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Lovey
Mary MacCracken
This deeply moving memoir tells the story of Hannah: a child who has been beaten and abused; a girl full of loneliness and rage; a student no one but learning disabilities teacher Mary MacCracken could reach.Mary had reservations about eight-year-old Hannah joining her class. The three emotionally disturbed boys she was currently looking after had been making steady progress, and Hannah, who had a reputation for being a withdrawn and incredibly troubled child, would only be a disruptive influence.For the first fortnight Hannah retired to a cupboard and refused to come out. Howling almost non-stop she was displaying the worst symptoms that Mary had ever seen.How could Mary help a child who had been shut up in closets and treated like an animal? What could she say to a child who had been locked out of her own home, and beaten by both her brother and her father? How could she reach this lost girl?This is the remarkable story of Hannah and Mary’s journey together. Deep within Hannah, Mary recognises an amazing strength. And with love, skill and patience, she gradually starts to make a difference. It’s a long road to recovery, but Mary never gives up.As this moving true story unfolds, we feel Mary’s joy, we share her hope and, in time, her faith that Hannah will be okay.
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Copyright (#u82169d21-2612-57d6-bea3-c88eb9c7f6f5)
This book recounts the essence of my experience and in that sense is a true story. However, it is not intended as a literal account and it is not to be taken as a portrayal of any living person. All names of individuals, places or institutions are fictitious.
HarperElement
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
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London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
and HarperElement are trademarks of
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
First published in Great Britain by Andre Deutsch Ltd, 1977
This updated edition published by HarperElement 2014
Copyright © 1976, 2014 by Mary Burnham MacCracken
Mary MacCracken asserts the moral right to
be identified as the author of this work
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2014
Cover photographs © Diane Kerpan/arcangel-images.com
A catalogue record for this book is
available from the British Library
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Source ISBN: 9780007555147
Ebook Edition © March 2014 ISBN: 9780007555154
Version 2016-10-24
Also by Mary MacCracken (#u82169d21-2612-57d6-bea3-c88eb9c7f6f5)
The Lost Children
City Kid
Turnabout Children
Dedication (#u82169d21-2612-57d6-bea3-c88eb9c7f6f5)
For my remarkable father,
Clifford Wilcox Burnham, and Ann
Contents
Cover (#u296e5c38-60f0-5439-a3f3-fdbb0a95bc35)
Title Page (#ulink_93dc9397-4029-5bf4-af14-02860c25528b)
Copyright (#ulink_0987e8c7-3522-5c3b-8ccf-e248927e2078)
Also by Mary MacCracken (#ulink_8a70cad2-c219-5375-ad0f-cf4b79a012d1)
Dedication (#ulink_46014902-a14c-52bf-8913-8520fd5e36e5)
Chapter 1 (#ulink_39619965-b1d1-5ee1-a536-09224d1b9609)
Chapter 2 (#ulink_0faaeea5-2426-553f-8b7b-53b48d9ca403)
Chapter 3 (#ulink_d3330022-4244-57fd-a21f-c0122393d24e)
Chapter 4 (#ulink_bd521821-2da2-518a-8988-e73afdaf63dc)
Chapter 5 (#ulink_e839802b-e757-50c4-81b5-669b7e558ff5)
Chapter 6 (#ulink_6a99e71a-850d-5d8b-bea4-56eff80a5f4b)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Coming soon … (#litres_trial_promo)
Exclusive sample chapter (#litres_trial_promo)
Moving Memories eNewsletter (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 1 (#u82169d21-2612-57d6-bea3-c88eb9c7f6f5)
‘Wait just a minute, Mary. I want to talk to you.’ The Director covered the phone and nodded towards the coffeepot. ‘Pour yourself a cup. I’ll be right with you.’
I hesitated, juggling the armload of books and old magazines I’d brought in. I didn’t want to stop now. This was the first day of school and the children would be arriving in a few minutes. I wanted to get down to my room, put away these last things, and make sure everything was ready.
‘Well, now, everything set?’ the Director said as she hung up.
‘I think so, except for these books and maybe a few travel posters that I’ll tack up until the kids get some paintings done.’ Our children were even more sensitive than most to the climate of their surroundings. I wanted no rush, no hurry, no helter-skelter when they first arrived. The Director understood this as well as I did. Why was she keeping me here, diddling around and chatting?
‘Uh, Mary, I wanted to tell you … there’s been a change in your class.’
‘A change? What do you mean? What’s wrong? Has something happened to one of my children?’
‘No, no. Nothing like that. It’s just that I’ve rearranged things a little.’
I was instantly on guard. Euphemisms from the Director were always a danger sign. ‘Rearranged things?’
‘Yes. Last night when I went over the class lists I decided to put Hannah Rosnic in with you and move Carolyn –’
‘Hannah Rosnic!’ I interrupted. ‘How can that work? Brian and Rufus are almost ready for regular school – Brian’s twelve; this is his last year – and even Jamie is able to sit long enough to do some reading. Carolyn will fit in beautifully, I know she will. We took her on trips with us last year. I know she’s withdrawn, and her fantasies –’
‘I’ve put Carolyn in Ellen’s class,’ the Director interrupted in her turn. ‘I realised last night that it was asking too much of Ellen to take on Hannah. Ellen’s too new. She’s right for her other three and she’ll be good with Carolyn. But Hannah will be better off with you.’
‘Listen,’ I said, ‘what about the boys? And I don’t even know Hannah – except what I heard from down the hall last year. I don’t have any rapport with her. How am I going to get anything going between her and the boys? What makes you think they’ll accept her at all?’
The Director sipped her coffee and lit a cigarette, fanning the smoke away from her eyes. She looked exactly as she always had, cheerful, dynamic, the strong sinewy cords in her neck softened by her feathery white hair. ‘I’ve thought about it. The boys will be good for her, give her a nice balance.’ She paused and smiled at me. ‘And Hannah’ll stir them up a little – give your room a little more excitement.’
‘Excitement? What do we need with excitement? We’ve all come a long way, but it’s possible that we could lose everything we’ve gained so far with Hannah in there.’
‘Anything’s possible,’ the Director said coolly. The phone rang. She picked up my untouched coffee and her half-empty cup and headed back to her desk, nodding to me and dismissing me at the same time. ‘Well, that’s set, then. Fine, I’ll send Hannah down when she arrives.’
I gathered up my books and magazines and went out into the hall. What was I going to do? All I knew about Hannah Rosnic was that she had come to our school sometime in the middle of last year and had been in Shirley’s class at the end of the hall. I’d seen her, fat, dumpy, and dirty, on the playground, and I’d heard her, screaming and howling from her classroom. But that was all, except for a few dim memories of discussions at staff meetings. And now she was going to be one of my four!
A last-minute change like this was unprecedented. Ours was a school for children with severe emotional disturbances. Each of our children was unique, with such individual problems as well as strengths that what was planned to help one child deal with anger and hurt and isolation would be useless to another. What I had prepared for Carolyn would never work for Hannah.
And yet, this was what was going to happen. Once the Director had made up her mind, she wouldn’t argue and there was no point in trying to discuss it. If she had decided to move Hannah into my classroom, Hannah would be there.
I opened the door to my room and immediately my spirits rose. It was a beautiful room, facing south, large, sunny, and bright. One of the school’s trustees had arranged for us to use this church building, rent free, while we waited for our new school to be built. This particular Sunday-school room had previously been off limits to us. It was the church’s pride and joy, full of play equipment, rugs, tables, even an easel for painting. One whole wall was open to sunlight, with five floor-to-ceiling windows. Best of all, there was a door opening on to the driveway outside. There is absolutely nothing better than a door of your own to the outside world. Compared to the cold, barren rooms I’d taught in before, this was heaven.
Brian was the first to arrive. He came so quietly that if I hadn’t been watching I wouldn’t have known he was there. He came to the hall door and stood just outside it, his hands hidden in his pockets so I couldn’t tell whether they were trembling or not. Each year I think I’ve outgrown the ridiculous soaring excitement that I felt the first time I came to the school and saw the children. And then each year I find I’m wrong. The same spine-jolting, rocking delight hits me and spins me around, and I have to be careful not to somersault across the room when the children come.
‘Hey, Brian, I’m glad to see you.’ I walked across the room towards him, waiting for his smile, thin and sweet, to come and warm his pointed little face.
But Brian didn’t smile. He didn’t even come into the room.
‘Why are we in here?’ he asked. ‘This isn’t our room. This isn’t where we were last year.’
It’s so hard for our children to handle new situations. Their sense of self is so small, their beings so fragile, that if their outer surroundings change, they fear that they themselves will fall apart.
‘Listen,’ I said, ‘this is the best room we’ve ever had. Don’t spurn luxury. Look, we’ve got a whole coat closet, instead of just hooks.’
Brian took a step or two into the room and peered at the coat closet. ‘I liked just the hooks,’ he said.
‘And we’ve got blocks and trucks and a whole toy kitchen – a stove and a sink and tables – and now, look here, our own door. How about that? No more having to go through the office when we want to sneak out before lunch to ride our bikes.’
Brian was all the way in the room now. ‘Do we still have the bikes?’
‘Sure. We’ve even got a couple of new ones.’ They weren’t really new – the church ladies and the Junior Leaguers had donated them – but they were new to us.
Within the next minute Rufus arrived. He looked tanned and healthy and had obviously had a good summer.
