The Tiger's Child Read online

  “No, you’re all right. I know exactly where you’re at. Just keep driving this way,” she said confidently. So I did.

  Another fifteen minutes and I hit open country. I knew I was irredeemably lost and knew I wasn’t going to right myself without taking drastic action, probably in the form of stopping and digging out the road map. I pulled the car over into a gateway to a field.

  “What are you doing?” Sheila asked in surprise.

  Reaching my arm over the backseat, I groped for my road atlas.

  “Looking for the map. I’m lost.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “We’re lost.”

  “No, we’re not. I’ve been out here millions of times.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “Yeah, I have,” she said. “I used to be in a children’s home near here. Just down that road over there. I know exactly where we are.”

  “So, where are we then?” I asked.

  “Well, here, of course.”

  “But where’s here?”

  Sheila looked out the window.

  “Tell me. Where are we?”

  “Don’t get so bitchy.”

  “You don’t know either, do you?” I said. “We are lost.”

  Unexpectedly, Sheila smiled. It was a beguiling smile. “I’m always lost,” she said cheerfully. “I’ve gotten used to it.”

  I tugged the atlas over into the front seat and opened it. Locating us on the map, I discovered where I had turned wrong and figured out what I would need to do when eventually we headed back to Broadview. “Okay. I’m happy now,” I said, closing the book. I started the engine.

  “You’re really a control freak, aren’t you?” Sheila said. “I never realized that about you before.”

  “Not really. It’s just I feel uncomfortable when I’m disoriented.”

  “Ah, not only a control freak, a defensive control freak.”

  If she wanted to go in this direction, I thought, well and good, we’d go. So we took off down a minor highway in a direction I’d never been before. The better part of an hour raced past, along with the scenery.

  It was a pleasant drive. Sheila talked, launching into a most amazing conversation about Julius Caesar. She had read his account of the Gallic wars in Latin class and this caught her fancy, particularly his descriptions of the native Celts in Gaul. I had done Caesar myself when I had taken Latin in high school, but in those days I had been more interested to see if I could get good grades without having to read the assignments, rather than find out what the books actually said. Consequently, I had emerged from school clever but culturally illiterate and had spent most of my adult life catching up. I hadn’t managed to work myself around to Caesar yet in Latin or English, so for most of the conversation I just listened, which was probably no bad thing.

  Passing through a small town, Sheila spotted a bowling alley. “Oh, look, there! Could we stop and play a game? I love bowling.”

  So we went in and had three games. Afterward, I bought us Cokes in the bar. “What about pizza?” Sheila asked. “You said we could get pizza.”

  “I’m thinking we might be better going back toward Broadview. We’re quite a ways out and it’s going to take a good hour and a half to get back. I’d probably find my way back better if it weren’t pitch dark.”

  “God, Torey, do you get lost a lot or something? You are really hung up on it.”

  “I’m driving, that’s why.”

  “So, relax. We’re okay. And let’s eat around here. It’s late and I’m starving.”

  “I haven’t seen a pizza place,” I replied.

  “Well, let’s just keep driving.”

  I was hungry too and finding myself in a not particularly good mood. The day wasn’t working out quite as I had planned. We had wandered from one thing to another, with none of it being very special. I became aware of wanting to impress Sheila. I wanted to win her over.

  “There! There!” Sheila called out, interrupting my thoughts. “There’s a pizza place.”

  Sure enough, there was. And like the rest of the day, it was nothing special. I thought of the old days and how my boyfriend Chad and I had taken Sheila out for her very first pizza after the hearing that had kept Sheila out of the state hospital. The place we went into now had none of the jazz-piano atmosphere of that pizzeria; this was just a branch of one of the faceless pizza chains found everywhere.

  Too hungry to care, I stopped there and we went in. Placing our order at the counter, we then located a quiet table in the corner. Sheila pulled off her baseball cap, letting her long, crinkled orange hair spill down over her shoulders, and she sat down.

  “I thought you might like to see some pictures from our class,” I said, opening my handbag, “so I dug some out.”

  “Like, cool. Let’s see.”

  “They’re from that picnic we had on the last day. We went over to the park. Do you remember that park? It had that duck pond and the little stream.”

  Taking the photographs from me, Sheila bent over them, studying the faces. “Who’s this kid?”

  “Emilio.”

  “What’s wrong with him? Is he handicapped?”

  “He’s blind,” I said.

  “Oh, yeah, the blind one. What did you call him in the book?”

  “Guillermo.”

  “Oh, yeah, I know who you’re talking about now.”

  Tongue protruding slightly between her lips, Sheila remained intent on the photos. “I think I remember that park,” she said slowly. “Did it have trees that bloomed or something? They had a really sweet scent? Because I seem to remember that.”

  “Yes. The locust trees.”

  “Who are these girls?” she asked, handing over one of the pictures.

  “Don’t you recognize her? In the middle? That’s you. That’s Sarah and that’s Tyler, but that there is you.”

  “Really? God, is that me? Shit.” She craned forward to study it more closely in the dim light. “Shit. Did I really look like that?” She looked up in amazement. “My dad doesn’t have any pictures of me when I was little …”

  My heart sank. She didn’t even remember herself. Watching her as she bent back over the photos, I felt so lonely. What was I doing here with this punky-looking adolescent? This wasn’t Sheila. This was just some kid.

  The pizza came just in time. We had ordered a huge one, loaded with everything save the proverbial kitchen sink, and we both tucked in enthusiastically. For several moments our attention was focused on the food.

  “I’ve had so much fun today,” Sheila said as she maneuvered most of a full slice of pizza into her mouth. “You know, I think it’s brilliant that you live so close by now.”

  “Good, I’m glad.”

  “It’s just like the old times, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” I said, probably not too convincingly.

  Sheila’s expression grew rather sheepish. “I’m sorry I don’t remember more about when I was in your class.”

  “Well, you were little.”

  “Yeah, but I can tell I’m, like, a real disappointment to you.”

  “Of course not!” I said a little too heartily. “You were very young when we were last together and nobody remembers much from that age.”

  “But you want me to, don’t you?”

  “Yes, if I’m honest, I suppose I do, but just because it was a meaningful year for me and it was you who made it meaningful.”

  This disarmed her. She smiled. “Really?”

  “Yes, really.”

  “You liked working with little kids, didn’t you?” she said.

  I nodded. “I still do.”

  “It showed.”

  Silence came then and we went back to our food. Then Sheila looked up.

  “Can I ask you something, Tor? It’s from the book.”

  “All right.”

  “How come you didn’t marry that guy Chad?” she asked.

  “I was too young. I wasn’t ready,” I said. “If I had, it wouldn’
t have worked out.”

  Pensive over her pizza, Sheila picked at it, ferreting out the olives and eating them with her fingers. “Too bad,” she said. “It would have made for a brilliant ending to your book.”

  “Probably, but this was real life.”

  “Real life never follows the script, that’s the problem,” she replied. “You and him getting married and adopting the little girl. That’s how every single person who reads it is going to want it to come out.”

  “Yes, I know, but it isn’t how it did come out.”

  “Yeah, I know.” She smiled faintly. “But you know, his eldest daughter? The one called Sheila? Well, that’s right. She should be called Sheila, but by rights, she should have been me.”

  Chapter 11

  The summer program at the clinic had been my idea. I had always felt there was a better chance of effecting change when I was with a child several hours a day, day in, day out, rather than in just one or two hourly sessions, which was one of my original reasons for choosing teaching over psychology as a career. This was borne out to me at the clinic, which was the first place I’d worked that stuck so strictly to the fifty-minute “psychiatric hour.” I felt there must be some other way.

  My office partner, Jeff, was intrigued with the idea of working with children in a different setting from the therapy room; so together we developed the idea of a morning summer-school program to run for eight weeks in June and July. We made plans to use a nearby school that was normally vacant over the summer, and from the clinic client list, we began to handpick the children we felt would benefit most. Because of the experimental nature, we decided to keep the number modest. It was just Jeff and I supervising, and I thought it was best to start out with something I knew we could keep in control. Thus, we settled on having eight.

  In the group, three of the children were severely handicapped. Joshua, five, and Jessie, six, were both autistic and couldn’t speak, and Violet, eight, was labeled a childhood schizophrenic. Of the five remaining, there were two girls, Kayleigh, a five-year-old who persistently refused to speak in group settings, and Tamara, eight, a startlingly beautiful girl with dark, exotic features, who suffered from depression and bouts of self-mutilation. Of the three boys, there was David, a bright, beguiling six-year-old arsonist, Alejo, a seven-year-old Colombian boy who had been adopted at four by American parents, and a six-year-old tornado named Mikey.

  Experience had long since taught me that the higher the adult-to-child ratio, the more effective a program generally is. I didn’t want a one-to-one situation, as I felt this would destroy the benefits of the group, but I felt we needed enough adults in charge to minimize the chance of any given situation degenerating into total chaos.

  Jeff took umbrage at the idea that we couldn’t handle eight children between us. He pointed out that he was, after all, a fully qualified doctor, ready to sit for his final board exams in child psychiatry, and well on his way to certification as a psychoanalyst. I pointed out in turn that this setting required rather different skills. Over the course of the three hours each day that the children were with us, they would need not only therapy, but entertainment, exercise, refereeing and nurturing, to say nothing of Band-Aids, drinks, snacks and taking to the toilet. This was more than two adults could sanely do, if we wanted to accomplish something more than baby-sitting.

  Thus, together we approached Dr. Rosenthal to fund us more staff for the project. He agreed to do the best he could. As a result, we gained Miriam, a former teacher. She was an older woman, lively and decisive, with silvery hair and an enviable figure. I liked her instantly. She had a sensible, down-to-earth approach, but with that touch of class I admired but didn’t possess myself. Yet, even with Miriam added to our staff, I was still eager for more help. With such young, handicapped children, we didn’t need many expensive, highly trained professionals. We just needed hands, real hands, plain and simple.

  I was editing One Child during the period when Jeff and I were setting up the summer-school program, and the contrast of reading about my situation with Sheila’s class in comparison to the luxury I was currently working in struck me dramatically. There were eight children then, every bit as severely handicapped, and what did we have but a young, fairly inexperienced teacher, an ex-migrant worker without a high school diploma and a junior high student. Junior high student. Junior high student!

  Sheila! Of course.

  This seemed an ideal solution. Old enough to be responsible, yet young enough to be flexible and cooperative, Sheila was at an age to be very useful in a setting like this. In return, it would give her the chance to spend the summer in a structured, stimulating environment with supportive adults. Best of all, it would allow the two of us to spend time together in a natural way. I wanted to get to know Sheila again. The child I had loved so much had to be somewhere in that gangly adolescent. I wanted the chance to seek her out.

  Sheila was delighted with this proposition. She had had no work lined up for the summer and even when I explained that the pay would be very small indeed, covering not much more than her bus fare and lunch, she remained enthusiastic.

  Jeff didn’t have a chance to meet Sheila before the first day of the summer program. We had discussed the need for an extra pair of hands and he had been pleased that I could come up with a volunteer so easily. I gave him a brief summary of Sheila’s background and my previous relationship with her, but I didn’t go into great detail, as it seemed inappropriate. If anything had become obvious to me over the previous weeks, it was that Sheila had moved on from her former self; and just as I would not have expected an employer to take into account what I had done when I was six, I didn’t feel it was necessary to discuss her background.

  Privately, I was looking forward to introducing Sheila to Jeff. In the summer-school program, Sheila’d find herself surrounded by adults who were all intellectually formidable, but among us only Jeff was probably Sheila’s equal. I doubted she had previously encountered another person of her ability, and as a consequence, I was keen to acquaint them. Both showed similar personalities, given to quirky, somewhat unpredictable behavior, and both emanated that aura of isolation so common to highly gifted individuals. I was tickled to think of the possibilities in bringing them together.

  On the first day, Sheila arrived forty-five minutes early. What she was wearing looked—honest to God—like thin white long johns. Over this she had layered a pale-colored, flower-sprigged shift. To complete the outfit, she’d laced on heavy, black work boots more befitting of a lumberjack. And, of course, on her head was the ever-present Cubs baseball hat.

  I gaped. I’m embarrassed to admit it, I, who has cultivated the ability to disregard the most bizarre of behaviors, but my mouth dropped right open.

  “Like it?” she asked ingenuously.

  God, was I getting old? Was this what teenagers were wearing now and I hadn’t noticed? I was dressed in a pair of Levi’s and a work shirt and thought I was being avant-garde at the clinic. “Well,” I sputtered, “it’s unique.”

  “My dad doesn’t let me wear things I like.”

  “Where did you get it?” I asked.

  “Different places. I got this dress at a rummage sale and I got these down at the Goodwill place,” she said, indicating the longjohn things. “They didn’t cost me much. My boots cost me the most.”

  I found myself startled. The ghost of that six-year-old in her ratty brown T-shirt and outgrown overalls still haunted me. I had been unprepared for this adolescent fashion plate.

  “You don’t mind, do you?” she asked and I realized that for her to ask, she must have read my surprise.

  I shook my head. “No, I don’t mind.” And I suppose I didn’t, really. The fact was, she looked surprisingly good in her long johns and little flowered dress. Weird, yes, but still attractive, if one suspended personal taste and just looked at her. And confident. That’s what really struck me. For the moment, anyway, Sheila was clearly very pleased with who she was.

  Jeff a
rrived shortly afterward. He was carrying a huge box of Pampers. “Yo, catch, Hayden!” he shouted and lofted the box at me. Sheila leaped back in surprise as I lunged to catch it. I set it on the ground.

  “What are those for?” she asked.

  “Help, help! Let me out!” came a little voice from the direction of the box.

  Sheila looked alarmed and I thumped Jeff’s arm. “This is Dr. Tomlinson’s sense of humor.”

  “Jeff to you, sweetheart,” he said and chucked Sheila under the chin. “Like your outfit.”

  Sheila recoiled from his touch.

  I grabbed the box of Pampers and took them into the book closet alongside the room. Sheila followed.

  “Is that your office partner you’re always talking about? That’s Jeff?”

  I nodded and pushed the box up onto a shelf.

  “Yuck.”

  “Oh, he’s all right. Got a weird sense of humor, but he’s good fun. You’ll like him.”

  “Don’t count on it.” She leaned back against the wall. “How come you’ve got those diapers?”

  “Because one little boy isn’t toilet trained yet,” I replied.

  “You’re kidding. You mean he shits in his pants?” she asked.

  I smiled.

  “Oh, gross. You didn’t tell me this. I’m not going to have to change him, am I?”

  “We’ll see.”

  “We won’t see,” she replied. “We shall close our eyes!”

  I laughed.

  The first child to arrive was Violet. She was a large girl for her age, although not really fat, with pallid skin and pale, crumpled hair. Her clinical diagnosis was childhood schizophrenia, manifested by an obsessional interest in ghosts and vampires. She believed all the people around her were either vampires or the victims of vampires, hence, ghosts, and she had much trouble with invisible ghosts talking to her, teasing her and telling her awful things.

  “Shhh,” she said to me, as her mother brought her in. “I saw him in the hallway, the one with the rainbow-colored hair. He had his ghost cat with him.”