Nor did I share how unsatisfying I found the answers to my research questions. That I was offered a position as an academic but knew it would have been a life sentence as an imposter. And yet, five days a week, I stride down the halls of Milton Elementary with shoulders thrown back in an air of self-confidence, acting as though I know the answer to why some children struggle so desperately to learn.
I did share what I know for sure to be true: my passport as a school psychologist has given me an opportunity to shape expectations. I have credibility. Teachers and parents listen. Now my credibility is gushing down a drainpipe I didn’t even know existed.
I pause at my keyboard. The softening light from the hall pulls me away, and I’m aware of a serene sadness rising up from the base of my throat. A leftover lump, ignored and controlled during therapy, finding its purchase in the soft recesses of my heart. It’s Grandma O’Leary. Grandma, who descended from a rich heritage of folktales, alive with leprechauns and trolls and, of course, fairies. Some of her stories were almost real, others wondrously imaginative. I believed every single one of them.
How long did she live with us, Irene had asked. Not long enough. Even though she never smoked a cigarette in her life, she died of lung cancer shortly after I entered third grade. Sitting on Irene’s sofa, my mind drifted back to the times before that. All the times I raced down the driveway, twenty feet from the bus, another couple hundred to go, to make out Grandma’s plump body filling the doorway, anticipating our arrival, Monday through Friday. This vision set a stream of memories in motion, bubbling up as unexpectedly as eddies in a river, and without warning, I heard my voice calling out, “The Fairy Angel’s Gift.”
Irene was as surprised as I was. I could tell by her momentary break in composure, the way she shifted in her chair. I began babbling, trying to make sense of my spontaneous outburst. It had been thirty-eight years since I had uttered the title of the story that, in third grade, I had imagined would somehow change my life. My memory of the tale has faded, but not the longing I had to share it with Grandma. This was a story about a fairy who I believed at the time would be my salvation.
I stand up, stretch, and move to the window opposite my computer. I pull back the limp curtain to reveal too many city lights to be able to see stars or fireflies. It was easy to say that I believed in fairies. It’s a common childhood fantasy. But therapy with Irene spins in directions I can’t anticipate. Like last week, with Irene’s sci-fi notion of my own nine-year-old self living a parallel life and demanding acceptance.
Much of the time, Irene’s silence, stealth-like, pulls up unexpected bits and pieces from my past. My own unwillingness to sit in the absence of words skewers rogue images that could easily have lain hidden and unspoken for a lifetime.
As quiet welled unbearably, I gave in. “Not only did I believe in fairies, I also believed in saints. Can you imagine, I actually wanted to be a nun? Me, a nun. It’s hilarious, don’t you think?”
To this I received no visible response, so I exploded into a frenzied laugh. With no fan to flame my fire, I once again found myself squirming in the austerity of silence.
Irene finally intoned, “You held your beliefs close to your heart, each one cradled in absolute sincerity.”
I nodded and said, “I used to pray all the time to Saint Rita.” Announcing her name brought about a shiver, similar to when I’d said The Fairy Angel’s Gift. Names from a place so distant I’m left with only a whisper of recognition. “I was told she’s the saint of lost causes.” I spontaneously giggled.
Once I had quieted, Irene said, “You believed in this saint’s power to solve a problem that seemed insurmountable.” I nodded and quickly became aware there was nothing the least bit funny about my belief in Saint Rita.
I pace back and forth between my curtained window and computer. I hear last week’s unflinching declaration from Irene—Finding the coat provided Maddie a way to reenter your life—and I question, if there were any truth to this, why wouldn’t Maddie be satisfied with what I’ve accomplished?
My thoughts go to my mother, the day I graduated with a PhD. She bestowed upon me pearl earrings and kisses. Over and over she stated, “I always believed in you.” My PhD graduation ceremony seemed to mean more to her than to me or to my father. I suspect my father and I were on the same page—equally surprised and skeptical of this accomplishment. Yet my mother, ebullient, felt vindicated.
Regardless of my doubts, the fact is, I’ve achieved the pinnacle of education. I’ve flown higher than any Sparrow would have dreamed. Shouldn’t Maddie be satisfied? Is it really necessary, after all these years, to reach back and find acceptance?
~CHAPTER 27~
1967
MOM SWITCHES ON my night-light before bending down to kiss me while my head lies flat on my pillow with The Fairy Angel’s Gift beneath. Alone and all tucked in, I slip the book out, and my night-light becomes my reading light. I think of Rob. This is how he spends every night before falling asleep. He said so. My head and pillow are propped against the back of my bed, my knees and legs form an upside down letter V, and this is where I rest the book—on my stomach, leaning into my legs.
I open the cover, and even though I can’t wait to read the first chapter, I want to look at every page. Inside the cover, before the story even starts, I see small print and regular-sized print, but what jumps out at me is the blue writing that’s not print. It’s grown-up writing, and I can tell it’s cursive because Mrs. Zinc is teaching cursive to everyone but the Sparrows. This is sloppy cursive, not like the letters Mrs. Zinc writes on the board. I wonder what it says.
Now, to find Yram. Yram first shows up in chapter two, which looks a lot like chapter one: row after row of words. If her name had stayed Dottyrambleon, finding it would be easy since it’s so long. I can’t even remember what letter Yram starts with. It sounds like an e but it isn’t, because I had asked Mrs. Zinc and it was a letter that had nothing to do with the letter e. Yram, Ee-r-a-m, am. I may not know how it starts, but I know how it ends: a-m.
My pointer finger runs across one line at a time for two entire pages while my eyes look for words that ended in a-m. After the second page, my eyes are so tired I need to give them a rest. Saint Rita, can you please help me? I just want to find Yram, and maybe I can then read a few other words.
I turn to the next page, this time looking without using my finger. My eyes move across the page like reckless hands finger painting, brushing this way and that, when suddenly they come to a screeching halt. They land upon a group of letters that are so familiar, I gasp—marY. I jerk, and the book falls forward on my stomach. I stare up at the ceiling. Saint Rita, why is my name in this book? A shiver runs through me. Not only my name, but the Blessed Virgin’s name. My stomach twists. If I have committed a mortal sin for stealing, this might be the Blessed Virgin’s way of letting on that she knows. My heart pounds so loudly, I can hardly think straight. Saint Rita, you know I am only borrowing it. I promise to give it back. My heart continues to race, and Saint Rita helps me to remember what Mom taught me to do when I become upset. I breathe in deeply and slowly—one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi.
Breathing slowly, I prop the book back up, moving my finger from left to right, this time on the lookout for my own name. My heart starts to speed up as I get closer to where I had seen my name. All at once, there it is! My name! I blink and it flips to Yram. I move my finger from letter to letter and see for sure that I have found Yram right where my own name had been. Oh my goodness! Yram is Mary spelled backward!
The book drops from my hands. The bedroom spins around me. I shake my head, peer out the slice of window, and see stars between the branches of the oak. Mary is Yram spelled backward.
I jump out of bed to tell Mom about this amazing discovery. But how can I answer her when she asks how the book ended up in my room? She wouldn’t understand. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi. Two more deep breaths and I’m back in bed breathing like usual with
The Fairy Angel’s Gift on my lap. Saint Rita, this isn’t an ordinary mistake; it is a mistake meant to happen. I know, because I’m the only one in my class who mistakes was for saw and god for dog. I close my eyes tight. Saint Rita, I think Yram chose her name because . . . my name, and reading both ways . . . she knew I would discover this.
I place Yram under my pillow and say one Hail Mary after another. I want to make sure the Blessed Virgin knows I did not steal the book; I only borrowed it. The prayer words flow one after another, freeing my thoughts to wander. What would Grandma O’Leary say? Did Yram know our names are the same? The prayer words mix together, thoughts turn to pictures, shapes of all colors. The smell of fresh-cut grass fills the air.
I’m standing on the greenest carpet of grass I’ve ever seen. I touch it and giggle. It’s like running my hand over Jack or Danny’s newly cut hair, soft and bristly, tickling my fingers.
“I wish I could power kick a ball or run even half as fast as you.” I swirl around and meet the sky-blue eyes of a boy with long wavy hair. He grins, and I know him.
“Ethan.”
“Yes, and you’re Mary Madelyn.”
“How’d you know my name?”
“Yram told me. She said you want to be a nun, just like she wants to be an angel. I’ve been waiting for you.”
My mouth drops open. I step closer to him. He’s about as tall as Rob and has the same eyes that know so much.
“Can you bring me to her?”
He reaches out, takes my hand. I look up in the sky, so happy to discover this place. My body shivers. I’m so excited, holding hands with Ethan.
“Not yet, Maddie. She needs your help.”
“My help?”
“Yes, you know the secret of her name.”
“It’s my name spelled backward!” I smile wide, and we both start giggling. It’s a secret he knows too, but I discovered it all on my own. I feel myself swelling up like a balloon. I’m ready to float off.
Ethan’s face changes to serious, and so does mine.
“An evil spell has been cast over the land of Forever After. That’s where I live.”
“Oh no. Like in The Wizard of Oz? Is there a wicked witch?” I can be brave like Dorothy; I can toss a bucket of water on the wicked witch.
“Scarier. Do you remember Gwendolyn’s warning?”
“Hmm.” I hear Mrs. Zinc’s voice reading that part. “Oh, yeah—‘Guard against those who place fear above dreams.’”
“That’s right, and she also said they will act like they care, but really they snatch hope away.”
“I remember,” I whisper. “But who are they?”
“That’s the hard part. If they wore black and had brooms, it would be easy. These are shadows that creep around,” he says. I shiver and dart my eyes around the playfield. It’s too bright and green for shadows. “They don’t really snatch your hope, they cover it up,” Ethan says.
“With what?”
“Fear.”
“How do they do that?”
“Madelyn, have you ever noticed that as soon as you hope for something really good to happen, you get sort of scared that it might not happen and you’ll be disappointed?”
“Oh. Yeah.”
“That’s fear of disappointment, and it can grow and get big. And it will cover up the hope.”
“That’s sad.”
“Yes, because without hope, dreams fade. The hope snatchers have figured out a way to grow the fear so big it suffocates the hope.” Ethan’s face looks so sad, I think he might cry. “My family wanted to believe I really did get healthy and went back to school.”
“Just like in the book.”
“That’s right. But Maddie, I think you know the story hasn’t really ended.”
I look into his blue eyes and nod. I do know this.
“The hope snatchers cast a spell that made it hard for my family to see the ways I had changed. Hey, watch this.” Ethan smiles a crazy grin, which makes him look as young as Danny.
He takes off toward home base, bouncing his knees high like a horse prancing. It’s not a sprint, it’s a lope. He’ll never win a race running like that. He returns, and I hear the faint hiss of wheezing.
“I always believed,” I say. His smile makes me feel so light I’m thinking of yelling it out again, even louder. I always believed.
“Not my family. They wanted to believe, but they were afraid to.”
“But why?”
“Because they didn’t want to be disappointed. So they held back from believing. They clung to their fear, and the hope snatchers took over.”
“Ethan, how did they do that?”
“First of all, they blamed Yram for spreading false hope and started a rumor that she was a cruel fairy. That’s why she can’t be here and needs your help.”
I shudder and look around at the empty kickball field. Zerko and Zilla are to blame—they started this rumor.
“What can we do?” I ask. He turns his full attention to me. I feel his eyes looking into mine, but at the same time, I feel a worm in my stomach twist, and I want to take the question back.
“It’s up to you to break the spell.” He then answers my question before I even ask it. “No one in Forever After can see me or Yram, and besides, it’s much too dangerous for Yram.”
“What must I do?”
“Help my younger sister.”
“You have a sister? This’s different from the book.”
He smiles and nods. “You know the story has hidden chapters. You’re now discovering them, just like your name.”
I nod.
“My sister’s name is Alice.”
“Like Alice in Wonderland!”
“No, she is my sister, and she lives in Forever-After land. More than anything, she wants to learn to read and not repeat third grade.”
My knees collapse, and I fall to the ground. I make my legs move into crisscross sitting. I reach down and feel the grass again, look over at home base, and wish in that moment I was up to kick.
“Don’t leave me yet.” Ethan lowers himself next to me. I know what he means; in this world, I can be playing kickball if I give it enough thought. I turn back to him and study his beautiful face and his long boy hair. For sure, Father would call him a hippie.
With slowness so I can listen, he says, “The hope snatchers steal a person’s hope. They magnify the fear and pain of disappointment, making that more real than the possibility.” Now he’s talking like Rob in ways that are hard to know what he means.
“But what can I do?”
“Teach Alice to read. She’s given up hope.”
“But, but . . .” I look at Ethan, and the terrible sadness that had covered his face disappears. He draws a deep breath.
“Maddie, you’re more powerful and capable than you’ve ever realized.”
I can’t help but grin . . . these are the words Yram had said to Ethan in my favorite scene. Now I know for sure it’s really him.
“I’m the strongest and fastest in my class.” Saying this out loud makes my cheeks get hot, and I can tell they’re turning red. It’s something I don’t think about too often, but maybe I will be a track star someday. “I want to see Yram. Can you tell me where she is?”
“She’s hiding, working on her final creation, her magnum opus.”
I love those two words! Charlotte used them to describe her masterpiece to Wilbur the pig. Magnum opus. Magnum opus. It’s more fun than saying tattoo, or bingo.
Ethan’s voice pulls me back. “If the spell is broken and she completes her masterpiece, she’ll get her halo. But she needs your help to finish.”
All I can think of is Yram’s magnum opus, and I shout, “Ethan, you can count on me. Let Yram know that I’m going to break the spell.”
~CHAPTER 28~
2005
I ENTER THE conference room and sit across from three third-grade teachers poised to get their way. The air has a thick, anxious scent of a battle. To my right is a sweet special ed
ucation teacher. God, I’m glad I insisted that Penny be here. Soon, at the head of table, will be Matt. Waiting, we all sit listening to the silence while mentally rehearsing our arguments.
Even with the intensity of the room, I squelch down a yawn. I blink hard and draw a deep breath, trying to ward off a bout of afternoon fatigue. Ever since therapy, I’ve struggled to sleep at night, and when I do sleep, my dreams wake me up. I wonder if Irene is into dream interpretation. I swear last night’s is one I’ve had before, a long time ago. I woke experiencing a familiar haunting echo. I was being challenged to do something extraordinarily difficult. It was necessary, and only I could do it. Then I lay awake for hours trying to recall the details, to fit the pieces together.
Last week, I made a point of dropping into the resource room during Kaylee’s literacy time. I needed to see for myself what her reading progress looked like. I stepped into a class of six students and Penny all doubled over in ear-splitting laughter. Within three seconds, I too began to laugh—without reason other than being captured by their hysterics. Eventually, I pulled myself out of this frenzied state and realized that Penny had read the same article I had about the newest craze in the city: people gathering for the sole purpose of laughing together to experience the therapeutic effects. Penny must have decided to create her own laughter yoga club.
In due time, Penny’s arms began swinging wide to capture the students’ attention. She sidestepped over to the lights and flicked them on and off a few times. “Okay, now that we’re all feeling happy and good inside, let’s have fun with words!”
In a flash, manila folders appeared. I circulated from student to student, smiling and high-fiving as I passed. They all have some memory of me: the one who pulled them from their classrooms to answer questions, solve puzzles, and test their academic skills. Inside the folders were lists of words. The phrase “Read It lists” jumped from the depths of my memory.
As I approached Kaylee, she called out, “Ms. Meyers! Can I come with you?”
That’s my role. I typically pop in and snatch up one of the students to do the routine three-year reevaluation that’s required. Sometimes, it’s just to check in and see if the special education program is making a difference. Lately, I haven’t had enough time to check in and simply visit.
Once Upon a Time a Sparrow Page 14
