“Come on, Charity. You can do this, sweetheart. Like you do at home all the time,” Mom said, rubbing my back.
“Please do not assist your daughter, Mrs. Wood.” [Burp.]
He pointed to the chair. That was his command to Mom.
He turned back to me. “Jump,” he ordered.
You saw me jumping a minute ago. You know I can jump . . . just not on command.
“Touch your nose.”
How does touching my nose prove anything? It does not show what’s inside my head.
With each failed task, he marked his clipboard. My heart beat faster. My feet begged to run, but he was blocking the door. Nowhere to escape. I was a laboratory rat too dumb to get through its maze.
“She’s actually very coordinated when she plays with her dolls.” Mom sounded desperate now. “She can comb their hair and dress them and put on their tiny socks and shoes.”
The doctor poked and tapped me with his little rubber hammer.
Page 240: Rats have strong teeth that can chew through cinderblock, glass, wire, and lead.
I wish I were a rat so I could chew through these walls.
“She can put together 200-piece puzzles all by herself,” Mom added as the doctor pinged a tuning fork and twirled it around my head.
My head did not turn toward the sound. Failure.
“Draw a circle,” he said, holding out a crayon. [Burp.]
Great. Some days my hands are as coordinated as lobster claws. This was one of those days.
My right hand reached.
Got it.
My fingers gripped the thin cylinder. This was the hardest of all his orders. I thought maybe if I could draw this circle for him then it would cancel out the other failures. This puny crayon, this three-inch stick of bright orange wax could determine my future.
My beating heart knocked on my chest.
Mom had spent hours practicing letters with me. This was just an “O.” The letter “O.” O as in Octopus. An animal so much smarter than anyone could guess by looking at it.
Page 198: Highly intelligent, the octopus can navigate through mazes, open jars, and use coconut shells to create shelters.
He held out a small notepad. Holding on tight with my fist, I lifted the crayon. The orange—burnt sienna, actually—wax touched the page. Mom and Dad held their breath.
A tiny line.
I can do this.
An arc.
Keep going!
Then CRACK.
The sound of the crayon breaking in my grip was like a piano falling from a tall building and smashing onto a concrete sidewalk. I opened my hand and watched the pieces fall in slow motion onto the floor.
Countdown to KETTLE EXPLOSION . . . 3 . . . 2 . . . 1.
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!
My swinging hands struck the doctor’s arm and knocked his clipboard to the floor.
He backed up to the wall as if I were some rabid dog. Dad put his arms around me and held me. He pulled me gently onto his lap and Mom stroked my hair.
“Charity, you’re okay, sweetheart,” she chanted. “You’re okay, you’re okay. We are here with you.”
I sucked in air and puffed it out through my lips.
Suck, puff, suck, puff.
The doctor bent down to pick up his papers. Then he scribbled his diagnosis on the clipboard right in front of me.
Moderate to Severe Intellectual Disability
“Mr. and Mrs. Wood, based on her files and my observations, Charity needs the type of support offered by a residential facility before her outbursts end up hurting herself or others.” He rubbed his arm where I had hit him.
Residential facility? He wanted to take me away from my family? Make me live in an institution?
I breathed harder because I knew he was right. I lived in terror every day that I would hurt myself or someone else. I hoped Mom and Dad were not remembering the times I darted into the street. Or the time I knocked down Gram when she was helping me put on shoes. Or the times I poked, pushed, or grabbed one of my classmates. I was only trying to play with them. I never wanted to hurt anyone.
Suck, puff, suck, puff.
The doctor’s voice sounded grandfatherly now. “I can only imagine how difficult it is for you to give round-the-clock care to a child who can hardly feed or dress herself.”
Mom stared into space.
I could not believe my parents were listening to this Thinker talk about sending me away.
“Believe me, Mrs. Wood, you’ve lasted longer than most parents in your situation. You are only two people. At Pine Valley, we have a regular staff of twelve to supervise the residents, help them participate in recreational activities, and look after their every need.”
Mom’s eyes overflowed and leaked onto my cheek. Dad clasped her hand. The doctor was wearing them down. My worst nightmare was about to come true.
“Fortunately, we have an opening. She can be admitted this afternoon.”
I dug deep into my spirit and begged the universe for help.
Please, God. Please, please, please let me go home with my parents today. I will owe you TIMES GOOGOLPLEX. I will spend my LIFE trying to repay you. Please, please, PLEASE do not let them take me away.
What happened next, I cannot explain.
I had heard stories of kids with no voice who, maybe once every ten years, opened their mouths and uttered a clear and complete sentence.
That’s not what I did.
Reaching deep into my soul, I felt a spark of electricity in my toes. It traveled up my legs to my stomach, my chest, my neck, and at last my lips.
Not a whole sentence.
Just one word, one whispered word escaped.
If anyone had been talking or making noise, my one word would have been lost.
My voice breathed, “No.”
Mom jumped up. “Steve, did you hear it?”
“I’m sure it was a random vocalization,” the doctor said. “Our medical staff can . . .”
Dad bolted up with me still in his arms. “Enough! We’ve heard enough. We are going home now . . . with our daughter.”
I wanted to shout for joy. I saw that leaving me was
