The instant I saw the screen of my mobile phone light up with my mother’s incoming call, dread unfurrowed in my gut. Even the inevitable is terrifying. Never would she call me at work if it were not important. In short rapid statements my mom tells me that she has just taken my father to hospital. The urgency that this instills within me is beyond compare. My surroundings sway and blur as my nightmare sifts in and out of focus. No quick solutions stare back at me as I scan my work place. Fear and concern crowd out all reason and logic.
“I have to go.” I say to my colleague who sits at the opposite end of the room. It takes effort to push the panic from my voice with my cell phone still crushed up against my ear.
“They are taking him into isolation. I can’t go with him.”
“I know Mom. That’s why you need to get the phone to him. Right now!” Grabbing my purse, I bolt from the studio. “I will get you a new one.” I say quickly before she can point out the obvious fact that my parents have one cell phone between them. A flawed decision once based on pure economics leaves us in this predicament. She thought nothing of taking the phone with her because it is more hers than his and for that reason it will be a near useless device in his hands. Yet, it will be his only means of communication that will grant us the smallest window to say good bye.
The grind of my gnashing teeth drowns out all sounds as I think of my father. He must be so afraid. This, was not what he expected his last days to look like. In his mind’s eye he saw himself surrounded by his children and grandchildren upon his last breath. Never did he imagine that he would be alone in a hospital bed. Nor did I. This thought tears through me like shrapnel.
Slamming through the fire stairwell door I fly down the concrete steps staving off the wave of tears that threaten to break. A smart gust of wind and shards of sunlight stop me as I burst from the building with blinding anxiety. The icy realization that I had been running with no where to go hits me like a brick wall.
This cannot be real.
The street I am standing in is empty and I am reminded of how lonely this is; down town Toronto on a Tuesday afternoon and the city feels deserted like the opening of an eerie Stephen King novel.
I shut my eyes against the moment, rejecting what is happening.
At first all I can hear is my mother’s breathing. She is processing what I am asking of her and what I have left unsaid. With a jagged intake of air, I prepare to meet her protest with brutal facts. Instead, the faint noise at my ear shifts and I know that she has turned back towards the hospital.
“I’ll find his nurse.” There is a new determination in her voice that is hopeful and heartbreaking all at once. The cacophony of chaotic sounds that flit by as I listen amplify the agonizing suspense. “There she is. Excuse me. Excuse me.” The shrill edge in my mother’s words send a serrated blade across my remaining nerves.
After a muffled exchange, the tone holds the promise of fulfillment and I allow myself a moment of relief.
“Mom. Mom. You have to say good bye.”
“What?” The question seems to make time stand still. A cold fist of panic closes around me as I realize my mistake.
“To me, Mom. Hang up, then hand the phone off and call me when you get home. Are you okay to drive?”
“Yes. Okay.” The quiver in her voice nearly brings me to my knees. “Good bye dear. I’ll call you back as soon as I can.”
Then the line goes dead before I can say anything. Feeling muzzled and gagged, the silent sting of it burrows into my head and heart.
“God Damn it!” My shout explodes from my throat and with it comes those relentless tears.
Walking in tight circles I rock, hugging my upper body in a desperate effort to keep myself from falling apart. I have no where to go. There is no one to see. I am stuck at work considered an essential through this pandemic. Because I work in news I know too much. I know that my mother will likely never see my father again, in person anyway. Eventually she will derive at this ugly reality too. I know that we only have until they outfit him with a ventilator to talk to him. And that is only if they have one available at a time when breathing apparatus are rare commodities even for high performing hospitals. And if they happen to have a spare kicking around it will only be offered to him if he has a chance of survival. My father is 78 years old. He was a smoker in his youth but otherwise healthy if you don’t take his obesity into account.
My mother is a retired nurse and once the initial shock of having to leave her husband at the hospital wears off, she will come to many medical based conclusions. None of which I will want to hear.
There is no escaping this fate. In spite of the last 75 years of earning the right to be spared the third generation takes its place on the front line. My parent’s grandparents faced the first world war and their parents confronted the second head on. There is something poetic and twisted about my parents looking down the barrel of the third world war. There is no doubt in my mind that this war against COVID-19 is a world war like no other. In a time that looks so different to 1945 it is no wonder that our definition of a world war would change too.
It is a testament to our abundance of misinformation and many manipulators. It shines a spotlight on greed and obscene wealth. Good people raised to provide a helping hand go unnoticed while the fat selfish cats wither and die.
As a feminist who is a big supporter of the me too movement, black lives matter, and breaking the glass ceiling, I had unknowingly secretly been wishing for something to wipe the slate clean. Now that it has reared its ugly head I can look at it straight in the eye and regret what I had once hoped for. This enemy will likely take many of my children’s grandparents.
This enemy does not discriminate. It does not care if you enlisted as we were all drafted in this war. Our elderly and most vulnerable are least likely to survive. But none of us will go unscathed. We will all bare deep scars that will take decades to heal if ever.
The world as we know it has shifted dramatically and permanently. There is no coming back from this without collateral damage and countless fatalities.
My parents are inseparable and have been for more than half a century. For this, one cell phone made sense until today. Now that my mother has handed the cell over, hopefully it finds it’s way to my father’s hands. But will he know how to use it? As he faces is greatest fear will the phone grow more useless to him with mounting desperation.
So many competing thoughts bump and bruise my mind. After checking the time on my screen another surge of panic nudges me. I need to get back to work. This is an irritating obligation that rubs up against me with resentment.
A cool March breeze brings goose-flesh to the surface of my skin. The chill of the day seeps into my bones. Winter refuses to release us from its icy grip. My chattering teeth are not enough to push me back inside. Yet, willing my phone to ring proves useless as I consider how this will all unfold.
My parents live two hours outside of Toronto but this does not matter. With self isolation and public distancing, I do not dare go to her anyway. So, I wait. I wait for her to make the drive home and pray that she calls me back before making a tea and staring out over the back yard contemplating what to do next without talking to me.
This, I have feared and anticipated for for so long that I almost expect to meet it with a sense of relief as an unknown has been discovered. Instead, I am so afraid that I feel powerless for not going to greater lengths to prevent this tragedy.
This is my brutal truth; unknowingly growing up with a learning disability in 1982
Music always hits a sour note when trying to learn while unknowingly dyslexic.
The hushed tones of my mother were barely audible but the deep baritone of Mr. Lanza was unmistakable. Never had I assumed to be his star pupil but his words cut deep just the same.
What was wrong with me? Why did I never learn?
DW: Sour Note
At seven, I hadn’t known the difference between piano and organ lessons. My music teacher taught both after all yet, the piano sat front and center of his tiny parlor while the organ was deliberately tucked into the corner. Not until I was swallowed by the darkness of the car did my mother scold me for playing the piano.
I had thought that I had broken the rules or that I had done something dreadfully wrong to embarrass my mother so. By playing the piano at my intended organ lesson, I had betrayed my mother. So, she had put an end to my organ lessons. This should have made me happy. After all, it was what I had wanted. Was it not?
Music lessons were just another sharp piece of my childhood.
When it floated around I would break into a cold sweat and clasp my hands as a way to keep them from shaking.
It was like scheduling a weekly nightmare.
Every Tuesday, at 6:30 pm, I would have to read aloud for an hour. This was my biggest fear. For half of the lesson was theory. Here, I literally had to read the music notes aloud.
The other half was practical, where my fingers outed me for the illiterate fraud I was, to an extremely stanch Mr. Lanza. In comparison to the many big scary men in my life, Mr. Lanza, my music teacher was a gummy bear. A hairy stout gummy bear that smelled of spicy aftershave. But that did not mean that he could not be daunting. The way his shoulders hunched with every wrong note or careless fingering was worse. In some ways, his defeated slump was more difficult than any harsh word or deep scowl.
In grade two, I had enough trouble reading words let alone music notes on a page full of clustered lines. Practicing never seemed to help, so I never bothered with it, in spite of my mother’s gripes.
Like every child, I wanted to be liked and accepted, especially by those who were likely to pass judgement or evaluate.
Sour Note; pic 2
By continuously disappointing and frustrating Mr. Lanza, he practically curled into himself. Like every note was a slap.
As he shrank beside me, so did my hopes of earning his approval and favor.
This did not stop me from trying, though. True to my talents, I did all that I could to distract the man from the task at hand in hopes that he would overlook my musical misgivings. Maybe he would find something else about me that was likable.
Each week, when I entered the bright parlor, the gleaming baby grand piano greeted me first.
It was so beautiful. Dark cherry wood so stunning that I would stop in the doorway just to stare at it before I turned my back to it to sit at the organ. Yep, an organ. Neither of my parents played an instrument yet, one of their prize possessions was a flippin’ organ that did nothing in the front room of our home but collect dust. Okay, that’s a lie. My sisters played. Not often but way more than I did.
Thankfully, my feet did not reach the peddles so I only had to learn the notes and my fingerings. Which was bad enough.
“Miss. Emily. What is that note? That one, right there?” Mr. Lanza asked with more patience than I deserved, because after many weeks I still didn’t know. “Every, Good, Boy, Deserves, Fudge. Remember? Every. Good.” His pointer scratched and thumped the page propped up in front of me with every word. “Every. Good.” He repeated and I realized that I was being prompted.
“Boy! B! It’s a B.” I said.
“It’s a B.” He said in the tired voice I was becoming to know.
SourNote – 2
“Mr. Lanza?”
“Yes, Miss. Emily.”
“Would you play it for me, so that I can hear what it’s supposed to sound like?” I asked.
This was my usual request, one that he was reluctant to indulge but always did. And it worked. I could feel the stress lift from him when he played. His odd hairy knuckles gently curled as he plucked delicately at the keys. Not only did this break the tension which seemingly straightened his spine, but this was how…
I learned all of the pieces assigned to me; I watched his fingers, memorized the keys, and secured the melody to my mind.
After we switched places he was taller than me again. The music changed him; it had the power to lighten him. The always proper Mr. Lanza would be slumping again with the turn of a new page. My random jabs at the organ keys, my wandering eyes over the foreign lines and notes weighed him down. Biding my timing, I waited for that pointer to slap the page, a sure sign of his growing irritation for his unteachable student.
“Mr. Lanza?”
“Yes, Miss Emily?” He asked, his question was more of a sign of exhaustion.
“Could we maybe play at the piano?”
Beneath his large caterpillar like eye brows, his gaze slid from me to the piano then back to me.
Did he know that this was an effort to distract?
With a slow nod he seemed to decide on something bigger than switching instruments. With that, I pulled the music book from its decorative stand and sat in aw behind the enormous beautiful piano. That particular piece did not sound any better even to my ear. In fact, I was sure that my playing alone was an insult to the baby grand`s craftsmanship.
The agony did not last long before we heard my mother slip into the adjacent waiting room. Her boots bumped off the snow as quietly and politely as possible. With that, Mr. Lanza stood and tugged at the bottom of his jacket.
“Miss. Emily, I would like for you to now work on your scales.”
“Alright, Mr. Lanza.” I said happy to be at the end of our lesson even though it seemed rather early.
That’s when I heard it.
I had completed the scale in C major and set in the pause of my hand repositioning, I heard the hushed tones of my mother. Straining to decipher her soft words, Mr. Lanza’s were unmistakable. Bass travels further than treble. Did you know that?
“Give up on this one Mrs. Wright.” He said.
A stone I hadn’t known to be on my chest swelled coldly until it pressed against my throat. It was hard to breathe and harder to swallow. With panicked trembling hands, I flipped the pages of by book nervously as a way to drowned them out. Not wanting to hear the rest of their conversation, I busied myself by playing C major scale again and again, not daring to make a mistake. Pain shot through my lips as I bit them together in hopes to will my eyes not to well up or drop tears on his beautiful piano keys.
Rejection, even if warranted can leave its scars.
“Emily. Its time.” My mother said and I slipped between them and out the door as soundlessly as possible.
The car ride home was quiet and cold. The December dark had swallowed the early evening sky leaving even the clouds lonely. The heater blasted, but offered no comfort. There, I waited through her deafening silence because I knew that she was beyond mad.
I had disappointed her again with my failure to learn, my defiance to play, and my betrayal of the organ.
She never told me that I would not be going back to Mr. Lanza’s but the icy spot on my heart knew that I would never see the kind man again. My chance to say good-bye and thank him for his hopeless efforts was gone forever.
It was four years later, that Mr. Lanza made it through to the forefront of my thoughts.
My grade six teacher loaded a wire contraption that held and aligned 5 pieces of white chalk. Immediately after pressing it to the black board with one long straight stroke, I recognized the music stand of my childhood books.
For the first time at school I was familiar with a lesson before my teacher could begin.
In every space between the lines, Mr. McGregor drew a circle. In each circle he wrote a letter. F-A-C-E. Then he moved on to the lines. In these circles he wrote E-G-B-D-F. I saw it! For the first time in my life I saw it. Right there laid out in front of me, so simple, so basic.
Before I could stop myself I was standing. In the middle of my class room staring at the chalk board. “I get it! I finally get it!”
The jeers and snickers from the other kids were easily ignored. My fellow classmates did not phase me. It was as if someone had flipped on a light and I was finally able to see. The joy I felt bubbled up and fizzed, making sitting an impossibility.
The stars had somehow aligned and I could see something that had been right in front of me all along.
One disapproving glance from Mr. McGreger did not quash my enthusiasm but it did sober me enough to take my seat.
For a long moment I could only stare at the two distinct note arrangements on the board. Right there in black and white I could see the piece that was missing from the beginning. The alphabet. Why would you separate the notes by lines and spaces to come up with ridiculous sayings?
“The spaces are F-A-C-E and the lines make up Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge; E-G-B-D-F.” They would say.
When you put them together you get E-F-G-A-B-C-D-E-F. Why would no one ever point out the already known pattern of the Alphabet?
Did no one ever consider that there may be a different way of teaching, especially when faced with a student who seems unteachable but not unwilling?
Before he felt the thick point of folded paper tap his shoulder, there was a rustle at Jason’s ear. It was a note. No doubt from who. That was as predictable as its contents.
A bad feeling nudged his insides when behind him, a page had been torn from a coil notebook. When the freshly frayed edges had caught on his collar he recognised that bad feeling for what it was, a warning.
No way was he looking back over his shoulder. Feigning interest was never the way to go regardless how cute the girl. Instead, he casually raised his hand and pinched the note between his fingers. It slid from the wispy clutch of brightly coloured fingernails. The giggling that followed was silenced by a dramatic throat clearing from the front of the class.
Several minutes went by and the persistent breathy whispers grew louder. Better to open it before the valley girls behind him created a scene; a classic strategy where they appear obliviously innocent of any wrongdoing while he, the boy, takes the brunt of the instructor’s wrath.
Green ink jumped from the page, bouncing into giant bubbly letters. Simple periods and dots were replaced with looping circles and exclamation marks leaped into balloons and hearts. The unnecessary animation made his skin itch and Jason surpressed a groan from nausea.
“Jason, I’m thinking of having a party Saturday night!! You should come, bring your friends. Cammy!”
Their anticipating stares were burning holes into his upturned collar. All he did was nod. It was subtle but he was confident that his message would be received. The gaggle of giggles which followed was grating. Chicks.These games were so immature, but then again so was school. Popularity has its price.
A knock at the classroom door started his spine straight. Willing it not to be who he assumed it to be, Jason sat perfectly still. Mr. Wallis, the eighth-grade teacher walked along the front of the classroom. Reaching the door in three long strides to greet their visitor, Mr. Wallis’ eyes flicked to Jason. Before he could dismiss this a discreet finger curled at his teacher’s side confirmed Jason of his dreed.
Curses turned swampy on his tongue for this tired routine. For a feeting moment he actually thought that maybe he had dodged it this year, his senior year. Gathering his books, Jason slid out from his desk and drudged to the front of the class as if wading in muddy water. Not wanting to attract any more attention, he said nothing when he joined the low speaking adults. Mr. Wallis dropped a heavy hand on Jason’s shoulder and he resisted the urge to brush it away.
“Mr. Tally, this here is Dr. Chin and she would like for you to go with her for the remainder of this afternoon.” Mr. Wallis said with a note of encouragement.
Jason complied. The beginning of the school year was always bittersweet. Although it was nice to get pulled out of class and fluff off a few hours doing pointless tests, it was not so easy returning. Everyone always had questions. It was a complete waste of time. Centering him out like this made it extremely difficult to blend back in with his class. If the nature of these tests was ever found out by his peers, it would mess up his status. Stupid kids were rarely popular. The class clown was one thing but, no one hung out with a known dumb ass.
He
liked her, well, better than the last few anyway. Dr. Chin was pretty; youthful
with midnight hair and thick full bangs that fell over her brow. There was a
determination in her step, one that demanded the lead which was threatened
merely by her size. Jason got a kick out of towering over her. There were only
a few adults to which this applied. Within a few years, Jason would be eye to
eye with his tallest teachers and instructors. That day could not come soon
enough.
As they approached the tiny room at the end of the hall, amusement tickled a laugh at the back of Jason’s throat. It did not escape but he could not help but smile. When the door failed to open more than a few inches Dr. Chin threw her sholder into it and nearly bludgeoning herself with it ricochet. The balk she let out was both endeering and rediculous as her competence took a nose dive.
“Come this way.” Jason said, tipped his head and started down the hall.
Her sigh of annoyance was less than subtle. All of her funny little noises were in stark contrast to her no nonsense persona.
Down the hallway of shiny floors and glass cabins there was a massive entrance to their right. Above the expansive opening, highly polished gold letters read Tally Library. Dr. Chin slowed as she took in the sign.
Once inside, they immediately went to the left where doors to small empty conference rooms lined the wall. Jason stepped into the first one and flicked on the light. Along its perimeter were boxes of books. Rising behind the stacks was a blocked door. The one Dr. Chin had originally wanted to use. Again a little note of irritation came from the doc.
The far too congested room had an oval table and five over-sized black vinyl chairs. It smelled of stale coffee and fresh ink. Curious, Jason scanned the clutter and spotted a photocopier crammed among the boxes. Dr. Chin waved a delicate hand over the table to indicate that Jason should take a seat. He suspected that this gesture was a way to resume order. She could have it, for the now anyway.
Dr.
Chin proceeded to move two chairs extremely close together and place her soft
brown briefcase in one before sitting in the other. It became abundantly clear
that she had strategically positioned herself at the head of the table where,
ironically, her frame was devoured by the massive furniture. She opened a pair
of silver-framed glasses and set them on the table by her elbow. Once she
re-positioned them three more times, she clasped her hands and looked up
unaware of his scrutiny.
“How have you been, Jason?” She asked with sincerity but aggressive eye contact.
“Good.” He said with growing skepticism. “How are you?”
Even at thirteen, Jason had a flair for charming people to distraction and he was grateful for the opportunity to flaunt his skill and conceal his intention to stall the inevitable.
“I am very well thank-you. What did you do with your summer?” Her voice remained cheerful and casual.
He
was more than happy to procrastinate by entertaining the pleasantries. “Hung
out with friends, went to a few parties, chilled by the pool, you know, not
much.”
She
tilted her head and pushed one side of her mouth into a sardonic smile as if
waiting to hear a specific answer. “No summer job?”
“Nah.”
“Did you do any reading?” She asked moving only her lips.
Jason
lifted his eyebrows and shrugged. “Nope, didn’t do that either.”
“Do you know why we are here?” Dr. Chin tapped the table between them with a tidy fingertip.
“I
can guess.” He chuckled. “I do this every year. You are going to do a bunch of
tests that you will call exercises.” He made air quotes. “You will make notes
and I won’t get to know how I did.”
Nodding,
Dr. Chin began fishing into her briefcase. Booklets and papers were arranged
methodically around the table with precision. Once placed she touched the tops
of each in order.
“You’re
wasting your time.” He knew his warning was pointless. “Don’t take it
personally, Doc but I don’t care about any of this.”
Finally,
she pulled out an aluminum box that intrigued him until he recognized it as an
archaic stopwatch with a large face and two black knobs on the top.
“Really? You’re going to use that thing? Here, why don’t you just use mine?” Laughing, Jason tugged at his extremely rare and new Swatch, preparing to remove it from his wrist for her to use instead.
To
his chagrin, Dr. Chin shook her head and raised a palm to suggest for him not
to bother. “This will be just fine.”
“1965 called, they want their chess timer back.” Jason’s joke was met with a blank stare and he wrangled in his laughter with a choked cough.
If her lack of personality was meant to be intimiating, it was working.
With
one last compulsive touch to the clock and each paper pile, she looked directly
at him and said, “Shall we begin?
Stretching
out, Jason unfolded beneath the table and crossed his ankles. Safety pins lined
the inside of both pant legs, molding the denim to his long athletic frame. It
was the newest style. Everyone was customizing their jeans the same way. The
irony was not lost on Jason. He knew that it fed right into his need to fit in
and was more than a little embarrassed when Dr. Chin seemed to study the
pinched fabric all the way down to his wool socks shoved into black Birkenstock
sandals.
When he threaded his fingers together and tucked them beneath the back of his head Dr. Chin lifted her eyes to his. He stared right back. This game was easy. Jason was confident that he could stare anyone down. When Dr. Chin blinked, satifaction pulled his face into a grin. Then she leaned to one side and crossed her legs. Placing her elbow on the arm of her chair, she perched her chin on her slightly curled fingers. There she sat just looking at him expectantly.
Well, this was awkward. Squirming, Jason’s chair was suddenly slippery and uncomfortable. Neither said a word. Under the weight of her stare, he faltered like an eight-year-old. The good sense he was born with finally lashed out and gripped his insides. His innate need to be liked was threatened. Heat broke out across his cheeks and instinctively Jason began to straighten up. She said not a word, just nodded with patient appreciation. Damn, he lost out to the silent treatment.
The
next ninety minutes were long and humiliating. Pressure was added, thanks to
the boxy timer that sat ominously between them ticking. The needling sound
pecked at his patience and caused his lunch to twist in his stomach. The doctor
was much wiser to his ability to distract and compromise results than any other
before her. In the past, Jason was capable of faking a coughing fit or asking
simple redundant questions to botch the accuracy of the ticking timer that made
him sweat. He did not like to read and despised reading to others. He once had
the Heimlich maneuver painfully performed on him because he had pretended to
choke just before having to read aloud to his entire class.
It was last year actually. Upon receiving the three-page student agreement, the teacher announced that the class would read the handout aloud. Everyone would be assigned to read a paragraph designated by where they sat. The mere word ‘aloud’ blurred Jason’s vision and restricted his breathing.
The desks had been arranged in two ‘u’ shapes; one inside the other. Jason sat in the middle of the outer structure. Feverishly, he counted the kids to his right, hell bent to predetermine his appointed paragraph so that he could rehearse. In a dizzying frenzy, Jason read and reread his part over and over. By the time his heart was no longer thundering against his chest, he had the words nearly committed to memory. Breathing normally and seeing clearly, Jason was finally confident enough to follow along with the rest of the class. He quickly realized that his teacher had unexpectedly gone the opposite way around the outer horseshoe. Ergo, he had memorized the wrong paragraph. Before he knew it, all eyes were on him. He was next to read and the text was foreign to him. The words on the page shimmered and swam. Jason’s heart began to race.
Without
thinking, he threw his body onto the floor and with remarkable believability
began heaving and convulsing. There was mass hysteria throughout the classroom.
Girls were screaming and at least one was crying. He never imagined that he
would take such spontaneous and dramatic measures to dodge reading aloud.
Surprising even himself as he flailed on the floor he had not taken the time to
muster up an exit strategy. It was beyond him to predict that Randy Booker, the
captain of the basketball team and avid Boy Scout, would pick him up like a rag
doll and begin thrusting giant fisted hands into his chest. When Jason was
squeezed and almost impaled by the mammoth embrace from behind, throwing up was
more or less involuntary. Still, this was the preferred outcome. A little vomit
dribble on his shirt and down his chin was still better than reading aloud.
Needless
to say, reading was not his strongest subject by any means. He was, however,
adamant that a true depiction of his abilities would not be evident under such
intense testing and scrutiny. Normally these sessions were a joke; in his mind
they proved nothing. Then, Dr. Chin exchanged the reading cards for ones with
numbers. They too were painfully stressful and nerve-racking for Jason.
“I am going to show you a sequence of numbers now. You will have ten seconds to study it and then, once I place it face down, try to repeat it back to me as best as you can. Okay? Simple enough?” She asked in a slow and clear whisper complete with deliberate condescension.
The
first card she introduced had a three digit number. After ten seconds he
recited the numbers back. For the first time since he had been dragged to these
sessions, Jason realized that each exercise was meant to be progressive. As the
student completed a stage they moved up. Once the student was unable to
complete a stage the exercise was over and the instructor recorded the result.
In the previous reading cases, Jason was only doing activities two and three
times suggesting that he had not completed or moved up very often. Dr. Chin
could not hide her astonishment when she ran out of number cards. The last one
she held up read 1057 8864 2497 5234 1876.
Ten
seconds later Dr. Chin placed the card face down and nodded at Jason who said
“1057 8864 2497 5234 1876”
“Twenty
numbers! Jason! That was a twenty number sequence. You just rhymed it off like
it was your home phone number.” She was genuinely excited by this result.
“Is that good?” He asked, more than a little confused.
It was not like him to have his ego stroked in these sessions and was uncertain how to respond. They usually ended with him feeling dumber than a shoe horn.
“No,
that’s pretty incredible. I have never seen anything like it.” She beamed at
him.
“Well,
words I can’t stand but I have always been good with numbers.” Jason stretched
and stifled a yawn.
“What
do you mean? Like math?” Dr. Chin asked, taking a thoughtful interest in the
new direction of their conversation.
“No.” He said, chuckling at her relentless focus on acedemics. “I mean like, I don’t have to write phone numbers down. I know sports stats and players numbers by heart. I guess I just have a good memory when it comes to numbers that’s all.”
“Oh,
I think it is much more than that.” She said.
“Yah?
Like what?”
“Well,
I cannot say for certain. But I would like to ask you some more questions of a
different nature.” She pulled a notebook out of the pile and placed it in front
of her.
“As
long as I don’t have to read anymore, shoot.”
Opening
the notebook, Dr. Chin then uncapped a fountain pen and put on her glasses for
the first time throughout the session. She was ready to write. Pen poised. Eyes
cast down. “Were you ever injured as a child?” When he did not answer she
restated the question. “Any head injuries, major concussions, extremely high
fevers?”
Heat crept up the back of his neck as a familiar burn scorched through his thoughts. It was just like a suit doling out the tests to want to probe into his past in search of something to blame his messed up perception on. What good would any of this do? Who was this supposed to benefit? Jason felt like an idiot. He almost fell for it, almost let his guard down. As if he could trust Dr. Chin. She was just like the rest; judging him, wanting to research him to find out what was wrong with him. Anger bubbled up and Jason’s grip on the situation steeled.
“What are you getting at Doc?” His said.
She
failed to pick up on his hostility and refused to change course. “Do you
remember ever having a head injury or serious concussion or meningitis?” Dr.
Chin pressed on distracted by pages before her. She flipped through another
book clearly trying to reference something.
Jason
fell silent with smoldering fury. Finally, Dr. Chin pulled her nose from her
notebook annoyed by the delay and met his glare. With a small gasp, it was as
if she had realized she had offended him too late. Or maybe, for the first time
saw Jason as a person not a subject to be studied.
“Are you for real right now?” His temper blazed and he bolted up. “You’re asking me if I was dropped on my head as a baby. If I have brain damage? You are just like the rest of them. I’m outta here.”
“Jason,
I didn’t mean to suggest…”
The sharp jab of propriety stopped him at the door. “Tell me we are done here,” he said the creaking of the knob within his grip.
She nodded sheepishly. .
“By the way, you have a serious case of O.C.D. and the sensitivity of a python -which you might want to work on, especially if you plan on pursuing a career working with kids.”
With that, Jason stormed out of the room. For the briefest of moments he had felt smart, capable, even proud of himself. What was he thinking?
How could Mother Nature do this to me? She thought, catching a glimpse of her own silhouette in the window. A fat drop of condensation streaked down the fog covered glass as the school bus bumped and clambered its way down the road. Nicole Bradley had been dreading the first day of school ever since the hair dresser had given her the worst hair cut known to man. Even the most well balanced adult would be stripped of their self-confidence and forced to face their meager and humble insecurities. For this preteen, this was devastating at a catastrophic level.
Nightmare Hair Cut
It was 1988, and she was going into grade seven. To over compensate for her misgivings, Nicole had strategically over stocked her back to school wardrobe with skirts and dresses in every color and length. Her body had betrayed her over the summer. It seemed a cruel joke that puberty had somehow managed to come calling on every other girl in her class, while confining Nicole to the underdeveloped frame of a fourth grader. Nicole had spent the entire summer beneath an oversized t-shirt in hope of concealing what she did not have. Meanwhile, her friends sported two piece bathing suits and outfits that made it hard not to notice their newly blossomed womanly figures. Her lack thereof, was just as obvious and she was insanely aware. Insecurities rendered her breathless. She nearly drowned in the deep turbulent waters of self-consciousness that held her back from splashing around in just a swim suit. On more occasions than she cared to recall, Nicole had been mistaken for a boy. Such blunders crashed against her with an undertow that continually pulled her self-esteem below the surface.
Gender confusion at a hair salon was probably the most tragic scenario possible for any twelve year old and considerably more prevalent for one desperate to come into her own. Nicole stayed true to her unbearably awkward adolescence and wished for nothing more than to appear older. The thought of looking like a younger boy was so inconceivable that her ego had not even considered it for fear she would short circuit.
“You’ll be beating the girls off with a stick.” The hair dresser said, whisking a handheld mirror around Nicole’s shoulders and neck displaying the back of her newly shaved scalp.
At first, Nicole was optimistic, thinking that she had just got the latest, chic style. Images of Pat Benatar and Annie Lennox flashed in her mind as she bobbed her head trying to convince herself that it was not so bad. The entrance chime rang and Nicole’s chair was left in a slow spin when all came into focus. Everything happened at once. The impact of the hairdresser’s words collided with the horrified expression on her mother’s face . For a moment there was no movement and no sound. The mood in the salon shifted. The proud grin of the hairdresser’s soured the instant she realized her disastrous error. Scrambling to lather her hands with styling gel, the hairdresser vigorously jammed her fingers into Nicole’s hair. Intentionally blocking her client’s view with her own body, the hairdresser was determined to spike and shape the obviously masculine do. It was the eighties; hair was all about height, right? It would be more feminine the higher it was, or so the women at the salon had encouraged.
The tears did not come until after Nicole had sat on the bathroom counter at home. With her feet in the sink, she experimented in the mirror with the little hair she had left. It was a mushroom. That was what they had called it, before she and her mother left the Salon, far from impressed. Nicole’s straight strawberry blonde hair seemed more golden now that her skin was visible beneath the extremely short hair around her ears and in the back. The top was much longer in comparison, all three inches of it. With exaggerated sighs, Nicole was trying to make the best of it until her sister charged into the confined room.
Enter Satan
“This, I have got to see.” Debra pushed open the door and stood with one hand still perched on the knob and the other on her hip. There, she stared at her little sister, unblinking for what seemed like minutes, before bursting into laughter. “Oh my God, she scalped you, like you needed to look more like a boy.” She left just as abruptly as she had entered but not before adding, “Well, you got the whole butch thing down.”
Nicole did not even bother looking back into the mirror before climbing down from the counter. Behind clenched teeth, she swallowed the warm saliva that often gathers when preparing to cry or throw up. Her eyes welled up and threatened to unload heavy streams of tears. Bravely, she walked down the hall and resisted all emotion until she reached her room and closed the door. Crumpling on the floor in a heap, Nicole pressed her back against the wall that separated her from her sister and the rest of the world. There, all alone, she wept in silence.
That was over a week ago. Nicole had been avoiding her friends ever since. She had clearly given up on the notion that her hair would grow out in seven days, though not from lack of trying on her budget and resources. The fact that beer, egg, and leave-in conditioners were not successful growing agent was a lesson she learned the hard way. Of course, both of these disaster remedies had been suggested by Debra, in her typical matter a fact tone. Once she cried tears of frustration, sadness and rotten odor, Nicole finally relented and relied on hope.
Back to School
She was hopeful that by the time school started, she would have grown comfortable with her new look, maybe even create ways to style it to give it flare. Hopefulness would not help that she looked like a confused little boy. All that distinguished her from the boys at school was the sea green pencil skirt she was wearing. Not permitted to wear make-up yet, Nicole hoped that her apparel would be enough to avoid the snickers and head tilts of pity. She glared at her spiky reflection in the window of the bus, again, dreading the first day of school. Fortunately, Nicole remained oblivious to the next crisis that lurked just around the corner.
She was slow to descend the very large steep steps of the school bus. Not only because she was reluctant to face her friends, but she was very careful not to stress the limited slit in her skirt. Distracted by this maneuver, she almost didn’t recognized Lindsay as the girl who grabbed her arm and ushered her from the bus. Stopping only after they reached the sheltered insert of the external gymnasium double doors. The massive steel slabs were set into the red bricked wall of the school. Once out of sight Lindsay’s giant blue eyes searched Nicole’s with wild intent.
“I know, I know. It’s really bad isn’t it?” Nicole plucked at strands of hair sporadically; a nervous impulse which had manifested itself into a complex over the past week.
“What? No. This isn’t about your hair, but now that you mention it, WOW!” Her eyes grew even wider which did not seem possible. A big eyed ‘wow’ from Lindsay Petticomb was never good, more sarcastic. Nicole translated this verbal and facial expression as only best friends can. Lindsay had managed to communicate in an instant that Nicole’s hair was shocking, not a great look, but they could be seen walking around together. This gave Nicole a little solace. “When was the last time you saw Frank Fortelli?” Lindsay asked with an interrogating edge.
“Why, is he here?” Nicole started surveying her surroundings with greater panic than she had anticipated.
“No.” Lindsay returned, holding each letter’s sound as if ready to burst into song.
“Good. He moved to go live with his dad.” Nicole said still looking around Lindsay. Once she realized that scouring the yard was pointless, Nicole’s gaze landed back to Lindsay who was still demanding an answer with her wide eyes. Nicole instantly began to blink. Her eyes were dry and irritated just looking at the strain in her friend’s unwavering stare.
“When did you see him last?” This time her words were slow and serious.
“The last day of school.” Nicole said in the same speed and exaggerated clarity. “When he dumped me!” She qualified this with a confused head shake and returned her speech back to normal. “You know this, you were there with me.”
Lindsay let out a deep breath. “I thought so. I just wanted to check.” She paused and pressed her lips together.
“Lindsay!” The suspense was eating at Nicole.
“I heard something.” She shrugged apologetically, “…something that you are not going to like.”
Frank Fortelli was one of those guys that people just liked saying their entire name. He was never just Frank, it was always Frank Fortelli. He was a boy that Nicole used to go with, whatever that meant at the ripe age of twelve. Nicole had always had a boyfriend from as early as grade two, if you could call them that. It never went beyond school. The inhospitable venues of the country did not encourage preteens to hang out, nor did people live close enough to go just visit one another. Nicole almost never spoke on the phone, and on those rare occasions it was always with Lindsay. When she had gone with Frank Fortelli, her interest in boys was limited to being able to talk to them at school and participate in some of their recess activities. She did recall that Frank Fortelli had attempted to hold her hand at Track and Field, an annual event that Nicole looked forward to every year. It was a big deal to her. As a retired tomboy, Nicole had always liked to consider herself an athlete, although her body and her skill level would disagree. This never stopped her from trying. However, her interest in sport drastically outweighed her interest in boys, explaining why she had ignored the subtle advances from Frank Fortelli.
This momentary flashback of a boy she had barely thought about all summer brought a resolve. His reasons for dumping her had never crossed her mind and now the mystery was no longer. She had turned him down and crushed his fragile ego. An enlightening smirk crept across her face with this sudden realization.
Nicole could recall the last day of school and Frank Fortelli catching up with her and Lindsay just before they stepped on their neighboring buses. She could not remember for certain what he had said but, it was clear that he had dumped her. The memory of hiding crying eyes on her way home made her chuckle.
The Power of a Rumor
The story Lindsay told her was quite different and socially devastating. Nicole’s reputation was undoubtedly scarred for the rest of her adolescence. Even at twelve, this she knew with certainty. While within the shallow depths of the doorway, Nicole remained protected from judgment and ridicule. For the time being, she looked out at the fake friendly faces, ignorant to her arrival and impervious to her truth. Nicole had only a moment to be insecure about that which she had already been prepared. Dealing with a haircut that was sure to grow in seemed a manageable predicament in hind sight.
Her world had just fallen and as it hung there suspended in the morning sun of the first day of school, its future was doomed. A circulated rumor was not her’s to refute. It had a life of its own. It had pulsated and morphed as it breathed off the lips of Nicole’s bored and stagnated peers throughout the summer. No one was interested in the self- exonerating truth. Her name had been whispered about unknowingly for weeks. Although she had never kissed a boy, Nicole was marked as a slut; a groundless label that would bore a permanent imprint on her flesh, her name and her soul like a repulsive tattoo. Unfairly, the boy who branded her had gone leaving only a rumour about him, Nicole and a blue blanket in his wake.
