Icy Sparks

by Gwyn Hyman Rubio

  Tiny, still holding on to Gordie’s arm, put his free index finger to his lips. “Calm down, Icy!” he said. “You’re making Gordie nervous.”

  My stomach grumbled. My feet felt numb. My hands shook. “You think Delbert forgot about us?” I asked.

  “I doubt it,” Tiny said. “Any minute now, he’ll poke his head out, and when he does, you best be ready to go.”

  I rubbed my hands together. “I’m ready,” I said, wiggling my toes. I rolled back my shoulders, swallowed a mouthful of frost, and declared, “I’m as—”

  “Ready!” Delbert said, his head flashing through the door.

  This is it, I told myself, tossing my coat in the box. Tiny, with his arm laced through Gordie’s, followed close behind. “You’re a king of the Orient,” I said.

  Inside, “We Three Kings” was playing softly. Arranged in a semicircle, the chairs in the dayroom were filled. Dr. Conroy, Dr. Lambert from Hickory Hall, and Dr. Parker, a guest from out of town, sat in the first row. Several kitchen staff members, who prepared our food in Hickory Hall, along with the driver of the van, occupied the remaining seats. Over the manger, Maizy held up the big silver star. Westward leading, still proceeding, guide us to thy perfect light, I thought, my heart pounding, my thawed feet gliding across the stage to stop in front of the manger.

  Gracefully, Wilma extended her arms. “This is the baby Jesus,” she said, on cue.

  For the first time, it seemed, I saw her face. It was Wilma’s face, all right, but somehow it had changed. In robes with a shawl over her head, her features were gleaming. Gone were her glasses. Gone was her mustache. Gone was her dead white skin. She had miraculously become the Virgin Mary, radiating only a mother’s love.

  Scrunching up my face, I transformed myself also. Sweeping forward, I was but one earthly king bowing before the King of Kings. “We, three kings of the Orient, have brought gifts to the Christ Child,” I said, rising. “Mine is the gift of frankincense!” I proclaimed.

  Magnanimously, I held out my closed hand. My fingers uncurled, and a silver packet sparkled in my palm.

  In robes the color of jade, Tiny, too, stretched out his hand. A bright gold nugget shimmered against his skin. “See! I’ve brought gold!” he said in a deep voice.

  Then Gordie, wearing royal blue, stiffly extended his arm. “Myrrh!” Tiny said for him. “The sweetest smell on earth.”

  In that instant, Delbert, who was in charge of the music, bowed slightly, and the measured, heavy tones of “We Three Kings” filled the air. Staring earnestly at the crowd, Tiny and I started to sing. But as we harmonized, something happened to my voice. Wondrously, it began to change. All of a sudden, it was rich and melodious, deep and hypnotic like the notes we were singing. The audience was spellbound. Not a peep could be heard.

  When Delbert opened the double doors, the trance was finally broken. Then, to the strains of “Silent Night,” the other patients filed in, forming a semicircle around us.

  Delicately, the Virgin Mary placed baby Jesus in His manger.

  Gracefully, Maizy waved the silver star, sprinkling glitter across the stage.

  Glancing around the room, I spotted the faces of the others. Ace, Reid, Rose, Stevie, Ruthie, Mary, and Deirdre. All of them were staring back at me, saying, “Icy, you’re the star. You’re the star with royal beauty bright. Go ahead, Icy. Sing.” And I, taking their cue, with arms outstretched, like Moses walking through the Red Sea, stepped magnificently forward. Breathing in deeply, I felt my lungs expand with loving, hot air; I felt my voice eager to take off and soar through the room. I inhaled again, readied my lips, and was about to begin “Silent Night” when my eyes fixated on Wilma.

  Once the pious Virgin Mary, she now had changed. Her features were sharp and seething; her body was oozing hatred. So completely dark was her evil that like a magnet she drew me to her. Her intense eyes mesmerized me, and I was straitjacketed by her stare. Desperately, I tried to close my eyelids, but both were locked open. Next, I tried to step back, away from her, away from her eyes, but try as I might, I couldn’t move. Some force held me in place. Trembling, I struggled to break free; but, like before, I stood frozen.

  Frantic, I glanced down.

  Wilma’s battleship foot was anchored squarely on my red satin robe. Fury poured out of that foot. Rage flooded from that shoe. I winced, tugged at my robe, and attempted, once more, to go backward. But Wilma wouldn’t let me. Leering at me, she bent over. Then, ever so swiftly, as though she were smoothing out a wrinkle in my robe, her fingers locked into my beard and savagely yanked it. Like an avalanche, the black mass slid downward only to dangle precipitously from my chin.

  Laughter thundered through the room.

  Leaning as far away from Wilma as I could, I was pulling back even harder when she deftly lifted her foot. At once, I lurched backward and thudded to the floor.

  “The best performance yet,” a deep voice said.

  “A good laugh,” said another.

  Just as the singing began, I scrambled to my feet. Panicked, I fixed my beard, wanting to sing “Silent Night” with the others. But it was impossible. Tears as big as mothballs rolled over my lip, slid down my throat, and choked me.

  In front of me, Wilma was singing. I watched her mustached mouth open and close. I saw her eyes, relishing my misery, and finally recognized the truth. That womb of hers was filled with the devil’s child.

  As we sat around the dining room table, napkins in our laps, turkey sliced upon our plates, dressing perched upon our forks, I watched Wilma, who was sitting across from me. Back were her glasses. Back was her mustache. Back was her dead white skin. The purplish red scar that zigzagged down her cheek took on the shape of three 6’s. Her smile, lurching upward, belonged to the devil himself.

  Wilma leaned over and whispered something to one of the cooks from Hickory Hall. The woman glared at me and laughed. Wilma then twisted around and tapped the driver of the van. Immediately he started to snicker.

  She’s up to no good, I decided.

  Wilma tapped her plate with her fork and cleared her throat.

  No good. No good. No. Please no! I thought.

  Wilma rose and in a loud voice said, “Icy is a star tonight.”

  I gotta go, I told myself.

  “Maybe she’s not a star of wonder,” Wilma pressed on.

  “I gotta go,” I whined.

  “But she’s still a star.”

  I tried to stand, but my churning thoughts held me back.

  Wilma pointed directly at me, smiled, and began to sing, “O, star so clumsy, star not bright.”

  Rage twitched my eyes.

  “Laugh us through this silly night.”

  My knees slammed against each other.

  “Forever falling, always stumbling, into darkness, far from light,” Wilma hideously sang out.

  The urge to jerk knifed through me. A croak slithered across my tongue.

  I jumped up. “I gotta go!” I cried, but my interior voices screamed, You gotta defend yourself! “Gottago!” I yelled. “CROAK!” I shrieked, violently swinging my head.

  Yes! I heard my thoughts say as the jerk tore through me.

  Yes! Yes! Yes! they repeated as I slammed against the table.

  “Damn you!” I cried, grabbing the tablecloth. “Damn you!” I screamed, as glasses of milk tumbled over, as plates and silverware rattled. “Damn you!” I yelled again, scooping up a handful of dressing. “You cow dung! You sow!” I roared, pitching it, seeing it splatter against Wilma’s cheek. Greedy, I snatched another fistful of dressing, flinging it at her, croaking when she ducked. “CROAK!” My body twisted as a thousand spasms whipped through me. My arms churned like oars. My legs kicked at the air. “You devil!” I screamed, popping out my eyes. “Devil sow!” I shrieked, twirling around.

  “Icy, don’t!” Maizy said, jumping up.

  “Please calm down!” Dr. Conroy said.

  “Delbert, my bag!” Dr. Lambert was pointing.

  After that,
I heard nothing.

  Around and around I twirled. Until colors bled. And odors blended. Around and around. Until faces blurred. Swirling and swirling. Until I was lost in the whirlwind. Whirling and whirling. Until I was caught in the eye of the storm.

  Chapter 24

  “There ain’t no Icy Sparks,” I whispered. “She died weeks ago. On the tip end of Dr. Lambert’s needle, she up and died.” Lying in my hospital bed, following a crack in the high ceiling, seeing where it would lead, I knew that Icy Sparks, this balloon of skin and bones, was no more than just a seed, meant always to float endlessly, to ride the wind. Floating was what I did best. Icy Sparks would never fall, never crater herself in the dark, warm earth, never be reborn. “Once she was a pretty child with hair the color of goldenrod and yellow ocher eyes,” I said. “Now she is a smidgen of pollen caught in the breeze.”

  I closed my eyes and floated. Days passed over me. Days, with long, gray faces, days that never laughed, days that never cried, the sameness of the days glided above. My face remained solid. The dull-edged days, too bored to swoop down, spared the contours of my nose, the glazed expression in my eyes. I was Icy Sparks, the unborn, forever adrift, beginning before the seed, the unbeginning of the beginning. I was Icy Sparks, awash in the never-never. Never to be. Where was the little girl with gold hair and yellow ocher eyes? “Where are you?” I asked. In the fog of your mind, I thought. In the empty space, existing before conscious time.

  “In the infirmary, honey,” someone said. “I’m Polly, your nurse. It’s time for your medication.”

  I moaned and turned to look at the strange voice. The face to which it belonged was a white blob surrounded by curly red hair.

  “Good girl,” Polly said as I swallowed the pills.

  No longer was any voice recognizable. Maizy’s sweet voice had disappeared; her face, lovely as an angel’s, had evaporated. In the sparkling of stardust, she had flown away. The only voices I knew were the voices inside my head, muffled and unclear.

  “Maizy’s proud of you,” Polly added when I closed my eyes. “You’re behaving just like a little lady.”

  I turned over on my side.

  “Too bad you can’t see her,” she continued. “She really misses you.”

  I tucked in my chin and curled up my knees.

  “But I’ll tell her you’re doing better,” she said. “Don’t worry, honey. I’ll tell her all about you.”

  Like tadpoles, the voices inside the building were indistinct and always changing, swimming above and below my body, in front and in back of me. Fluid-filled and efficient, they cooed comfort and said that soon I would be going home. But go home I never did.

  I, Icy Sparks, can’t recollect when I was born. That’s because I never was. The unborn can’t return to a home that never existed.

  “Icy! Icy” someone said from the doorway.

  At last, this was a voice I knew. Cautiously, I opened my eyes. The room was not as colorless as it had seemed at first. White curtains with blue rickrack hung from the windows. On one side of my bed was a white cement wall. Right smack in the center of it was a poster of Walt Disney’s Bambi; with a twinkle in his eyes and his nose upturned, the fawn seemed to be content, spending time in the woods, smelling the colorful flowers lining the pathway on either side of him. I wondered why I hadn’t noticed this happy scene before. On the other side of my bed, standing guard, was a cobalt-blue partition. “Icy! Icy!” the voice repeated. Blinking, I saw that the face in front of me was not blurred. For the first time in weeks, the outline of a person’s face was clear.

  “Dr. Conroy?” I asked between dry, swollen lips.

  “Yes, dear,” the voice said. At once, her arms engulfed me, pressing me into her white starched jacket. “Icy, sweetness!” she said.

  Ever so lightly, I pushed away, looked up at her, and murmured, “I feel better, not so fuzzy-headed.”

  “I know,” she said. “I stopped the pills last night. Dr. Lambert doesn’t like what they’ve been doing to you. He told me it was my call. So I decided. No more pills.”

  “No more?” I mumbled.

  “No more,” she said. “No more shots, no more drugs that make you feel bad.”

  For a minute, I couldn’t talk. Then I said, “You promise?”

  Dr. Conroy gently hugged me. “Yes,” she declared. “Yes. Yes. Yes.”

  Feeling confused, I broke away. “I ain’t sick?”

  She cupped my chin in her hands and stared right into my eyes. “I’d rather see you croak, curse, and jerk than be the way you’ve been. No child should be lifeless. That’s no cure.”

  “But what about my disorder?” I asked.

  “Icy, dear, you are your disorder,” Dr. Conroy said. “You’re a high-spirited young girl.” She laughed loudly. “Granted, sometimes too much so. But we’ll work on this. I’ll show you a few ways to calm down when you start to feel upset.”

  “Do you think they’ll work?” I asked.

  “We’ll see,” she said. “There are no miracle cures, but we’ll try. And, of course, we must talk some more.”

  “How much more?”

  “I want you to feel a little stronger,” she answered, “a little better before you leave.”

  My body tensed. “When will I be leaving?”

  “The paperwork is ready to go,” Dr. Conroy said. “Just two more weeks, Icy.”

  “And then I’ll go home?” I said.

  “Definitely!” she said. “No more broken promises.”

  “Oh, Dr. Conroy!” I squealed, throwing my arms around her.

  As though nothing had changed between us, Maizy came up to me while I was sitting on the edge of my bed and said, “Icy Gal, I’m so proud of you.”

  “Why?” I asked, when she wrapped her arms around me, tipping me forward. “What’s so good about being in here?”

  Keeping both of her hands on my shoulders, she eased back away from me, looked me right in the eyes, and said, “Because you’re doing so much better. Polly has kept me informed about every little bit of progress you’ve made. Haven’t you, Polly?”

  Polly’s head appeared around the blue partition. “I did my best,” she said, smiling. “Icy, though, was no trouble.”

  I shimmied, and Maizy’s hands slipped off my shoulders. “How come it took so doggone long for you to come here?” I asked her, bouncing my calves against the mattress. “I was lonely without you.”

  “Doctor’s orders,” she said, frowning. “And you know how that is. Anyway, I’m here now. The minute Dr. Conroy told me I could come, I did.”

  “Where’s Delbert?” I asked. “I want to see him, too. And Tiny? He’s my friend, ain’t he?”

  “They’ll be by later on,” she said. “Somebody’s got to look after the others.”

  “And Wilma?” I said sheepishly. “I bet she’s been dancing a jig ever since I went away.”

  “Well, if she’s dancing,” Maizy said, clicking her tongue, “she’s doing it at home.”

  With those words, I popped up off the bed, took one step toward Maizy, and with a gaping mouth said, “She ain’t working in the Sunshine Building?”

  “Not anymore,” Maizy said, her tone perfunctory.

  I was about to squeal unbecomingly and dance a little jig myself when Polly interrupted, “Icy, tell Maizy your good news!”

  “I’m going home!” I announced grandly, swallowing my squeal like a marshmallow. “Dr. Conroy told me yesterday.”

  “Well, that’s the best news yet!” Maizy said. “When?”

  “In just two weeks,” I said.

  Polly added, “But we’ll miss you.”

  “Of course,” said Maizy matter-of-factly. “We’ll all miss you, but the most important thing is that you’re going home.”

  “Sure as the day is long,” I said. “I’ll be seeing my grandparents real soon.”

  When Maizy escorted me into Dr. Conroy’s office, she was sitting calmly behind her desk. “It feels good seeing you two together again,�
�� she said, her eyes taking in our locked arms.

  “We’re pals,” I said, smiling broadly.

  “Two peas in a pod,” Maizy said.

  “Twins,” I added.

  “Enough!” Dr. Conroy laughed. “I get it. Come here, Icy,” she said, motioning with her fingers, “and have a seat.”

  I sauntered over to my old chair, the one in which my feet didn’t touch the floor, and plunked myself down.

  “Give us an hour, will you?” Dr. Conroy said, nodding at Maizy, who was leaning against the doorjamb.

  “Sure thing,” Maizy said, walking through, quietly shutting the door behind her.

  “So are you excited?” Dr. Conroy asked me.

  “About going home?”

  “What else?” she teased.

  “I’m as happy as a lark.”

  Dr. Conroy flicked some lint off her coat sleeve. “Well, aren’t you a little bit worried, too?” she said.

  Nervously, I moved back in my chair and felt my feet leave the floor. “I reckon,” I admitted, squinting over the desktop at her.

  “How come?” she wanted to know.

  I narrowed my eyes even more. “You know how come,” I said, staring at her.

  “You’re absolutely right,” she answered. “I most certainly do. But I want you to say it.”

  I inched forward, sliding my buttocks to the chair’s edge so that my feet were again touching the floor. “I’m afraid I’ll act touched in the head,” I said. “Like Lonnie Spikes, sitting on the courthouse steps with his tongue hanging out of his mouth, or like Peavy Lawson, that frog-catching, tongue-rolling, eye-popping fool, or like Lane Carlson, except I’ll turn into the opposite of him and become a rough, tough, mean ole tomboy.”

  “Icy,” Dr. Conroy said, “you know what?”