The Things I Want Most by Richard Miniter Page A

different from the others, she had one last thing to say to me before she left home.
    â€œI have this image of what’s going to happen today, and I want to talk to you about it,” she said quietly. “Remember the story of the cat who lived in a mans house in Vermont that had thirteen doors opening on the outside?”
    â€œYeah,” I said, “vaguely Robert Heinlein, I think.”
    â€œYes,” Sue said. “During the winter the cat would go to a door and meow to be let out. The man would open it, and the cat, seeing the cold and snow outside, would walk to another door.”
    â€œRight, I remember now. The cat was always looking for the door into summer.”
    â€œDo you remember what happened?”
    â€œYes,” I said, forcing my memory, “stupid blind persistence won out. The cat kept it up long enough that eventually a door opened and it was summertime outside.”
    â€œRight,” Sue said. “I think these children are the same way. Some children are born into the right season. But others aren’t, so they have to keep stubbornly going from door to door until they find the door into summer, into the place they really want to be.”
    â€œSo?”
    â€œSo,” she said, “when this particular door opens for him, I want it to be really sunny outside.”
    â€œWhew,” I said, “am I that bad?”
    â€œSometimes.”
    Stacked up under the vaulted portico was a sad, tiny pile of boxes and bags. Inside, Mike was patiently sitting on a chair in the reception area, already being ignored by the odd staff member bustling through. After Sue took Mike’s hand and told the receptionist who she was, Kathy came down briefly to say a few polite words, Mike scrawled his name into the log at the reception desk, and then the front door of the children’s home banged shut behind them.
    Done!
    Later, Sue said she stood there a long time staring at Mike’s pathetic collection before she could actually bring herself to put hands on it. She remembered what Joanne had said, that these children rarely had more than what could be quickly bundled into the backseat of a compact car, but she hadn’t really believed it.
    We used to think that our five sons and one daughter hadn’t had much in the way of personal gear. But Mike had only thesneakers he was wearing, a photo album with a couple dozen pictures in it, artwork from school, one stuffed animal, and some clothes.
    â€œMike, pick this up and lets get the hell out of here.”
    Forty-five minutes later I raised my head from a book. There was a noise in the house, a loud voice rocketing from room to room. “I remember this,” Mike was shouting. “I remember this, too”
    When he slammed into the living room, I stood up to say hello with a smile on my face. I remembered Sue’s little story and had even prepared a welcoming speech.
    But before I could get a single word out, Mike whirled around me like a ball swung on a cord and disappeared into the next room.
    So I closed my mouth.
    Sue breezed in, looking harried.
    â€œDid you say hello to Mike?”
    â€œSort of.”
    â€œWell, give me a hand carrying his things in.”
    Liam had the old library for his bedroom then, a very large, light, and airy room with tall windows overlooking the hay meadow in back. It was adjacent to our bedroom, inside our apartment area on the second floor, and since we wanted to keep Mike on the same level with us, Sue and I asked Liam if he could share. “For a little while,” he said.
    Sue had gotten Mike a dresser and a bed, hung a bulletin board up, and bought matching Jurassic Park sheets, quilt, and pillowcases. There was even a big Jurassic Park poster on the wall by his bed and a plastic model of Tyrannosaurus rex sitting on his nightstand.
    â€œI can’t believe I have Jurassic Park sheets,” he was saying when I walked in with his bags. Then he pointedly