Three hours later the dining room was finally clean, and the trio of troublemakers were trying to decide how to go about straightening up the rest of the rooms on their list. They had four rooms to do, the library, the entry, the parlor, and the study. Tim claimed they actually had five, because the kitchen was on this floor and Alfred did say all the rooms…but Dick argued that Alfred couldn't possibly have meant the kitchen, as that was his domain and he wouldn't dream of letting someone else mess around in it, even to clean.
"How's this…I'll clean the study, you can tackle the hall…and Cass can do the library." Tim said it with such innocence that Dick knew something else was going on. Cassandra confirmed it by sticking her tongue out at Tim.
"Very funny. You do the library."
"But it would give you so much practice!" Cass shook her head vehemently. Dick raised an eyebrow, making a mental note to ask Babs what that was all about. She would know…she was, after all, Oracle.
"All right you two, cool it. I'll take the hall, Tim you do the study, Cass can do the parlor, and we'll all work on the library." They would need all of them to work there, too…Alfred liked to dust each and every single book in there…well over five hundred, possibly more than a thousand… by hand…one at a time. They nodded in reluctant agreement.
The next two hours went by slowly, each individual working silently on his or her own assignment. By the time they convened in the library, Cass was about ready to tear her hair out and Tim was looking half-asleep. They were never going to get done at this rate.
"You two take a break, I'll be right back." He disappeared and Tim and Cass collapsed into the armchairs near the fireplace.
"This sucks." Cass nodded her agreement. She felt as if she had been working out for hours instead of just cleaning. Glancing around the room she wrinkled her nose in distaste. Tim followed her gaze and gave a short chuckle. "Hey, how's the reading coming?" She assumed an innocent expression that instantly gave her away. "You haven't been practicing, have you?"
"Have too! Just…not very much." He sighed, and she got up, feeling suddenly restless. She examined the many books on the shelves. She had been here before, just after the incident with the Joker at the bank, and none of the books looked any more promising than they had then.
"Ok, maybe this will liven things up a bit around here!" Dick had returned carrying a rather large CD player. He plugged it in and switched it on, having already loaded and programmed five discs into it. A heavy tempo boomed out of the speakers and Dick turned with a smile and a flourish. Tim rolled his eyes but gave a little clap in mock applause. Dick threw a rag at him and he ducked, laughing.
They had been cleaning for about half an hour when Cass reached the end table. Originally placed beside one of the massive chairs as a surface for whatever a person would need to put on it while reading, it now served as a home for an ornate lamp and a pile of magazines. It was the magazine on top of the pile that caught her eye.
"I know him…" she picked up the magazine, but the words were long, like those in most of the books in library. "Tim!" She had to nearly shout to be heard over the pounding music, but when he looked her way she gestured impatiently.
"What?" She pointed to the magazine, then glanced over at Dick. She didn't know how much Dick knew about her trouble with reading, but she didn't want to clue him in if he wasn't already aware. He had heard her call and now looked at the two of them questioningly. She tucked the magazine behind her back and pantomimed drinking to him. He shrugged and went back to dusting and she grabbed Tim's arm and hauled him out into the main foyer.
"Look."
"So?"
"I…know him. He's a scientist. Lewis Friedman. What does it say?" Understanding lit his eyes.
"Come on, Cass, you can..."
"Not these. They're too big!" He looked down at the magazine. She had a point. Most of the words were long…scientifically based. And no wonder, she had picked up a scientific journal of some kind.
"Ok, but only because even I'm probably going to need a dictionary on some of these." He scanned the cover to see which headline matched the picture. "Neurology of Semiotic Functionalism in Subjects Lacking Nominal Language Skills." Cass seemed to digest this for a moment, then looked at him questioningly.
"What's that mean?" He gave a short laugh.
"What do I look like, a brain surgeon?" She regarded him steadily and he sighed. "I think it's an article on the brain and how it works when someone doesn't have a language." He blinked, as if startled. "Hey! It that how…" She grabbed the magazine from him, cutting him off.
"Thank you! Gotta get back to work!" He shook his head.
"Hold on. That's it? Don't you want to know what the article says?" She hesitated, obviously tempted. "Here, give me the journal, I'll read it later and translate it into normal English, and then I can give you the summary, ok?" She sighed and looked down at the cover.
"Ok." Tim took the magazine. His backpack was in the coatroom off the kitchen. He would slip the journal in it and then get back to cleaning the library. Aside from helping out a friend…the article may hold clues to helping her learn to read…he was looking forward to seeing if the article could provide valuable information as to the way Cass's mind worked, maybe helping him understand her better.
"You two took a long time just to get a drink." The CD player had been unplugged…Alfred had probably come in the other door while they were out in the hall and declared the music off limits for a punishment... and the room was silent once more. Dick was balancing precariously on one foot on a ladder provided for people who wished to retrieve a book on one of the higher shelves. His voice betrayed his suspicion, and he flipped lithely from his perch to land before them. "What gives?" Cassandra rolled her eyes and ducked around him.
"We were very thirsty." Dick raised an eyebrow at Tim. He shrugged. If Cass didn't want Dick to know about her magazine article for some reason, he wasn't about to betray her. Cass had managed to make her way back to where she had left off in her cleaning, but Dick blocked Tim's attempts to do the same.
"Very thirsty, huh?" He waggled his eyebrows suggestively and Tim felt his face heat up. It wasn't like that! "Seen any good movies lately?" Tim groaned. There it was…Babs hadn't kept her mouth shut and now Dick was thinking up all kinds of crazy, off –the-wall, preposterous…well, incorrect anyway…assumptions.
"I've seen plenty, you?" Though he knew his face betrayed him, he managed to keep his voice relatively calm and normal. Dick just laughed at him, he seemed to always be able to see through Tim's facades, and hauled himself back up the ladder. Tim sighed and got back to work, figuring if he ignored Dick's taunts, the older man would just go away. Never seemed to work, but that was the theory.
It was late. Very very late. Or early, he hadn't figured out which. Late by vigilante standards usually meant early morning or even dawn hours. He had spent all day cleaning the Manor, luckily their work had been approved by Alfred, so they hadn't had to do any other floors, and then spent all night as Robin. True, nothing big had surfaced…Joker seemed to be lying low after the previous night's debacle…but his muscles were starting to complain about the abuse he'd put them through. He made it inside without incident and collapsed on his bed…fully intent on sleeping for a few hours, when he remembered the magazine article. He didn't have to read it tonight. There was nothing to say he would even see Cassandra tomorrow, or today, if he was being literal about it, unless he went to her apartment to see her on purpose. But after all the pokes Dick, and then later in the evening Nightwing, had made at him, he was feeling a little confused on where he stood with her.
They had been partners occasionally, of course, though he had avoided her during her early days as Batgirl. She had been a little… ok, ok… a lot, intimidating to him. Then they had made a kind of agreement to be friends, but they had still never really worked past the acquaintance area until recently. Circumstances had thrown them together more often in the last few weeks than was normal…of course, some of those circumstances had been brought about by his own actions. He had originally intended just to be nice when she got hit by his friend's baseball. Then she had admitted her problem and the fixer in him wouldn't let it go. So he had thought of a way to help her with her reading. No big, right?
So they were becoming better friends. That wasn't too odd. The vigilante/hero community was small and rather tightly knit. It was only natural for him to be friends with her. But he hadn't counted on spending so much time together, of having fun, or of Dick taking the littlest provocation to imply there was something more going on between the youngsters. So now the idea had been planted in his brain and he couldn't shake it.
He shook his head and pulled out the journal. He tossed the backpack across the room and then buried the magazine under a stack of papers on his computer desk. There. Now he wouldn't have to think about it until the morning. He climbed into bed, sure he would fall asleep instantly. He didn't…but neither did he lie awake forever.
The next morning, well, closer to afternoon, Tim was ensconced on the roof of his apartment building with a dictionary, a notebook and pen, and the journal that had caught Cassandra's attention. He had retreated to the rooftop instead of working at his desk where he had Internet access because of the strained aura permeating the apartment. His dad had finally emerged from his room and a kind of tenuous peace had been made between him and Dana. She seemed to still be upset at him for keeping Tim's alternate identity from her, but she had apparently decided not to get involved in the discussion of whether or not Tim should be "allowed" to be Robin.
Personally, Tim had a feeling his dad's isolation had stemmed, once again, from a feeling of failure, brought on, no doubt, by Tim's heated accusations. He should probably try to smooth things over with him, after all, he had told Dana he would, but he still couldn't bring himself to face him. He wanted to avoid another confrontation at all costs…he had enough to deal with, what with Joker and everything right now.
He sighed. Forget about his home life. Yeah, sure…just forget your problems and they'll all go away. Well, right now he was doing other stuff, so he didn't have to think about his dad. The wind snatched at the pages in his hand, trying to wrest them from his grasp. He flipped through the magazine to the article by Dr. Friedman, hoping that whatever it said was worth all the trouble.
"Neurology of Semiotic Functionalism... blah blah blah" he muttered, already feeling like opening up the dictionary. An hour later he was still at it, only two-thirds of the way through the article, when he sensed another presence on the rooftop. He turned, eyes sharp, alert for any lurking danger.
"Tim." He let out a breath he hadn't been aware he was holding, but didn't yet relax completely.
"Dana." He couldn't keep the surprise out of his voice and barely repressed a twinge of suspicion. "What are you doing up here?" He winced inwardly, hoping it hadn't come out as hostile as he feared it had.
"I knocked on your door but you weren't in. I saw the window open and thought you might be up here." She hesitated. "Jack mentioned 'roof-hopping' in his tirade." She added by way of explanation. Tim avoided her gaze, knowing he had broken his promise to her to make things right with his dad.
"I…um…just came out here to get some fresh air."
"And escape the oppressive tension downstairs?" his eyes flashed up to meet hers, startled as much by her light tone as by her easy interpretation of his actions. She didn't seem mad and, in spite of himself, he began to relax.
"Yeah. You want to…?" he waved to the rooftop beside him, indicating that she should sit.
"Sure." She sat. "What'cha reading?" She reached for the journal, triggering an instinctual withdrawal on Tim's part. He quickly squelched it; pulling the book away would only make him seem guilty of something and increase her desire to find out what he was hiding.
"Neurology of Semiotic Functionalism in Subjects Lacking Nominal Language Skills, huh? Sounds pretty deep. This have anything to do with…?" she broke off, unsure of the wisdom of speaking aloud on such a subject.
"Sort of," he evaded the question. Suddenly a thought occurred to him. "Hey, Dana, you're a therapist, do you…"
"Whoa there, hold on! I'm a physical therapist. I don't do brain work. I had a little psychology in school, but nothing like this. And I'm no language expert, either." He shrugged.
"I know that. I just thought you may have had anatomy or some kind of classes in college that would give you an edge in trying to sort through all this scientific and medical terminology."
"I don't know, Tim. That was a long time ago. And this stuff is pretty far outside my field."
"Ok." His easy acceptance felt like a dismissal, so she tried to get back into the conversation.
"Do you want to tell me what this is about, or am I prying…getting too far into the 'wicked stepmother' category?" He grinned, but inwardly was surprised. Poor Dana. She was so helpful and outgoing. He was always so busy that he didn't notice, but she had to be feeling pretty left out a lot of the time, what with him hiding Robin and his Dad locking himself in his room…
"Well…I'm really still not entirely sure why she was so interested. A…friend of mine saw the journal and wanted me to…um…translate it into more understandable English…" he wasn't sure why he felt the need to keep Cass's reading disability a secret from Dana. It wasn't like she'd ever meet the girl. But he felt like he'd be breaking her trust even if he told a complete stranger. "She didn't understand the scientific stuff. Not that I understand it entirely, but with my training as…well anyway I had a better chance of understanding it. She said she knew this Dr. Friedman. I know she had…limited language exposure as a kid." Dana considered.
"Well, like I said, I don't know anything about languages or neural science, but I do have to deal with emotional effects of traumas. It's unavoidable in my line of work, though we rely heavily on psychologists. Often a trauma or a bad emotional experience has lasting repercussions…" her voice drifted off and Tim figured she was thinking of his dad. "Anyway, do you have a specific item you think I'd be able to help with?" Tim shrugged, looking down at his notes.
"Well, most of this article has to do with the brain chemistry of people who haven't been exposed to a language…like, um, my friend. I know there's two areas of the brain related directly to language…"
"Right, Broca's and Wernicke's areas, I remember that much from psychology."
"Yeah, well if I'm understanding this article correctly, he main focus is on the differences in the actual chemical and physical makeup of the brain in people who have trouble with language. For example, he mentions that the chemical metabolism in people with dyslexia differs from that of normal people." Tim had made a note to himself to check that out further, as it had obvious links to Cass's inability to read.
"O-K…?" Dana wasn't sure she could help any in this area. But she could listen… maybe that's all he really needed anyway, a person to bounce his theories off on.
"He also mention trauma a lot, most of the studies are on people who lose language functions do to head injuries…trying to map out the language-centers in the brain. It's kinda interesting, actually. There was one patient who lost the ability to read but could still write. There are notes on cases where people make up their own languages in response to losing their primary language. I guess the major breakthrough in this article is an experiment with ERP's, that's an electronic mapping of the brain. They found that 'different types of syntactic deviance produced distinct ERP patterns'…in other words, if you can map out the ERP patterns on known deficiencies, you can have a diagnostic tool as well as allowing researchers to focus on specific areas for specific problems."
"Sounds like you've got it pretty well figured out, what did you want me to do?"
"Well, I guess I was hoping you'd have some kind of insight on how to relate this back to my friend, you know in a sort of therapeutic way."
"I'm afraid I don't understand."
"Well, my friend is having some difficulties and I was hoping this article would help us resolve them, but I'm not sure how to use this information."
"Like I said, I'm not a neurologist. It sounds like you'd need access to this equipment and stuff just to find out what is wrong, if that's what you're implying. Without specifics I can't say much more…but if she does need any kind of therapy or tests, a good support system is something we always try to make sure our clients have. It could mean the difference between success and failure." She flashed him a smile. "And with you as a friend I'd say she's already well on her way to acquiring the needed support." She stood, stretching stiff muscles. "Ooof. Well, I better get back inside." Tim watched silently as she headed over to the fire escape by which she had come up to the roof in the first place.
"Hey Dana…" he called out just as she prepared to descend. She looked over inquiringly. "Thanks." She nodded, smiling.
"Any time, kiddo."
To be continued…
