Left Neglected (21 page)

It’s nearing the end of January and Bob and I are back in Ms. Gavin’s first-grade classroom, but this time she’s provided us with adult-sized chairs, and my shoes are arguably as ugly as hers. The school year at Welmont Elementary is divided into thirds, and we’re about halfway through the second third. Ms. Gavin asked to meet with us to discuss Charlie’s progress before the next report cards go home.

We sit down, and Bob reaches over and takes hold of my left hand. Ms. Gavin acknowledges us before she begins with a kind smile, probably interpreting our hand-holding to mean that we’re nervous and bracing for the impact of discouraging news, a sweet offering of emotional support. While I detect an element of anxious solidarity in Bob’s touch, I think the primary reason he’s holding my hand is to keep it still.

Most of the time, my left arm dangles straight down from my shoulder, useless but not calling attention to itself either. But recently, my left hand has started showing an interest in conversation, and unbeknownst to me, it gestures.

My outpatient therapists, Heidi, my mother, and Bob all think this is a good development, a positive sign of life returning to my left side, and I agree, but to me it’s also a freaky new symptom because it feels like someone other than me is the puppeteer. Sometimes the gestures are small expressions that add appropriate emphasis to whatever I’m saying, but other times, the movements are completely disconnected from any decipherable content, and my arm just seems to aimlessly, even spastically, roam around. Yesterday, during a shamefully passionate discussion about
Kate Plus Eight
with my mother, my left hand wandered onto my left boob and stayed there. And I only know this now because, after Bob and my mother shared a long, eye-watering laugh at my expense, my mother let me in on the big joke and removed my hand from my boob for me (since I couldn’t let go of my own volition). So Bob might be holding my hand in loving support, but he’s probably more concerned with keeping me from feeling myself up in front of Ms. Gavin. For either reason, I’m grateful.

“We’re all so glad you’re back home, Mrs. Nickerson,” says Ms. Gavin.

“Thank you.”

“How are you doing?” she asks.

“Good.”

“Good. I was so worried when I heard what happened. And with you not being home for so long, I was also concerned that Charlie would start acting out and slip even further behind.”

I nod and wait for her to elaborate on the itemized details of his acting out and the significant extent of his slippage. Bob squeezes my hand. He’s waiting, too.

“But he’s been doing really well. I’d say he does better in the mornings than the afternoons, and this could be because the medication spikes just after he takes it in the mornings and tapers off as the day goes on, or it could be that he’s more tired by the afternoon, but overall I can definitely see an improvement.”

Wow. I was hoping all along to hear this kind of news about Charlie but hadn’t dared to hope it aloud. He’s been doing so much better at home—finishing his homework in less than an hour and without major negotiations or drama, remembering to put his shoes on if I ask him to put his shoes on, not losing more than half his marbles in a day—but we didn’t know if any of these behavioral improvements at home were translating to the classroom. Bob gives my hand a happy shake, and we wait for Ms. Gavin to elaborate on the details and extent of Charlie’s improvement.

“He’s doing better at following instructions, and he’s more often than not able to finish the worksheets I give to the class.”

She hands Bob a stack of white papers. Still holding onto my left hand, Bob passes 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 poop. They call him Poopy 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 principal’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, poop for poop. 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 pronounced overbites get called ‘Bugs Bunny,’ and the kids with glasses 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 class 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 boob.

“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 glasses 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 friendships that being part of a team affords. It’s too bad we don’t live near a mountain. He’d probably thrive on a snowboarding 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.

T
HE KIDS FROM
C
HARLIE’S GRADE
have been playing outside at recess during our meeting. With a few minutes still left before they have to return to their classrooms, Bob and I decide to walk over and say hello 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, clichéd speech every mother has filed in her apron 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.”