The Tiger’s Child and Somebody Else’s Kids 2-in-1 Collection. Torey Hayden
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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 arrived 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.”
“Sheila, could you show Violet where to sit down?” I asked.
“Not going with her!” Violet shrieked. “She’s got fangs!”
Eyes wide, Sheila looked over at me.
“Here, I’ll take her,” said Jeff. She was his client and when she saw a face she recognized, Violet relaxed visibly.
Just then, in whooshed Mikey. Mikey was six, short and stout, and capable of moving at light-speed. This gave him the appearance more of a ball than a boy, rather like the sort used in pinball. Zip! Bang! Whoosh! He careered around the classroom, leaving all of us stunned in his wake. His mother looked only too relieved to be rid of him for the morning.
Next came Kayleigh, my elective mute. In contrast to Violet, Kayleigh was tiny for her age, her small features overpowered by long, thick bangs and a heavy mass of hair. It was in the back of my mind that Kayleigh might be a good child for Sheila to work with individually, as Sheila herself had been electively mute when she had come into my class at six. Moreover, Kayleigh had a sweet, loving nature, which made her easy to like and pleasant to work with. I was keen for Sheila to enjoy the challenge of being with us and longed for her to understand my own attachment to such children; so Kayleigh seemed an ideal choice.
“Sheila, do you suppose you could take Kayleigh over to the table and show her some of our toys?”
Sheila just stared at the girl.
“Kayleigh loves putting puzzles together. Perhaps you could help her do one while we’re waiting for the rest of the children to arrive.”
Uncertainly, Sheila held out her hand. Kayleigh responded with a delighted smile.
Joshua and David arrived together in a car pool driven by Joshua’s father. Of all of our children, Joshua was the most severely handicapped. It was he we had the diapers for. Diagnosed at eighteen months as autistic, Joshua neither spoke