The next day, Sasha brought back the materials for the basement stairway, based on my measurements, and we started the project immediately. Wendy and Nissi kept up with the completion of the bathroom, sealing and sanding in preparation for painting. Stan, Stansy, Nock and myself spent that first morning and part of an afternoon just in dismantling the old stairs. Once that was done, we had to anchor the stringers before we could begin placing the treads and risers. It was fortunate that Sasha could lower our meals through the dumbwaiter, because we were less than halfway to the top by the time dinner came and we agreed to stop for the day.
Things between Nissi and me were strained. We were polite to each other, but that was all. I was not surprised to go to bed alone that night. Tilly, though, said good night to me when I turned out my light, so at least she seemed to have forgiven me.
We finished the stairs the next day and began to apply the sealing coat to the wood. That same day, Wendy announced that the bathroom was ready to paint. Both projects came to a close the next day, and I already began thinking ahead to the next.
I had been spending time with Tilly at meals, and my efforts seemed to be drawing her out a bit. Wendy even admitted to me that Tilly spoke to me more often than she did to anyone else now. Still, after another week of me visiting her at meals, I thought we had reached a plateau. She might volunteer a sentence or two for seemingly no reason at all, or she might sit passively through one of my stories for a full fifteen minutes and never comment once. More importantly, nothing seemed to move her out of the dismal haze she was under. I never saw a smile or laugh.
I had been thinking, too, about what Tilly had said to me that night after Nissi had expressed how she felt about me. It felt right, from what I knew about Nissi. That kind of perception in Tilly seemed at odds with how disconnected and withdrawn she was. How could she understand Nissi's feelings so well while secluding herself from all of us? For that matter, why did she feel driven to hide away from everyone?
I wondered if it might be because of how the others treated her with pity or thinly-veiled derision. I was certainly guilty of the former. Feeling bad for her was largely what motivated me to want to help. Maybe she didn't need my pity. Maybe she needed, more than anything, was for someone to treat her as if she were normal. That was what sparked my idea.
The next morning, I went upstairs and met Sasha in her office. Her hand moved in long, sure strokes, penning a flowchart on a large sheet of graph paper. "Can I help you, Norm?" she said, looking up briefly but returning her eyes to her work.
"Miss Gray, I want to bring Tilly into the greenhouse to work with me," I said.
"No, absolutely not," she said, the words delivered without anger but in a tone that brooked no argument.
I argued anyway. "She doesn't look like a genemod," I said. "Anyone peeking in over the fence will just assume she's human normal."
Sasha picked up a sheet of paper and glared at it. "It's still too risky."
"She's ill. I want to help her."
She dropped the paper into file folder and snapped it closed. "The agency is helping her."
"The hell it is!" I said, and slapped my hand on her desk, loudly enough to make her jump.
"Keep your voice down, Norm." Sasha's words, though spoken in a conversational tone, made my spine prickle with the ice in them. She cleared the drawing and other various papers from the desk in front of her and gestured to the chair in the corner. "Sit. Explain yourself."
I sat slowly, collecting my thoughts. When I was settled, I raised a hand and began to tick off my fingers one by one. "She's depressed. She spends all of her time alone. She barely eats. And it looks like she cut her wrists at least once."
Sasha's eyes narrowed. "What? The rest I have seen, but what is this about cutting? I knew nothing of this."
"Wendy says it happened before she got here, but if she was suicidal at one time, she might be again."
She frowned. "Still, she should have told me. I've known Tilly was not right in her mind somehow. She is eating still?"
"For the moment," I said. "She's suffering, though. You must know that."
Sasha lowered her head and pinched the bridge of her nose. I waited for several seconds of uncomfortable silence before she raised her head. "Look, I've been fighting and arguing with my agency contact almost since that girl got here, trying to get them to send someone to look at her. They tell me just to hold on, take care of her as well as I can. They will take her off my hands soon. But 'soon' never comes."
"That's why I want to try treating her myself.".
She gave me an appraising look. "And how do you think you can help?"
"I have some ideas," I said. "But the main thing is to take her mind off of whatever is eating her up from the inside."
"And do you have any formal training in psychology?"
"Well," I faltered. "Before I decided to teach, I was going to enter med school. I did take a psychology course as an undergrad. And there's Professor Wikipedia." I grinned, feeling like a complete fool.
"That at least can be remedied," Sasha said. "I will get you some texts."
"So, does that mean you will let me take Tilly to the greenhouse with me?" I asked hopefully.
"It means I will get you psychology books. I'll think about the greenhouse. If you can show me that it will be therapeutic for her, that will add to your case."
It seemed like the best I was going to get. "Alright, I appreciate that you're willing to help."
The next few days passed quickly for me. I did the chores that Sasha assigned me during the day, and spent my evenings reading. "Dreadnought" had captured my interest once I got past the first few chapters that established the setting of the Great War and introduced various characters. The huge and technologically advanced vessel had just left Portsmouth and was headed out to sea for its first mission of the war.
Sasha brought the first of the books she had promised me, a copy of the DSM and a book on psychodynamic therapy. I started by outlining every symptom that I had observed from Tilly. Immediately, the manual seemed to be pointing me towards a diagnosis of clinical depression. My layman's interpretation of her actions certainly matched it, but the manual made it crystal clear. I felt like there might be more to the picture than that, but it was definitely a place to start.
