Left Neglected

by Lisa Genova

  I sigh and pluck a soaking brush from my glass pickle jar.

  “Well, this will be good practice, too,” I say, wondering where to begin filling in the blanks.

  “No, don’t. You should leave it. It’s good the way it is.”

  “It is?” “It’s interesting to look at, sort of haunting or mysterious, but not creepy mysterious. It’s good. You should leave it the way it is.”

  I look at my painting again and try to see it as my mother does. I try, but now instead of noticing only the right side of everything, I notice everything that is missing. Everything that is wrong.

  Omissions. Flaws. Neglect. Brain damage.

  “You want to watch the end of the kids’ lessons later and have lunch at the lodge?” asks my mother.

  “Sure,” I say.

  I continue to stare at my painting, at the brushstrokes, the shading, the composition, trying to see what my mother sees.

  Trying to see what is good.

  CHAPTER 27

  I’m sitting at a booth inside the base lodge at Mount Cortland, my right shoulder pressed up against the window overlooking the south side of the mountain. My mother is sitting across from me knitting an impractical but adorable ivory wool sweater for Linus, who is asleep in his umbrella stroller. I’m amazed that he can sleep through all the activity and noise in here. It’s nearing lunchtime, and the room is starting to become crowded with chatty, hungry skiers, all stomping in their heavy boots on the hardwood floor. There are no rugs or curtains or decorative fabric of any kind in the lodge, nothing to absorb sound, and so every boot step and every voice bounces all over the room, creating an unmusical reverberation that will eventually give me a headache.

  My mother noticed a workbook of word search puzzles in the checkout line at the supermarket yesterday, and remembering that Heidi used to give word searches to me at Baldwin, she bought it. She loves any chance she gets to be my therapist. I’m working on one of the pages now, and I’ve found eleven of the twenty words. I assume the remaining nine are hidden somewhere on the left side, but I don’t feel like hunting them down. I decide to daydream out the window instead.

  It’s turned into a bright and sunny day made even brighter by the reflection of the sun off so much white, and it takes a minute for my squinting eyes to adjust. I look around for the kids at their lessons on Rabbit Lane over by the Magic Carpet lift and spot Charlie in the middle of the hill on his snow-board. He falls backward onto his bottom or forward onto his knees every few seconds, but for the few seconds in between while he’s actually up, he appears to be moving really well, and it does look fun. Good thing he has young bones and is only about four feet tall, not very far from the ground he keeps crashing down onto. I can’t imagine how sore and bruised and worn out I’d be if I were to fall that many times. I think about these last couple of months. Well, maybe I can imagine it.

  Then I find Lucy waiting at the top of the lift, probably for instruction. Unlike her fearless brother, she won’t move one ski on her own without express permission. She’s still doing nothing, and I’ve lost sight of Charlie, so my attention drifts to the right, as it’s prone to do, to the bottom of Fox Run and Wild Goose Chase, my two favorite trails. I watch the skiers, indistinct blobs of red, blue, and black, sailing on a sea of white to the bottom, then snaking into the line for the quad lift in front of me.

  I wish I were out there. I watch one couple, I assume a husband and wife, come to a stop side by side just outside my window. Their cheeks and noses are pink, and they’re smiling and talking. I can’t make out what they’re saying. For some reason, I want them to look up and notice me, but they don’t. They turn back toward the mountain and get into the lift line, sliding forward a few feet at a time, getting ready to go again. They remind me of Bob and me. Everything around me is bombarding my senses, triggering an almost overwhelming urge to get my shiny, new skis and get on that mountain— the sounds of the lodge, the smell of French fries, the intense brilliance of the outdoor light, imagining the feel of the cold mountain air inside my lungs and pressed against my cheeks and nose, watching the young couple’s shared exhilaration after finishing a great run. I want to be out there.

  You will be. But I’m not so sure of myself. I’m having a hard enough time walking on flat, nonskid floors with the assistance of my granny cane. You WILL be, insists pre-accident me, her tone leaving zero room for any other acceptable possibility. Pre-accident me is so black-and-white, and it occurs to me that, like Charlie, she has more confidence than the goods to back it up. You will be. This time it’s Bob’s voice in my head, assured and encouraging. Reluctantly, I believe him.

  “What’s that?” asks my mother.

  “What?” I ask, wondering if I said any of what I was just thinking about aloud.

  “Out there. That person coming down the mountain sitting down.”

  I scan the blobs on the hill and don’t see what she’s talking about.

  “Where?”

  “There.” She points. “And there’s a skier standing behind it.”

  I finally locate what she’s looking at. Closer now, it looks like the front person is sitting on a sled attached to a ski, and the person behind is skiing and holding on to some kind of handle attached to the sled, most likely steering it.

  “Probably someone who’s handicapped,” I say.

  “Maybe you could do that,” she says, her excited voice bouncing across the table at me like a ping-pong ball.

  “I don’t want to do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t want to ski sitting down.”

  “Well, maybe there’s a way for you to do it standing up.”

  “Yeah, it’s called skiing.”

  “No, I mean a special way.”

  “You mean a handicapped way.”

  “I mean, maybe there’s a way for you to ski now.”

  “I don’t want to ski now unless I can do it the normal way, and I’m not ready. I don’t want to be a handicapped skier.”

  “You’re the only one using that word, Sarah.”

  “It doesn’t matter. We don’t own any ‘special’ equipment, and I’m not investing thousands of dollars in some kind of ski sled that I don’t want to use in the first place.”

  “Maybe they have them here. Excuse me, miss?”

  My mother flags the attention of a young woman walking by our table. She’s wearing the signature red and black Mount Cortland staff ski jacket.

  “See that person out there skiing sitting down? did that person rent that equipment here?”

  “Yes, it’s from NEHSA, New England Handicapped Sports,” she says. She glances over at my granny cane. “It’s in the building next door. I can take you over if you want.”

  “No thanks,” I say before my mother has a chance to start packing up our things. “Just curious, thanks.”

  “Can I bring you some information about it?”

  “No, we’re good, thanks,” I say.

  “Okay, well, NEHSA’s right next door if you change your mind,” she says and walks away.

  “I think we should check it out,” says my mother.

  “I don’t want to.”

  “But you’ve been dying to ski.”

  “That’s not skiing, it’s sitting.”

  “It’s more like skiing than sitting in this booth. It’s outside. It’s a way down the mountain.”

  “No thanks.”

  “Why not just give it a try?”

  “I don’t want to.”

  I wish Bob were here. He’d have choked the life out of this conversation in its first couple of breaths. The “skier” and the dogsled musher behind him come to a stop in front of our window. The musher is wearing the same red and black jacket worn by the woman we just spoke with. An instructor. The “skier’s” legs are strapped together and onto the sled. The “skier” is probably paralyzed from the waist down. I’m not paralyzed. Or maybe the “skier” is an amputee, and one or both of his legs are prostheti
cs. I have both of my legs. The “skier” and the instructor talk for a minute. The “skier” has a huge smile on his face. The instructor then guides the “skier” directly to the front of the line, where they both board the quad lift with far more ease than I expected.

  I watch them ride up the mountain and follow their ascent until their chair gets too small to distinguish. I spend the next half hour before lunch watching skiers and snowboarders zigzagging down Fox Run and Wild Goose Chase. But if I have to be honest, I’m not simply watching the activity on the mountain with passive eyes. I’m searching for the sitting “skier” and his musher. But I don’t see them again.

  I continue to steal glances out the window all through lunch but still catch no sight of them. They must’ve moved over to a different set of trails. I check one more time as we’re packing up our things to leave for home. I still don’t see them.

  But if I close my eyes, I can see the “skier’s” smiling face.

  CHAPTER 28

  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.”