Icy Sparks (13 page)

“Business?” I raised my voice, playing with the tip ends of my hair.

“Yes,” she said solemnly. “I want you to tell me all about yourself. I want to know exactly how you feel.”

I was trying to figure out exactly how I felt when after only a few minutes Dr. Conroy returned.

As she braided my hair, her slender fingers moved rapidly while she spoke. “Icy,” she asked, “do you know why you're here?”

I lowered my eyelids and nodded.

“Don't move,” she said, gently placing her hand on top of my head. “Just talk to me. When you move, you mess the braids up. Now, let's try again. Why do you think you're here?”

“'Cause I did things, said things, that upset my grandparents, Mr. Wooten, and probably Miss Emily, too.”

“Mr. Wooten seemed nice,” she said. “Do you like him?”

“Yes, ma'am,” I said, “and that makes it even worse. I spoke something horrible to him and jabbed him with my elbows when all he was trying to do was help.”

“Why did you do that?” she asked me.

“He was ruining everything,” I said. “Making a mess of my room at school.”

Dr. Conroy's voice was calm. “Well, Mr. Wooten spoke highly of you,” she said. “It was obvious how fond he is of you.”

“I don't know how,” I muttered, “not after the way I've carried on.”

“Love doesn't just stop,” Dr. Conroy said, gently grabbing a loose strand of hair and bringing it behind my ear. “Who's Miss Emily?” she asked.

“She was my best friend.”

“You sound sad, Icy. Why's that? You'll be playing with her again soon.”

“If she's not too busy working,” I replied.

Instantly, her fingers stopped moving. “Working?” Dr. Conroy said. “How old is this friend of yours?”

“She's a grown-up,” I said.

“A grown-up,” Dr. Conroy echoed. “Well, then, where does she work?”

“At Tanner's Feed Supply,” I explained. “When her parents died, they left it to her.”

“Uh-huh,” Dr. Conroy murmured, her fingers stirring again. “And what do you like about Miss Emily?”

“I like her 'cause she's fun and smart,” I said. “We have tea parties together, and sometimes she reads to me.”

“And did she teach you French?” Dr. Conroy asked.

“No,” I said, at first shaking my head, then vigorously nodding it. “Miss Gigi teaches me French, but then Miss Gigi is really Miss Emily.”

Dr. Conroy laughed. “Hold on!” she said. “You lost me.”

“Miss Emily's real funny,” I said. “She can throw her voice. Like when a dummy speaks,” I mumbled, trying to talk with my lips closed.

“Icy, I didn't understand one word of what you just said.”

“She's a ventriquoliss,” I said clearly, “like that Charlie McCarthy.”

“No, like Edgar Bergen,” corrected Dr. Conroy. “He's the ventriloquist. The dummy's the other one.”

“Well, it don't matter anyhow,” I said, exasperated, “'cause Miss Emily doesn't use wooden dolls, just stuffed animals.”

Dr. Conroy reached around me and with her fingers tenderly brushed my bangs to one side. “You're lucky to have Miss Emily for a friend,” she said.

“I ain't seen her for a long time,” I said softly. “I hope she still likes me.”

“Oh, she does,” Dr. Conroy reassured me. “She wouldn't give up on you. She seems way too nice for that.”

“And it don't matter that she weighs a lot,” I added.

“Of course not,” Dr. Conroy said.

“'Cause a person might weigh a lot but that don't make her bad,” I asserted. “I mean, she stays the same inside.”

“That's right!”

“And, truth is, a fat person won't really crush you if she hugs you,” I said, nodding. “That's just gossip and lies.”

“Lies, huh?” Dr. Conroy said, tugging at my hair.

“Yes, ma'am,” I said eagerly, “people in small towns tell tall tales. I guess 'cause there ain't nothing better to do.”

“Oh, I see,” Dr. Conroy said. “And do you think they lie about you?” she asked, combing the tip end of a braid.

I thought for a second. “I reckon,” I murmured. “They probably tell a whole pack of lies on me.”

“Like what?” she asked.

“Oh, I don't know,” I said, mumbling again. “That me and Miss Emily are strange. Strange like Cousin Acorn.” I lifted my eyebrows, slightly parted my lips, and felt the question fall off my tongue. “Are different people scary?”

“Are you talking about yourself, Icy? Or about Miss Emily?” Dr. Conroy asked, plaiting the other handful of hair. “And who is Cousin Acorn?”

I nervously glanced down at my fingers, which fluttered against my thighs. “Cousin Acorn?” I said. “Oh, she don't matter. But now, take a look at Rose, that girl on the mat out there,” I continued. “Who would ever want to be her friend? And that one with the big mouth and pink gums.”

“Mary,” Dr. Conroy said.

“Yes, that one,” I said. “Just looking at those sharp teeth of hers freezes my blood.”

“Uh-huh,” Dr. Conroy said. “I can understand how you might feel that way.”

“Well, they're a part of God's creation, too,” I said. “God made them. ‘Here they are,' He said to the world, then He up and leaves.” Hunching over, I hiked up my knees and wrapped my arms around them. “He's the only one who knows what's good in them, but He doesn't stick around. He doesn't say to folk, ‘Rose is a good girl. Give her a chance.' No, ma'am, all He does is step back and watch the show.”

“God works in mysterious ways,” Dr. Conroy said. “Rose has Maizy for a friend.”

“But Maizy works here,” I disagreed. “She's just doing her job.”

Dr. Conroy pulled on the other braid. “So you're saying if you're different, nobody will like you.”

“It's a whole bunch of strikes against you,” I said.

“Well,” she said, tugging gently on both braids. She went over to her desk drawer and pulled out her purse. “If you don't mind my saying so,” she said, walking over with a compact in her hand, “right now you look really different, and right now I like you very much.” She flipped open the compact and held it up to my face. “Well, what do you think?” she asked, her eyes dancing.

Letting go of my knees, I rocked forward and planted my feet on the floor. “Oh, it's nice,” I said, grinning.

“Well, I just work here, too,” she said, before smiling back.

“Y
ou look like a movie star,” Maizy had said when I stepped out of Dr. Conroy's office. But when we walked into the dayroom, Wilma—the only one there besides us—sneered at me, licked the mustache above her lip, and walked over to the far side of the room. I was disappointed that no one else would see me and comment on how good I looked. After all, Dr. Conroy was right. The French braids were different. Accentuated by two gold ribbons, the plaits of hair, pulled tightly back, gave me a worldly, unique face.

“Where is everybody?” I asked, looking around.

“Resting in their rooms,” Maizy explained.

“Oh,” I said, fingering the ends of my braids.

“Why don't you visit Rose?” Maizy suggested. “She'd love to see your new hairdo.”

I shook my head. “Oh, no!” I said. “She's probably sleeping.”

“If I know Rose,” Maizy said, “she's lying in her bed with her eyes wide open, just waiting for someone to visit.”

“I don't know,” I hedged. “I'm kind of tired.”

“Go talk to her,” Maizy insisted. “She'd love to see you.”

“Knock it off!” Wilma cried. “Clean out your ears! She don't want to talk to that tangled mass of muscle and bone.”

“She does, too!” Maizy yelled back. “She just doesn't know it yet.”

“She don't!” Wilma bellowed. “If you don't let her be, she'll end up hating you both. Do you hear me?”

Maizy grabbed my hands. “You want to visit with Rose, now, don't you, Icy?”

I looked into her eyes, pleading and earnest, and thought about the loneliness of being different. “Yes, ma'am,” I caved in, staring right at Wilma. “I ain't as tired as I thought I was.”

“Good! I knew it!” Maizy tossed back her blond curls; her blue eyes sparkled. “Did you hear that, Wilma? Did you hear what Icy said?”

Wilma fumed. “I heard what you—Miss Goody Two Shoes—forced out of her.”

Maizy held out her hand. “Come with me, Icy Gal,” she said, waggling her fingertips. “I'll take you to her room.”

The door to Rose's room was painted dark blue with the number, 8, painted in red above the doorknob. Inside, Rose was dressed in a long green T-shirt and was lying on her back in a large white crib. As I drew near, I noticed that Maizy was right: her eyes were wide open.

“I'll come back in ten minutes,” Maizy said. “That'll give you some time to get acquainted.”

“B-but…” I stammered.

“No buts,” Maizy said. “She doesn't bite.” And with these words, Maizy was gone.

I sucked in air; it tickled my lips. “What are you thinking?” I whispered, inching forward. From two feet away, I tried to find an answer in Rose's face but saw none. “Does it hurt?” I asked, coming closer, “Blink your eyes if it does.”

Neither eyelid flickered.

“Speak to me,” I begged. “Tell me something.”

Rose shut both eyes and groaned loudly.

I pushed myself against the wooden slats of her oversized crib, lifted up on my toes, my head above the railing, and asked, “What is it?”

Rose groaned again; her eyes snapped open.

“I know it hurts.” I leaned over and rubbed the inside of her arm. “I wish I could make it go away.” My hand rested on her shoulder.

Rose gurgled; her eyes watered.

“Don't be sad!” I said, caressing her skin. “I'm going to be your new friend.” I felt the warm flush of embarrassment, cleared my throat, and chanced, “But only if you want me to.”

Rose blinked once.

“Does that mean you like me?” I asked.

She blinked again.

“You do,” I said. “Even after the way I acted!”

Rose blinked a third time and smiled broadly. Her front teeth—small white kernels of hominy, all of them the same size—gleamed.

“You've got a nice face,” I said eagerly, “a sweet smile.” When I brushed my fingertips over her lips, she began to laugh.

“Sometimes I do weird things.” I was laughing with her. “Sometimes I croak like a frog.” I stretched back my neck and croaked. She laughed even louder—so loud, in fact, that her body vibrated and shook the bed. “Sometimes I jerk and jerk and can't stop myself, no matter how hard I try.” I contorted my body and made it jerk to the left. “I acted so bad that Mr. Wooten—the principal of my school—asked my grandparents to bring me here. He's my friend, so I don't hold none of this against him.” I looked deep into her eyes. “I reckon I got a touch of pokeweed inside me, the poison parts, the roots and berries. People like Mr. Wooten don't have to worry about pokeweed. They're too good.” I licked my top lip. “But for the likes of me, it's different. This poison builds up, gets stronger and stronger, until it has to get out. If it don't, it'll eat me up. It'll eat away my good parts, the leaves and stems, and only the bad parts will be left. And I'll be just like Mamie Tillman. My spirit will up and disappear, and only the shell of me will be left behind. So I have to let this poison out. A jerk here. A croak there. A cuss word. A nasty thought. Do you understand?”

Rose rolled her head from side to side, flickering her eyelids. All the while, drool dribbled from the corners of her mouth.

“I thought maybe you might,” I said. “You see, we ain't so far apart. I'm different just like you.”

Rose moaned.

I groaned back.

She moaned again.

I did the same.

She cackled.

I cackled.

Her dark eyes zoomed back and forth.

I leaned way over the railing. My eyes shot back and forth.

Saliva rolled down her bottom lip.

I gathered up saliva and spit it over my lip.

Rose grinned.

I grinned back.

Then Rose did something incredible. The bedsprings started to creak, and, jerking and sliding across the mattress, she plopped herself at the edge of the crib, much closer to me. Alarmed, I jumped back, stared at her twisted, quivering limbs, and knew, in that instant, that she had deliberately willed her way toward me. Once more, I carefully thrust my arm through the wooden slats and trailed my fingers along her leg. Her eyes grew dark with excitement. She trembled and squealed with delight. “Maizy's right,” I said. “You're a sweetie.” We smiled silently at each other for what seemed a long time.

“Icy Gal, you need to get some rest now,” Maizy said from the hallway. “I'll call you when lunch is ready.”

“Bye-bye,” I whispered, and blew Rose a kiss. “I'll come back real soon.”

Just a few feet from Rose's room, I heard a voice. Loud and gruff, it rumbled from Room 7 and stopped me in my tracks.

“Wilma,” the voice said emphatically. “Wilma. Wilma. Wilma.”

I peered around the doorway.

Wilma, her mouth distorted and her face red, was standing over a curled-up young girl, the one on the playground that first day, the one with the Brillo pad hair. “
Wil
-ma,” Wilma said, stressing the first syllable. “Wil-
ma,
” she said, accenting the second. “Wilma. Wilma. Wilma. Wilma,” she spat out. “I'm gonna change it. Awful, ain't it?” Fervidly nodding at the young girl, Wilma pried open her balled-up body, unfastened two safety pins, and removed a soiled diaper. “You're a stupid lump,” she continued, reaching for a clean diaper. “A stupid lump of shit.” She yanked the left corner of the fresh diaper over the girl's hip. “Deirdre,” she said, piercing the cloth with a safety pin. “Deirdre, such a pretty name!” she went on, her hand slipping, the pin jabbing the girl's skin.

Deirdre's head popped up like a turtle's, and for the first time I saw her face—blandly registering no discomfort.

“Look at you!” Wilma growled, surveying her charge. “A stupid lump with a pretty name! It ain't fair, I tell you! You get room and board. A cushy life. Ain't a worry in your head.” She pulled a T-shirt down over the girl's head, flattening her brushy hair. “All you retards are lucky,” she said, the T-shirt in place, the curls shooting out again like bedsprings. Wilma ran her hands through her own dark, stringy hair and grimaced. “Ignorance is bliss!” she pronounced, lifting up the girl, dropping her like a sack of onions into a wheelchair. “Let's brush our teeth,” she said, pushing the wheelchair through another door, a private entrance to the girls' communal bathroom.

For several minutes, my hands perspired and my heart fluttered so much that I couldn't move. Then, despite my fear, I wiped my hands on my dress, sucked in my stomach, threw back my shoulders, and cautiously crept into the bedroom. At the bathroom door, I peeked inside.

Standing behind the wheelchair, which stood in front of a sink, Wilma was spreading toothpaste on a green hairbrush. With one fat hand, she grabbed a fistful of the girl's hair, snatched back her head—causing her body, like a noisemaker, to unroll—then forced the thick bristles through her tightly closed lips. “Back and forth. Back and forth,” Wilma said, whipping the brush from one side of her mouth to the other. “Back and forth. Back and forth. Even you can grip this. Now you try!” she said, trying to insert the hairbrush into the girl's clenched fist. But rather than take it, Deirdre—once more—snapped shut into a ball. “Try, you idiot!” Wilma yelled, uncoiling her, prizing open her fingers, shoving the brush into her crab-claw hand.

Immediately Deirdre turned her hand over, smearing a path of toothpaste down her T-shirt.

“Stupid shit!” Wilma shouted, smacking the brush from her hand, sending it flying against the yellow-tiled wall.

Again, Deirdre rolled up. Like a caterpillar, she curled into a tight knot.

“Stupid!” Wilma leaned over and turned on the faucet. “Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!” she screamed, cupping up water, tossing it upon Deirdre's back.

Mesmerized, I held in my breath and watched Deirdre, folding up tighter and tighter, burying her head, hiding her hair, until I could tolerate the sight no longer. Then, unable to control myself, I noisily whipped around, scurried back through the bedroom, and bolted out the door. “Maizy!” I said, running toward the end of the hallway where she stood with her back to me. “Maizy!” I repeated, rushing to her, throwing my arms around her waist when she turned around.

Gently, she pushed me back. “What is it?” she said, looking intently into my eyes.

But just as I was about to blurt out everything, I saw Wilma in my mind's eye. Grinning strangely, she stood over me with a hairbrush in her hand. So I took one short breath and lied, “Nothing, Maizy. I missed you, that's all.” Then, swallowing my knot of fear, I ran to my room.

“F
eeding time for the kiddies,” Wilma said.

Through shuffling noises, the clanking of metal against metal, the squeaking cries of wheelchairs, the irritated voices of the staff, the bellows and groans of the patients, I heard every word Wilma said. Even though I was sitting at a table far away from her, I heard her mean voice. Lately, it seemed, meanness followed me. At Ginseng Elementary, meanness had introduced itself in Mrs. Stilton's smile, in the way her Adam's apple quivered when she sang, in the swing of her Ping-Pong paddle against my hands. Here, at Bluegrass State Hospital, sound waves from Wilma's mouth carried meanness. Meanness, I reckoned, was more forceful than kindness. It had a mind of its own.

Immediately I recognized the high, nasal voice from earlier in the morning. It was Delbert's. “Hush your mouth, Wilma!” he said, standing near the side door, wiping off a table. “We're getting sick and tired of your comments.”

“Oh, I'm so scared!” Wilma snickered, shimmying all over. “Big, bad, manly Delbert Franklin is gonna get me.”

“The devil's already got hold of you,” he said. “He's right there in your ugly face and in your nasty voice.”

“Shucks!” Wilma said, making a face, holding out her fingers, making them tremble.

Just then, the side door opened as two members of the kitchen staff rolled in stacks of trays on platforms. Maizy had said they drove over in a van from Hickory Hall, where all the meals for Bluegrass State Hospital were prepared. From the back of a van, the food was wheeled down a ramp through our kitchen's back door. The small kitchen, which was kept locked most of the time, had a big gray refrigerator the size of our toolshed, and a little bitty stove. Fruit juices, milk, ice cream, cereals, and snacks could be found there. Meals that had earlier gone uneaten could also be warmed up. But mostly the kitchen housed the carts during mealtimes. I sniffed the air. The acrid odor of vinegar-washed tables mixed with the smell of overcooked ground beef.

“Gordie's having problems today.” Delbert spoke to Maizy, who had come in with the carts. She was standing beside him, reading the labels on the sides of trays. “More problems than usual. He's butted me twice already. Almost knocked me out.”

“I'll keep an eye on him,” Maizy said, coming toward me. “Icy, I think you'll like lunch today,” she said, placing the food in front of me.