The Tiger's Child (23 page)

“I get to thinking a lot about my mom,” she said softly. A pause. “That’s your fault, too. Remember that last conversation we had? In the car? When for all that time I had you and her mixed up?”

I nodded.

“Well, I’ve been thinking and thinking … trying to pull the two of you apart, I guess. I don’t know where I got the thing with you.
You
didn’t abandon me. You were just my teacher. Only doing what teachers do. I was just being stupid, I think. Trying to survive.”

“How do you mean?” I asked.

Sheila shrugged. “I dunno. By not thinking about those years. By forgetting them. ‘Cause that’s what I did. I forgot everything. I mean, I
remember
forgetting. It was a conscious thing. I’d move on to somewhere new, like to a new foster home, or like back with my dad, and I’d think to myself, ‘I’m going to start all over now.’ And then I’d, like, go into my new school and stuff and people would ask me about my life before and I’d just say, ‘I don’t remember about it.’ And really quickly, that’d be true. It’s like I’d get reborn each time and all that went before was in some former life. Almost like it wasn’t me.”

“Did that help you not think of your mother?” I asked.

“Yeah. And not think of you. And not think of Miss McGuire, ’cause I was really happy in her class too. Because I didn’t want to remember being too happy. I didn’t want to think about those times, because I’d cry. Remembering bad things never bothers me. I think, ‘Well, that’s shit.’ And that’s all. But remembering being happy just guts me. So every time I’d do it, I’d just say, ‘
No
, don’t do that.’ And pretty soon it was gone.”

I looked at her. She raised her head, glanced at me and then looked back at her hands. “Then you
came mucking about. You really aren’t one to leave things well enough alone, you know that?” she said. The tone was affectionate and she allowed a faint grin, but I knew there was truth in the words.

“You wish I’d left well enough alone?” I asked.

A long, pensive pause followed, with Sheila picking intently at her thumbnail, then finally she gave a slow shrug. “I dunno. I think my life would have been a lot easier if you had. One way or another, you’ve given me a lot of grief over the years, but …” She looked over at me. “The fact is, my life would have been a lot easier if practically everybody I’ve ever known had stayed out of it—my mother, my father, this place, the foster homes, Social Services. So you’re no exception.”

I smiled. This caused Sheila to smile back. “You don’t mind me saying that about you?” she asked.

“No. It’s probably true.”

A silence came then. Sheila lay back on her bed and folded her hands behind her head. Staring upward, she regarded the ceiling for several moments. I turned to study Angel’s rock posters. Most of them were of artists I’d never heard of.

“I think so much about my mom now,” Sheila said softly. “I mean, about where she is and things. What she’s doing. I don’t even know her, Torey.”

“Putting it down on paper was a good idea, I think,” I said.

“I try to figure out why she did what she did when she left me on that highway. Maybe she didn’t mean to. Maybe it was some sort of accident, like, perhaps the door handle came undone.
Maybe I fell out of the car.” Still regarding the ceiling, Sheila’s expression had grown inward. “Maybe if she knew I was all right, that I wanted to see her …”

Not quite sure how to respond, I remained silent. Sheila finally looked over. “I’m not sending you those letters because I think
you’re
my mom.”

“No, I know that.”

“I’m done thinking that. I just sent them ’cause … well, they’re
letters.
They only mean something if they’re sent.”

“I understand and I’m glad to get them.”

“Keep them for me, would you?” she asked. “Because someday, I’m going to find her and I’m going to give them to her. I want her to know me, to know how I’ve been feeling all these years. That’s what I’ve decided. When I get out of here, I’m going to find my mother.”

Dear Mom,

Do you know how unhappy I’ve been? Do you know what kind of life I’ve had? Why did you do this to me? I lay at night thinking about it, trying to figure out why I wasn’t good enough for you, but do you know what it was like, being left behind?

Sheila concerned me greatly. Finding her isolated and depressed, I worried that suicide might easily loom up again as a possible solution. Moreover, her needs didn’t seem to be well recognized by the group-home personnel. Like most such institutions, they were understaffed and overstretched. The staff turnover rate, in particular, was atrocious. Most of the care workers were poorly trained part-timers on minimum wage, who came
and went on an almost weekly basis, which disallowed relationships of any depth to develop with the children. Among the resident staff, only Jane Timmons and her two deputies were specifically trained to work with disturbed children, and of them, only one had worked at the ranch for more than two years. Jane herself had been there only a little longer than Sheila.

This alone would have been cause for concern in Sheila’s case, because none of the adults had been around her long enough to develop a meaningful relationship with her, but the strict Skinnerian approach used to control the children and bring about changed behavior seemed particularly inappropriate for Sheila. To begin with, it encouraged detached, impersonal contact between staff and children. Moreover, Sheila had the sort of personality that did not find it easy to accept coercion, which was how she interpreted the point system, and she was quick to dig herself in. This led, ipso facto, to prolonged isolation.

Unfortunately, I was not in a good position to do much, as I was not seeing her in a professional capacity. Jane Timmons did not know this and it seemed judicious not to enlighten her, which I didn’t; however, I knew I’d better not overstep too much. Thus I confined myself to announcing my visits to Jane rather than requesting them, so as to ensure I could see Sheila when I wanted. That, and occasionally “conferencing” with Jane. I knew she would expect me, as a professional, to want to hear
about Sheila’s life at the ranch, and as I did, I took advantage of the opportunity.

When possible, I came out to see Sheila each Saturday afternoon. It was a fair drive from the city, but quite a pleasant one, and often Hugh and I would make it together. He’d bring his fishing gear along and would disappear off down the river for an hour or two while I talked to Sheila. Thus passed much of the rest of the summer.

Jane Timmons painted a rather bleak picture of Sheila’s social behavior. I think I had already surmised that Sheila was no social butterfly. This had occurred to me clear back during the summer when she was working with Jeff and me, because there was never, ever any mention of friends, either male or female. I had never pressured Sheila on this issue, partly because I was not in a good position to do anything constructive about it, and partly because I felt her IQ interfered to some degree with normal peer relationships. This would be a difficult area to deal with, particularly in Sheila’s circumstances, and I had ended up feeling that time and maturity would probably be the best solutions.

“Say what?” Jane asked. “What was that? Superior IQ?”

“Yes, you know.”

“No, I don’t know. What IQ?” she asked.

Shock hit me. All that effort my colleagues and I had gone through the year Sheila was six to confirm her extraordinary giftedness, and it wasn’t in her records? “Sheila has an IQ over a hundred eighty,” I said.

“Say
what
?” Jane’s eyes widened. “One hundred eighty? You must be joking.”

“You have no record of it?”

“
One hundred eighty
? Sheila Renstad?
Our
Sheila Renstad? You’re kidding, aren’t you? Who told you?”

“I was there myself,” I said. “I know. I was working with her then, when the testing was done.”

Jane fell back in her chair. “Boy, nobody ever said anything about this to me.”

Filled with resentment at a system that treated lives with such appalling offhandedness, I went on down the hall with Holly, who unlocked the doors for me. Sheila, as always, was alone in her room.

“We’ve got to get you out of here,” I said.

“You’re telling me.”

“No, I mean it, Sheila. This is no place for you. Why are you even here? You haven’t committed any offenses. Why are
you
locked up? It’s your dad who’s supposed to be in prison.”

Sitting cross-legged on her bed, she looked up at me. “Yeah, well, welcome to my world.”

I pulled out the chair from the desk and sat down. A silence came then, sapping my sudden spurt of anger.

“What you get used to after a while, Torey, is that this is just the way it is. There’s no use fighting it.”

“I can’t accept that,” I said.

“I can. I’ve had to.”

Dear Mom,

What’s Jimmie doing now? He’s probably taller than me these days. I was figuring it out and he’d be at least fourteen. I can’t remember exactly any more if he was two years younger than me, or was it even less? Was it like eighteen months? I keep thinking about that, trying to remember. It’s weird, knowing you’ve forgotten about your own brother.

Jane Timmons had wanted me to take up the issue of Sheila’s asocial behavior with her, and it was an issue that no doubt wanted exploring, but not that afternoon. For these few hours at least, I wanted Sheila to feel she had control, so we tended to go as she led.

Gloom hung over her that afternoon, as it had on so many others. She lay back on her bed and stared up at the ceiling. I suggested perhaps we could go for a walk, but Sheila vetoed that. She wasn’t allowed off the grounds and she could see no point in making a circuit of the barbed-wire fence.

“What would you
like
to do?” I asked at last, when the silence had grown so heavy it threatened to squash me.

“Nothing, really.”

There was a quiet pause. She was still lying on the bed, but she brought one hand up to her forehead.

“Well …” She paused again, her fingers probing along her hairline. “Remember back when I was in your class?”

“Yes.”

“Remember how you always did my hair? I used to love that so much, the way you used to brush it and put it in styles.” She glanced over. “Do you … I mean, if I gave you … Well, it sounds stupid, but would you fix my hair for me?”

“Yeah, I suppose.”

Sheila rose up from the bed and went to the dresser to get her hairbrush. Pausing in front of the small mirror, she gave her hair a few yanks with it and grimaced at her image. “If we got scissors, could you cut it for me?”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” I said. “I’m not much of a hairdresser.”

She held out the brush to me. “I want to cut off these ends. Please, Torey? I’m fed up like I am.”

Gently, I started to work the brush, then the comb, through her hair. It was quite a mess, what with all the bleaching and dying done over the years. Borrowing scissors from Jane’s desk, I endeavored to do what Sheila asked of me. I trimmed away the last of the permanent and tried to do in as much of the dyed area as well. This brought her hair almost up to her shoulders in a not very professional blunt cut. Then I just brushed.

Sheila clearly enjoyed my activities very much and it occurred to me as I worked that, given her isolation at the ranch, it had probably been a fair length of time since anyone had touched her. This thought surprised me, but the more I considered it,
the more I realized it was most likely true. Indeed, the thought crossed my mind that Sheila had probably spent most of her young life with little positive physical contact.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” I asked.

“Me? Here? No way.”

“Have you ever had a boyfriend?”

She didn’t respond right away. She had her back to me, because I was still brushing her hair, so I couldn’t see her expression, but there was a sense of hesitancy. “No,” she finally said.

“Do you want one?” I asked. “Do you like boys?”

“Do you mean, am I a lez?” she asked, pulling away from me and turning. She made a face. “Just because I don’t have a boyfriend, you don’t have to think that of me.” She jerked right back from me. “You’re probably thinking now that’s why I wanted you to brush my hair. Shit. Give it here. Gimme my brush back.”

“Whoa, that’s not what I said. And so what, anyhow? I wouldn’t care. If I didn’t care about Jeff and his preferences, I wouldn’t care about you and yours. That’s a personal thing, Sheila. I was just asking.”

“Yeah, why? What business is it of yours, if I’ve got boyfriends or not? I don’t go asking you about what you’re up to, do I?” she responded tetchily.

“Okay, okay. Sorry,” I said.

“Hmmph,” Sheila snorted and climbed back onto her bed. “Jane put you up to it, didn’t she? Jane is so nosy.”

“Okay. Sorry.”

Silence. Sheila stared at the hairbrush in her hand. Bringing it up, she brushed through her hair on one side, feeling the ends I’d cut. The silence lingered, growing sad as it lengthened. I thought for a moment she was going to cry.

“No, I don’t have a boyfriend,” she said softly. “And no, I’ve never had one. I like boys. I liked Jeff. I thought he was a real dude and …” A pause. “But all it ever comes down to is fucking, Torey. And I’ve seen too many dicks already.”

“It can be a little more than that, Sheil.”

“I can’t have children. Did you know that? After what my uncle did that time. You remember? It was when I was in your class. I can’t have babies. So, what other reason would there be?” she asked.

Uncertain what to say, I just sat.

“What I’d like is someone just to cuddle me. Know what I mean? Someone who’d put his arms around me without expecting anything more in return, but I don’t think I’ll get that. So, I’ve just decided I’ll have nothing at all.”

Dear Mom,

I read in the papers this week where they found someone who’d got murdered 25 years ago and no one had ever known she was missing. Everyone just said she went away and nobody ever bothered looking for her. They thought she didn’t want to come back. I get so worried that something like this has happened to you. I want to find you. I want
to talk to you and know you’re okay. I want to make sure that isn’t why you never came back.

When I came the following Saturday, I brought Sheila hair-care items I’d picked up at the drugstore. They were nothing much: a jar of deep conditioner, some styling mousse and a blue headband to keep her half-grown-out bangs out of her eyes. She greeted these gifts with delight.

“Wow! This is great!” She ripped apart the bag rather than opening it and lifted up the headband, shoving it into her hair. “I always wanted to wear one of these. Because I had bangs, it never made sense for me to have one, so I never got one. But this is great. Why’d you do it?”

I shrugged. “Thought you’d like it.”

“Yeah, I do. Thanks.”

A minute or two passed while Sheila inspected the items more carefully. She unscrewed the lid to the conditioner, fingered it, put the lid back on and then read the directions. “They’re probably never going to let me use this stuff here. They make you turn in everything. I reckon they think you’re going to smoke it or something. God knows.”

I sat down on Angel’s bed. She had at least two dozen small stuffed toys lined up against the pillow and my weight on the bed dislodged several. I leaned over and tried to rearrange them.

“I found out when my dad’s getting parole. On October twenty-eighth,” Sheila said.

“What do you think of that?”

She shrugged. Turning the mousse container over, she sprayed some out onto her hand, lifted it up and smelled it, then squished the foam between her two palms.

“Where’s he going? Will he have a job?” I asked.

“He’s going back to Broadview. He’s got friends in Broadview. See, that’s where he grew up. That’s where Grandma used to live when she was alive.” She rubbed the mousse into her hair.

This was the first I’d heard Sheila mention any other family members. I knew there were others, including her father’s brother, Jerry, who had so viciously molested Sheila when she was six. However, Sheila rarely ever spoke of anyone outside her very immediate family.

“Well, that’s good news anyway,” I said. “It means you can leave here.”

Curling her lip, Sheila conveyed a feeling of disgruntled uncertainty. “I dunno. I’m not sure I want to go back with my dad. I mean, it’s been about a million times now that he’s said he’s going to stop taking the stuff and he doesn’t do it. I doubt he will this time either and I’m so fed up with getting stuck in these shitholes.”

I didn’t say anything.

She looked over briefly. “Know what I’m thinking of doing? Going to find my mom. Seeing if I can live with her.”

“How would you do that?”

“Well, don’t tell anybody”—Sheila glanced around furtively, as if expecting to be overheard—“but I’ve been saving up my money,’cause my dad
sends me some every once in a while. And last time when I was in town, I went in the library and I got the address of a newspaper in California. I sent them some money to take out an ad. An ad saying who I was and that I was looking for my mother.”