Ghost Girl: The True Story of a Child in Peril and the Teacher Who Saved Her
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Jadie never spoke. She never laughed, or cried, or uttered any sound. Despite efforts to reach her, Jadie remained locked in her own troubled world—until one remarkable teacher persuaded her to break her self-imposed silence. Nothing in all of Torey Hayden's experience could have prepared her for the shock of what Jadie told her—a story too horrendous for Torey's professional colleagues to acknowledge. Yet a little girl was living in a nightmare, and Torey Hayden responded in the only way she knew how—with courage, compassion, and dedication—demonstrating once again the tremendous power of love and the relilience of the human spirit.
they were working at the state hospital. They had fallen in love with him, with his curiously lovable ways, and had decided to become his foster parents in an attempt to give him some chance at a normal family life. Dirkie’s problems, however, were rather more than love alone could conquer. He was diagnosed as having childhood schizophrenia and had a very poor prognosis for improvement. As a consequence of his truly amazing assortment of peculiar behaviors, he had not managed to survive the
said nothing more, but I filed the conversation away. It was the first truly spontaneous conversation I’d thus far had with Jadie, and it made no sense whatsoever to me. This lack of coherence lent credence to the aphasia theory. Setting the camera up on the wide window ledge, I ran the machine for almost two hours in the morning. This allowed me to catch a good cross section of both tightly organized activities, such as reading, and freer periods, such as art. I switched it off just before
she doesn’t eat here,” the teacher replied when I explained that I’d lost another one. She abruptly extended her hand. “By the way, I’m Lucy McLaren. Welcome aboard.” I hung out my tongue in an expression of exhaustion. “I usually do better than this. Even on first days. But they’ve got the advantage at the moment. They know the ropes and I don’t.” “Don’t worry about it. You’re doing all right. You’ve already lasted longer than a couple of the substitutes. There was one that left after about
the floor beside the door that led into the hallway. The broken ornament had remained in her hand throughout all of this, and now she clutched it once again to her chest, bending over it protectively, her long hair falling forward to curtain her face off from me. Like that she sat and wept heavily for several minutes. Then weariness overtook her. The sobs ceased. Lifting her head slightly, she wiped her nose and mouth with the sleeve of her coat. “I think maybe that did you good,” I said
have come to the right place. We’ve got this shelf and this shelf and over here.” She was a pretty girl in a wan sort of way. As I watched her wend her way among the bookshelves, I wondered what being a witch meant to her. “If I …” I paused a moment. “Well, say if I wanted to meet someone who’s into this kind of thing … Would I be able to find someone in the city?” She searched my face, then gave a faint lift of her shoulders. “Yeah, probably.” There was an undercurrent to her words, on the