by Anne Carter
“Good shot,” I whisper.
“I need a goalie. Are you going to try or not?”
I breathe deep, lean forward and stick both gloves out.
“Left side. Get ready.” He shoots the remaining four and I miss them all.
“I’m no good on the left side.”
“Then I’ll keep shooting them there. It’s the only way to get better.”
We play for a while, but it’s starting to get dark.
“I can’t see the ball coming.”
“Let’s stop.” He shoves all the equipment in the big can, and the net at the side of the garage, harder than he needs to. “Your dad’s having a long phone call. Shall I take you home?”
I nearly say, I can walk by myself. But I think better of it. It’s all over Henry’s face that he’s struggling with something. So instead, I say, “He’s probably got my mother stuffed in a closet so she can’t come out here and watch us.”
Henry doesn’t say anything.
“She doesn’t want me to go to school. Thinks I’ll be sick all the time and worn out. She thinks kids will be cruel and say stuff. But you should see the awful stuff she makes me read. Classics.”
“Mothers are all the same. You should hear my mother yell when Lisa and I read comics all day. She yells we’re reading garbage.”
“I’ve heard. You only live next door.”
Finally he smiles a little. “Maybe you should try Nancy Drew. My mom doesn’t seem to mind those books and Lisa’s crazy about them.”
“What are they about?”
“Some girl detective.”
“Sounds good.”
“I’ll lend you one.”
We’re at my front door already. Henry passes me my crutches and puts the wheelchair in the garage.
In the last light of the summer evening, silence stretches between us like a long, winter shadow. There’s so much more to talk about, but it’s stuck, frozen in this silence between us. How do we become friends again? What would he do if I told him about the House of Horrors? About Witch Wilson? About really being stuffed in a closet?
“Thanks, Henry. Maybe next time you’ll let me shoot.”
Henry doesn’t smile. He nods goodnight and turns away to go home. Just like that. I lean after him, hungry for more, wishing he’d stay and talk.
But tonight, it’s his turn not to speak.
12.
NURSE NIGHTINGALE, 1955
I have a few wonderful memories from the six months I spent in the House of Horrors.
B. He was everybody’s best friend. Mine too.
He turned Witch Wilson and Nurse Fredericks into a game, thinking up new ways to get back at them. B had the gift of mimicry and as soon as Witch Wilson left the ward, he’d stand up in his crib and imitate her, making us laugh so hard we had to be careful not to wet our beds.
My parents came to see me every Sunday – the only time we were allowed visitors. It had been five months since my father had carried me out of my house to the car to take me to the hospital. Five months … it felt like forever.
And then Nurse Nightingale appeared. She was something wonderful too. One Saturday afternoon when she was working, instead of taking her break she asked if I would like to look out the window.
My eyes must have popped the question, How? I could wiggle toes and fingers and turn my neck. That was it.
She held out her arms. “Trust me? I’ll carry you.”
She picked me up and I relaxed against her chest. I could feel a bit of starch in her white dress – it was clean and reassuring, like the smell of soap about her. She was humming something under her breath that sounded like “Somewhere over the Rainbow” from The Wizard of Oz. I’d seen it twice. It was my favorite movie, my favorite song.
I smiled and hummed along in my mind.
She rested my bottom against the windowsill, never letting go of me. Her arms were as strong as any chair. I couldn’t sit up or move, but if I could have, I would have wrapped my arms around her neck.
I think that’s where my love of sitting at a window started. It was the first time in five months I had felt safe and ordinary, like once-upon-a-time. I was me again, if only for a few minutes.
It was winter outside. The sun sparkled in the snow, and I could tell by the crisp blue sky that it was a very cold day. The birch tree beside the long drive way was bare of leaves, and a blue jay perched in one of the top branches. It surprised me, so intensely blue against the white bark. And still here in winter, just like me, still here.
I felt happy to be alive, perched in the warm circle of Nurse Nightingale’s white, uniformed arms.
I blew a foggy circle on the window and, with my nose, drew a happy face.
Nurse Nightingale kissed my forehead. “Thank you, Pauline. I’m so glad it makes you happy.”
She never once tried to make me speak.
I think maybe she was an angel.
13.
GOOD NEWS, 1960
Over the summer, my shot gets pretty good. But I’m frustrated with the arms of the wheelchair. “They’re in my way!” I say, pounding them with a fist. My dad argues that they provide something to hold onto, along with extra protection.
“Off!” I appeal to Henry. He sees the problem. Henry looks at Dad, and next thing I know, the armrests are gone. Suddenly I’m free to lean out as far as I dare and get the full power of my shoulders into the swing.
Stuart and Billy watch us the way Henry did in the beginning, and before I can say August, they’re playing too. We have a regular Saturday morning game. For my thirteenth birthday, we play road hockey on the street and then come inside for card games and chocolate cake. It’s the best birthday party in a long time.
Then school starts again. I find the weekdays at home too long. I easily finish the work my mother assigns me. By three o’clock I watch at the front kitchen window for the kids to come home from school.
“I want to go to school like everybody else,” I tell my mother. She’s sitting at the kitchen table, checking my map of Europe. The bun of her hair sits like a lonely mountain peak at the back of her head. She takes off her reading glasses and stares at me, her fingers smoothing the already smooth map.
Outside, kids are yelling things at each other as they pass by, coming home.
She surprises me. “Okay. I’ll phone the principal of Don Mills Junior High,” she says slowly. “We can arrange a visit and see what you think.”
There’s a catch. “In return, I want you to re-read Heidi and The Secret Garden … all the books piled up beside your window seat. I think we need to discuss them.”
I pretend a reluctant agreement. Secretly I’ve read all the books, Heidi and The Secret Garden three times. Each time I like Heidi and Mary Lennox more and more. They’re now my secret friends; will I meet girls like them at school? I cried reading about Roosevelt in the book about U.S. presidents. Finally, a cripple who doesn’t walk at the end! He had a dream and followed it right into the White House. It makes me wonder if my mother understands that I have dreams too. Yet when the time comes to talk with her, I can’t help but fight.
“Well, did you learn anything from these books?” she asks me.
“When are we visiting the school?”
“Tuesday. But first, we discuss the book about the U.S. presidents.”
My feelings go up and down like a teeter-totter when I talk with my mother. “You want me to say how inspired I am that Franklin Roosevelt had polio and was a great president of the United States. Right? Well …”
She’s smiling, looking pleased at my words. Why can’t I stay positive? I was inspired by Roosevelt. But the teeter-totter is going down. I feel all prickly and ornery, ready for a fight.
“But they never took his picture once in a wheelchair or with crutches. Even his statue doesn’t show him the way he really was. He had to pretend he had no trouble walking. Why? Wouldn’t people vote for a cripple?”
For once, my mother doesn’t try to talk me out of
my feelings. “He did hide some of his struggle. But …” she struggles to find the right words, “it was a time when attitudes were less accepting. People were so terrified of polio. And remember, being the president of the United States was a grave responsibility. It was the depression, then the war. More than ever, people needed to believe in their leader.”
“If they can’t let the president have polio, who will ever believe in me?”
“Your dad does, and …” she smoothes the map one more time, “I do.”
I feel as if someone’s jumped off the other end of the teeter-totter and I’ve crashed to the ground. Whomp.
“You do not! You don’t really want me to go to school. You worry about every little thing I do. You’d be happy if I never went outside this house.”
She winces. She stops smoothing the paper and squeezes both hands tightly together. “Maybe you’re right. Your father says the same thing. So did Grand-mère. But,” she says, lifting her chin, “it’s not because I don’t believe in you.”
“Oh yeah. What is it?”
“I don’t believe in the world out there. I won’t trust an institution again.”
I remember the House of Horrors. “I’m growing up. I can handle things. I want to try.”
“I know. I know. But you don’t have to throw yourself out there recklessly. That’s Marie’s way, and it’s not a good one. Better to take small, careful steps. You’re outside more, playing hockey. Isn’t that enough for now?”
I’m back on the teeter-totter, mad at her again. Why does she have to criticize Tante Marie?
“I just want to go to school!”
She throws up her hands, exasperated. “I’m trying, Pauline! We’ll go for a visit on Tuesday. You’ll see for yourself. It’s not going to be so easy.”
She’s right, too. We visit the school the following week. It is not what I’d hoped for. There are obvious problems and it’s confusing.
Half the classes are upstairs. Mr. Dunlop, the principal, smiles at me nervously and assures me that he understands how courageous I must be to want to come to school. He wishes he could help, but, he hums and haws, he can’t arrange all my classes to be on the main floor. He stares at my brace. The science and language labs are all upstairs. Those classes are compulsory.
“Let’s look at the stairs,” my mother suggests. I can tell she’s annoyed at him.
We go out in the hallway to look at the stairs. There’s a lot of them. Stairs are hard for me. Exhausting! The metal brace supporting my left leg comes up to my thigh and I can’t bend my knee. Can I do it? Can I?
There’s only one way to know.
“I’ll try the stairs. Can you time me?”
“Oh, I don’t know if you should do this,” the principal starts.
But my mother cuts him off. Her face is drained of color and she looks upset, but she stares down the principal. “She asked us to time her. Ready?”
I don’t do stairs the way Nurse Fredericks taught me, using the support of both crutches. I made up my own way. I put both crutches under my left arm, lean heavily on the banister on my right side, swing my left leg out and up as I balance on my good leg. My mother is strangely quiet beside me, never saying a word.
I gaze up the stairs. It’s a long way. The school is quiet. Behind me, behind the closed doors, in the classrooms are the other kids. Working. I want to be here too.
I do one stair at a time. There are twelve to the landing and then another set of twelve. When I’m almost at the top, a teacher comes down the hallway, carrying papers. He reminds me of the principal. He wears a dark jacket over a white shirt and tie, and he doesn’t look happy to see me.
“Ahh … do you need help?”
“No,” I tell him. “Thank you,” remembering to be polite. I guess he’s never seen anyone in crutches on these stairs.
I swing my left leg up the last stair, turn around and prepare to go down. The teacher’s behind me. I can feel his fear following me.
I go back down the stairs. This time the crutches go down first.
I’m breathing hard when I reach the bottom.
“Ten minutes,” the principal says, dismayed.
“You did it!” my mother says. I hear pride in her voice.
I lean against the wall. I can imagine what the principal and the teacher are thinking. Five minutes up. Five minutes down. I’ll be late for every class. And what if someone jostles me down the stairs?
Then a bell rings, loud in my ears, and I jump. All of a sudden, doors along the hallway bang open and kids pour out from all directions. Everybody is carrying books. How will I manage these crowds with my crutches? Kids see me and walk past as if I’m invisible. But I see them peek back, staring at me resting heavily on my crutches. No one smiles. No one comes close.
Suddenly I see Stuart O’Connor, his freckled face and curly hair. He sees me and waves, runs toward me with a big, friendly smile. I feel like crying as he approaches.
“Hey, Pauline! Whatcha doing?”
“Hi, Stu. Checking out the school.”
The boy beside him shuffles from one foot to the other, gawking at me, then looking away down the hall. I bet he’s never seen a leg like mine before.
“Maybe I can give you a tour.”
“Come on, Stu,” the other boy says uneasily. “We’re going to be late for math.”
“I’d rather take Pauline on a tour,” Stu says, laughing at his obvious ploy to miss class. Another bell rings and the other boy pulls his sleeve, heading down the hallway.
“Guess I better go. You should check out the gym, Pauline. Show Miss McCarthy your shot. See ya Saturday.”
We don’t do a tour. I’m anxious to go home. There are too many problems to sort out and my head is spinning. My mother asks me what I think and I tell her I don’t know. I put school in the back closet of my mind with a sign on it: Undecided. It’s not just the stairs. It’s those kids staring at me, keeping their distance. Could I stand it?
Here on my window seat it’s lonely, but no one’s afraid of me.
• • •
Saturday morning, as usual, Henry, Stuart and Billy call on me for a game of road hockey. My mother’s okay about it, as long as Dad plays too. She can’t help worrying about the road. The boys like my dad with us. So do I. With Dad pushing me, I can play forward. We’re getting fast – and good.
But the last Saturday in October, just before we get ready to go out, my mother stops me.
“Before you go out, there’s something we’ve been meaning to tell you.”
Dad buttons up his coat, looking uncomfortable. “Do you think this is the moment?”
The way they’re looking at each other, I know it’s something big. “What’s the matter? Did someone die?”
“No,” my father laughs at me. “The opposite. Your mother is going to …”
I gasp, feeling stupid, noticing for the first time the slight bulge of her usually flat belly. Suddenly I realize she has been wearing loose-fitting dresses for a while instead of skirts. My mother’s pregnant! How awful!
“How could you?” I blurt out, feeling betrayed. Aren’t I good enough? “You’re too old.”
“I am not!” she cries, indignant.
“We don’t need a baby.”
“We’re having one.”
“Maybe it will get polio.”
I hear her sharp intake of breath. “Pauline … how can you say that? That’s so cruel.”
I shove my toque down over my ears. It’s simple: I don’t want a sister or brother who can run or skate. Especially not now, not when things are starting to turn around for me.
My father puts an arm around each of us, but I shrug him off and glare at the black-and-white linoleum floor.
“There’s the vaccine now,” he says. “Thank God, it won’t happen again. This baby will be a blessing for all of us.”
“When’s the blessing coming?” I ask sarcastically.
My mother is leaning against my father, his arms wra
pped protectively around her. “If you mean the baby,” she says, “it’s due in March. Your father will be allowed in the hospital and will spend a lot of time there. But you won’t be allowed in. Someone will have to stay at home with you.” She hesitates. “I’ve asked my sisters.”
My throat aches with hope. After being so mean, do I dare ask? “Tante Marie?”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Her hand skates uneasy circles around her belly.
Why should I have to have a sibling? I can hear in my mother’s voice how much she hates her own sister. I feel like I’m about to explode. I have to get outside. I’m not going to beg anything from my mother, not even a visit from Tante Marie.
I open the door and shuffle outside. Dad makes a move behind me, but I yell over my shoulder, “I can do this myself. I’ll play goal today. I don’t need you. Leave me alone.”
I don’t bother to turn around to see their reaction. They have each other.
I storm – carefully – out onto the street. Henry and Stuart and Billy have stopped in the middle of a play and are watching me approach. I get the uneasy feeling they heard me yelling.
“Where’s your dad?” Billy asks.
I don’t trust myself to talk. I jerk my thumb back in the direction of my house.
Henry looks like an owl, staring at me. “Get her chair, will ya, Stu? How about we put the nets at the curbs and play two on two? Pauline can play goal and she won’t have to worry about cars.”
I glare at him. Overprotective Henry. Of all the nerve. If I didn’t have to hold onto my crutches, I’d jerk my thumb at him too.
Henry’s wearing his Don Mills hockey jacket, blue with white piping around the shoulder seams. It’s cold and his breath shows — white piping against the sky. Billy shoves his hands in his jeans pockets and now Stu’s back, huffing and puffing with my chair.
What am I so mad at? Out of nowhere the tears start dribbling down my cheeks and I wipe my face on my sleeve.
The three boys move in a little closer and stand in a semi-circle around me.