one-year-old mind.
They’re good memories mostly. Playing with toys I made from cardboard cereal boxes and paper-towel tubes, having tickle fests, lying down for naps together. But then these memories lead to the really bad one, my secret. And, even though it was a mistake and an accident, it’s something that I can’t ever say sorry for … because it’s just too terrible. Shameful. Damning.
Mr. D. gets that far-off look again and he says something strange. He says, “It’s shame that drives us, Shavonne. We are creatures made of shame and guilt.” But even though he says my name, he’s not really talking to me. He slumps into his chair and goes silent.
24
I ’m afraid to go to sleep because I keep having nightmares. I know a trick to keep calm, though: if you draw your knees into your chest and rock, it puts you into a kind of trance that is almost soothing. I don’t know where I learned this. Maybe it’s just something you do when you’re cracking up and nothing else helps. Because I am sick, and not in the sniffling sneezing kind of way. I don’t know what’s happening to me.
I hear the voice of one of my old foster mothers, but I know she’s not here. It says, “Come on, girl. You go in there with Uncle Leon.” She’s desperate. Pleading. Her face is pinched and hollowed-out at the same time, from too much drinking and drugs. And she’s close to crying … or cursing at me. “He’ll give us fifty dollars, Shavonne. I need that money for my medicine.”
I am frozen with fear.
She says, “I’ll buy you some damn toys. Whatever you want.”
The man’s face, hopeful. My legs, like cement. Not my own. I am eleven years old, trying to figure out what’s happening. I know what’s happening, but I don’t want to believe it. Can’t believe it. But it
is
actually happening. And I am acutely aware of what I am losing—what is being taken from me forever.
25
A fter going back and forth about it a hundred times, I bring my “guilt list” to my next session with Delpopolo. I want him to know that I did the assignment … that I really am trying. But there’s no way he’s going to get to see it. No one’s seeing it. I hold it tightly between my thumbs and forefingers, ready to tear it into tiny pieces at the slightest threat.
He points at the paper. “Shavonne, is that your homework assignment?”
“Yes.”
“May I see it?”
Silence. I feel raw, ready to scream out in pain at the lightest touch, like every nerve in my body is on edge. Like this autistic boy I knew when I was at one of the psych hospitals. He could only wear really soft clothes, cotton T-shirts washed in a special detergent. One of the nurses explained that anything coarse would feel like needles tohim. That’s how I feel, but not my skin. Right now my heart feels hypersensitive to any criticism, like a single push or the wrong word could make me cry for days.
“I don’t know if I can do this, Mr. D. Some of the stuff on this list … Can I just go back to my unit?”
He doesn’t say anything for a long time. I think about ways to get out of that office, maybe by getting loud and causing a scene. Cursing and making threats works with most adults, but not Delpopolo. Finally, he speaks.
“How about this. You take out the list and put it in front of you. I won’t look at it. When we’re done we’ll go to the shredder together and destroy it. What do you say?”
I think it must be a trick.
“What’s the point, then? Don’t you need to see it?”
“No. I don’t. Especially if you’re so worried about it. Now take it out and put it in front of you.”
I still think it’s a trick, but I take it out anyway, my curiosity about what the trick might be overcoming my fear for the moment. I open the envelope slowly, carefully, like Charlie did in that movie,
Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory
. Only I know what’s inside and it’s not a golden ticket or an invitation to
They’re good memories mostly. Playing with toys I made from cardboard cereal boxes and paper-towel tubes, having tickle fests, lying down for naps together. But then these memories lead to the really bad one, my secret. And, even though it was a mistake and an accident, it’s something that I can’t ever say sorry for … because it’s just too terrible. Shameful. Damning.
Mr. D. gets that far-off look again and he says something strange. He says, “It’s shame that drives us, Shavonne. We are creatures made of shame and guilt.” But even though he says my name, he’s not really talking to me. He slumps into his chair and goes silent.
24
I ’m afraid to go to sleep because I keep having nightmares. I know a trick to keep calm, though: if you draw your knees into your chest and rock, it puts you into a kind of trance that is almost soothing. I don’t know where I learned this. Maybe it’s just something you do when you’re cracking up and nothing else helps. Because I am sick, and not in the sniffling sneezing kind of way. I don’t know what’s happening to me.
I hear the voice of one of my old foster mothers, but I know she’s not here. It says, “Come on, girl. You go in there with Uncle Leon.” She’s desperate. Pleading. Her face is pinched and hollowed-out at the same time, from too much drinking and drugs. And she’s close to crying … or cursing at me. “He’ll give us fifty dollars, Shavonne. I need that money for my medicine.”
I am frozen with fear.
She says, “I’ll buy you some damn toys. Whatever you want.”
The man’s face, hopeful. My legs, like cement. Not my own. I am eleven years old, trying to figure out what’s happening. I know what’s happening, but I don’t want to believe it. Can’t believe it. But it
is
actually happening. And I am acutely aware of what I am losing—what is being taken from me forever.
25
A fter going back and forth about it a hundred times, I bring my “guilt list” to my next session with Delpopolo. I want him to know that I did the assignment … that I really am trying. But there’s no way he’s going to get to see it. No one’s seeing it. I hold it tightly between my thumbs and forefingers, ready to tear it into tiny pieces at the slightest threat.
He points at the paper. “Shavonne, is that your homework assignment?”
“Yes.”
“May I see it?”
Silence. I feel raw, ready to scream out in pain at the lightest touch, like every nerve in my body is on edge. Like this autistic boy I knew when I was at one of the psych hospitals. He could only wear really soft clothes, cotton T-shirts washed in a special detergent. One of the nurses explained that anything coarse would feel like needles tohim. That’s how I feel, but not my skin. Right now my heart feels hypersensitive to any criticism, like a single push or the wrong word could make me cry for days.
“I don’t know if I can do this, Mr. D. Some of the stuff on this list … Can I just go back to my unit?”
He doesn’t say anything for a long time. I think about ways to get out of that office, maybe by getting loud and causing a scene. Cursing and making threats works with most adults, but not Delpopolo. Finally, he speaks.
“How about this. You take out the list and put it in front of you. I won’t look at it. When we’re done we’ll go to the shredder together and destroy it. What do you say?”
I think it must be a trick.
“What’s the point, then? Don’t you need to see it?”
“No. I don’t. Especially if you’re so worried about it. Now take it out and put it in front of you.”
I still think it’s a trick, but I take it out anyway, my curiosity about what the trick might be overcoming my fear for the moment. I open the envelope slowly, carefully, like Charlie did in that movie,
Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory
. Only I know what’s inside and it’s not a golden ticket or an invitation to
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