A Peek from My Upcoming Book

The click of the office door sounded like an explosion to the young mother who waited quietly beside her husband. She jumped slightly in her chair and glanced toward the doctor who entered, shut the door, and briskly walked to his place behind the cherry wood desk.

He sat and folded his hands on top of the worn ink blotter that covered the rich grain of his desk. . his face; a mask – behind which his answers hid. The silence swallowed the mother’s heart. She held her baby closer.

"Alright Doc. Tell us what’s going on," the father, Ray Anderson asked. His fists were clenched by his sides.

"I am sorry, all the tests lead us to cerebral palsy. "

The mother clutched her baby as the news flashed toward her like a lightning bolt in a dark dream. The clock ticked softly. The office walls seemed to close in around them. And then they were frozen in time. March 21, 1949. A grim faced doctor, an angry father, a desperate mother and a baby.

Ray lurched forward in his chair. "Well, what the hell does that mean? That doesn’t tell me anything. I am an accountant, not a doctor. How long before it goes away? How long before she’s normal? She can’t even roll over yet and all those baby books say she’s supposed to be rolling over by now. All she does is lay there!" Ray’s words burst in the room.

"It doesn’t go away. With therapy and treatment, she may be able to move a little. She’ll never be able to sit up on her own. She’ll pretty much remain a vegetable all her life.

Ray’s eyes bulged from his face as if someone was choking him. "Are you telling me my kid is retarded? That just can’t be Doc! We named her after me, for Christ’s sake! She can’t be retarded."

"Ray, now calm down. With the severity of trauma your daughter’s brain, retardation is a huge possibility, along with damage to her motor skills." The doctor leaned back into his leather chair.

"I can give you the names of some good therapists. Another option is to have her institutionalized. I have a few pamphlets that will help you make the decision.

Myrtle gasped at the word "institutionalized".

I don’t need pamphlets! She’ll grow outta this. Come on, Myrtle. I’m due in the office in half an hour." At that Ray jumped to his feet, grabbed his suit coat off the back of the chair and stomped out the door. Myrtle stood to follow.

"I will be here if you would like to give me a call," the doctor said as Myrtle walked out if the office, the tiny bundle pressed to her breast.

"That doctor doesn’t know a rock from a hole in the ground," Ray said as slammed the door shut. "No kid of mine can be retarded!

"She’s not retarded!"

"Exactly! That’s what I’m trying to say. It’s impossible for my kid to have anything wrong with her." Ray backed out of the parking lot and pressed the accelerator. The car shot into the oncoming traffic.

"I think the doctor might be right, Ray. There is something wrong."

"I think it’s your milk, Myrtle. I think you’re not giving her enough to eat. If she were getting more nourishment, she would have the strength t0 move more."

"Ray! She’s nice and round and pink. There’s nothing wrong with my milk." Myrtle felt a tear escape her eye and blow away in the wind as the car sped along toward the paper mill.

Ray’s face grew red as he slammed his hand down on the steering wheel. "What are you implying Myrtle? That’s it’s my fault?" The tires chirped as they rounded a curve too quickly.

"Ray! Slow down! I didn’t say it was your fault."

"Oh, I know exactly what you mean, my dear. Everything that as ever gone wrong for the past two year has always somehow been my fault. I work my ass off for you. You know damn well that if it wasn’t for me, you’d be walking the streets somewhere. I think you’d better watch your mouth little-miss-8th –grade-education." His words hissed across the seat and bit her like a snake. "We both know who has the brains in this marriage and it ain’t you. If there is anything wrong with Sandra Raye, we both know who’s fault it is."

The speeding car clipped the curb and bounced back into the middle of the road with a jolt.

Myrtle clamped her mouth closed and stared out at the countryside whizzing by. ‘How did this turn into an attack against him?’ Myrtle thought to herself. There was no way to win, no way to make sense of it. She learned the hard way during the past two years. So she did the only thing she could do; she drew into herself and carried her daughter with her.

There was something wrong with her darling baby girl. She knew the doctor was right. The hollow aching place under her rib cage and quiet voice within her was all she needed in order to understand that her baby was faced with a life of trying to prove she was a life. Silent, screaming tears flooded her eyes, spilled down her soft cheeks and dripped from her chin onto the downy pink blanket wrapped tightly around her little one.

As Myrtle gazed at the sleeping child there was a shift in her soul. She brushed away her tears and whispered, ‘As God is my witness I will not cave in. This will not beat me or my little Sandra. Somehow, someway, we will beat this, whatever it is.’

The car came to a screeching halt in front of the paper mill offices. "Be here at 5:30 sharp," Ray said and he slammed the door behind him.