have warned me, but I didn’t know, you know?”
Ms. Howard watched Fay in fascination. Every thing the girl said was said with absolute certainty and assurance of it being true. She wanted to write, request psych eval, on her forms, but was terrified of what the girl might do if she looked away for even a second.
Fay relaxed and looked up. “Annie’s still alive though.”
“Who’s Annie?” said Ms. Howard, not sure if she really wanted to know.
“My sister.”
Ms. Howard heaved a sigh of relief. “You have a sister. Great. Where does she live? We can contact her an let her know where you are.”
“She’s in a nursing home on 41st street. I visit her sometimes, but she thinks I’m a ghost because I disappeared so long ago and I’m not any older, like she is.”
Ms. Howard wanted to whimper. There was nothing sane about this case. Every word Fay spoke struck some cord deep within her that made her want to believe, even if it was impossible, even if it was more likely that this kid had concocted an elaborate fantasy world to deal with the horrors of her life. The girl needed help. That was clear, but the more the conversation went on, the more crazy Ms. Howard felt herself.
“Are you alright?” Fay asked. “You look pale.”
Ms. Howard plastered an ill-looking smile on her face. “I’m fine. Do you want something to drink? Water?”
“Something sweet, please.”
“Sure. I’ll be right back.” Ms. Howard lifted herself out of the chair and left the room. She closed the door behind her and felt as though she could breath more easily. She headed for her boss’ office, hoping her could walk her through was she was feeling, hoping he could help her make sense of things. She wanted to help Fay, but it was clear to her that she wouldn’t be able to do it on her own.
[To read more Fay Fairburn stories click here.]