Left Neglected Part 26

She hands Bob a stack of white papers. Still holding onto my left hand, Bob pa.s.ses me one sheet at a time. Each paper has Charlie's name at the top, printed in his penciled handwriting. On most of the sheets, Charlie has answered all of the questions, which in and of itself is a noteworthy achievement, and so far I see only one or two or three wrong out of ten or so questions on each page. Great job! Well done! Good work! are written in red marker at the top of almost every sheet, extra exclamation points and smiley faces added to many. I don't think I've ever seen celebration on Charlie's work before.

"Here's the last one," says Bob.

It's a sheet of simple math problems. 100%! ! ! is written and circled at the top. A perfect score for my beautifully imperfect boy.

"Can we take these home?" I ask, beaming.

"Of course," says Ms. Gavin, beaming back.

I can't wait to gush over this particular page of addition and subtraction with my mother, who will be equally thrilled, and to magnetize it to the center of the fridge. Or maybe we should frame it and hang it on the dining room wall.

"It's a huge improvement, don't you think?" asks Ms. Gavin.

"Night and day," says Bob.

"I let him use an extra-large, yellow index card to block out the questions below the one he's focusing on. Cutting the questions into individual strips was too time-consuming, and the other kids got interested in his 'craft project' and suddenly everyone wanted to cut up their papers, too. So I don't mind if you do that at home, but we use the yellow index card here, and it seems to work well."

"Okay, that would be easier for us, too. Does he sit or stand?" I ask.

"I've told him he can do whatever he prefers, and he used to mostly stand, but now he's back to sitting. I do think standing helps him stay still and focused on what he's doing, but some of the other kids were giving him a hard time about it. Some of the boys have been teasing him."

Who? Who is giving him a hard time? Give me names, I want names.

"Like how?" Bob asks.

"Well, when he was standing, someone was sliding his chair back so that when he went to sit back down, he'd fall on the floor. One day, one of them put a chocolate cupcake from snack on Charlie's chair, and after he finished his work, he sat on it. They teased him, saying the chocolate was p.o.o.p. They call him p.o.o.py Pants."

I feel like Ms. Gavin just kicked me in the chest with her ugly shoe. My poor Charlie. I look past Ms. Gavin and notice the poster board of "Stellar Spellers." Charlie's picture has been added to the cast of characters. His eyes are squeezed shut from an exaggerated smile. There are four other photos of boys on the board. They're also smiling. A minute ago, I would've said they were all cute little boys, but now I see a gang of rotten little monsters. Bad seeds. Why hasn't Charlie said anything about this to us?

"What have you done about it?" asks Bob.

"I reprimand the kids who are teasing him when I'm aware of it, but I'm sure a good deal of it goes on underneath my radar. And unfortunately, the punishments do seem to spur the boys on even more."

I can imagine it. Verbal warnings, no recess, or being sent to the princ.i.p.al's office are only going to stoke the fire. But surely, there's got to be something we can do. Implausible revenge fantasies start playing out in my mind. An eye for an eye, p.o.o.p for p.o.o.p. I squeeze my impotent anger into the handle of my granny cane. Caning. Caning would work for me.

"So, what then, Charlie just has to suffer through it?" Bob asks. "What about moving the kids who are bothering him to a different part of the room?"

"I did that. So he should be able to stand now if he wants to without anyone disturbing him, but he's been choosing to stay in his seat while he works. I think he just wants to be like everyone else."

I know how he feels.

"I know you're not supposed to use this word in today's politically correct world, but do you think he'll ever be 'normal'?" I ask.

My heart winces. I know I'm asking about Charlie, but I feel my own question as if I were asking it about me. Will I ever be normal? Will I ever see "100%" at the top of my sheet? Ms. Gavin pauses, and I can see her choosing her words carefully before she opens her mouth. I know her answer is simply going to be one young teacher's opinion about one young student based on a very limited amount of experience with him. But my heart, impermeable to this logic, feels that somehow the truth of both Charlie's and my fates will rest in what she's about to say, like she's about to deliver my prophecy. I clutch my cane.

"I think between the medication and the behavioral and dietary adjustments like the ones you've been making and all the positive reinforcement and support he's getting, Charlie's ADHD won't get in the way of him reaching his full academic potential. I really do applaud you both for taking such quick action. A lot of parents would've ignored me or blamed me and the school system for ages before doing what you did to help him."

"Thank you. That's such a big relief to hear," says Bob. "But what about the other normal kid stuff, like fitting in?"

She hesitates.

"Off the record?" she asks, still hesitating. "I have one student who obsessively bites her nails to the nub, another who can't stop picking his nose, another who hums while she works, and another who stutters. Every year, the kids with p.r.o.nounced overbites get called 'Bugs Bunny,' and the kids with gla.s.ses get called 'four eyes.' I know every parent wants their child to fit in, and no one deserves to be teased, but Charlie's experience for a first-grader feels pretty normal to me."

I laugh, releasing all fear and vengeful emotion from my heart, replacing it with an open-armed acceptance and empathy that extends first to Charlie with his yellow index card and his mug of marbles and his less-than-one-hundred-percents and his chocolate-stained bottom. And then it expands to include his entire first-grade motley crew cla.s.s with all their crazy tics and idiosyncrasies and deficiencies. And then it reaches Ms. Gavin in her ugly shoes for possessing the patience and courage to teach and deal with them every day. And, because I have a bit more, it stretches to include me. A thirty-seven-year-old woman whose husband is holding her left hand so she won't unconsciously grab onto her own b.o.o.b.

"And normal's overrated if you ask me," Ms. Gavin says.

"I agree," I say.

Ms. Gavin smiles. I do wonder about Charlie's future, though. When the other students stop picking their noses, and the kids with bad teeth start seeing an orthodontist, and the kids with gla.s.ses get contact lenses, will Charlie's ADHD continue to make him an outsider? Sports are a great way to belong, but Charlie has a hard time waiting his turn, staying in position, playing within the rules-all necessary qualities for being successful at soccer, basketball, T-ball. He already doesn't love playing any of these sports, but he's too young to realize that they're optional. We sign him up for whatever is offered for his age, and he shows up for practices and games like he shows up for school, because we tell him to and take him there. But at some age, likely not too far off from now, if he doesn't improve, he'll probably opt out. And he'll lose all those opportunities for fitting in and forming lasting friends.h.i.+ps that being part of a team affords. It's too bad we don't live near a mountain. He'd probably thrive on a s...o...b..arding team.

"So keep up with what you're doing at home. I just wanted you to know that he's doing much better here. I think you'll all be so proud of his report card this time," says Ms. Gavin.

"Thank you. We will," says Bob.

THE KIDS FROM CHARLIE'S GRADE have been playing outside at recess during our meeting. With a few minutes still left before they have to return to their cla.s.srooms, Bob and I decide to walk over and say h.e.l.lo to Charlie before Bob drives me home and he returns to work. We make it to the edge of the long cobblestone walkway when we both stop to notice a big commotion erupting near the swings. It looks like two kids are fighting, and one teacher is having a heck of a time trying to break it up. All other activity on the playground has ceased in mid-motion; everyone's watching to see what will happen. I can't make out the faces of the two kids from where Bob and I are standing, but in the next instant, I recognize one of the two coats. Charlie's orange North Face ski coat.

"Charlie!" I yell.

Bob releases my left hand and takes off toward Charlie. Every muscle in my body wants to run to Charlie, too, but my broken brain won't let me. My child is in danger or in trouble or both and within sight, and I can't get to him to either save or scold him. Bob is on the ground with Charlie now, and the teacher is dragging the other child away by the hand. I cane, step, drag, and breathe, frustrated with each cane and impatient with every drag, mad at myself for not already being over there.

"What happened?" I ask when I finally reach them.

Charlie kicks at the dirty snow with his boots and says nothing. His nose is running, and he's breathing hard through his mouth. His face and fingernails are filthy, but I don't see any blood.

"Go ahead, answer your mother," says Bob.

"He said a bad thing," says Charlie.

I look at Bob. This must be one of the boys who've been teasing him. I try to scan to the left to see which boy the teacher has taken into custody, but I can't find them.

"Did that boy call you a name?" I ask.

Charlie stops kicking at the ground and casts his eyes up at me.

"No," he says. "He called you one. He called you a dumb cripple."

I pause, stunned, unable to launch into the prepackaged, cliched speech every mother has filed in her ap.r.o.n pocket about sticks and stones and the high road. I try scanning to the left again, wondering if the boy might be the Nose Picker or the Stutterer, but I still can't find him. I return to Charlie.

"Thank you for sticking up for me," I say, loving him. "But you shouldn't fight."

"But-" says Charlie.

"No buts. No fighting. Plus, that kid doesn't even know what he's talking about," I say. "I'm the smartest cripple he's ever seen."

CHAPTER 29.

My mother and I have been watching Bob and Lucy ski together on Rabbit Lane from our booth in the base lodge for the past hour. After a lot of badgering, whining, pleading, and negotiating-and ultimately because he truly did master the basics last week over February school vacation-Charlie finally won his wish to leave the lesson hill. We catch sight of him every so often bombing around on Fox Run. I can never see his face, but I imagine he's grinning ear to ear.

"I think I'm going to go back to the house," says my mother, her eyebrows knotted, coping with some kind of pain.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

"Nothing really. I think the sun is giving me a little headache. And I didn't sleep well. I think I'm going to go take a nap with Linus. You want to come?"

"No, I'll stay."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. You sure you're okay?" I ask.

"I just need to lie down. Call me if you need me."

She collects the cans of Play-Doh, board books, and trucks Linus was playing with and tosses everything into his diaper bag. Then she slides out of the booth, buckles Linus into his stroller, and leaves.

It's early in the morning, and the lodge is quiet. I look out the window, but I don't see Bob and Lucy or Charlie. My mother left me with a sketchpad and pencils, the word search workbook, and the latest People magazine. But I've already combed through this issue of People, and I don't feel like drawing. I should do a word search. My outpatient therapist thinks that doing word searches might help me get faster at finding the leftmost letters on my computer keyboard, and I need to speed up my typing if I want to go back to work, and I definitely want to go back to work, so I should do every word search in this book. But I don't feel like it.

Without a particular destination in mind, I decide to go for a walk. There's nowhere to really go on foot except for the parking lot, and that's probably not the safest place to go wandering around for someone who doesn't easily notice information coming from the left and who can't readily get out of the way. But I'm tired of sitting in this booth and reason that the fresh air will be good for me.

My granny cane and I step outside, and I'm instantly perked up by the cold air and the hot sun. Without planning to aim there, and continuing to aim there even after I fully realize where I'm going, I walk over to the building next door. I pause only to read the sign over the door. NEW ENGLAND HANDICAPPED SPORTS a.s.sOCIATION. then I continue up the handicapped ramp and walk inside.

I'm surprised to see that it looks like a typical ski lodge- pine floors, wooden benches, clear gla.s.s bowls displayed on a counter filled with hand warmers, ChapStick, and sunscreen, a wire rack loaded with polarized sungla.s.ses. I think I was expecting it to look more like a rehabilitation hospital. There's only one person in the room besides me, a young man in a wheel-chair, I'd say in his twenties. From his crew cut and age, I guess that he's an Iraq war veteran. He looks confident and relaxed, like he's been here dozens of times before. He's busy adjusting the straps around his legs and doesn't seem to notice me.

"Can I help you?" asks a man wearing a red and black staff jacket and an enthusiastic smile.

"Just having a look around," I say, trying not to make eye contact.

"You a skier?" he asks.

"I used to be."

We both acknowledge my granny cane with a solemn nod.

"I'm Mike Green," he says.

He holds on to his smile, posed in gracious cheerfulness, expecting to greet my name in return, but I'm more than a little reluctant to give up my anonymity. His big white teeth, made whiter by the contrast of his skier's tan-golden brown all over his face except for the pale, sungla.s.ses-shaped mask around his eyes, a sort of reverse racc.o.o.n-show no sign of backing down.

"I'm Sarah Nickerson," I say, giving in.

"Sarah! We've been expecting you! Glad you finally came in."

Now he's grinning at me like we're old friends, making me feel uneasy and like it's time to excuse myself and take my chances dodging cars in the parking lot.

"You have?"

"Yup. We met your lovely mother a few weeks ago. She already filled out most of your paperwork."

Oh, now I get it. And of course she did.

"I'm sorry, she didn't need to do that."

"Don't be sorry. We're ready to get you on the mountain whenever you are. But you're right. You're not a skier anymore. At least not for now."

Here we go. Here comes the inspiring and persuasive sales pitch about the wonderful and miraculous ski sled. I start brainstorming effective ways to interrupt him and politely communicate Not in a million years, mister, without insulting him and before he wastes too much of his breath and my time.

"You're a s...o...b..arder," he says, dead serious.

Not what I was expecting to hear at all. Not in a million years.

"I'm what?"

"You're a s...o...b..arder. We can get you on a s...o...b..ard today if you're game."

"But I don't know how to s...o...b..ard."

"We'll teach you."

"Is it a normal s...o...b..ard?" I ask, seeing the way out.

"It's got a couple of extra bells and whistles, but, yeah, it's a regular s...o...b..ard," he says.

I throw him the same look that Charlie and Lucy give me when I tell them that broccoli is delicious.

"What's normal anyway? Everyone needs equipment to get down the mountain. Normal's overrated if you ask me," he says.

Normal's overrated. The exact words Ms. Gavin used when talking about Charlie. And I agreed with her. My face softens, like I'm considering how delicious broccoli might be with a little Parmesan cheese sprinkled on it, and Mike sees his opening.

"Come on, let me show it to you."

My intuition tells me to trust him, that this man knows a lot more about me than my name and whatever my mother might've told him.

"Okay."

He claps his hands together.

"Great. Follow me."

He walks past the veteran in the wheelchair and over to the doorway of an adjacent room, too quickly for me to keep up with him. He waits in the threshold, watching me walk. a.s.sessing me. Cane, step, drag. Probably reconsidering this whole s...o...b..arding idea. Cane, step, drag. Probably thinking that the ski sled would be a better fit for me. Cane, step, drag. I can feel the veteran watching me, too, and he probably agrees. I look up at the wall in front of me and notice a poster of someone on the mountain sitting in a ski sled, his musher skiing behind him. Panic starts racing w.i.l.l.y-nilly through my head, begging any part of me that might listen to reason to tell Mike that I can't follow him, that I have to go, that I'm supposed to meet my husband in the lodge, that I have to get back to my word search puzzles, that I have somewhere else I need to be right now, but I say nothing and follow him into the adjacent room.

The room looks like a storage warehouse crammed with modified ski and s...o...b..ard equipment. I see lots of ski poles of varying heights affixed with miniature skis on the bottoms, wooden dowels with tennis b.a.l.l.s stuck to the ends, all kinds of boots and metal hardware. When I come face-to-face with a long row of ski sleds lined up against the wall in front of me, my panic can't take it anymore and whips into a full-blown tantrum.