The Wayward Gifted - Broken Point

by Mike Hopper

  “What’s wrong with them?” Sam asked.

  “They look like wayward trash.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Sometimes the truth is painful.”

  Sam and Steuart stood silently holding the dolls as they listened to Olivia’s rant. “I’m serious, they look like garbage. There is nothing gifted about these ugly things. Why would you even come up with such a silly name? Wayward, maybe, but gifted—I don’t think so. They belong in the trash.”

  “I think they’re beautiful,” Sam said.

  “Because you don’t know any better. If you read your handbook you would know that these are not acceptable.” Sam winced as her mother spoke, “Right, Good, and Appropriate states that while toys are appropriate for children, they are inappropriate for others. Dolls, even the highest quality dolls are ridiculous at your ages, unless you are a collector. Even then I would prefer that you collect something more interesting than a doll. What the hell was that man thinking?”

  Steuart and Sam quietly listened. They waited for their mother to take the dolls away. She reached for Sam’s doll, shook her with both hands and then carelessly threw her against the sofa back. “Stupid damned doll.”

  “Mother, why are you using that language?” Sam asked.

  “There is a time and there is a place for everything. However, there is never a time or place for you to correct your mother. I cannot understand why that man would give you dolls like these, especially you Steuart. Boys do not need to be playing with dolls. It could lead to things that are best left ignored. I don’t want to raise you to play with dolls. Do you understand me? At this rate you’ll be in therapy for the rest of your life.” Olivia walked into the kitchen with the children following behind. “Maybe that’s his plan. It’s not going to work.”

  Steuart reached for his doll. “Dr. Klesel says this is therapy. He says I’m doing good work. The dolls are part of my work. He said there is nothing wrong with dolls—even for boys.”

  Olivia opened the refrigerator, took out a bottle of wine and reached for the corkscrew. “Dr. Klesel and I are going to have a talk.”

  “And you wonder why we need therapy?” Sam muttered under her breath.

  “What was that?” Olivia poured a glass of wine.

  “Nothing, Mother. I need to do my homework.”

  * * *

  The following afternoon Steuart stayed with Nanny Claire while Sam and the dolls accompanied Olivia to see Dr. Klesel.

  Olivia talked nonstop, “Dr. Klesel, I’m returning your dolls. I strongly believe it is my place, not yours, to decide what types of toys come into my home. Samantha Leigh is too old for these things. It makes no sense to give her a doll, but I find the situation with Steuart absolutely distressing. What possessed you to do this? What exactly are you trying to do to my son?”

  Sam, too embarrassed to look at the doctor, fantasized that the floor would open wide enough to swallow and carry her down a long tunnel leading home to Point Taken. Then she fantasized that the same floor would swallow and carry her mother off to the Galapagos. “Are you okay?” Dr. Klesel asked Sam.

  “Yes,” Sam nodded and walked to the window while her mother ranted about the dolls.

  Dr. Klesel listened and remained calm. “What’s the problem Olivia? Why don’t you want the children to have the dolls?”

  “You are the problem. Dolls are the problem. Why are you giving my children toys? Why aren’t you prescribing medication for my children? How are dolls going to fix their problems? What type of psychiatrist are you?” Her words grew sharper and louder. “What have I hired you for? Was I not direct enough when we came here on the first day? How did you ever get through medical school? My children are broken. They do not need toys.”

  “That’s enough. You’re being abusive.”

  “Abusive? You are not doing a thing to help my children. You cannot even have this conversation with me. You’re completely unemotional.”

  “Strong and bitter words indicate a weak argument. When you decide to settle down we can talk.”

  “What type of psychiatrist are you?”

  “What are you afraid of?”

  Olivia stopped. Sam moved closer to the window and held her breath as she waited for her mother to annihilate Dr. Klesel. She prepared for a tirade so awful that not only would he throw them out of his office, refusing further service, he would also call for security backup. They would be escorted from the building and thrown into the snow.

  “We’re not having this conversation,” Olivia said softly.

  “Why are you afraid of the dolls?” Dr. Klesel pressed.

  “That’s ridiculous. I’m not afraid of toys.”

  “If not the dolls, what?”

  * * *

  Sam didn’t understand why her mother decided to allow the dolls, but she was thankful for her decision. Upon returning home, Olivia laid out the rules. “For reasons that are beyond me, your psychiatrist feels strongly that you need to have these things that he has given to you. I’ve decided to allow them because he feels that they are going to help you in some way. However, I want to make myself absolutely clear so that there are no misunderstandings. I do not want to see those nasty, ugly pieces of trash—ever. Am I making myself clear?”

  Steuart and Sam nodded.

  “I’ll keep her in the closet or under my bed,” Sam said.

  “I don’t care where you keep them as long as I never have to see them. I do not understand why he insists on wasting my time and precious money with toys.”

  “Mother,” Sam said, “I thought insurance and Grandmother were paying for our sessions. What exactly are you afraid of?”

  Olivia slapped her hand against the kitchen counter and screamed. “I’ll find plenty for you to be afraid of if I ever hear you speak to me in that tone again. How dare you. You do not know enough to understand what you are saying. For that reason, and that reason only, I am letting you off the hook. If that man does not do something to fix your behavior soon, I may be forced to find a psychiatrist who knows what he’s doing—one who’ll allow you stay in a special hospital for badly behaved children. Now, go to your rooms.”

  NINE

  Steuart couldn’t sleep. He was awake, hungry and bored. Remembering a chocolate bar on Sam’s dresser, he tiptoed quietly from his room into the bathroom and on into his sister’s room. Illuminated by a tiny night-light that was partially hidden beneath her desk, and a sliver of moonlight peeking in through an uncovered windowpane, Sam’s room was dark. In the middle of the night, everything looked just a little purple.

  Steuart found Sam lying face down, across the bed on the top of her comforter. She didn’t move. He noticed a slipper on her left foot. The right one lay on the floor by the side of the bed. Sam’s head dangled so far down that she looked to Steuart as if she might roll off the bed at any moment and do a somersault. Her hair flipped over her head and covered the carpet. The dust ruffle, pinned up under Sam’s body, allowed her to peer underneath at her doll. Sam’s face was completely obscured, not only by the mass of hair, but also because of the darkness. Steuart couldn’t tell if his sister was awake, or if she’d fallen asleep in that position.

  Quietly, he moved closer, stood for a moment, and stared. His sister didn’t move. Steuart cleared his throat. She didn’t move. He coughed a little. She remained lifeless. Then he walked around to the foot of the bed and coughed once more. Still no reaction, he thought about how Sam would be cranky and unwilling to share if he woke her from a sound sleep. He wanted her attention, but not at the expense of a bite of chocolate.

  Steuart put his index finger against his forehead and then opened and looked at his palm. He devised a plan. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, and smiled. He extended both arms and closed his eyes. He turned around three times and began walking. Steuart walked forward and then sideways; he walked forward, sideways again, and around in a circle. He walked two steps back, sideways two steps, and forward once more before bumping agai
nst Sam’s chest of drawers.

  He walked backwards two steps, continuing his game until he finally backed into the foot of Sam’s bed, tripped and fell onto her mattress. Steuart landed next to his sister.

  “Ouch! What are you doing Steuart?”

  “Oh, oh, where am I?” Steuart yawned.

  “You’re in my room. What are you up to?” Sam shook her brother’s arm.

  Steuart opened his eyes slowly and yawned again, “Sorry, I must’ve been sleepwalking again.”

  “Sleepwalking—again? You’re kidding me—right? When did this start?”

  He continued to yawn. “It’s just something I do from time to time. It’s occasional.”

  “What are you talking about—time to time? Occasional? What are you up to?”

  Steuart ignored Sam’s questions. “This time I was dreaming. I was dreaming. I found myself in here.”

  “Dreaming?”

  “Dreaming,” Steuart nodded. “I was dreaming about being hungry. I had a dream about something to drink. No, that’s not it. I was dreaming about getting something to eat.”

  “What was it?”

  “Vegetables, no, not vegetables.” Steuart sighed, and looked at his sister. “It’s vague. Dreams are so hard to remember.”

  “You should go back to bed now. I need to sleep.”

  “No, wait...”

  “What was it?”

  “It was brown.”

  “What?”

  “Chocolate!”

  “Chocolate?”

  “Yes, it’s coming back to me. I was dreaming about chocolate.” Steuart yawned.

  “Shh,” Sam looked under the bed. “I think I hear something.”

  “Mouse?”

  “Don’t say that!”

  “Shh, don’t be so loud, you’ll wake Mother.” Steuart jumped up, walked to the doorway, put his head into the hall and listened as his mother snored softly. Looking back at Sam, he teased, “Or upset a mouse?”

  “Don’t do that. Stop it! Do not say mouse. That’s not what it sounds like.”

  “How do you know what a mouse sounds like? Have you ever heard a mouse in the house?” Steuart was wide-awake, and in a mood to tease.

  Mouse in the house

  A house mouse

  Houses have mouses

  Well, houses have mice

  Mice can be nice

  But there’s always a price

  What is the price

  A mouse might have lice

  Throw dice

  Or be very nice

  If you have a cat

  He’ll make your mouse scat

  Does this make sense

  Or make you feel tense

  Sorry dear Sam

  You don’t give a...

  “Steuart, please hush.” Sam put her fingers into her ears. “You’re acting like a child.”

  “Acting like a child? Sam, I am—I am a child. Surely you realize that I’m little more than one year past fifty-percent of becoming an adult. I’m supposed to sound childish. You should be having fun too. You’re only sixty-six percent there.”

  “This is not fun.”

  “Now you’re sounding like Mother.”

  “Fighting words Steuart, say that again and I will not-so-kindly ask you to leave my room. I’m going to tell Dr. Klesel what you said.”

  “You’re right. That was unkind of me.” Steuart stopped. He bowed his head briefly. “I apologize. However, you must remember that I’m a boy. Besides that, I’m your brother—not your friend.”

  “I don’t think it was a mouse. Please don’t tease me. I don’t like the thought of anything unwanted in my room, or anywhere else in the house. Being ten doesn’t excuse you or give you the right to be mean to me.”

  “No? Being twelve doesn’t give you the right to boss me around.”

  “You know better.”

  “Okay, but I’m hungry. Do you have anything?”

  “What?”

  “To eat.” He looked towards the hall. “You know a lot of kids like mice, some keep them as pets.”

  “Stop it,” Sam pushed Steuart’s shoulder. “Right now. We both know that I have a chocolate bar.”

  “Will you share?” Steuart added extra sweetness to his voice. “Please, please, please,” he put his hands together in a prayerful motion, “cherry on the top and all of that stuff.”

  “If I share my chocolate will you hush and go back to your room? I have a history test in the morning.”

  “Who’s being mean now? Can’t you hear my stomach growling?”

  Sam rolled her eyes.

  Steuart looked towards Sam’s closet, “If there’s a mouse in here...”

  “Okay, okay, okay—okay, go ahead and help yourself. It’s in that drawer.” Sam pointed to her nightstand.

  Steuart reached to take out the chocolate bar. Sam turned over and began looking under the bed at various items. Just as she reached for the artist doll a wee voice said, “Please, I’d like a small bite too.”

  Sam dropped the doll onto the carpet and bolted upright. “Steuart! Don’t do that!”

  “Do what?” Steuart had the chocolate bar halfway to his mouth.

  Sam looked at her brother, “How’d you do that?” She looked around the room and asked again, “How did you do that?”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Down here, please. I’ve not eaten all day.”

  Sam looked at Steuart. Steuart looked at Sam. They looked at the doll. “What’s happening here? Sam asked.

  Sam and Steuart sat looking at one another in the darkness. They looked at the bedroom door. They looked at the bathroom door, the closet door and the bedroom window.

  The voice spoke again, “What are you doing? All I did was ask for a bite of chocolate. It’s not as if I could eat the entire bar.”

  Sam looked at the doll, “No,” she whispered, “dolls do not talk.” She walked to her closet, opened the door and came out with a box. She walked to her bed and looked underneath at the doll.

  “Chocolate? Share? Please? Hello? Are you deaf?” the doll asked. “I know you speak English. I’ve heard you. I’m starving.”

  Sam picked up the doll, put it into the box, and closed the lid. The doll yelled and kicked as Sam shook with fear. She looked at Steuart and laid the box on the bed.

  Steuart set the chocolate bar on the nightstand and ran out on tiptoe leaving Sam alone with the talking box.

  Sam’s heart raced. She jumped under the covers, turned tummy first and moved down so that the covers were over her head. She locked them tightly under her body and shook with fear. She felt the box roll over. The top came off and hit the floor. The doll came out and sat on Sam’s bedspread. Sam continued to hide. “Sam,” the doll said, “We need to talk.”

  “I must be the sleepwalker,” Sam whispered to herself.

  * * *

  Eventually, Steuart returned to his sister’s room. Wide-awake, Sam was calmer, but still afraid, and still hiding. “Don’t be scared. It’s okay,” Steuart said. “I promise. It’s okay.”

  “No, it is not okay,” she whispered and pulled the covers tighter. “I’m scared. Go get Mother.”

  “I will not,” Steuart whispered. “Mother will make us get rid of the dolls. She can’t know about this.”

  “I don’t care. We should get rid of them. I’m scared. I think I’m going to scream.”

  “Don’t scream. Please don’t scream. Listen Sam,” Steuart sat on his sister’s bed.

  “Steuart, I’m going to scream!”

  “No! You owe me. Remember the tree house? You cannot scream. Listen to me.”

  Sam lay silently under her covers.

  “I took my doll out from the closet. I had a feeling that everything was okay. I knew there was something magical about the Wayward Gifted. Sam, they’re magical because they’re alive. You don’t have to be frightened. They won’t hurt us. They’re like you and me—just smaller. Come out Sam. Come on.” Steuart tried pulling th
e covers away from his sister. Sam continued to struggle. Steuart pulled at the covers and accidentally pushed Sam off the bed. She landed on the floor underneath the box. She stared up at her brother. He held the boy doll.

  “Steuart, What are you doing? I don’t like this. We’re in some sort of weird, crazy dream. Dolls cannot be alive.”

  “These are,” Steuart grinned. “These dolls are alive. I am not teasing with you.”

  “No.”

  “They are. Sam, I’m sure-as-Matt.”

  Sam stared at Steuart. She glanced at his doll.

  “Sam, this is my friend, the comedian, Ed Camino.”

  Sam watched as the doll moved, bowed from the waist, and threw her a kiss. It was magical. The doll extended his hand towards Sam and then spoke, “Hello Miss DuBoise. Steuart says that you have a bit of chocolate. Is it possible that I might have a tiny bite?”

  Sam watched carefully as Ed continued, “I understand that you’ve already met Trista Petrina.”

  Sam glanced at the girl doll seated on top of her covers. Trista put her hand up and waved, “Hi Sam, I’m Trista. It’s lovely to meet you.” Sam’s mouth hung open. “I apologize for frightening you tonight. We’re alive—we’re also hungry.” Sam grabbed the covers and pulled so hard that Trista lost her balance and rolled away.

  “Stop that!” Trista yelled. “I thought you were nice.”

  Again, Sam jumped in the bed and pulled at the comforter. Again, she covered herself completely. “This is a dream,” she repeated to herself, “This is a dream. This is a dream. This is a dream. This is a dream. This is a dream. I don’t believe this. I’m dreaming. I’m having a dream. This is a dream. I’m in a dream. No—I’m in a nightmare. This is a very bad dream.”

  Olivia entered Sam’s room, turned on the light, and yelled, “What is going on in here?” She pointed towards her son, “Steuart go to your room—right now! I’ve had it with both of you. Go to sleep and put those nasty dolls away.”