by Sarah Miller
I want to bury my head in my pillow and scream.
Chapter 28
In a previous letter I think I wrote you that “mug” and “milk” had given Helen more trouble than all the rest.
—ANNE SULLIVAN TO SOPHIA HOPKINS, APRIL 1887
Long into the night I sit up, rocking. I feel as if my grip on the Perkins doll is the only thing anchoring me to this place. On the table the mug and cup stand outlined in the moonlight. The souring smell of leftover milk hangs in the air.
I’m so frustrated I don’t know what to do. It isn’t just the mug-milk mess. I’ve been here a month and a day, and the fact is I still don’t know how to be a teacher to Helen. How do I show her what words are without using words? And like a fool, I’ve nearly flung Dr. Howe’s system to the wind, though in all the world there is no one else who can tell me how to break through to this child.
I form my right fist into an a shape, cradling it in my free hand. A, the humblest letter, the smallest word. The simple shape of it, the meaning it carries, is a wonder to me. It fits so neatly into the hand of another. Silently I slip from my chair and creep to Helen’s side of the bed. She sleeps spread out on her belly, one open palm tossed beside her pillow. My breathing shallow, I lower my fisted hand into hers. With my other hand I close her fingers over it, layering her small palm between mine.
For a moment I sit silently, my mind empty. With a deep breath I close my eyes and whisper, “A.”
The thought is firm in my mind. I imagine its electric pulse in my brain dissolving into my blood, traveling through the muscles of our clasped hands into Helen’s mind. Squatting on my heels, I wait, as if for a fairy-tale ending: Helen’s eyes fluttering open, lit from within, her feelings suddenly transformed into words.
But for the sound of my breathing, the room is silent.
Pressing our hands to my forehead, I whisper the name of the letter once again, willing the thought to pass through our skins.
Nothing.
Defeated and feeling foolish, I drop her hand and slink back to my chair. Minutes pass as I rock, trying to ignore the doll at my feet. She stares plaintively up at me; my misery is no secret from her. Finally I pull her up by one small hand. My arms close round her, nestling her golden hair against the hollow of my neck. Clutching the doll as if it were my own restless self, I finally drift off to sleep.
“Wah-wah,” Helen bleats as the morning’s wash water touches her hands. Bleary eyed, I wince at the harsh sound and continue scrubbing. She pats my hand.
“You’re pleasing as a cloud of blackflies today,” I tell her, but I spell w-a-t-e-r quickly as I can before yanking my hand away.
After breakfast I’m too tired to make our rounds through the outbuildings. Instead I pull Helen upstairs and flop into a chair, leaving her to her own devices.
At first she seems perplexed by the change in routine. Feeling round the room, she finds her hat and brings it to me.
I shake my head. “No,” I tell her, tossing the hat aside. “We’re not going outside.”
Her hands drum across my body and the table, searching. A burst of exasperation cracks through my lips.
“Leave off, would you?” I bark, pushing her away. Her feet fumble backward over the Perkins doll. Distracted, she takes it up and commences her mechanized mothering.
She could sit and bore holes in the floor, for all I care. My eyes are so gritty and heavy lidded I don’t want to do anything more than close them tight enough to shut out the world. Besides, each time I open them, I find nothing but that horrid mug staring back at me.
As Helen keens back and forth with the doll like an erratic pendulum, a droning hum buzzes in her throat. The noise creeps under my skin, rubbing like sandpaper. It swarms round me until I’m ready to shout.
At the crest of the rocker’s movement I vault myself out of the chair and onto the floor. “There must be something I can teach you,” I insist, kneeling before her like a dog on its haunches. On a stubborn impulse I reach up to the table and grab the mug. Pressing the cool ceramic against Helen’s hand makes her face wrinkle up as she squirms away.
“My thoughts exactly.” I set the mug aside and consider her. She rocks her china baby with fevered intensity. “So it’s dolls today, is it?” I glance round the room to her heap of playthings. “Very well. We’ll study dolls.”
I crawl to the pile and pull at the first appendage I see. A large rag doll emerges from the mound of arms and legs. Returning to Helen, I plop down knee to knee in front of her and mirror her severe movements.
The combination of touch and motion attracts her attention. Still brandishing her doll in the crook of one elbow, Helen reaches across our laps to inspect me. When she’s felt the rag doll, I slip a hand under hers and spell d-o-l-l.
She juts out her lip and jiggles her head as if a mosquito has landed there. Her hands return to the Perkins doll, and I watch them seek out all the subtle differences between the two toys. She lingers over the doll’s thick coil of curls, her hard hands and face, the slick black boots painted on her pointed china toes.
Wedging my hand under hers, I spell again, d-o-l-l. This time she assents, imitating the letters.
“Good,” I tell her, nodding. “But you’re only halfway there. It means both one doll and every doll. It means ‘doll’ even if there isn’t one in reach.” Forgetting myself, I brush the back of my hand over her cheek. “That’s the magic of it,” I whisper.
With a sigh I pull my hand back and straighten myself. Businesslike once more, I switch the dolls from lap to lap, giving Helen the rag doll. Confusion makes her blink. With frenzied hands she slaps her palms over the doll’s length. Realizing what I’ve done, she lets out a squawk and fumbles for my lap.
Reminded of my first encounter with Helen and her dolls, I shake my head. “Oh, no you don’t. We’re not starting that again.” My emphatic movement subdues her, but her chest heaves under the weight of her vexation. I let her cool a moment, then point to the rag doll and pat her hand. Her fingers twitch once, but no letters come.
“It’s easier than you think,” I tell her, spelling “doll.” Unconvinced, she nevertheless grunts and repeats my motions, then claims the china doll from my lap.
From this I create a game of give-and-take. We take turns as speller and doll keeper, bartering with words for possession of the playthings. Much to Helen’s annoyance, no matter how resolute she makes the word, I persist in relinquishing the rag doll. No sooner does she get her hands on the coveted china doll than I take my turn to spell, compelling her to give up the only object she associates with the word-the Perkins doll.
After a quarter of an hour Helen huffs through gritted teeth. Her selfish nature roars within her, blotching her cheeks with red. Her bafflement inflames me as well. Heat rises in my veins each time Helen gives me the Perkins doll instead of its cloth cousin. The sound of each breath struggling past the lump in her throat fills me with sour pity.
“Keep it,” I cry, shoving the china doll back into her arms. I spell “doll” again and jab at the rag doll draped across her knees. She shakes her head, as if it’s brimming with undecipherable racket, and pushes the dolls away. Frustration gurgles out of her.
“Doll,” I urge, bending her hands to feel both of them at once. She strains against me, but I force her hands nearer and nearer, the words slithering between my teeth. “Let me teach you. Let me—”
Her fists clutch at a handful of cloth on each doll’s dress. With a scream like a diving gull Helen tears the dolls from me. The force of her anger jolts her backward like the kick of a rifle. For an instant the dolls hang in midair, their blank eyes serene. My breath stops. In one swift whoosh Helen slams her arms to the floor.
The Perkins doll shatters.
Chapter 29
I must write you a line this morning because something very important has happened.
—ANNE SULLIVAN TO SOPHIA HOPKINS, APRIL 5, 1887
Shock leaves me paralyzed, hunched forward on my kne
es. My thoughts seem muffled by flannel rags. Somewhere within me outrage and grief roil, but I can’t feel them. It’s as if I’m floating above the waves, sheltered in a small boat on a dark sea. I only stare, fascinated, unable to understand why no blood runs from the doll’s innumerable wounds.
Empty, I marvel to myself. Empty as my own heart, and Helen’s.
Helen sits panting among the pieces, her rage spent. As her fingers walkthrough the fragments of the doll’s smile, calm spreads over her face. Her remorseless inspection makes me queasy. Unperturbed, she reaches for the doll’s severed neck. Jagged peaks of china jut beneath its lacy collar. “No,” I say, pulling Helen to her feet. “No blood.” Frantic, I take up the broom and sweep the bits of doll corpse to one side of the hearth, flinching at every clink and scrape.
Hands deadly calm, I prop the broom over the mess, trying to hide the broken bits. I don’t know what to do. The room seems too small, too close. I don’t trust my anger to stay hidden. Instinctively I reach out and brush a flake of porcelain from Helen’s cheek. She raises her hand to feel the place I’ve touched. Shards of china glint like drops of milk on her bare arms.
“Don’t move,” I tell her, squeezing her shoulder. Scooping up the mug from the floor, I dash to the washbasin and fill it with water. I take Helen by the wrists and extend her arms, then pour the water down the length of them.
A startled cry of “wah-wah” erupts from her mouth, penetrating the cloudiness round my stifled mind. I look at the mug in my hand, the water dripping from Helen’s splayed fingertips.
My thoughts leap forward, desperate to leave the image of the broken doll behind. “Water.” She asked for the word herself this morning. Why didn’t I think to use it before, with all my worries over cups and mugs and milk? Eager to grasp the distraction, I towel Helen dry with my own skirt, then yank her hat from the table and drop it on her head. With a start she feels the hat and grunts with satisfaction.
Outside the warm sunshine makes her skip and hop like a little frog. Her nose trembles in the soft air, drawing her to the honeysuckle that covers the pump house. Reaching it, she stretches to weave her fingers into the tangle of cool leaves.
I pull her aside and force the mug into her hand. She hisses between her teeth as if struck with a pain. “Like this,” I demand, positioning the mug under the spout. I take a step back. Helen slouches. With a jerk I twist the mug about and reposition her. Another step back. She holds her pose. Joining our free hands, I catch hold of the pump handle, wincing at the heat of the sun-scorched paint.
I spell w-a-t-e-r, first slowly, then faster and faster as I work the handle. Suddenly a wide tongue of water gushes from the mouth of the pump.
“Wah—”
The sound twists into a gasp. She freezes. The mug drops, shattering on the packed dirt. Her hand clutches at mine. She stands transfixed, her whole attention focused on the motion of my fingers.
I feel a change in the way she grips my hand. Her muscles, so often limp with indifference, strain to catch each movement. My chest heaves as I realize the difference: She’s listening, with every bone and fiber.
Something is happening inside her head.
The letters don’t thud blankly into her palm. I feel them crackle through her skin, forging a lightning-path up the muscles in her arm. Her chin trembles. Light rinses over her face, smothering my momentary impulse to pat her hand.
Beneath the spout the fingers of her free hand move of their own accord.
Rigid with astonishment, Helen pulls my whole arm under the cold stream, spelling “water” again and again and yet again, begging me to understand.
My eyes well. “Water,” I murmur, wrapping both my hands round hers.
W-a-t-e-r. I cradle the word like an egg in my hands, midwife to this single expression like nothing Helen has given voice to before-neither anger, satisfaction, nor desire. The weight of it chokes me.
I nod. “Yes.” She spells the word once more to herself and nods. Amazement makes her motion slow, almost graceful, and I know she’s realizing, as she never has before, how simple it can be to make the world understand anything in her mind. I feel a bursting: the flash of two minds meeting there in my palm.
In a frenzy Helen breaks free and drops to the ground. I stand for a moment, looking dumbly into my empty hands as if I expect to find something left behind-a broken shell, a withered cocoon? Pulsing with excitement, Helen slaps the wet earth at my feet, seizing my skirts like a desperate pauper.
I fall to my knees. She takes my hand, beats the muddy ground with it, then grabs at me to spell. My fingers won’t make the letters fast enough. “G-r-o-u-n-d.” In the space of a breath she spells the word to me, to herself, to the very ground beneath us.
Ravenous for more, Helen pulls me to the pump, the trellis, anything within reach, tearing their names from my fingers. Her breath comes in great, choking gulps, like a crippled laugh. She throws her arms out wide, ready to embrace the world. Flinging herself round, her hands fall on me.
She stops still. Her fingers walk up to my face. I watch her throat bob with a heavy swallow. For the first time she seems unsure of herself. Softer now, she pats my cheek, then my hand.
Me. She wants to know what I am, in a single word.
I bite my lips as I spell out the letters: t-e-a-c-h-e-r.
“Teacher,” I say, pulling her small hand to my breast. “Teacher.” She nods.
Just then the nursemaid comes into the pump house carrying Mildred. Touching her sister, Helen gropes for my hand, then halts. Her head snaps toward the sky, struck by another realization.
B-a-b-y, she spells, and touches my face. Wild with pride, I jerk my head up and down. “Yes.”
Helen’s face shines as though she’s cracked open a cask of jewels. I imagine the dozens of words she’s copied in oblivious imitation for all these weeks suddenly bursting to life inside her mind. Reeling with possibilities, she tumbles toward the house, hands flailing for objects to name.
A laugh burbles up inside me, and I shout after her, “Helen!”
My hands rise to my mouth. Five weeks, and this is the first time I’ve called Helen by her name.
Staggering up from my knees, I rush to her side. I take hold of her wrists, commanding her to be still. With wavering hands I place her palm over her breastbone and hold it in place as I spell.
H-e-l-e-n.
Through the stillness I feel her heart fluttering against her ribs. Moving her fingers carefully as if they might break, she repeats the letters of her name, then pats her chest, once.
“Yes,” I whisper, nodding. “Yes-Helen.”
Her eyes glow like opals with the tears.
Chapter 30
I didn’t finish my letter in time to get it posted last night; so I shall add a line.
—ANNE SULLIVAN TO SOPHIA HOPKINS, APRIL 5, 1887
All through the yard and house we race, Helen gobbling the fledgling words like nectar. Her unending appetite, her clinging eagerness, thrills me, making every touch seem a caress. Everything our hands fall upon feels new and alive; her face grows brighter with each new name.
Until she finds the fragments of the Perkins doll.
In our room she makes her way to the hearth, where the doll clatters under her boots. Bending down, she touches the fragments. Her mouth pleats as she tries to piece the doll back together. When the bits won’t join, she plops to the floor, and her little face falls. Tears the size of raindrops roll from her eyes.
The sight of Helen crying for that doll twists my heart and makes it dance, till I cry too, though not for the doll. No word I could spell to her would ease the pain. I can only sit down beside her and brush the tears from her cheeks, begging her, “Don’t cry, love, don’t cry. She doesn’t matter anymore.”
By nightfall my body thrums with exhilaration. If I’d ever seen a child born, it couldn’t compare to what happened at the pump today. Helen opened before my eyes, and whatever it is that makes us human flowed into her as if I�
��d poured it from my own hands.
As I help her undress for bed, I spell the name of each of her garments. “Pinafore,” “dress,” “shoes,” “stockings,” “nightdress.” Climbing into the bed itself, she learns “sheet,” “quilt,” “mattress,” “spread,” and “pillow.” I cover her up and cleave our hands apart. Helen stretches toward me, troubled by the separation. Our fingers have been tangled together since we left the pump, it seems.
Her distress touches a long-neglected place in the center of me. I know Helen needs me, perhaps more than I ever needed her. Our connection runs deeper than affection, for without my hand in hers, she sinks into darkness and silence, the depth of which she’s only today begun to fathom. I give her hand a squeeze, tucking a rag doll under the sheet for company.
“I’ll be right there, dear,” I whisper, brushing the hair from her flushed cheek. The severity of her sudden dependence astounds me; her thirst for the world burns in her skin, and only I can quench it for her.
And yet I want to give her more than myself. I want to see the word-seeds I drop into her hands blossom into ideas. I want to learn the patterns of her mind. To watch Helen discover her thoughts—her self—once more.
Quickly I undress and slip under the covers. Helen’s hand finds mine in the dark. I wait for her to spell, to ask for one more word. Instead she scumbles her fingers across my face, pausing for a moment at the teardrop-shaped hollow above my lips. Wriggling nearer, she steals into my arms and presses her lips to my cheek.
I think my heart will burst with the joy that floods it.
I close my arms round her, feel her warm weight against me, and I know—this child is mine, and I am hers. She is not of my body, but I am mother to Helen’s heart and mind.
