Paint Me a Monster (26 page)

For a week, I think about colors and shapes, control and surrender, power and helplessness. I do my homework, work in the pre-kindergarten, and think some more.

I want to paint a monster. Disney monsters come to mind. Dragons that breathe fire and flash their tails in a fever of craziness. Eyes that eat you in one blink. Curved teeth so white, they blind their prey. Is this me?

I whip color across the blank sheet, forcing the brush to bend its tough bristles. Monster! Monster! Monster! I label myself, pounding an ache into my head. I unclip the wet page, ball it up, and toss it on the floor. Angry is how I’m supposed to feel. Angry. But I don’t. My heart isn’t spitting fire. Spines don’t rise from my back. My eyes only eat what my mouth can’t.

No, I am more subtle: a master of disguise, costumed in a tunic that signals “smart girl,” a ponytail that suggests “innocence,” and a big smile that communicates “happy.”

“You are the bad seed. You are a monster,” I say. We sink to the floor, sadness, emptiness, disappointment, and me.

“Paint them. Paint them.” Mr. Algrin’s words, like a chain tug me to a stand.

Slowly, I paint, thinking about my time with Mom, thinking about how she grew up, thinking about her life with Dad. I cover the page with self-doubt, fear, unhappiness, and swirls. When the paper can no longer absorb the wetness, I stop. I don’t want my painting to fall apart.

“Two stories, one girl,” Mr. Algrin says, as we shift our gazes from one painting to the other.

“This one, the one with the wavy lines, happened first. But it’s not the real first one. The real first one is the painting of elongated red ovals, belted with orange daggers that hide against the blue background, and a black dot. The ovals are supposed to be devouring the page. They are my mom. They are all women bigger than I am. I am the dot.”

I grip my arms around me. They feel so thin. I suck in a long breath and heave it toward Mr. Algrin. My words come faster. I can’t hide the wobble in my voice. “They can’t be trusted. They’re dishonest, cruel. I’m not safe in this picture.”

“You’re safe here, Rinnie.” Mr. Algrin’s voice is a gentle lullaby. “How old are you here?”

“Sixteen.”

“I mean, how old is the black dot of you in the painting?”

“Oh,” I say. “I don’t know. I’m so little. Maybe I’m four.”

“About the age of your pre-kindergartners, correct?”

I nod my head.

“What would sixteen-year-old Rinnie say to that fear-struck four-year-old girl?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you do. You’ve told me many times. When you’ve calmed a young kid, stemmed their tears, bandaged an ‘owie.’”

I hadn’t thought of those things. “I guess I’d kneel down and hug her. And tell her, very softly, that she’s not alone, that I’ll protect her, that I won’t leave her. I’d tell her everyone gets scared and that it’s OK to cry. Crying is a way to call for help.”

Silence.

“Rinnie,” Mr. Algrin whispers. “You are that little girl. Don’t you think it’s time to show her some compassion?”

I agree with the slightest nod of my head. I’m embarrassed that he said this.

“It’s OK to cry. Crying is a way to call for help,” he says.

Mr. Algrin is a good listener, and I cry.

I tug on the fringes of my relationship with my mother.

“May I have a tissue, please?” I blow my nose in a way that would make my mother frown. “She became all women. And all girls who are taller than I am,” I say. The thought seems bizarre to me, as if I’m speaking in tongues, but the feeling is true.

“That would include classmates, wouldn’t it?” Mr. Algrin asks. His question isn’t really a question. “You’ve hooked a big catch. Will you reel it in?”

I look at the other painting on the floor and point to it.

“Lavender is self-doubt. Maroon is fear. Dark blue is unhappiness. The swirls are white, a combination of all colors, all feelings. The lines are wavy because I can’t fit the feelings into a linear mold.”

“Molds are static things,” Mr. Algrin says.

“Yes. Comfortable and confining,” I agree. A thought strikes at the feel of confinement . . . restriction. “Maybe I don’t need a mold.”

He smiles.

When I asked a question that Mom couldn’t answer, she’d say, “Heaven knows.” I squeeze my eyes tight and listen for angel’s harps.

“Heaven,” I say. “Where do monsters come from?”

“From one’s imagination,” comes the answer.

The sound is steady and firm like Mr. Algrin. It’s gentle and warm like Verna, and it’s encouraging and strong like Marie, the riding instructor at Camp Katawauk. Their friendship makes my search for answers possible.

I’m amazed the kids listen to me. When I’m with the kids, I feel like a bigger version of them. One of my favorite things is when a little body unexpectedly crawls into my lap and makes him or herself comfortable, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. The poet Robert Browning must have felt this when he wrote, “God’s in his Heaven, all’s right with the world.” I don’t know about the God part, but I do know about the world of pre-kindergarten.

Today, everyone raised his or her hand to speak, no one had a time out, and no one needed to change clothes due to an accident. We got through show and tell, the calendar and weather, and a chat about Ben’s cats throwing up. And there was still time for me to read a book about making soup from a stone. Maybe we can make stone soup for a snack one day.

Before circle time ended, Leah invited me to her fifth birthday party, and then the rest of the class invited me to their birthday parties. I feel like celebrating.

Go to pre-kindergarten.

Be goofy.

Play Duck Duck Goose.

Bring something for show and tell.

Bury treasure in the sand table.

Sing “Ring Around the Rosey” ten times.

Eat graham crackers (dip in milk first).

Glue, cut, paint.

Run around outside.

Get a hug.

Pass it on.

Kirk’s waterlogged hands wrap around a large plastic milk jug. He insists I stand nestled behind him and watch as he tilts the jug just enough to spill the tinted pink water into a giant metal funnel. Each awkward pour splashes liquid from the container onto my clothes where Kirk’s body is too slender to protect. Each swish of his smock greets my bare legs with a wet hello.

When I raise my arms to reach for the paper towels, Kirk grabs my sleeves and tugs, then pushes his body into my lowered arms. The sleeves of my sweater need to be pushed up before they are drenched. Once more, my arms brush up against thin but determined limbs. Kirk springs into action and pulls my arms downward.

“What are you doing?” I say with a tone of discomfort. The dampness of my clothes has filtered into my voice. I’m ready for a different learning center, but I can’t move. It’s a hostage situation. My right arm is slung over Kirk’s shoulder and my left is being kissed.

I am twice Kirk’s size yet his gesture knocks me off balance. How could such a little kid wield so much power? What strangeness? In pre-kindergarten, I’m supposed to be like Athena, Greek goddess of gardens. My job is to nurture young seedlings and appreciate their fragrance. But I don’t have the right tools and the fragrance of kisses is questionable.

The wind whistles through the playground equipment, chasing the squeals of the children.

Tyler and Luke are on the monkey bars. Several kids stand patiently on a merry-go-round while several others push to move it forward. Sam digs for China, his daily outside ritual. Other pre-kindergarteners ride scooters and tricycles, or run back and forth over the rubber hill that was installed a few days ago. Mrs. Fox watches from inside as she often does.

“I’m cold,” whimpers a small voice from below. I turn away from the action and kneel to face cheeks, stained red from the chill.

“I think I know why, Lynnie. Someone’s striped vest is open.”

“Mine,” she says proudly.

“Yep, it sure is. Let’s button it. You button the red ones, and I’ll button the blue ones.”

As the last button moves into the vacant slit, a child’s shriek falls over the playground.

“Oh my God!” the Sugar Cookie teacher cries. Her scarf stirs the words in the air. I run to where she’s headed. Tyler’s sprawled on the ground, howling. His pants are scraped and dirty, his cap by his ankles, his hands dimpled with flecks of gravel and grass.

“I only looked away for a moment,” I said to the teacher who reached Tyler first. She removes her scarf and folds it to make a little pillow for Tyler’s head.

“He’s OK, startled and a little bruised but no breaks or sprains,” she says after a quick examination.

“Tyler, I’m so sorry,” I say. “I am so sorry.” I take his red hands and brush off the gunk. “That must have been very scary.” I give his hands a kiss, place his baseball
cap on his head, and tell him I think he’s very brave. Then I hug him. The fast beat of my chest melts into his.

To myself I say, “Thank you, thank you for having Tyler wear a sturdy coat today.” It cushioned his fall. How could I have been so stupid to take my eyes off the climbers? How could I be so dumb? I know the rules: Safety First, Eyes Open, Be Alert. He could have hit his head. He could have died. Idiot! I hear Mom’s relentless voice.

The sound of Tyler’s shriek worms through my head the rest of the afternoon.

I don’t even stay to paint. Mrs. Fox sees me pack up and approaches me

“Rinnie,” she says. “I think you’re hurt more than Tyler. Accidents happen. You can’t control every facet of life—yours or anyone else’s. It’s OK.”

“I didn’t do my job. It was a mistake to look away.”

“Rinnie, it was because you were doing your job that you didn’t see Tyler. No one has eyes in the back of her head. I certainly don’t. When I was student teaching, and I was a lot older than you are now, I lost track of one of the kids in my care on a field trip. He slipped into another room while the rest of the class waited in line, in a hallway, to use the bathroom. I was near hysteria with fear and guilt. I insisted the police be called. Thank goodness, a security guard heard his crying in an unused room and brought him to me.”

“Really? Did that happen?”

“Really. It happened. And that wasn’t my only mistake. My philosophy is making mistakes is the best way to learn. Just keep making new mistakes and learn from the old ones.”

“I’ll try,” I say, as I open the door to leave. “And I’m really sorry.”

It’s Tuesday. Mr. Algrin day. Instead of a painting, I bring a letter I wrote.

Dear Mom,

We received your gifts.

Evan has your marquis-cut sapphire ring and the matching double hoop earrings. He says they are his favorites of your jewels, and one day he might give them to his future wife. Your collection of handblown, artisan-crafted glass paperweights will grace the dwelling he’ll call home. Evan loves the bronze sculpture of horses galloping and says it reminds him of not being allowed to sit in the living room because he might break something.

Liz, who would like to become an editor or a nurse, will wear the diamond helix necklace and the diamond encrusted ring you gave her, at her literary soirees—or maybe at the hospital. She will be the belle of her own ball. Her table will be set with your filigree silver knives, forks, and spoons, and she will serve from your silver tea set. She promises to make use of everything and to entertain at least as much as you did.

The diamond solitaire necklace you gave me is beautiful. I will keep it as a reminder of all that was good and beautiful about you. It is a precious stone in many ways. I promise not to lose it like the delicately twisted gold band that slipped off my finger when I was ten.

Your other gift to me is unnecessary. I’m giving the shame back. I don’t need it anymore.

Wherever you are, I hope you are happy.

Thinking of you, Rinnie

“You have great style,” Mr. Algrin says. “Build on it.”

He hands me the cup with the paper slips. I take one and read it aloud. “I can’t go back to yesterday because I was a different person then. Lewis Carroll,
Alice in Wonderland
.”

“Working with you has been an exceptional experience,” Mrs. Fox begins. “I’ve learned a few tricks, been reminded of some hands-on techniques, and have reveled in your enthusiasm.”

I can almost feel the twinkle in my eyes. I want to believe her words.

“If all our student assistants could reclaim their four-year-old selves as you do, Rinnie, while using the knowledge of their sixteen-year-old selves, teaching would be so much more effective and fun for everyone.”

I really want Mrs. Fox to stop talking so I can wallow in every single syllable. On her desk, the blunt tipped scissors, a crowd of crayons, swirls of silver glitter, a half-eaten package of chocolate marshmallow cookies, squares of blank newsprint, and a stack of picture books that bump into a purple stapler bridge us as much as the kids do. They are extensions of my ideas and our work together.

“Has anyone told you that you’re a diamond in the rough?”

I look at her like I don’t understand. My eyes amble about her face. Approval, comfort, and encouragement bloom like sunflowers. It’s a face from which every child should pick blooms. Even me. I can tell when she clears her voice to speak that she knows I don’t understand about being a diamond.

“It’s clear when you play with the children that your inner child, little Rinnie, is alive and well. Equally as important is your innate ability to soothe a skinned knee, a hurt feeling, an unrealized fear. Have you noticed how the children seek you out? To them you are a playmate, a protector, a cheerleader.”

“The kids are amazing,” I jump in. “Being with them is like embracing a kite on a windy day. Their imaginations go every which way. I heard Sam and Ella comparing lunches today. Sam said he had a gorilla cheese sandwich and Ella had an egg salad sandwich without the salad.”