Made That Way (6 page)

CHAPTER EIGHT

I'm dreaming. I'm with the unicorn, though without a horn I'm not sure if he is a unicorn anymore. He's joined the ranks of “the hornless ones”, which used to be his dismissive term for horses. I haven't heard him say this for a while. If he wasn't always so grumpy I'd feel sorry for him.

“It's time for you to start building some bridges,” says the unicorn.

“I thought I wasn't supposed to—I thought it was against the rules.”

“You were warned not to build bridges until you had more control. Your control in this realm is acceptable now. Though the other realm remains problematic I'm sorry to say.”

“So I can name people and bring them into my dreams if I want?”

“If you wish,” says the unicorn.

“But I have to have better control in the other world?”

“I believe I said as much,” says the unicorn unhelpfully. He can be so infuriating.

“I don't get it. I'm a kid. The adults are in charge. I don't have control of anything.”

“Hmmph,” says the unicorn. “If you drew more from this realm when you were in the corporal realm you might fare better. Bridges have been known to operate in two directions.” He uses his ironic tone, which brings out the worst in me.

“Are you on drugs?” I say. “Because you're making even less sense than usual.”

“If you took some time to think about it instead of reacting immediately, you might have asked a more sensible useful question,” says the unicorn.

I don't want to think about it. I don't want to think about anything, because there's something unpleasant at the back of my mind that I need to avoid. I prefer to change the subject. “You don't seem to be limping as much,” I say.

“Thank you for noticing,” says the unicorn. “I'm glad you're not totally wrapped up in your own problems for a change.”

“My problems aren't exactly insignificant.”

“Medication side effects may be unpleasant at the time, but seeing as how they will disappear when you do away with those awful injections, I don't see that you have much to complain about. Your headaches are hardly a permanent condition.”

“You're sure?”

The unicorn snorts.

“But I'll be stuck with being short forever.”

“We discussed that previously. That is hardly a problem in the grand scope of things. Perhaps this will allow you to follow your heart's desire and become a jockey and gallop round and round on a racetrack in front of screaming crowds of gambling addicts.”

“That is not my heart's desire and you know better. Why would you even say such a thing?”

The unicorn stops walking, lowers his head and eats some grass. His forelock fluffs out over the place where his horn used to be so I can't get a good look at it. I want to be able to compare it to the scab in the middle of Brooklyn's forehead.

“I don't know why you have to be so grumpy all the time.”

The unicorn lifts his head, chews and swallows. A bulge of food slides down his esophagus, exactly as it does with the horses.

“Grumpy?” says the unicorn. “I do wish you wouldn't use that word. Though of course that's what your parents say to you when they see you sad or angry. I find it exceedingly patronizing myself.”

I sigh. “You're right. I'm sorry.”

“There are better ways of finding out what's troubling somebody.”

“Like what?”

“Well you could ask me.”

I consider this. I think about all the times I've been upset and how nice it would have been if my parents had asked me what was the matter instead of pointing out that I was acting grumpy. “Okay,” I say, “what's troubling you?”

“Nothing.” The unicorn looks at me straight-faced, then bursts into laughter. His laugh is very strange, and it's exactly the same as the strangled bugling noise that Brooklyn made from the back of the transport trailer, though what he had to laugh about then I still can't figure.

“You're funny,” I say, and I laugh too.

“Laughter is the best medicine,” says the unicorn.

“Oh brother that's so corny,” I say, but then I can't help myself and laugh some more. It makes me aware of the pressure of the pillow under my cheek, and I almost pop out of the dream except that the wind has caught the forelock of the unicorn to expose the scab and I'm drawn back in again.

I stare at his forehead. “What happened to you?”

The unicorn closes his eyes and drops his head. The only way he could make it more obvious that he was ashamed of himself would be if his cheeks turned flaming red, and maybe they are but under his white fur it's impossible for me to tell. When he starts talking he doesn't look at me but stares instead at a spot on the ground behind me. “I was bad. I strayed. I made a mistake and did something I wasn't supposed to do. It got smaller and smaller and I woke up one morning and it was gone—I was a flathead, just like when I was born.”

I notice that he won't use the word
horn.
I reach over and stroke his cheek. Tears are welling behind my eyeballs. I feel the pressure along with the remains of a headache, but somehow manage to switch my attention back to the dream. I don't want to abandon the unicorn in such a state, and there's something about waking up that doesn't appeal either, something happened—something I don't want to think about.

“You mean unicorns are born without . . . I mean, they're born with flat heads?”

He huffs loudly. “Of course we're born with flat heads. Otherwise our mothers wouldn't survive the delivery. Our heads stay flat until puberty.”

Automatically I tense as though I can expect a lecture on sexual development from the unicorn. Again I feel the pillow, and this time it's too much and I wake up thinking I've just missed a great opportunity to find out if unicorns are born grey and turn white like horses do, or whether some of them stay grey all their lives.

I don't open my eyes, but I know I'm not in my own bedroom. The smells are wrong and there's too much light and noise. And it all floods back to me, that I'm in the hospital. I keep my eyes shut as the memories unfold backwards in my head. How nice the nurses were last night when I couldn't sleep and one of them sponged my face with a warm cloth and held my hand and said I'd be fine. They just wanted to keep me in for observation overnight, and before that the ambulance ride, and before that . . . Taylor! Oh my god I'd forgotten about Taylor. They took her in a different ambulance. My eyes flicker open against my will, but I slam them shut immediately, because sitting on the end of the bed is my mom, and my dad is leaning on the door jamb sending a text message on his BlackBerry.

“Tony, do you have to?” says Mom. Her voice is deep and gravelly like she hasn't slept all night.

“I'm just telling them I'll be late coming in,” says Dad.

“Late? You're going in to your office today?” says Mom.

Oh brother. You'd think that today of all days they wouldn't be at each other.

“I can't book off like you can, Ev.”

“Of course you can. You could if you wanted to.”

I think about opening my eyes and pretending I don't recognize them. That might change their priorities.

“We can't do anything anyway,” says Dad. “She's in good hands here.”

“Patients need an advocate,” says Mom.

I remember her saying this all the time when Uncle Brian was in the hospital. My mom pretty well lived at the hospital when he was sick, and then he died anyway. This was before my mom went back to school and became a therapist, so she had more spare time.

“Well you can be the advocate, and I'll keep the home fires burning,” says Dad.

“Oh right. . . ,” says Mom with a sarcastic tone that I'm never allowed to use.

I've had enough. I open my eyes wide, smile at them and say hi.

“Oh thank god!” says Mom. She looks awful. There are bags under her eyes and she hasn't washed her hair. It's lying flat against her scalp and I can see her roots.

“Hey, Munchkin!” says Dad. He doesn't look much better, although at least his hair looks okay because its got so much natural curl it almost never looks bad. He sits on my bed on the other side from Mom and grabs my foot.

“How are you feeling?” says Mom. “How's your head? They say you have a concussion.”

“How can I have a concussion? I didn't hit my head.”

“You just don't remember hitting your head,” says Dad.

“I . . . did . . . not . . . hit . . . my . . . head,” I say very slowly and clearly so even they will understand. I remember telling the emergency room doctor the same thing.

“Uh huh,” say Mom and Dad, exactly like the doctor said. No one believes me. I close my eyes in frustration and wipe my fingertips across my forehead . . . and feel a lump. Could I have hit my head? I was wearing my helmet, which would have protected me. I try to remember what happened. I remember putting my arms out to break the fall, I remember rolling to the side the way that Kansas told me I should do if I ever come off a horse . . . and then I remember Taylor. I remember the blood all over the place.

I groan out loud. Big mistake.

“Do you have pain?” says Mom. “We'll get a nurse.” She grabs the call button from beside my pillow and I grab it back from her quickly before she can press the button.

“No,” I say, “I do not have pain, other than the stupid pain I get from the growth hormone. I was remembering Taylor, bleeding at the side of the road.”

My mom takes my hand. “You have to focus on your own recovery, Honey,” she says, but her eyes betray her for a fraction of a second and flick to the curtain separating my bed from the next one.

“Taylor, are you in there?” I call through the curtain.

Dad scoots up the bed then leans over and kisses me on the forehead. I flinch. How could I have hit my head and not remember? How could I have hurt myself if I was wearing an ASTM/SEI approved riding helmet like Kansas insists I wear all the time? The skin feels so tender. Dad doesn't notice. “She's not there right now, Munchkin, she'll be back later. She's down in surgery.”

Mom shakes her head. “Tony,” she whispers as though I'm not even there, “I told you we should have paid extra for a private room. This is going to be much too upsetting for Sylvie.”

“Upsetting?” I say. “What's happened to her?”

Dad says, “It's a small thing. She injured her foot, that's all.”

That's when I remember the toe and feel a surge of panic. “If she has to miss dance classes she'll never forgive me.”

A dark look passes between my parents. My mom opens her mouth to speak but Dad reaches over and squeezes her shoulder and she presses her lips back together.

“What?” I say.

“We'll tell you later,” says Mom.

“I hate it when you do this!” Maybe it's really really bad what's happened, maybe her whole foot had to be amputated after being damaged by my bike chain and she'll never walk again, maybe that's what they're protecting me from.

“We'll tell you when you're stronger, Snookie,” says Dad. “Right now you need your strength to get better.”

“Get better? There's nothing the matter with me! I'd be fine if I wasn't taking the stupid growth hormone! Ask Dr. Cleveland. Kansas told her all about my getting headaches and throwing up and double vision. I don't care if I'm short. I'm fine. What's happened to Taylor?”

My mom takes my hand. “Settle down, Honey. I know you're upset, but it's not appropriate to be demanding like this.”

Dad says, “She lost her big toe.”

“Thank Christ!” I say, and they look so shocked that I add, “Not her whole foot then?”

Mom shakes her head. “Language, Sylvie. Just the toe.”

“So she could still dance,” I insist.

“They don't think so,” says Dad. “Apparently the big toe is very important for dancing.”

I press deep into my pillows and close my eyes. “Poor Taylor. That would be like me not being able to ride.” I cover my face with my arm.

“She has to go off the growth hormone?” asks Dad. Now it's his turn to act as though I'm not there. “They told us there weren't any side effects.”

“I'll look into it,” says Mom. “I did bring the injector though, in case I needed to give her her medication.”

“Don't you dare,” I say.

“You don't mind if you stay short, Munchkin?” says Dad.

“What's so bad about being short, compared to being lame forever?” I sniff.

“Honey, don't talk through your arm,” says Mom, “we can't hear you.”

I flop my arm onto the bed and glare at my parents. I'm so ready to hate them, but then I see their concern and feel their pain on top of my pain and it's too much so I have to close my eyes again. I hate being a kid. This will be the worst part of staying short—people will continue to treat me as though I'm six. I have to find a way of dealing with this or I'll go out of my mind.