Miss Mary went out, leaving the drawings on the desk. Sunny picked them up. Then they were alone, she and Mr. Dave. Just two bald people talking over their options. In the next room, a small boy with a bright shock of orange hair sticking straight up out of his head was pushing a paintbrush around on a piece of paper, monitored by a blonde in her forties with pigtails.
“Mrs. Mann,” said Mr. Dave, “we would like to work with you here. We can change Bubber’s therapy schedule, take more time for him to be one-on-one with the teachers. But I need you to talk to your doctors and refocus your medications. It’s time.”
Sunny stood up. She could feel her teeth wanting to grind each other into powder.
“Where is my child?” she said.
When Mr. Dave brought Bubber out into the lobby, he was jumping on one leg.
“MOMMY,” he called, and leaped into her arms. “Top came off.”
She squatted down to catch him, and he rubbed his little hand casually over her head. She took the watercolor he had been working on. It was still dripping. She could see a rocket and the labels and words he had tried to form with the too-fat brush, bleeding into each other. “Rocket,” he said, too loud. She squeezed him hard and, as pregnant as she was, she picked him up, and his little backpack, and carried him out of there. She thought to herself,
A week ago, a day ago, with blond waves touching her shoulders and curling around her ears, she would have stopped at the desk, bent over at the waist, arranged another appointment. She would have acquired a different small brown bottle, administered doses, continued to smile and drop off and pick up and accommodate and advance. She would have gone home, would have prompted her gangly husband with the appropriate things to say and do at a cocktail party, dressed him, impressed on him the importance of sticking to the basics. Now, she felt differently about everything. More impatient, more severe. She felt she had been living under clouds, underwater, hearing at low volume, seeing at a distance. Without the wig, what she saw was all very awful. Yes, the whole world. There just wasn’t any point in pretending that it was fine. She felt like shit for talking so harshly to Maxon. She wished for any way that she could take it all back.
8
She tried to see the world as Bubber saw it. Every road sign, billboard, every marker of a store, house, or car, was a grouping of letters and numbers. What did he see in these small collections? Did they jump out at him, letter by letter, like orange butterflies or like speeding bullets? Were they rainbows glimmering or were they strobe lights illuminating his brain? Did they look like harp strings sound? Looking straight at all the letters, everywhere they showed up, could get overwhelming for anyone. She wondered if Bubber would ask to live a different life, if he could. If Bubber would change himself in any way, given the choice. Or if he would come off the pill bottle and be crazyass Bubber who rocks and sings.
A child like Bubber could read like another child could hear, as beautifully and as involuntarily. Everything he read, he remembered. Very simple. Very elegant. It was a strange genetic thing, or it had happened to him when he was a baby. It was curable with pills, or it wasn’t. It was autism, or it was something else that everyone was calling autism. It was nothing ever before seen on Earth, so special, so new. Sunny felt responsible, and sorry, but also secretly she felt dark and proud. Maybe there were no societies for this, and no awareness. Maybe there was no annual fund-raiser. This was a human child with a brain confined in a blue helmet. She would never write another invitation to a silent auction. She would never keep another appointment with a doctor. She wouldn’t be so dumb and hairy as that.
YEARS AGO, WHEN SHE was still without children, Sunny had also been wigless. She hadn’t even considered putting on a wig. It was not the way she was raised, to put wigs on her head. She went through school, through college, living on Earth, without gluing eyelashes onto her face, without sticking on two eyebrows. Her mother said that putting on a wig would be equivalent to wearing a clown suit. In junior high school, when everyone has at least one moment of weakness, she cried and asked for a wig. Her mother asked if she would also like some big red shoes, a squirting flower, and a beeper nose. Would she like a tiny car, a farting pillow, and a yappy dog. She said no. She was a bald high-school valedictorian.
Later, in college, her bald head gave her an idea for an interesting wig that she wanted to make. She began designing wigs for other people. Art wigs, not meant to cover hair loss, or simulate hair. A silver battleship, constructed of foil squares, each a millimeter bigger than its neighbor. A tiger head built with copper wire. A bouquet of fractal flowers. A pi symbol of feathers. Some people called them hats, but to Sunny, they were wigs, and that’s what she called them. She was the bald wigmaker. It was a great thing. She had a show at a college gallery. Her wigs were light and comfortable, but she never wore them. It would be like trying to tickle herself. No one can tickle themselves. It doesn’t work. She went to college for math and art. She married Maxon. Still no wigs. Then one day Maxon had decided they should have a baby.
“The time is right for us to have a baby,” he said.
The two of them sat together on the public beach in Evanston, one soft spring afternoon. A warm breeze ruffled Lake Michigan but did not stir the sand. A perfect day to lie down flat and let your knees relax, let your belly get warm. Sunny wore a mint green bikini. Maxon wore a holey T-shirt and brown cargo shorts, and sat cross- legged next to her. Sunny unfolded herself all the way from one end of the beach towel to the other, her long limbs stretching out and exposing the undersides of their joints. The ties of the bikini made square knots, not bows. Her sunglasses were two big circles, joined at her nose. Above them, the white dome of her bald head rose, shining with sunblock. She had been doing manikin poses, which always made Maxon smile.
“I don’t wanna,” Sunny drawled. “Don’t make me, you mean man.”
“That’s an inappropriate response to my statement. That response corresponds with my asking you to clean out the car,” said Maxon. “In this case, you can’t just not wanna.”
“I don’t wanna do that either. Stop talking about it.”
She reached up and patted his back, rubbing her hand back and forth over the spine where it stuck out in a row of bones.
“It’s time to have a baby,” said Maxon. “I want us to have one. And I think you should listen to me.”
“Imagine me,” said Sunny, tracing an imaginary lump in her belly with both hands, “with a big white hill right here.”
“You have a big white hill right here already,” said Maxon, tapping her on the skull with one poking finger. “Maybe you can gestate the baby in your head.”
Sunny rolled luxuriously onto her belly and exposed her back to the sky. “Can you imagine what kind of freak baby would crawl out of there,” she asked him lazily. “Do you really want to unleash that on the world?”
AT FIRST SUNNY BASED her reluctance on arithmetic. They sat in their apartment in Chicago, rolling around their office in their office chairs. The office was the biggest room in the place, with huge industrial windows all along one side. In it, a dehumidifier hummed and dead plants turned to dust. Maxon brought home plants from time to time, under the impression that house plants were a thing that apartments were supposed to have. Sunny surreptitiously killed them with cleaning products, or encouraged the cat to use them as urinals. Once, she killed a medium-sized orange tree in the den. It took a long time to die, and then it stayed there, dead, for six months. Sunny didn’t like house plants, back then. She thought plants should be outside where the dirt is. Later, she realized that you have to have plants. But this was back then, before that kind of realization started happening to her.
“One plus one equals not three,” said Sunny, rolling back and forth with her heels stuck on the gouged hardwood. “One plus one equals two. You, and me. Two. One plus one equals two.”
“Oh, for goddamn hell, spread your legs, woman,” said Maxon, of course joking. He was using his joking voice. In his hands he had a metal puzzle and he was working it, unworking it, working it, and unworking it.
“I will immediately spread, and I mean wide, if you can show me a system where one plus one equals three.”
“It doesn’t,” said Maxon. “But what about this?”
