Chapter 1

My friend Jimmy told me the day would come when I would be strong enough to tell my story. I didn't believe him, but I should have known better. Jimmy never lied to me, and even at his worst, he saw more clearly than anyone else.

I am ready.

NOVEMBER 23, 1965

The day before I left for the hospital was my little sister's sixth birthday.

Despite the autumn chill, Mattie wanted a picnic lunch in her tree house. We were reading The Secret Garden, and I'd planned to finish it before I went away. We brought the transistor radio, our lunch and a pile of pillows up to the platform. Setting the volume low we tuned in a rock station, and settling by each other's side we opened the book.

The story ended with the two abandoned children finding happiness and love. Snuggling closer, Mattie grabbed my hand. "Start Wind in the Willows," she said.

"How about if you read it with Mom?"

Mattie rolled away, turning her back to me. "What about school?" she asked. "If they put me in the hospital, can I skip school, too?"

"Don't you like school?"

"Who's going to walk me, and pick me up after?" Mattie asked.

"Mom will. Promise you'll never leave school with anyone else, okay?"

 "Not even Pam's mom? What if Mom's late?"

"No," I said. "You go back inside and wait, okay?"

"Will you get left back?" she asked.

"I guess so. Anyway, Dr. Kluge told Dad I'd be better off with kids my own age. He says they never should have let me skip two years."

Mattie shrugged, and her spine curled like a cat's as she brought her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. "We could stay home together, like Christmas or Easter. Will you be home for Christmas?"

"Let's eat lunch." I rustled the paper bag. "Yum. Liverwurst."

"Is not!" Mattie turned around.

I stuck my nose into the bag, and sniffed. "Oh, yeah. Liverwurst with onion." We played tug-of-war with the sack. Mattie snatched it from me, crowing with triumph.

I shook the thermos. "Hmmm. Sounds like tomato juice."

"It's hot chocolate. You promised."

A peanut butter sandwich with hot chocolate was Mattie's favorite lunch. She grinned her way through the meal, and stuffed the last huge bite in her mouth. Just then the opening chord of the Beatles' new song Help! started playing.

"I'm going to marry Ringo," Mattie said, reaching to turn up the volume.

"He's too old for you. How old are you today?"

"Six!" she said, launching into my arms. "When I'm as old as you, how old will you be then?"

"Figure it out."

"Can't."

"Can to. How much is six plus fourteen?"

"More than I can count. Tell me."

"No way, you can add."

While I cleaned up the wrappings, she broke our sandwich crusts into six and then another fourteen pieces. She counted aloud, as she lifted them to her troll doll's face, pretending to feed it.

"Twenty," she sighed. "You'll be twenty. You'll be old like Ringo. You'll be in college and then you'll move away." She dropped the bits of bread into my hands.

Placing her new red Hula-Hoop around her waist, Mattie started it spinning.  She lost her balance and teetered on the edge of the platform. I jumped up, panic pounding in my chest, and snatched her from the edge. She thought it was funny and giggled.

I hugged her so hard it must have hurt. She just wrapped her arms and legs around me, declaring in her little raspy voice, "I love you more than the moon and the stars, Tommy." She stuck out her tongue and licked my face up one side and down the other. Mattie loved pretending she was a dog.

We had a pact. I wouldn't complain about her licking me as long as she stopped spitting through the space between her front teeth. 

Every time she spat, she reminded me of Jackie. She wasn't copying him. He'd died before she was born. They were just naturally alike. The little gap in her smile was exactly like his. She resembled him in many ways, both of them taking more after my mother, the same unruly curls, dark blue eyes and pale skin.

Although they never mentioned it, my parents noticed the likeness, too.  Sometimes Mom stared at Mattie with a glaze of tears in her eyes, or my father looked at her, and then turned away really fast, as if it hurt.

My parents never talked about Jackie. I never talked about him either.

Whenever her likeness to Jackie got to me, I concentrated on the features Mattie and I shared with my father. I'd look at her blonde hair and thin upper lip, blanking out the parts of her that reminded me of him.

Leaning way back in my arms, her head dangling, Mattie said, "You taste like chocolate." I hauled her back up and her eyes were filled with tears. She shook her finger at me, scolding, "You can't go. I order you to stay."

I made gobbling noises against her neck. "You taste like a slimy little frog."

"Gross!" she replied, as she shimmied down from my arms.

"Just like frog's legs."

"Grosser!" she said, barreling down the boards nailed to the tree, making my heart skip another beat.

Safe on the ground, Mattie squatted and hopped across the lawn. She ran out of steam in the middle of the yard and lay sprawled on the grass. With the Hula-hoop over my neck, I worked my way down the rickety footholds to the ground.

The kitchen door swung open, and Mom swished a dishcloth down at our Irish setter, Jelly. "Go get ‘em, girl!"

Jelly bounded through the door. Before Mattie got up, the dog was on top of her. "Uncle, Uncle!" Mattie yelled. "I give up! Get her off of me, Tommy!"

The louder she giggled and screeched the faster Jelly jumped around, finally landing on top of Mattie with a paw on each shoulder and slobbering her with kisses. I joined the fray, and Jelly went mad with joy.

By the time my father got home, Mattie was worn out. With all of the playtime and her birthday cake still to come, I hoped she'd forget that I was leaving, but dinner was a nightmare.

After blowing out her candles, she announced, "I wished for Tommy to stay home." No one responded, and her voice rose in a shriek, "I don't want him to go."

Father, who'd been silent through most of the meal, told her, "Birthday or not, if you can't behave, you'll be excused from the table."

She shoved her chair back and yelled, "I don't care!" With Jelly panting at her heels, she ran from the room. My seat was closest to the stairs, but we all heard her muttering as she stomped up to her room, "I hate you, Daddy! Hate you! Hate you!"

My father snapped his napkin from his lap and folded it. Placing it back on the table, he sighed, "This is not the evening we'd planned. I'm sorry, but I can't allow her to go wild."

Mom stood and went to the kitchen.

"May I please be excused?" I asked. After my father's nod, I gathered up my plates and followed my mother.

She stood facing the window above the sink. I didn't know she was crying until she turned to look at me. Taking me in her arms, she whispered, "I'm sorry. I should be making this easier for you."

The door swung open, and we pulled away from each other. My father stood there staring for a moment. Then he turned and left without saying a word.

"Your father-"

"It's okay," I said, shushing her. There was no use in her telling me how much my father loved me, how he was uncomfortable expressing affection. I knew all that. But I also felt the increased distance between us, and was aware of his growing reluctance to look at me. "I'm going up and put Mattie to bed."

"Wouldn't you'd like to visit a friend? It isn't too late to go out. I'll drive you."

"I'd rather stay here."

Except for Gina, who'd graduated and moved to the city, no one would want me to visit. I couldn't blame them.  They'd be afraid someone would find out and call them queer, too. "I'm tired. I'll tuck Mattie in, and then I'm going to bed."

Mom reached out and brushed aside a lock of my hair. The smell of dish soap on her hands was so familiar and comforting that my throat tightened at the thought of how much I was going to miss her. Afraid I would cry like a little kid, I asked, "Let's say goodbye now, okay? Don't get up in the morning. Please?"

"Oh, Tommy." She sighed, tears sliding down her face. "I can't let you leave without seeing you off."

"Mom. Please. Make it easier for me."

She kissed me three times, one on each cheek, and the last on my forehead. With her eyes closed, she gently pushed me away and nodded. "Okay."

 I tapped our secret knock on Mattie's door. She didn't answer. I opened it anyway.

Her face was tear-stained and puffy; her eyes squeezed shut in a parody of sleep. I sat down on the edge of her bed, and Jelly jumped up and settled between us. Mattie shifted away, burying her face in Jelly's side. "When will you be back?" she asked.

"Soon."

"Will it hurt?" She lifted her head, rested her chin on Jelly's back. "Are you really sick? You don't look sick."

I put my hand on her forehead, and she leaned back as I spread my fingers and pushed them through her hair with a slow, steady, pressure.

"What's homosexual?" she asked.

The question hit me like a slap. I wondered how much she'd heard, and from whom. I couldn't stand the idea that she might have heard about Paul, or that kids were teasing her because of me. I hoped she'd only been eavesdropping on my parents.

"Is it like the measles?"

"Close your eyes."

She reached up and touched the pock mark on her chin. "Does it itch? Will it make scars, like from chicken pox?"

"Think about something nice."

I kept stroking her hair until her face finally relaxed and her eyelashes fluttered closed. She reached for me and I took her hand. "Go to sleep, little frog." I stayed until she was asleep.

It was so hard to turn her light out, not knowing when I'd see her again, or if I'd even be the same person when I returned.

 

* * * * * *

 

After the coach reported the incident, Principal Cooper called my house and set up an appointment with my father. Normally, my mom was the one who met with my teachers, attended the PTA, and talked with my guidance counselor. This time the principal insisted that only my father should come see him. 

My father returned from the appointment, his face pasty and his brow furrowed like it got when he had a migraine. During dinner, he kept glancing at me. I asked if everything was okay. He didn't answer. After dinner, he and Mom went into the study and closed the door.

It was late when Mom came to my room. "Your father wants to talk to you for a minute," she said. She sounded as if she'd been crying.  I stood, and Mom gave me a hug. "Don't worry, honey," she said. "Everything will be all right. We'll work this out."

My father stood by his desk and as soon as I walked in he said, "I don't even know where to start, Tommy. I'm trying hard to understand, but I don't." He fiddled with some papers on his desk, and then sat down. "I keep wondering if I've done something wrong, maybe if we'd spent more time together, or if I'd paid closer attention to your friends." He sighed, stared out the window and then looked back at me. Unable to meet his eyes, I stared at the floor.

"Tell me the truth. Did this boy Paul do anything? Did he start it? Did he encourage you? Were the two of you just horsing around? Jesus, Tommy, tell me this is all a misunderstanding."

I shook my head and stammered, "It wasn't his fault. I didn't mean to. I just couldn't- it was me. It's my fault, not Paul's. He was upset. I only meant to comfort him. I didn't mean to... to do ... what I did."

Seeing the expression on my father's face, I started crying.

"Stop," he said. "There's no need for that. We'll get through this, somehow. Principal Cooper suggested you see a psychiatrist. He gave me the name of a doctor. Your mother and I discussed the situation, and we agree. We'll get you help. I'll make an appointment tomorrow."

******

At first, I saw Dr. Kluge in his office, twice a week. He asked me questions about school, and he asked about Paul. Talking to him wasn't so bad and it was supposed to fix the problem. Only, it didn't. At the same time, things got rough at school.

I'd always been an odd ball. Except for Paul and Gina, I never had any friends.

Paul and I met when we were both taking tennis lessons. We made a good team and started playing doubles. After a while we started hanging out. He was also in the accelerated program at school, and like me, he'd skipped ahead of his class, though only one year. He'd grown up in Princeton and had lots of friends. Because of Paul, the other guys accepted me. I didn't care about them. I just wanted to be with Paul.

Gina was older than me and lived next door. Mom hired her as a mother's helper when Mattie was a baby. She came over to our house every day after school. She was shy but she was also funny, and we became good friends. When I skipped grades, and started high school as a sophomore, she was a senior. We had lunch together every day, sat together in study hall and pep rallies, and spent hours at each other's homes listening to music, and talking. Our friendship made me seem peculiar to the guys. They thought it was weird to hang with a girl you weren't dating. Paul always joked that I was dating her secretly. He told the guys I was slick.

Still, what with skipping sixth grade, and then freshmen year of high school, I was considered an egg-headed bookworm. I was two years younger than the rest of my class, and much smaller than everyone else. I didn't play football or baseball, which made me a wimp, and an easy target for the jocks. So when the football team heard what happened with Paul, a couple of them ganged up on me in the locker room after gym class. I ended up with a black eye and bloody nose. After that no one would risk being seen with me.

Up until then, I'd loved school. But it got so I couldn't sleep for worrying what would happen the next day. The worst of it was that after the kids got bored with tormenting me, they started taunting Paul. I was to blame and there was no way to stop it, or even tell him I was sorry.

I hardly ate. My concentration was shot. I couldn't focus enough to study. I hid out in my room reading books, back to back, one or two a day, trying to disappear into the worlds between their pages.

For the first time in my life my grades slipped.  Dr. Kluge and I talked about it when the second report card in a row had a "B" in algebra and biology.

Dr. Kluge called my parents in for a conference. He said I had difficulty opening up to him because I was severely depressed, perhaps even suicidal. He suggested putting me on medication. My parents agreed.

I no longer had nightmares. But the pills made me feel like a zombie, and during the next few sessions with Dr. Kluge, my mind kept wandering. It got harder and harder to follow the questions he asked me, especially the ones he asked about my fantasies.

After another month, Kluge called my father and told him we weren't making any progress. He said there was a more aggressive therapy, one that required hospitalization. He said it would take a long time but the highest success rate occurred with younger patients. He said fourteen was the perfect age, and my chance of recovery was higher if they acted swiftly.  He told my father that I could be normal. He said I could be cured.

My father came home and he looked happy. He told me about the hospital and asked, "Don't you want a normal life? Don't you want help?"

I wanted desperately to be normal. I wanted the whispering behind my parent's bedroom door, the agony at school, and the moments of overwhelming self-loathing to go away.

I said, "Yes."

The arrangements were made, the date set, and my last day at home was over.

******

I tried to sleep. But even with the new, stronger medication Dr. Kluge had prescribed, anxiety made me twitch. Watching the shadows deepen on the ceiling, I tried to imagine what it would be like at the hospital. I'd never been away from home, and I was afraid. I'd asked Dr. Kluge what the therapy was like. He never answered. His eyes slid away, and then came back to me in a sideways glance that made the spit dry in my mouth.

I kept remembering that look, and I couldn't sleep.

I tried listening to music, but even Simon & Garfunkel's harmonies didn't ease my nerves. So I picked through my bookshelves, hoping to read myself into a doze.

I was halfway through To Kill a Mockingbird, and only had one chapter left to finish The Man in the Iron Mask. I'd been told that I couldn't take any books with me. So, I finished them both. At least while I was turning the pages, I wasn't worrying about the next day.

I hadn't been asleep long when my father woke me and said it was time to go.

 

 

© Copyright 2006 Lesley C Weston