Yesternight Read Online Free PDF Page B

that’s ever happened to me.’” She rustled out a sheet of wide-ruled paper and laid the page in front of me. Her hand shook against the top edge, giving the paper the appearance of the fluttering wings of an insect caught beneath her fingers. A dying moth. “This is what Janie had to say.”
    I picked up the composition and read.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  The scariest thing that ever happened to me was when I used to be called Violet Sunday and lived in Kansas. I was deep in the water and couldn’t swim back up to the surface. My heart hurt. It felt like it was about to blow up. Even though I loved numbers so much, I didn’t even feel like counting to figure out how many seconds I was under the water. All of my number happiness left me, and I justsank and sank until everything went black and I died. I was nineteen. I died, and it hurt.
    I swallowed and peeked up at Miss Simpkin, who leaned her hands against her desk.
    â€œDid Janie used to have a different name?” I asked.
    â€œNo. She’s always been Janie O’Daire.”
    â€œDid she almost drown when she was younger?”
    Miss Simpkin shook her head. “No.”
    â€œAre you quite certain?”
    â€œQuite.” She picked up her cigarette and took another puff.
    I peered down at the fine display of penmanship—the neat lines, the full, round curves of letters printed in pencil.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  All of my number happiness left me, and I just sank and sank until everything went black and I died. I was nineteen.
    I cleared a heavy feeling from my throat. “Do you know if anyone who might not have been entirely . . . competent has ever watched over Janie?”
    â€œYou mean other than her father?”
    I glanced over my shoulder to the empty space where Mr. O’Daire and I had greeted Janie. I turned back to Miss Simpkin. “You don’t believe Mr. O’Daire is a competent father?”
    â€œI don’t think he’d ever hurt her, but . . . his current business practices are”—she tapped ash into the tray—“ unsavory , to say the least.”
    I smoothed out the edges of the paper against my briefcase and reread the paragraph once more.
    â€œJanie, she’s . . .” Miss Simpkin rested her left elbow on the desk and held her head against her hand. “She’s talked about her life as Violet Sunday ever since she was two years old. The story’s always been the same. She was born in Kansas and drowned at nineteen. She loved mathematics.”
    â€œShe’s spoken about mathematics and Kansas since she was two?” I asked.
    â€œIn one way or another, yes.”
    â€œHas she ever been to Kansas?”
    â€œShe’s never left Oregon.”
    I wrinkled my brow. “Do you believe she’s remembering a previous life? Is that the great mystery everyone’s dancing around?”
    Miss Simpkin tapped more ash into the tray and rocked her knuckles across her lips. “I often wonder if her father is feeding her that tale and convincing her that she used to be a dead woman from the 1800s.”
    â€œWhy do you think he’d do that?”
    â€œI don’t know.” She shrugged. “Money, I suppose. Fame. He’s not a war veteran, or a respected business owner, or even a married man. He’s just the spoiled son of a successful hotel proprietor who inherited his daddy’s business.”
    I shifted my weight in my seat and strove to remember Mr. O’Daire’s mannerisms when he spoke to me about Janie. The drumming of his thumbs against the steering wheel in the rhythm of the rain came to mind. And yet the genuineness of his love and concern for his child had also made an impression on me.
    â€œMay I keep this paper?” I asked.
    Miss Simpkin squirmed. “I haven’t yet shown that particular writing sample to either of her parents. As I said, her