Out of My Mind (7 page)

“Diane, that’s crazy! You can’t hold on to that kind of guilt. These things just happen.” I could tell Dad was trying to be reasonable.

“No! I’m the
mother
!” she wailed. “It was my
job
to bring a child into the world safely, and I screwed it up! Every other woman on the planet is able to give birth to a normal baby. There must be something wrong with
me
!”

“Sweetheart, it’s not your fault. It’s not your fault,” and I could hear him pull my mom to him.

“But, Chuck, I’m so scared this baby is going to be messed up too!” she said in a shuddering breath.

“Please don’t go there—don’t even think like that,” Dad murmured. “Statistically, what are the chances? Two children who . . .”

And I suddenly couldn’t hear him anymore because my head was pulsing with the things I wanted to say but couldn’t.

I wanted to tell Mom that I was sorry she was so sad and so scared.

That it wasn’t her fault.

That I was just the way I was and she had nothing to do with it.

The part that hurt the most is I couldn’t tell her any of it.

During Mom’s entire pregnancy, however, my parents’ attention to me never wavered, even though, yeah, I worried that it would. Dad did lots more as Mom got closer to her due date. He did some of the laundry, most of the cooking, and all the lifting and carrying. I got to school on time every day, got my stories read to me every night, and the three of us waited and hoped and prayed.

But Penny was born perfect and copper-bright, just like her name. From the minute she came home from the hospital, she was a really happy baby. Mom truly did carry a little bundle of joy into the house.

But I guess a new baby is rough on any parents,
especially if they already have a kid like me at home. Sometimes there would be arguments. I could hear them through the bedroom wall.

“I need more help around here, Chuck,” Mom would say, trying to keep her voice low.

“Well, you pay more attention to the baby than you do to me!”

“If you’d help more, I’d have more time for you! With two kids, and one of them Melody, it’s not easy!”

“I have to go to work, you know!”

“I have a job too! Don’t throw that in my face. Plus, I’m up twice a night to nurse the baby!”

“I know. I know. I’m sorry, Diane.” Dad always softened and let Mom win.

“It’s just I’m so tired all the time,” Mom would say, her voice muffled.

“I’m sorry. I’ll do better. I promise. I’ll take off work tomorrow and take care of both girls. Why don’t you go catch a movie or take Mrs. Valencia out to lunch?”

It would get quiet once more, but even so, somehow I always ended up feeling a teeny bit guilty. Life sure would be easier if they had only one child—one with working parts.

I once got one of those electronic dolls for Christmas. It was supposed to talk and cry and move its arms and legs if you pushed the right buttons. But when we
opened the box, one of the arms had come off, and all the doll did, no matter which button you pushed, was squeak. Mom took it back to the store and got her money back.

I wonder if she ever wished she could get a refund for me.

But Penny! Penny really was a perfect baby. After just a few months she was sleeping through the night and smiling through each day. She sat up exactly when infants are supposed to, rolled over right on schedule, and crawled on cue. Amazing. And it seemed so easy! Sure, she fell on her face a few times, but once she got it, she was off.

Penny zoomed around like a little windup toy. She learned that the toilet was fun to splash in and that lamps will fall if you grab the cord. She learned that golden retrievers are not ponies, peas taste funny, dead flies on the floor are a no-no, but candy is really good. She laughed all the time. She learned her sister, Melody, couldn’t do what she could do, but she didn’t seem to care. So I tried not to care either.

Dad and his camcorder followed Penny around like the paparazzi follow a rock star! We have hundreds of hours of footage of Penny being cute and doing adorable things. And, well, I admit it, sometimes I got kinda sick of watching a new video every time she learned
something new. It sorta sucks to watch a baby do what you wish you could do.

Penny holding her own bottle.

Penny feeding herself teeny-tiny Cheerios from her high-chair tray.

Penny saying “ma-ma” and “da-da” just like the babies on
Sesame Street
.

Penny crawling on the floor and chasing Butterscotch.

Penny clapping her hands.

How did her little brain know how to tell her to pull herself up to a standing position? To hold on to the sofa for balance? How did she know how to stand on her own? Sometimes she’d fall over, but then she’d pop right back up. Never ever did she lie there, stuck like a turtle on its shell.

Dad still did our nighttime reading, but now it was Penny who snuggled on his lap. I was too big and too hard to balance, so I sat in my wheelchair, my dog at my feet, as the two of them read the stories I knew by heart. Butterscotch still slept only in my room. I liked that.

It really did make me glad to know Penny was learning the same books I loved so much. I wondered if she was memorizing them. Probably not. She didn’t need to.

I think Penny’s third word was “Dee-Dee.” She couldn’t quite say “Melody,” but she got the last part!
I loved it when Mom put Penny in bed with me after her morning bath. She’d grab me and plant wet, baby-powder-smelling kisses all over my face. “Dee-Dee!” she’d say again and again.

By the time she was one year old, Penny could walk. She wobbled all over the house on her fat little legs. She fell a lot, dropping down on her butt, and laughing every time she did. Then she’d get back up and try it again.

That was something I’d never get to try.

With two kids in the house, our family routines changed. It took twice as long to get everybody ready each morning. Mom made sure Penny was dressed in pretty little outfits every day, even though she was just going next door to Mrs. V’s house.

My clothes were okay, but I was noticing that lately they were more useful than cute. Mom seemed to be choosing them by how easy they’d be to get on me. It was kind of a bummer, but I knew I was getting heavier and heavier to lift, and so changing me was harder.

I probably should mention that feeding me is a real process. I can’t chew very well, so I mostly get soft foods like scrambled eggs or oatmeal or applesauce. Since I can’t hold a fork or spoon—I try, but I keep dropping them—someone has to place the food into my mouth, one spoonful at a time. It’s slow.

Spoon, slurp, swallow.

Spoon, slurp, swallow.

Lots of food falls on the floor. Butterscotch likes that. She’s like a canine vacuum cleaner.

Drinking stuff is hard for me too. I can’t hold a glass and I can’t sip from a straw, so somebody has to very carefully hold a cup to my lips and tip a little bit of liquid into my mouth so I can swallow. Too much and I choke and cough, and we have to start all over. It takes a long time to get a meal in me. I hate the whole process, obviously.

And some mornings were really stressful.

“Chuck! Can you bring me Melody’s pink T-shirt from the clean clothes basket? She spilled juice all over her shirt!” Mom yelled up the stairs.

“Didn’t you put a bib on her, Diane?” Dad yelled back. “You know she makes a mess! Why don’t you wait and dress her
after
she eats?”

“So you want me to feed her naked? Just bring the shirt!” Mom snapped. “And a diaper for Penny. She’s got a stinker.”

“She’s two—isn’t she old enough to be potty trained?” Dad asked, coming downstairs with a blue T-shirt I had outgrown in one hand and a diaper in the other.

“Right. I’ll get to potty training tonight—on the twenty-fifth hour of my day!”

Dad picked Penny up. “Uh-oh, that’s a bad one,” he said, his nose scrunched up. “Did you give her sweet potatoes again last night? I thought we stopped giving her those because they always give her the runs.”

“Well, if
you
had gone to the grocery store like I asked, I could have given her something different! And that shirt is blue, not pink, and too small for Melody!”

Mom stormed out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

“Sorry, girls,” Dad said to us. He whistled softly while he cleaned Penny up, threatening to call the Haz-mat team. That was funny.

Then he finished feeding me breakfast, not caring that my oatmeal was getting all over the juice-stained shirt. “Why not? May as well make a real mess and make it worth all the stress!” he said with a laugh.

I smiled at him and smeared oatmeal on my tray.

Mom came back down with fresh makeup and a freshly painted-on smile, her hair done, and with my pink shirt. She and Dad hugged in the kitchen, both took a deep breath, and we actually made it out of the house on time.

We had lots of days like that.

Penny wakes every morning asking for her “Doodle,” a soft, brown stuffed animal that might be a monkey or maybe a squirrel. It’s so beat-up, nobody knows for sure what it really is. She drags it everywhere. “Doodle!” she cries if it’s been caught in her blankets. “Doodle!” she cries if it’s right next to her. Of course, it sounds more like “doo-doo” when she says it. That makes Dad crack up.

I smile when I hear footsteps outside my door. Big ones and little tiny ones. My mom and Penny. And Doodle, of course. Sometimes my legs and arms are stiff
from being in the same position all night, and sometimes my toes tingle. My bedroom door opens—Dad never gets around to fixing that squeak.

Mom traces a finger along my cheek. Maybe she’s checking to see if I’m still breathing. I am. I open my eyes. I wish I could say,
Good morning
, but I just grin instead. She pulls me up and hugs me, rarely stopping to sit in the rocking chair anymore, and rushes me to the bathroom because I usually have to go really bad first thing in the morning.

Penny trails behind us, wearing a huge red and white hat like the one in
The Cat in the Hat
—the girl has a major hat obsession—and always with her Doodle. Butterscotch is never far from her. She lets Penny put hats on her and somehow endures Penny’s hugs, which can sometimes feel more like choke holds. I’ve gotten a few! She barks to alert Mom or Dad if Penny gets too close to an electric plug or the front door.

Our bathroom is painted ocean blue and is large enough for Penny, Butterscotch, me and Mom—and my chair—without feeling crowded. That’s a good thing, because we spend lots of time in there. Penny and I make pretty big messes. But at least I don’t have to wear diapers. It’s bad enough that someone has to put me on the toilet, but diapers? Yuck!

Even though the doctors said it would be impossible,
by the time I was three, Mom had me potty trained like any other kid my age. I hated sitting in dirty diapers, and she hated changing them, so I figured out a way to let her know I had to go, and she’d hustle me to the toilet.

Mom and I can sometimes talk without words. I point to the ceiling, and she somehow just knows whether I’m talking about the ceiling fan, the moon, or the dark spot where the rain leaked through during the last thunderstorm. She can tell if I’m sad, and she can sense when I need a hug. She rubs my back and makes me relax when I’m tense and upset. She tells dirty jokes sometimes when Dad isn’t listening, and we both crack up.

One morning, as she was getting me dressed for school, I pointed to her stomach, then covered my eyes as if the sight were too much to look at. It was shortly after Penny had been born, and she still had a good-size baby bulge.

“You calling me fat?” she asked, acting insulted.

I laughed a little and said, “uh,” which is the closest thing I’ve got to a
yes.

“Take it back!” she said, tickling the bottom of my feet.

Instead, I held my arms out like I was making a big circle and laughed out loud.
Huge! Enormous! Like an elephant!
I could tell she knew what I was thinking.

We both rolled with laughter, and then she hugged me tight. I wish I could tell her I loved her.

Mom knows when I’m hungry or thirsty, and whether I need a glass of milk or just some water. She can tell if I’m really sick or simply faking it, because sometimes I do pretend I don’t feel good just so I can stay home. She can tell what my temperature is just by feeling my forehead. She only uses the thermometer to prove she’s right.

I can tell stuff about what she is thinking too. By the end of the day, after she’s been at the hospital all day, then fixed dinner, then bathed Penny and me and put me in bed, I can tell she’s kinda reached her max. She breathes hard. Her forehead is sweating. I sometimes reach out and touch her hand with mine. I can feel her calm down, and she’ll trace her fingers along my cheek, just like she does in the morning, and give me a kiss good night.

Every Saturday morning after I’ve been fed, Mom reads the newspaper while she has her coffee and Penny smashes bananas on her high-chair tray. Butterscotch doesn’t like fruit, but she stays close by, just in case somebody drops a piece of bacon. Mom’s off on weekends, so she relaxes. She sometimes reads articles to me or tells me about the latest hurricane or uprising or explosion in the world.

“More fighting in the Middle East,” she says.

I’ve seen it on TV. Bombs and tears and faces of fear.

“There’s a new Superman movie coming out soon,” she reads as she shakes the newspaper flat. “Maybe we can go catch a matinee.”

I love superheroes. I guess Superman is my favorite because he can fly. How great would
that
be?

Mom reads me the comic pages also. I like Garfield.

“Garfield is cheating on his diet again,” Mom says. “He ate Jon’s lasagna and Odie’s meatballs.”

I laugh and point at Mom’s hips.

“You calling me fat again, Miss Dee-Dee? Just because I finished off your spaghetti last night?”

I grin.

“You’ll be sorry when I start feeding everybody lettuce for lunch!”

We both laugh. Mom’s not even close to being fat, but I like to tease her.