The first time I met her she was six. She averted my gaze and looked around the kitchen before running down the hall and up the stairs. She cried when her parents left and refused to talk to me until it was time to go to bed when she voiced her strong opinions about why she should stay awake.
We spent every Saturday night together and for months, they all went the way the first one did. One night she stole her brother’s Nintendo DS and blamed it on me; there was so much chaos I had to call her parents because she wouldn’t cooperate with me. She pushed every button and the harder I tried to break down her walls, the harder she resisted. Her silence didn’t fool me. She was smart and I was failing her test.
She rarely smiled and laughed even less. She’d lose herself in the television; it seemed her only joy came from the Hannah Montana repeats on the Disney channel. She’d plant herself on the floor, cross-legged, and stare at the TV but sometimes she seemed lost, like she was staring at nothing.
Every night before bed we battled to get her through her bedtime routine. Teeth brushed, inhaler, anti-depressant, sleeping pill. The dose on her anti-depressant fluctuated; occasionally new pills were added and old ones were taken away.
She was acutely aware she wasn’t normal and the uncertainty that came with that caused her to be insecure and riddled with self-doubt. For as long as she could remember she had heard her mother on the phone with doctors about her behavior or whispering in the living room after she’d gone to bed about her latest diagnosis. Reactive Attachment Disorder, Asperger’s, Borderline Personality Disorder. She’d been bounced around from therapist to therapist, never spending enough time with one to make any progress. At school she had no friends. Her only playmate was the two year old boy who lived next door who she bossed around.
Six months later, she still refused to make eye contact with me and a flood of happiness overcame me when she grabbed my hand one day and asked me to go outside with her. It was freezing cold and drizzly but I agreed. We hooked the dog up to the runner and watched him prance around. She played on the swings and laughed when the dog went to the bathroom. As she played, I led an easy conversation about her favorite things, school, and her brothers. I had finally broken through.
She didn’t talk to me the next time I babysat. Instead, she threw a temper tantrum when I asked her to eat and told me I had a bubble butt. For the first time she looked me dead in the eye, her glare so intense I turned my head. She pretended she didn’t know my name and said she liked her other babysitter better. Another test.
The push and pull went on for years. In the beginning she was surprised when I came back, not understanding how she could be so horrible and still be forgiven. She eventually learned the art of apology and over time, she learned guilt. Most importantly, she learned how to trust, not fully like most children, but enough to show real emotion and laugh.
She’s eleven now and every time I see her, she gives me a big hug and a bigger smile. I still don’t know what’s wrong with her and that’s how I like it. The only thing I need to know, and I know it without a doubt, is that she will continue to thrive. Her story’s just begun.
Here's a case where the demands of the prompt ultimately work against the writing.
ReplyDeleteJust as writing, this would be more powerful if the last two grafs were dropped--they are explanation, the working out of the demands of the prompt, but aren't vignettes.
So, as I say, I'd drop the last two grafs and in their place leave this:
She’s eleven now and every time I see her, she gives me a big hug and a bigger smile. I still don’t know what’s wrong with her and that’s how I like it.The only thing I need to know, and I know it without a doubt, is that her story’s just begun.
I see what you mean, done!
ReplyDelete