Icy Sparks (12 page)

Mr. Wooten brightened and sidled up beside me. Then he tapped his cheek, leaned over, and asked, “How about a kiss, too?”

My lips brushed against his skin. I could feel the tears coming, so I closed my eyes and lowered my head. With my heart splintered into a thousand pieces, I was mumbling. “Don't worry about me none…. I'll be fine…. I'm okay…. I'll see you all real soon…. Maybe next week…. Don't you worry about…” I heard a car door slam. Startled, I raised my head, my eyelids jerked open. “Matanni! Patanni!” I cried. “Matanni! Patanni!” I yelled. Panicked, I ran to the door, flung it open, and dashed down the hallway. “Don't go! Please, don't leave me here!” I begged, pressing my face against the pane of glass, catching one last glimpse of them. Huddled together in the back seat of Mr. Wooten's Buick, the two intertwined silhouettes slipped past the guard shack, glided through the iron gate, and faded into the distance. Soon they would blend into blue-misted mountains and disappear.

From the end of the hallway, a voice called out my name. Then a patter of heels clicked to a halt behind me. Immediately I turned around and saw Maizy Hurley, breathing rapidly, with her hands on her hips.

“They left,” I said, sniffling back tears.

“But they'll be back,” she answered. “Now come along,” she said, smiling. “I want you to meet someone special.”

With my hand in hers, Maizy led me to the dayroom. “This is Rose,” she said, releasing my fingers, squatting beside the strange young woman I had seen earlier. She was still lying on the same green mat and was just as twisted as before. “Say hello,” Maizy suggested, running her finger alongside the young girl's cheek.

“Hi, Rose,” I said, attempting a smile.

“Rose has cerebral palsy,” Maizy explained. “She was born like this. She can't talk, but I think she understands every word we say.”

I looked closely at her. This time Rose was lying on her back, and I could see her coal-black eyes as they darted back and forth. “Hey, look, she smiled at me,” I said, pointing at her thin-lipped mouth, the corners of which appeared to curl upward.

“Of course she did,” Maizy said. “She understands. I just know she does.”

“Does it hurt?” I asked, scrutinizing her knotted body, which seemed always to fight against itself.

“I don't think so,” Maizy said. “But who knows, really? She can't tell us how she feels.”

“She must feel lonely,” I said.

“Very, but she's such a joy.”

Rose gurgled, and drool slid down the corners of her mouth.

“Oh, Rose!” Maizy cooed, plucking a handkerchief from her pocket. “My sweet baby,” she whispered, leaning over and wiping off the saliva. “You're such a dear heart!” She patted the spikelike strands of Rose's shorn black hair. “Such a sweetie,” she said.

Staring at those black bristles, that idiot smile, and that fresh spittle, I was filled with pity and revulsion. I'm not like her, I thought. I'm not one of them. “No,” I said, scuttling back, “I don't want to meet anyone!” And with these words I turned and ran out the door, down the hallway toward my room, with the number 13 scrawled ominously in red across the top.

“I
thought you might like some supper,” Maizy said, entering before I could answer. “Is it okay if I put the tray here?” she asked, nodding at the nightstand. Two hours had passed, and I was hungry. So I shrugged, and she put down the tray. “May I sit down?” she asked. I shrugged again, and she sat beside me on the edge of the bed. “I know you're scared,” she said, looking down.

I shifted my weight to my left side, and the mattress springs squeaked beneath me, but I didn't say a word. In the space of two hours, I had already vomited forth every tic, jerk, and croak that had been rumbling inside me.

“No one is going to hurt you,” she said. “We just want to help.”

I lowered my head.

“Every child here is different,” she continued. “No one is better than anyone else. Do you understand?”

I could feel my face turning red.

“I understand why Rose frightened you. She looks strange. But after a while she'll grow on you, and you'll come to love her. Mark my words, you'll learn to love her as much as I do. I know you, Icy Gal!”

My body jumped, the mattress groaned loudly. “Where did you hear that?” I asked.

“What?” she asked, crinkling her eyebrows.

“I-Icy G-Gal,” I stuttered.

“I just came up with it,” she said spryly. “Why? Don't you like it?”

“I…I…I guess so,” I said. Then, breathing in deeply, I regained my composure, smiling ever so slightly.

Maizy stood up. “How about some food?” she asked, pointing at the nightstand. “You can eat in here tonight, but tomorrow you gotta eat with the others.”

It was not until she slid the nightstand in front of me that I looked at the tray and saw the meal—a shriveled brown hot dog on a bun, a bag of peanuts, a thumb-sized dill pickle, a chocolate cupcake so dried out that the frosting had lost its gloss, and a small glass of milk.

A
noisy banging woke me. My eyes flipped open, and my body snapped upright.

“Rise and shine!” a high, nasal voice announced loudly. “It's time to get up!”

Rubbing my face, I looked frantically around the room. That red, white, and blue rocker wasn't mine. My heart began to pound. The fluffy blue rug didn't belong to me. I bit my bottom lip. Matanni hadn't sewn those curtains. She would never buy such silly-looking material. Bewildered, I touched my eyes.

“Hey, in there! Do you hear me?” the nasal voice said.

I slid off the edge of the bed, spotted my suitcases in the far corner of the room, and finally realized where I was. “Yes, ma'am,” I said wearily.

“The bathroom's down the hall,” the voice said. “Grab some clothes, go take a shower, and get dressed. Breakfast will be served in the dining room. Got it?”

“Yes, ma'am,” I yelled back.

“Yessir,” the voice demanded.

I was silent.

“Yessir,” the testy voice repeated.

I didn't make a sound.

“Yessir,” the voice demanded again. “I'm a he, not a she.”

Anxiety tickled my throat. “Yessir,” I stammered. “I heard you, sir. Grab some clothes, go take a shower, and get dressed.”

“That's more like it, Icy Sparks,” the voice said. “From Ginseng to Sunshine. From schoolgirl to inmate. Your life is changing.”

“Yessir,” I replied vigorously.

“Icy Sparks,” the voice continued, “do you realize that you've hit the jackpot, won the lottery, caught the big one? Icy Sparks…”

“Yessir,” I said.

“The big time. The big house,” the voice said.

“Yessir,” I answered, confused.

“Grab some clothes, go take a shower, and get dressed,” the voice said. “The boss wants to see you.”

“Delbert,” another voice yelled, “get a move on it! We need some help with breakfast.”

“I gotta go,” Delbert said. “Wilma calls. You're on your own.”

My thoughts rushed from my brain, scrambled down my neck, skimmed through my fingertips, and sloshed inside my stomach. Then they raced toward my hips and sprinted into my feet. My head felt fuzzy, and my toes trembled. For the life of me, I couldn't understand what had just been said to me or what I was supposed to do. Dazed, I meandered over to the little pink dresser and slipped open the top drawer. I reached for a pair of cotton panties, walked over to the closet, snatched the nearest hanger, upon which was draped a yellow-flowered dress, and headed for the bathroom.

I
was alone. Matanni couldn't braid my hair or button the back of my dress. So the top two buttons were left undone. She couldn't pinch my cheeks to give them color. So my skin was parchment pale. She couldn't kiss me to give me courage. So I shuddered when I entered the dayroom and saw the odd group of children who lived here with me.

Maizy Hurley was hovering over an adolescent girl with chalk-white skin and empty blue eyes. Through her wispy thin hair, I could see patches of dull white scalp. Her large mouth was contorted, stretching from one side of her face to the other, yet her expression was both angry and vacant. Gripping a spoon filled with oatmeal, Maizy slowly brought it to the girl's mouth, which at once opened wide, revealing four sharply chiseled teeth, two at the top and two at the bottom, and a mass of bright pink gums.

“The Mouth ain't gonna eat real food,” a fat woman at the other end of the table said. “The Mouth wants skin and bone.”

“Her name is Mary,” Maizy Hurley said through clenched teeth. “I wish you'd call her by her Christian name.”

“I don't give a hoot what you wish,” the woman said. “You're just an aide, no better than the rest of us.”

“Everyone deserves some respect,” Maizy said, glancing up and spotting me near the doorway. “Icy,” she said, “this is Mary. She lives in Room Nine.”

With her mouth opened wildly, oatmeal spread over her gums like paste, Mary lunged forward, spewing her breakfast all over the table.

“Hel-l-lo,” I stuttered, hopping back.

Maizy anchored a hand on Mary's shoulder and pressed down. “Come on in, Icy,” Maizy said, leaning forward. “Grab a chair!” She pointed to an empty chair at the end of the table. “Sit down and eat some breakfast.” Maizy paused as Mary began to bellow, her pink gums vibrating. “You've got to see Dr. Conroy at nine.”

“Yes, ma'am,” I said, cautiously inching forward and sitting down.

“Wilma,” Maizy said, turning toward the fat woman. “This is our new girl, Icy Sparks.”

“Howdy,” Wilma snorted.

Staring at Wilma's face, round and puffy, punctuated by two black eyes that raced back and forth like cockroaches beneath thick lenses, I suddenly realized that I was looking at the ugliest face on earth. Tiny pimples covered her skin, and a dull pink scar zigzagged over her right cheek. Black, oily, stringy hair fell limply against her shoulders. A dark, bushy mustache thrived above her lip; but, for all of her hair, she strangely had no eyebrows. If I hadn't heard her name and eyed her closely, spotting breasts that hung down like bags of corn feed, I would have taken Wilma for William.

“Hello,” I said, picking up a sweet roll.

“Tiny's bathing Stevie,” Wilma sneered. “He had another b.m. He ain't been here but one week and already I've smelled enough of his shit to last me a lifetime.” Wilma headed toward Rose, who was awkwardly strapped into a wheelchair. “You need to mark it on his chart. From the stink, you could tell what he ate last night. No more hot dogs for him.”

“Rose needs to finish her milk,” Maizy said. “I've already fed her a big bowl of oatmeal.”

“Anything for Rose,” Wilma said. “Anything for your precious Drooler.”

“Please, Wilma!” Maizy's voice was tired. “At least not in front of me.”

I looked at the sweet roll in my hand and reluctantly took a bite. It was stale and tough. Chewing, I turned to look at Maizy, who was still spooning mouthfuls of oatmeal between Mary's lips. After each gulp, the girl howled and her mouth stretched open. I swallowed—whole—the lump of roll and tried to take another bite, but my stomach heaved, and I couldn't. Immediately Miss Emily popped into my mind. She'd lose weight here, I thought. No way she could eat three dozen of these. Picking up my napkin, I spit out the mouthful of roll. In my mind's eye, I saw Matanni's buttermilk biscuits with thin slices of country ham sandwiched between each one. Right now she'd be sipping another cup of coffee. Patanni would be in the barn milking the cows, talking sweetly to them like members of the family.

“Where's Delbert?” Maizy asked.

Wilma grimaced, and I marveled how someone that ugly could make an even uglier face.

“He's taking the others to music,” Wilma said.

“Oh, yes,” Maizy said. “I forgot about music therapy this month.”

“'Cause you're too busy finding fault,” Wilma snapped.

Maizy's jaw tightened. She wiped Mary's face, grabbed her firmly by the forearm, and led her over to the sofa, where she sat her down. “Are you finished?” she asked, glancing over at me, smiling.

“Almost,” I said, downing my milk.

“Well, come on,” Maizy said. “Dr. Conroy is waiting for you.”

I pushed back my chair and stood up, tottering a little to the left, grabbing the top of the table for support. Then I steadied myself, inhaled deeply, and said, “Okay, I'm ready now.”

D
r. Conroy's office was tidy. Never before had I seen such a neat room—a place for everything, everything in its place. Even after I had color coordinated all of the items inside my supply room at school, it hadn't been as trim as Dr. Conroy's office. Such orderliness left me feeling both impressed and afraid. Papers were stacked in little piles and placed inside wire baskets. Red pencils stood in a red plastic container that had
PENCILS
written across the front. A wire bin labeled
IN
sat on a metal shelf beside the desk. Another labeled
OUT
sat next to it. A bookcase filled with textbooks covered one wall. One shelf, I noticed, held books with titles like
Behavior Difficulties of Children
,
Early Infantile Autism
,
Child Development
,
Journal of Mental Deficiency
, and many more titles with strange words printed on their spines. Along the middle shelf were twenty volumes all with the same name,
American Journal of Orthopsychiatry
. Manuals on policy and procedures lined the two bottom shelves.

“Dr. Conroy, this is Icy Sparks,” Maizy said.

Jittery, I turned my eyes toward Dr. Conroy and stepped forward.

“So nice to meet you, Icy,” the doctor said, reaching out, taking my hand, and shaking it.

Like her office, Dr. Conroy was efficient-looking in her white doctor's jacket, compact and tidy. My eyes traveled downward, spotting slim hips and Lana Turner legs.

“Have a seat,” she said, stroking the back of a wooden chair with her well-groomed hands. “Give me half an hour. Would you, Maizy?”

“I'll be back at nine-thirty,” Maizy answered, and slipped out the door.

I sat down hesitantly. When I scooted back, my feet wouldn't touch the floor, so I slumped against the chair's spine, maneuvering myself until my feet were situated on the carpet.

“How do you like it here?” Dr. Conroy asked, walking primly behind me.

“Just fine,” I muttered.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“Yes, ma'am,” I answered woodenly.

“Uh-huh,” she said, touching the back of my dress. “You didn't fasten your two top buttons.”

I didn't say anything.

“You must remember to button up and sit up,” she said, making no effort to fix my dress.

Immediately I jerked upright, my feet dangling.

“And your hair's a mess,” she continued. “Did you braid it yourself?”

I nodded the way a person stutters.

“Still, though, your hair's pretty,” she went on. “Like pure gold.” She walked around the chair and stopped right in front of me. “Now, what color are your eyes?” she asked, leaning over, studying my face.

I held back for a second; then, before she could answer her own question, I murmured, “Yellow ocher.”

“That's an odd thing to say,” she said, propping her finger beneath my chin, lifting up my head. “But you're absolutely right! They're yellow ocher.”

“And my hair's the color of goldenrod,” I added.

“Yes, of course it is,” Dr. Conroy said. “But where did you hear that?”

“Matanni told me,” I said.

“Oh, yes, we met yesterday.”

“She's my granny,” I said. “She told me all about when I was born. She said that my mama was the one who turned me so yellow. When she was carrying me, she ate a whole bunch of little green crab apples. She ate oodles of them, and they made her sick.”

“Crab apples?” Dr. Conroy scrunched up her forehead. “I don't understand.”

I began to relax a little. “My little stomach had to digest that sour fruit,” I explained. “My baby self had to take it in and grow. Matanni said that by the time I was born, I was so full of kick I burped like a bubble popping. The midwife slapped my bottom, and I croaked so loud she turned around, expecting to see the famous bullfrog from Sweetwater Lake. ‘Cold as the bottom of Icy Creek,' she said, as she put me on my mama's stomach. ‘Icy,' my mama said, and—according to Matanni—the name Icy stuck.”

Dr. Conroy smiled and nodded. “So that's how you got your name!” she exclaimed.

“Yes, ma'am,” I said, “my mama named me, but two weeks later she died. Those crab apples killed her, turned her urine yellow, as yellow as my eyes.”

For several minutes, Dr. Conroy remained totally quiet, staring at me but saying nothing. Then she circled my chair and stood behind me, buttoning my dress and undoing my braids. Gently, her fingers combed through the tangled mess. “Would you like me to braid it?” she asked.

I nodded.

“How about French braids?” she said.

“I don't know what they are,” I answered.

“Oh, they're beautiful,” Dr. Conroy said. “Unique, just like you.”

“Yes, ma'am,” I replied. “French braids would be nice.”

“French braids require a comb and a brush,” she said. “Wait here. Will you be all right till I come back?”

“Oui, madame,”
I said.

“Oh, you are a charmer,” she said as she hurried to the door. “But when I come back, we've got to get down to business.”