I arrive a good ten minutes early for my first appointment with Irene. Arriving early is an ingrained behavior acquired from my father. We’d be the kids stiff as icicles standing in subzero temperatures a good five minutes ahead of schedule, waiting at the end of our driveway for the yellow school bus to pick us up. I’m pleased that Irene’s office is located on the second floor of a charming Craftsman in my own district of Powderhorn rather than some high-rise in upper Edina.
At the top of the creaky wooden stairs leading to her office, there’s a chair and table with magazines and the aroma of herbal tea. I do my best to look as if sitting in a therapy waiting room is nothing new to me. I loop my right leg over my left and refrain from bouncing it. I casually pick up a magazine and place it on my lap. Before opening it, I glance down, and its evenly spaced, bold black letters parading across the cover scream at me: b-i-t-c-h. I flip that hot-potato magazine off my lap as if it were on fire, shoving it deep under the pile. I uncross my legs and take a breath. God, I’m an uptight person. It’s just a feminist magazine. Determined to not look stressed, I riffle through a copy of Scientific American.
The door opens, and a current of tension courses through my body. For some odd reason, I can’t shake the thought that Mrs. Downing, who had just last week insisted with curled lips and a puffy red face that I retest her child, would be the previous client slipping by me. Relief pours over when no one other than Irene steps out. She appears to be at least my age, possibly older. Not that age ensures wisdom. These days it’s the young teachers, those just starting out, who impress me the most. Even so, the prospect of peering into the eyes of a bright-faced twenty-year-old while I attempt to share the crumbling of my professional life has generated a universe of anxiety.
“You must be Mary Madelyn.” Irene resembles my mother, which means she’s about her weight and at least five inches shorter than I am, but these are the only physical similarities they share. It’s her thick dark hair cropped daringly short and a smile that practically spills off her face that grab my attention.
“You can call me Mary.” I step in, and I know right away where I’m expected to sit: the overstuffed couch near the coffee table with the box of tissues and squeeze ball. The scent of chamomile and peppermint tea wafts from an end table next to a rocking chair, where a colorful shawl that looks as if it has come from Central America drapes across the back.
“Would you like some tea?” Irene asks.
That’s when it hits me that I’ve made a terrible mistake. It’s not at all like me to meet someone, anyone, even someone with a genuine smile, and simply begin to share feelings. I’m the one who listens, or, if need be, writes in my journal. Parading my emotions is not what I do.
I open my mouth to say no, but instead I say, “Sure.” My eyes sweep the room, willing a settled calm to ease its way into my veins. I realize what I want, more than anything, is a long leisurely stretch of time to seek out, on my own, the mercurial monster who has taken up residence in the heart of my soul.
I glance over at Irene, rocking steadily, peacefully, as though there is ample time to explore, illuminate, and unearth the unruly residents dwelling in dark corners of my interior rooms. I train my gaze out the narrow window to my right, where snatches of sky peek through leaves, a collage of blue and green shifting gently with the wind. I stare into it, allowing my focus to soften. For a moment or two, I know I belong on this couch in the small room with Irene searching for an opening. I too am searching. But awkward doesn’t even come close to describing the discomfort saturating my every attempt to utter something worthwhile.
Long segments of time pass before I’m able to formulate even a beginning of what there is to say. I clear my throat, but nothing comes out. Words can be so inadequate. I long to be alone with my journal, where thoughts release themselves and I don’t have to worry about the presentation. My eyes mist over. What am I doing here?
“Irene, Matt shared with me how skilled you are, and I’m sure he’s right, it’s just . . .” My voice grows thin, reedy, unrecognizable. “It’s just, I’m not sure therapy is the right thing for me at this time.” I catch my breath and then mumble, “I’m sorry,” and gaze back out the window. I hear Irene’s voice, soft and reassuring; my breathing returns to its normal rhythm. I continue to peer out at the sway of leaves against the blue sky, lost with how to take the next step.
Finally, I turn and look directly at her. “I have no idea how to do this. I don’t know where to begin.” I feel her intense dark eyes peer beyond the crazy awkwardness of me sitting pathetically on the couch. Her gaze speaks of promise. Suddenly, I’m aware that more than anything, I want her to know I’m intelligent and I’m good at what I do.
“You have begun. There is no right or wrong way—you’re doing it perfectly.” Her voice is serenely steady, inviting.
It’s true—I have begun. Maybe Matt’s right; this is where I belong. I know I need to fill her in. But where do I start? That I miss my mother and that we were close? Somehow, this alone can’t possibly account for my falling apart at work. I move inside myself, taking inventory. I used to call it “cleaning rooms.” I realize I may know something of the truth, but I can’t quite bring myself to pull it up and take a look.
“Everything changed after my mother died.”
“Your mother’s been in your life for forty-seven years. This is a big change and a huge loss.”
I begin to tell her about my last visit to her house.
“At the end of the afternoon, when I had taken care of everything, I decided to take a look in the hope chest. I knew I’d find her wedding dress, and I was curious what else she had packed away. I had gotten through the entire day without an emotional breakdown.”
I take a sip of tea and continue.
“I was very close to my mother. I love and miss her more than I had ever imagined.” I feel Mom’s hand squeeze mine as she recites, “A daughter is a daughter for life . . .” A surge of emotion wells up. I take a moment to breathe and swallow the lump. “What confuses me is that I really believe I’ve worked through the stages of grief. I’ll always miss her, but I’m well into the stage of acceptance. I know this was a big loss, but it feels like I lost much more than my mother.” I look at her pleadingly as if she held the key to my understanding.
“Your life hasn’t been the same since her death.”
I nod. “Well, anyway. I did find her wedding dress and a pile of saved baby clothes. But then, at the very bottom . . .” My voice cracks as the image of the coat rushes toward me. I swallow and breathe. “I found something of mine that didn’t belong in the chest.” Irene leans forward. “It was my coat from third grade. I was shocked to have even remembered it. I have no idea why my mother chose to keep it.” I give a little fake laugh. I shrug my shoulders.
“Your mother chose to keep your third-grade coat,” Irene calmly repeats.
“Yeah. It was like . . . as if she wanted to send me a message. Suddenly, my past jumps in, and what I most remember about the coat is my mother’s frowns each day I trudged off to school wearing it. You see . . . I wore that coat all year long. The other kids teased me because it was kind of weird.”
I can tell by the slight rise of her brow this has captured her attention, but I’m ready to leave. I glance at my watch and decide to say only one last thing.
“So, when I held it up, I began to cry—a lot. I’m sure it was all about my final good-bye and being alone with her things, and I’m surprised with how much I carried on, but I think I’m done now.” Even though I know my sixty minutes of therapy are not up, I make a show of squinting over to the little clock situated on the bookshelf parallel to her rocking chair. “I’m ready to move on and get back to the way things were before.” I stretch one leg out at a time, resisting the urge to simply spring up and go.
Reflexively, I reach into my pocket and roll the smooth shell of the acorn between my fingers. There really isn’t time to share what I found in my coat pocket. Even if this were no
t the case, how could I begin to explain what I can hardly grasp myself?
“I see you’re feeling restless, and you’re impatient with your process. Congratulations for giving yourself this time to explore.” Her use of the word congratulations, polite and formal, seems out of context. There’s nothing to congratulate me for at this point. I’m only trying to get back what I once had. She leans forward on the rocker, and it’s clear she isn’t going to release me yet. “I have only one more question before we end our session.” My stomach tightens, but I see a face that is caring and kind. “It’s not at all unusual when a parent dies for childhood memories to surface, to be reactivated. Do you, to your knowledge, have a history of trauma in your early childhood?”
I give her a blank stare.
“I just thought that if there was any kind of abuse or trauma in your past, it would help me, that is, to know the best way to proceed.”
“Oh. I see. Actually, I was blessed with two wonderful parents and a pretty typical childhood. I grew up in rural Minnesota and always wished I lived in the city—but I do now.” I stand up, adjust my jacket, and give her an awkward smile. As I turn toward the door, a cavernous ache rises from my heart to my throat. An ache that feels as old as the black-hooded coat I had abandoned. The coat had left me feeling raw, but there isn’t another thing I could say about it. Yet there is more to be said, something that doesn’t come anywhere close to fitting the protocol of abuse, and for sure, there are no perfect childhoods. I turn back toward Irene.
“There’s only one thing. That is, from my past.”
She leans forward.
“But it’s little.” I take a deep breath and with a steady voice say, “It took me a really long time to learn to read.”
~CHAPTER 13~
1967
AS USUAL, I’m the first one out the door when the recess bell rings. Once out, I hold back to see where Bobby Wallace goes before deciding where I’ll spend my fifteen minutes. We both like the same things: tetherball, jungle gym, and racing around on upper field. Because there are only two teachers on duty, he’s able to get away with saying mean things, like calling me knuckle-brain or dingbat, so I try to stay away from him. I see him take off for upper field, so I decide on tetherball. Just as I’m about to break out into a run, I hear Paulette calling.
“Madelyn.”
I stop but almost keep going.
“What do you want to do?” she asks, and I point straight in front of me to the tetherball.
“You know I can’t play that. I wear glasses.”
She’s right. I know what Paulette likes, all the boring games like hopscotch and jump rope, and most of the time she just walks around talking to other smart girls in the class. I’m not sure why she even likes being my friend.
“How about the bars?” I say, hoping she might have changed.
“I hate the bars. Besides, I don’t have shorts on under my dress.”
I can’t imagine putting on a dress without wearing shorts underneath. Paulette glances around, and I see the group of girls from class that she usually walks with. They must be mad at her about something, probably for being too bossy. She turns her back to them, shoves her brown plastic glasses further up her nose, and gives me her serious teacher look.
“Did you know there’s a spelling test after recess?”
“Oh no! I forgot about it.”
“Well, you don’t have to worry about that. Come play jump rope with me, and I’ll make sure you get a good grade.” She skips over to the area marked out for jumping rope. I tag behind.
“Madelyn,” Paulette says, using her bossy tone of voice, “you turn the rope with Lisa. She wants to jump rope with us.” Lisa runs to fetch a long rope out of the tubs where ropes and balls are kept. “I’ll start off jumping because I’m the best. Then, when I miss three times, it’ll be Lisa’s turn because I know you’re not too good at jump rope.”
“Okay,” I say.
As soon as Paulette misses the third time and Lisa begins jumping, Paulette yells across the rope.
“Why do you keep wearing that awful coat all the time?”
“Paulette. Stop it. You said you wouldn’t keep asking me.”
“But the other kids all think it’s really weird. That’s why you don’t have friends.”
“I do too. Besides, I feel cold when I don’t wear it. You know that.”
“But you didn’t wear it all the time last year,” Paulette says, while Lisa’s head bobs up and down and her blond hair sways from side to side as she jumps in rhythm. Paulette’s right; I’m not good at this, and I don’t like it. My hand begins to move faster than Paulette’s.
“So what,” I yell back, and the rope twists. I continue to twirl it faster and faster until Lisa finally trips. Soon, Lisa has tripped three times, and I’m free to leave.
“Madelyn,” yells Paulette, “that’s not fair to Lisa.” Instead of yelling back “So what” again, I race for the tetherball, hoping to get a few good slugs in before the bell rings.
I had hoped Paulette was wrong about the spelling test. I did try to memorize the words when they were passed out last week, but within moments, they flew from my mind, and I was left with a bunch of letters thrown together. Had they been words like spy, detective, kickball, or fairy, I might have remembered, but these were a bunch of ordinary words. I still made an effort to memorize the order of letters to whatever ordinary word I was looking at so that I might have a chance of coming close.
Mom tries hard to help me pass my spelling tests. She thinks it’s easier to spell a word if you can first read the word, but for me, this just makes it twice as hard, and then she gets upset.
“Madelyn, the word is because. Reading it will help you spell it.” I know she believes this. I did get the be part right. I just couldn’t remember how the rest of the letters came together. Mom works so hard at helping me pass my spelling tests that it feels like a sin each time I bring home a flunking grade.
Mrs. Zinc stands in front of the class looking like a telephone pole in the middle of a cornfield. Her way of standing is like Father’s voice: loud and catching attention. She uses her face, not her voice, to tell us, “I’m waiting for you to quiet down.” A smile with tight lips turned up, and it always works. Even Bobby notices. He hates me for being better at kickball and tetherball, but I know he passes all his spelling tests, and I don’t think he even tries.
Paulette sits down next to me and gives me a look like I’m some alien from outer space, and then says, “Humph,” before turning away. Yellow and cream-colored strands of hair swish this way and that before settling straight down her back, and I know I’m not going to get the help she promised. She’s still mad at me for running off from jumping rope. I don’t care.
Last week, I was on her good side, and when we had our spelling test, she made no effort to cover her perfectly printed words six inches from my desk, making it impossible to not notice. I did notice that I had started each word out with the right letter. I’ve gotten good at that. Each time Mrs. Zinc wandered by, Paulette had slid a notebook over the words, glancing sideways at me with a twinkle in her eye. It felt like best friends sharing a secret. My spelling test that week came home with a grade as good as Jack’s.
Today, I know she’ll keep her words covered up, but I had already made a promise to Saint Rita to not cheat anymore. Nuns don’t cheat. Besides, I don’t want to have to confess this again on Sunday to Father Stevens.
“The first word is awake. If you are awake, you’re not asleep. Awake.”
At least I know what letter it starts out with: letter u. Every day in reading circle, we chant, “U, umbrella, uhhh.” The tricky part is the last letter. If I had been in charge of making the alphabet, I would have said no to making three different ways to spell the same sound: c, k, or ck. I take my best guess and choose ck. Then I remember. Since the a sound I heard in the middle is the long a because it says its name, I need to add a letter e at the end because that’s how to make the vowe
l say its name. I write uwacke.
Mrs. Zinc continues. “Number two is surprise. A surprise party is a party you do not expect. Surprise.”
I say the word to myself over and over before writing down srprize, which sounds right each time I sound out the letters. I can’t tell if it looks right because it’s not a word that shows up in Spot the Dog. I try to take a quick peek at Paulette’s paper, but she already has it covered up. She catches me looking and smirks.
Mrs. Zinc finally reaches the last word, failure, which I spell fellyour because I remember how to spell the word your. Mom and I had practiced that one a lot. Paulette’s paper is still covered up, and I tell myself it doesn’t matter if I flunk again. These are just a bunch of ordinary words that I’ll never use in my own writing. At least I won’t have to worry about confessing a sin. It’s just my parents. My father always says all you need to do is your best, but I can tell what he hopes for is to see good grades, because he always gets so excited when Rob and Jack bring home papers with a letter A on them.
~CHAPTER 14~
1967
ON THE WAY HOME from school, I sit three seats behind our bus driver, Mr. Lakowski, lean into a window smeared with sticky nose and fingerprints, and replay the story. Ethan would do most anything for Yram, and so would I. When she whispered, “I need your help,” he forgot about his fears; he kept his thoughts pinned on pleasing her.
Yram pulled out a strand of sticky spiderweb and asked Ethan to remember what it felt like to speed through the thicket. That’s when he noticed he had run so fast he could still feel his heart thumping up and down in his chest, like a pump. He remembered moving as fast as a deer, and this memory made him shiver with excitement. All at once, Yram lit up, flashing bright like a firefly. She dangled the thread between two tiny fingers, and the thread began to glow, then burst into dazzling golden colors.
Once Upon a Time a Sparrow Page 7
