Mrs. Zinc told us that we’d need to use our imaginations; unlike Charlotte’s Web, there were no pictures in this book.
Imagination. Mrs. Zinc turned it into a bonus spelling word later that week. Paulette and all the smart kids got an extra point for knowing how to spell it, but I knew the meaning of imagination.
“Who can tell me what imagination means? Yes, Madelyn?”
“It’s when you make something you can’t see become real in your mind.” All I had to do was think of Saint Rita. I pray to Saint Rita every night. She’s as real to me as Mrs. Zinc standing tall in front of us all.
My catechism teacher, Miss Stanley, introduced Saint Rita to me last year when I was in second grade. Miss Stanley became my favorite teacher the first day I met her at the beginning of the year. I expected her classroom to be white walls with a crucifix over a chalkboard in the front, but instead, there were pictures of saints everywhere. I could tell they were old because they were paintings. Saints lived a long time ago, before cameras. I didn’t notice Miss Stanley when she first entered the room because the other kids were loud and noisy, running around, and because I was busy studying the pictures trying to figure out the saints’ names, but she tapped me on my shoulder and asked my name right away.
She didn’t even look like a teacher. Her hair, the color of peanut butter, toppled below her shoulders with a scarf draping down. Her scarf was orange, yellow, and red, the colors mixed together the way I color the sun. She had it wrapped above her forehead, and my first thought was that if it had been all black or all white, it would have looked like a nun’s habit, except nuns don’t usually show their hair.
I told her my real first name—Mary—so she knew I was named after the Virgin Mary. I then said, “I’m planning on being a nun when I grow up. Can you teach us about all these saints?”
“Madelyn’s right, that’s a correct definition,” Mrs. Zinc said. I sat up tall in my chair and unzipped my coat. “For example, some children pretend to have friends that are not real—they’re called imaginary friends.”
“How can you have a friend that’s not real?” Bobby asked without raising his hand. Mrs. Zinc answered anyway.
“Well, they’re not real friends, they’re imaginary friends. They’re real only in a child’s mind. Children pretend to have these friends by using their imaginations.”
Bobby gave a short half laugh and muttered, “Weird.”
Mrs. Zinc had made it clear that this book was fiction just like Charlotte’s Web. Fiction means it’s not true. But I’ve seen fairies, and Grandma O’Leary also saw a fairy when she was about my age. I’m not so sure it’s true that animals don’t have conversations behind our backs, and who knows, maybe spiders are much smarter than we ever realized. These are thoughts I keep private.
If The Fairy Angel’s Gift was about just any old fairy, I might not pay so much attention. But the fairy in this story is unlike any I’ve ever heard about. She isn’t a dingbat—a word Grandma O’Leary used to mean stupid—like Tinker Bell, who kept losing her shadow. She’s as smart as some of the saints that Miss Stanley has taught me about. The fairy has a special name. Her name started out Dottyrambleon, but when she decided to be an angel, she did what nuns do and changed her name. I know all about this since I’m going to be a nun someday.
Dottyrambleon became Yram. She could have turned into Dotty, but that would have been an ordinary name, just like my first name, Mary. There are two other Marys in my class, Mary L and Mary J, but I’m the only Madelyn. Madelyn is my middle name, and Yram is the middle of Dottyrambleon.
It’s tricky to figure out. Mrs. Zinc showed us by writing Dottyrambleon on the chalkboard. I counted thirteen letters. Then Mrs. Zinc erased four letters in the front and five letters in back, leaving y-r-a-m. Ee-ram. Usually, I don’t pay attention to letters and sounds, but this time I wanted to understand. I raised my hand.
“Yes, Madelyn.” Mrs. Zinc said.
“Yram’s name starts with the letter y, not an e.”
I heard a muffled “duh” coming from Bobby, who sits on the other side of the room by the door. Paulette scratched something on a piece of paper and shoved it in my direction.
I ignored her and watched as Mrs. Zinc wrote Dotty on the board, underlined the letter y and said, “Listen to the sound y makes. Just like in the word happy, you hear a long e.”
Paulette was tapping her pencil on the word she had written on the paper. When I looked, I saw my own name, Mary, with a circle around the letter y. I felt my face turn red; I should have known this. Except I don’t ever remember sounding out my own name, like I try to do to new words.
The first day Mrs. Zinc read from The Fairy Angel’s Gift, I kept waiting to meet Yram, but instead we learned all about Ethan. At first, I wasn’t sure I liked him. He made me think of a spoiled baby even though he was ten, a year older than me. He had something wrong with his heart that made it hard for him to catch his breath, walk, or run. But he was very smart and could read anything, just like my super-smart brother, Rob, who’s in sixth grade. Rob also has something wrong with his breathing—asthma. Ethan got to stay home from school and read books all day, but he was lonely and unhappy. If I could read like Rob and Ethan and had to stay home alone, I would never get lonely—it would be like story time all day except better.
The second day Mrs. Zinc read to us, Yram showed up, and that’s when I knew this would be my most favorite story forever.
Ethan had tried to join in a baseball game in the playfield next to his house. He knew he needed fresh air, and he wanted to be like the other kids. He kept missing the ball, and the players made fun of him. When he finally did hit the ball, he could barely run and was tagged out before he got started toward first base. This made me think of Darren Olsen and how he must feel when we play kickball and it’s his turn to kick. Darren is another Sparrow, and he flunked third grade last year, so that means he’s a year older than everyone. He gets teased a lot, but I never tease anyone because I know how it feels.
Ethan went back to his room and decided that since he could read, he could travel places without stepping a single foot outside his door. That’s when Yram decided he needed her help. Later that night, she showed up in his bedroom.
After the third day of listening to Mrs. Zinc read The Fairy Angel’s Gift, I knew I had to figure out a way to keep the story alive. I said extra prayers to Saint Rita because if I could learn to read, I’d be able to make the story last forever. That Sunday, I brought my weekly allowance to church, and as we left, I told Mom I wanted to light a candle and showed her my dime. I’m sure she thought I was lighting a candle for Grandma, which I did do several other times, but this time I lit it for myself. Monday, nothing had changed—I was still a Sparrow and I read words like a Sparrow.
I told Saint Rita I wasn’t angry with her. That’s when the big idea came to me; to keep The Fairy Angel’s Gift alive, all I had to do was tell the story over again, just like I did with Charlotte’s Web. I usually tell some sort of story whenever I’m doing boring dinner dishes with my little brother, Danny, who’s in first grade and is supposed to help me, which means he dries the silverware.
“Danny, I have an offer to make.”
“What’s an offer?”
“It’s something special I’ll give you in return for something else. Usually it means money.”
“I only get ten cents a week.”
“I know—it’s not money I’m talking about.”
“What?”
“Well, Mrs. Zinc has been reading the most amazing story I’ve ever heard. It has a fairy in it.”
“Fairies aren’t real.”
“So. This one might be. Do you want to know my offer?”
“Okay.”
“I’ll tell you the story while we do the dishes if you not only dry the silverware, you also dry the plates.”
“That’s easy.”
“Yep. And since you can’t reach, I’ll put them away, so all you have to do is dry and
stack them.”
“It’s a deal!”
~CHAPTER 6~
1967
“MADDIE, I’m ready to hear the story,” Danny calls from the kitchen.
“Not yet. There’s more dishes to bring in.” I grab the glasses from the dinner table and leave the silverware for him.
“There.” He tosses a handful of forks and spoons into the plastic tub of soapy water, causing a splash. He turns his pudgy face to me. “So, what happened?”
“Well, a lot of things happened since yesterday. First of all, remember Yram is different from the other fairies. She never did like playing tricks on people and spending the evenings singing and dancing. She wanted to do something important, and because she could fly so high, she thought she had angel wings. She really wanted to be an angel, and Brogan helped her.”
“I forget—who’s Brogan?”
“He’s the wise leprechaun who once knew an angel. He’s the one who told Yram what she needed to do. He said, ‘In order for you to get a halo, you need to help humans instead of just playing pranks on them.’”
“Do you believe in leprechauns?”
“I’m not so sure. I know Grandma O’Leary used to say that the people from her country believed in leprechauns, but I don’t remember her ever saying she saw one. She did see a fairy, though, and I’ve also seen fairies.” I shoot a look at Mom, who’s busy cleaning the gunk off the stove.
“I don’t believe you saw a fairy, and neither does Dad.”
“I don’t care, Grandma would have. And you don’t have to listen to any more of the story.”
“But I want to . . . what happens next?” Danny whines.
I rinse off a couple more plates before I continue. “Because Yram was so different, the other fairies started to not like her. They were jealous because she could fly so high. Her two cousins, Zerko and Zilla, did something really mean to her.”
“What?”
“As soon as you finish drying all the silverware, I’ll tell you.” This always works to get Danny moving.
“Well, Zerko and Zilla snuck into the cave where Yram slept, and they smeared slug slime on her beautiful lavender wings.”
“Ew.”
“She didn’t notice until she tried to fly and could only move in low spirals because more slime was on one wing than the other. Zerko and Zilla started fluttering all around her and then soaring real high and laughing at her. That’s how she knew it was them. They kept saying, ‘Oh, Dotty’—they never called her Yram—‘it’s just a joke, hee-hee.’”
“How’d she get it off?”
“Very carefully. Her wings are delicate. She decided to ask Ethan for help. He got her some soap and warm water, and then together they cleaned them off.”
“But aren’t fairies magic?”
“Yes, of course. They can fly and use their magic to help others fly, like Ethan. But they can’t just do any old thing.”
“What else happened?”
“Ethan heard that his father planned on going duck hunting, and he wanted to go with him because he knew he was getting stronger.”
“It’s just about time for homework,” Mom announces.
“Maddie has more of the story to tell, can’t she please finish it first?”
“I’ll be quick.”
“Five more minutes,” Mom says.
“So, Ethan finally got up enough courage to ask his dad if he could come. His father was surprised that he even asked because Ethan mostly just spent time alone in his room with his books. So his father told him no. He was afraid Ethan would tire out. Here is what Ethan said: ‘Yram believes I’m strong enough. Why don’t you?’”
“Oh no,” Danny says. “I bet that made his dad mad.”
I give Danny a quick smile since we both know we’d never get away with talking like that to our father. All we need to do is start to talk back and he’d give us a serious look. If we mumble one more word, his deep voice brings us to a stop.
“Yes, it did. And here’s what his dad said: ‘Yram? You’re reading too many fairy tales. It’s confusing you. The real world is not a fairy tale. Yram only lives in your imagination.’”
Danny’s eyes grow wide.
“So of course this made Ethan angry, because he wasn’t reading fairy tales. Here’s what Ethan said back to his father . . .” I toss the dish towel to the counter, glance over, and see that Mom is sitting within earshot at the kitchen table. I clear my throat and continue in the voice of Ethan.
“‘Fine. You can keep your real world, and I’ll keep my imagination. At least with Yram I can run and walk.’ Then he left his father and went back to his room.”
“Uh-oh,” Danny says.
“Yep. That’s what he said. Ethan was really mad. And he didn’t talk with his dad for the rest of the week.”
Danny stands still as if hanging in midair like the Road Runner does on cartoons. Before I can stop myself, I start telling the part that had upset me.
“Ethan snuck into the kitchen that evening and overheard his dad say something terrible.” Seeing Danny’s eyes widen, I remember I really don’t want to go back over this.
“What?” he asks.
“Well, it was . . . nothing all that important. You see, his father was confused, and Ethan thought he heard him say something like, ‘Why does he believe in fairies?’”
“Oh, I get it. Just like Dad doesn’t believe you.” Danny relaxes his stance.
“Yeah . . . ,” I mumble.
But what I hear inside my head is Ethan’s father with our father’s voice, saying over and over, “Something must be wrong with him.”
~CHAPTER 7~
2005
“HEY, ARE YOU OKAY?” I startle and take a moment before recognizing the six-foot-two frame filling my doorway. The cool air entering from the hall begins to clear my head. Matt Henderson gives me a concerned look and steps inside. “Did I catch you at a bad time?” I nod and grab another tissue. He’s exactly who I need to see.
“Please shut the door.” I dab at my eyes.
“What’s going on?” He settles into a child-sized chair, knees almost reaching his chin. He should have just sat on the little square table in the center. Oh God, I’m afraid to tell him.
“I’m not sure.” I stand up and point to the stack of files on my desk. “I guess I’m a bit overwhelmed.”
He doesn’t move. I fall back into my chair. He’ll find out soon enough.
“I totally lost it with the third-grade team.” I sigh heavily; he remains motionless, focused on me. “I knew they were going to recommend retaining Kaylee, and I could have calmly stated all the reasons why it’s not a good idea.” My voice breaks at this point. I can’t tell if it’s anger with myself for losing it or if it’s their lack of getting it. Matt patiently waits. “Instead, I blew up.” He raises an eyebrow, and I add, “Maybe worse than last week—”
He tilts his head. How could he not remember?
“—when Karla Clifford said something was wrong with Josiah’s brain.”
He flinches, looks away.
Seeing Matt’s furrowed brow sends a shot of panic through me. I’m about to lose my work buddy. Guilt pokes an ugly finger in the middle of my gut. I’m losing his trust and everyone else’s.
“I’m so sorry.”
He shifts in the small chair. I’m sure he’s about to walk out on me. “I must admit,” he says slowly, and my heart races. “I miss the steady, calm, wise psychologist.” He gives a half smile.
I mumble, “So do I,” and glance back at the stack of folders. Waiting.
“Hey,” he says, and I turn toward him. “You’ve been under a lot of stress this past winter. Don’t be too hard on yourself.” He’s so damn forgiving.
“It’s no excuse.” I sigh and can’t bring myself to look at him. “It’s as though another part of me was taking over, acting out. I’m really sorry.” Oh God, that lump in my throat is about to turn to tears again. “It’s embarrassing,” I whisper, swallowing hard,
doing my best to stay composed. I straighten up and meet Matt’s eyes; they’re compassionate. Still, I avoid his face, terrified of what I’ll see.
“I know someone who might be able to help.”
I squirm and blush, certain of what he has in mind. I’m such a basket case, Matt’s about to recommend a damn therapist. No way.
Two days pass, and somehow I manage to stay calm and steady. Matt’s referral is tucked away in one of the credit card pockets of my billfold. The morning bell rang twenty minutes ago, plenty of time for teachers to take attendance and lunch inventory, and shift into the first lesson. I head off to fetch eight-year-old Jayden, whose parents signed a consent for testing more than four weeks ago. Prior to my mother’s passing, I never delayed longer than a week before meeting with a child.
We spend the morning together in a semi-structured format. He wiggles around on one of two small plastic chairs that snug the square table in the middle of my office, playfully falling off several times, his mop of curly black hair flopping over his dimpled smile. I collect assessment data while he is entertained with questions and answers.
“How are a cow and a cat the same?” I ask.
“That’s easy. They both say mmm when they start to talk.”
I raise my brows in question.
“Listen. A cow says mmmooo, and a cat says mmmeow.”
I smile and nod and then ask, “Anything else that’s the same about a cow and a cat?”
“Milk,” he exclaims. “Moo, meow; cows make milk, and cats drink milk.” He stands up and spins around before settling back into the chair. “And there’s something else. Cow and cat both start with . . .” He makes a cuh sound and rolls his eyes up as if trying to recall the letter. “I think it’s the letter k.” He grins at me, flashing his big brown eyes.
Once Upon a Time a Sparrow Page 4
