In the Clear (7 page)

Nurse Fredericks had a stern face and bluntly cut, steel-gray hair she stabbed off her face with steel bobby-pins that probably grew in her hair.

“You're the elective mute, are you?” she said. Even her voice matched her hair. Nothing soft or fanciful about it.

“You're going to get the Sister Kenny treatments. Hot packs, followed by stretching. You can't stretch your muscles, so I'm going to stretch them for you.”

She picked up a steaming towel from a hot water bath beside my bed.

“Good thing you're dumb. I don't stand for screamers.”

And she wrapped the near-scalding towel around my leg. I bit my lips to keep the scream in.

“Hmmph,” she said, looking at my face. “It's got to be hot to do any good. Sister Kenny says so.”

I didn't know who Sister Kenny was. But I hated her.

Gradually though, as the towel cooled, the heat felt good. Why, I wondered, couldn't Nurse Fredericks have waited a minute until the towel felt this good?

After the hot packs, there was worse. Nurse Fredericks lifted my leg into the air and held it, pushing it as far as it would go. I had never known such pain. Every feeling nerve inside me was screaming to run away.

Unbelievably she pushed harder. And held it again.

I couldn't keep it in. I moaned. Tears rushed down my face though there was no one to wipe them. Mom! Dad! I cried silently. Please come save me!

Nurse Fredericks seemed pleased. “That's it. No complaining now. We've got to stretch those lazy muscles. They've been lying around all these months, and I'll be helping you every day to get them back to work.”

Mom! Dad! They had to come get me out of here. I'd have to tell them. I'd have to talk. But what if they didn't believe me? I wished Tante Marie would come. She always sat eye-level when she talked to me and listened intently to everything I said. She'd believe me. If only she could visit me. But she was far away in Paris and didn't know what was happening here.

Nurse Fredericks worked on all my muscles, and just when I thought I was going to die, she stopped. I lay panting, moaning inwardly as she wheeled me back to the ward.

“I'll see you later this afternoon,” she said. “You'll be getting your physio twice a day.”

Mom! Dad! Two sessions every day? How would I stand it?

Back in the ward, Bernardo whispered to me, “You're alive! How'd you like the torture?”

I laughed so hard, I began to cry. Big, huge sobs I could finally let out without fear of Nurse Fredericks hurting me worse. Or Witch Wilson hearing me.

They were all silent in their cribs, watching me, waiting for my crying to stop.

My nose ran and I desperately needed to blow it. But I couldn't move my hand, even to wipe my nose. So I lay there and turned my head as far as I could, trying to rub the slobber off my face into my pillow.

I looked at Bernardo. My eyes must have held so many questions.

“Your legs are still red,” he said. “She makes the packs too hot. I heard it's not the way Sister Kenny wants. But that's Nurse Fredericks for you.”

He must have felt sorry for me. “If she likes you, she'll start to make them less hot,” he added kindly. “My dad explained to me why those exercises are important; they keep the muscles stretched. Otherwise your feet might drop straight down or your legs bend backward. You don't want that, right?”

I shook my head. But how would I stand it? Every morning. Every afternoon. Two sessions a day.

Torture.

Please God, I prayed. I'll be good. I won't complain. I won't scream.

Just get me out of here. Just get me home.

11.
S
ECOND
C
HANCE
S
PRING,
1960

When my mother gets back from the funeral in Montréal, she watches Dad and me play hockey. She paces back and forth at the side as Dad pushes me slowly around the rink. We don't dare go full speed.

I show her the slap shot I'm learning.

“Don't lean so far forward. You might fall out,” she cries. “Are your arms strong enough for that? What if you crash into the boards?”

“Enough!”

“Relax, Agatha,” Dad calls. “Isn't she great?”

Amazingly, she nods back. “Yes. Yes. She is great.”

She turns away though, and goes inside. I stare at Dad. “What was that all about?”

“She's trying to relax a bit. Let you go. She had some talks with her sisters. Sisters are good for that, or so I'm told.”

She can relax all she likes; I'm not convinced she'll ever change.

I suggest to Dad that we skate every Saturday morning. That's my mother's morning for shopping and taking out half the books from the Don Mills library. We can fly around the rink unobserved.

The very next Saturday morning my mother goes out as usual, but someone else is watching. Henry leans over the fence and watches us skate around the rink until we come close to where he's standing.

“Need a goalie?” he asks. “I could dig the pucks out of the net or get the ones that go over the fence. You'd get more playing time.”

Dad doesn't answer. There's a huge silence.

“Yes!” It comes out too loud and echoes across the rink. Oh great. The whole neighborhood has heard me finally speak to Henry.

Henry smiles. Then he nods, first at me, then at my Dad. “Okay, Paulie. Great. I'll be right over.”

• • •

Henry plays with us every Saturday morning until the end of March. All too soon, it's spring and the snow and the rink are gone.

Henry suggests putting the nets on the road so we can play road hockey together.

“On the street?” my mother says. “I think that's far too dangerous.”

Henry glances at me. I don't know what to say. I'd like to. Inside I'm glowing, just glowing because he asked. But I don't want to tell him – at least not in front of my mother – how afraid I am of people gawking at me when they walk or drive by. I might as well be on TV.

“How about the driveway, then,” Henry suggests. “That's safe.”

Dad, Henry and my mother all turn to stare at me.

“I don't know, Henry. I'll have to think about it.”

Henry looks disappointed. Some time I'll have to explain how much I hate when kids call me Polio- Pauline or Frankenstein, or when they imitate the way I walk.

My dad knows what I'm thinking about. After dinner it's still light out and he says, “How about a little walk?” Through the open window we can hear kids playing tag on the street. “Work up your strength,” he adds, but I know he really means my courage.

That first walk through kids playing, I stare at the pavement. I'm sure I can hear heads turning as I lurch down the driveway. My dad is calling out “Hello” to neighbors, but thankfully he doesn't stop to talk. My ears feel ten times bigger than usual from the strain of listening to what the kids are saying. I'm sure I catch “There's Pauline,” but nothing more. They keep right on playing their game. Screams of “You're it!” grow fainter behind us, and as they fade away, so does some of my fear.

I have survived. I have not died of embarrassment. Next time I vow to hold my head up and look them in the eye.

After that we go for a walk every evening. I suggest we walk farther and longer, twice around the block, and hey, how about trying new streets. This spring, I don't want to stay inside. Every day I feel stronger and I like it. I'm drawn to the front window, watching and wondering who the kids are that I see walking down the street, where they're going … and would they slow down a bit if I were with them?

Two long rainy weekends round out April, and Henry comes over during both. We play table hockey on my window seat. He wins every game. I teach him a few poker games and win a few of his comic books. We laugh a lot.

May. The evenings are warm and long and I ask Dad if we can walk all the way to the park to sit on the swings, staying out with the light. Sometimes my mother comes too, but she always bugs me about the books she has piled beside my window seat. I still pretend I haven't read them.

“Heidi's a classic, Pauline. And The Secret Garden. I want to discuss them with you.”

“If you'd let me go to school, I could discuss books there.”

“Go to school?”

She's shocked. Her mouth is a perfect O, the same shape as the round, tight bun at the back of her head.

Her voice wobbles. “If they allow you to go … do you think you could manage?”

“B goes to school and he's doing fine. I'll never know if I don't try. I bet at school I wouldn't have to read books about crippled people.”

I've gone too far. I see tears starting in her eyes.

My mother turns and walks away quickly.

Dad and I are left alone on the swings. The only sound is the creak, creak of the rusty chain.

Dad leans back and looks at the sky for what seems forever, then sits up.

“I forget what happens in Heidi. Tell me.”

“She befriends a girl in a wheelchair. She gets up and walks at the end too, just like Colin does in The Secret Garden.”

Dad swings for a minute, pumping high, then jumps off and turns around to face me.

“Your mother loves books. There's got to be something good about Heidi. Sometimes we need to give books, just like people, a second chance.”

Strange, how Dad finds the sharpest words to needle under my skin, words like giving people a second chance. I hang my head. I've been wishing lately that I could have a best friend to be with. Sure I'm still friends with B, but that's only through letters and because we survived polio together. Now I want real, ordinary friends in my life, like Mary Lennox or Heidi … or Henry.

Dad's probably not thinking about friends. He means my mother. Why don't I give my mother a second chance? Is it because I got polio? Because I can't walk perfectly? Because she didn't protect me back then when I needed it?

Dad moves forward and holds onto the chains on either side of me, holding the swing steady. He lifts my chin so I have to look him in the eye.

Something starts to tumble around inside me. Dad's good at seeing both sides of a problem. I throw myself against him and hide my face in the clean sky- blue of his cotton shirt.

“The thing is …” I cry, “I still want that happy ending. The running and skating one.”

He rubs my back. “Aw, Paulie,” he says softly. “You'll have a happy ending. It just might look a little different.”

I look up at him and wipe my runny nose across my elbow.

“Very nice. You've soaked my shirt,” he laughs, handing me one of his white handkerchiefs. “Let's go home. It's still early.”

“Okay. Yeah. I'm ready.”

As we round the corner onto Chelsea, I see Henry out in his driveway with his hockey net, shooting balls, drinking a Coke. Wouldn't it be a great second chance to play out on the street again with Henry? How would I manage it? With my crutches? Impossible. And what about having half of Don Mills watching? But what's the worst that can happen? Everybody's seen me lurch up and down the street for weeks now. If anybody stares, I can outstare them.

My heart's racing as we get closer and closer to his driveway. He's turning around.

“Hi, Henry. Need a goalie?” I ask.

“Hey, Pauline. That'd be great.”

Dad's eyebrows are doing their Groucho Marx thing. He walks away saying, “I'll go get your wheelchair. You'll need it for goal.”

Dad knows I don't like being in a wheelchair if I can help it. Wheelchairs tell the whole world you can't walk. But I remind myself that a wheelchair let me play hockey on our backyard rink. And maybe now I'll play hockey on the street.

Henry's whacking his stick across the asphalt. “There's a new shot I'm learning. It's called a slap shot.”

“Okay,” I say.

He turns and shoots a ball into the net. He shoots hard. Suddenly I wonder if I can stop his shot. Will it hurt if it hits me?

“I haven't played much goal.”

“Don't worry. I won't give you my hardest shot.” He fishes in a can of equipment beside the garage. “I've got goalie gloves.”

Dad's back with my old wheelchair. He wheels me into the net and Henry tosses me the gloves. They're made for giants. I stick a giant leather hand out as if a ball is coming to the right of me. Open and close.

Dad's grinning like crazy. “I have a phone call to make. Keep the brakes on, Paulie, or your mother will give me heck. Have fun.”

My mind's in a whirl. I'm playing on the street for the first time in years … goalie for Henry … I hate wheelchairs … but I'm out!

Henry doesn't give me time to dwell on anything. He shoots the ball fast, down on the right. Automatically I reach ... and miss. I groan. I want to be good at this. The ball rolls out of the net and I whack it angrily back to Henry.

“I've got five balls here,” he says. “I'll shoot 'em one after the other. Send 'em all back together.”