The lanky girl watched my progress as I forded the river. Once on the other side, I discovered that she towered over me, a sapling to my shrub.
“Hi,” she piped, “what’s your name?”
“I—er, Riva.”
She gestured airily toward the pandemonium. “Aren’t they such babies? It’s as if they’ve never left home before. I’d be embarrassed to act so silly, wouldn’t you?”
I was impressed. This girl was sophisticated. She said her name was Julie, “But really, my name is Juliana. When I’m a famous singer, I’ll make sure everybody says Juliana. Don’t you think that’s prettier?” She told me she lived in Deer Park. I thought it sounded like an elegant zoo.
Miss Woodbridge called out, “Children! Take your seats!” She introduced us to flash cards. (The letter B has two Bumps! The letter D has only one, that’s how you know it’s Done!) I already knew how to read, so was instantly bored and only snapped to attention when she opened the art cabinets. I managed to impress Julie with my painting of a basket of kittens. It was good to know I had something to offer this friendship.
*1 Rookwood Pottery, founded in Cincinnati in 1880, created much of the art for Condon School. A successful and influential producer of American Arts and Crafts ceramics, including innovative glazes and decorative tiles and murals, the pottery company still exists in Cincinnati today.
*2 When researching this book, I found articles dating back to the 1920s and ’30s that discuss Condon’s pedagogy. Until then, few educators believed in the value of teaching crippled children to be part of the world. There’s very little written about Condon School. It was mainstreamed with another school, Roselawn, becoming Roselawn Condon School in the 1980s.
CHAPTER 8
Heidi
We held our breath as Klara rose to her feet. She teetered, unstable, skirt swinging like a ruffled bell. Her little friend stood sentinel by the wooden wheelchair, urging her on, but braced to catch her if she fell. Klara made her way across the inlaid floor, party shoes scraping the stone. At last, she collapsed into her father’s arms. “Merry Christmas, Papa!”
It’s a miracle! Klara can walk!
Mom and I leaned farther and farther forward. My feet dangled far above the floor while hers stayed planted firmly on the carpet. We nearly fell off the bed as we reveled in our moment of release. It was the WCPO-TV afternoon matinee. We were watching Heidi. Again.
I was only six (and a half, almost), but I had already seen it a bunch of times. Normally, I wanted our whole family to watch movies together. Not only did Mom know everything about every movie in the world, but Dad would even put down his ledgers and papers—a rare event—to watch On the Town or Operation Petticoat. He’d tell funny stories of shore leave during World War II (leaving out the actual war parts).
Today, though, I was happy that it was just Mom and me. (Dougie had started out watching with us, but quickly lost interest. He only liked Heidi for the goats.) Mom had been in Jewish Hospital again, this time for two whole weeks. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Two weeks is a long time if you’re not sure when—or if—your mother is coming home. And Heidi was our special movie.
This 1937 version of Johanna Spyri’s novel cast Shirley Temple as Heidi, the poor Swiss orphan. Heidi’s evil aunt Dete steals Heidi away from the grandfather’s mountain cabin and sells her off as a rich girl’s companion. Klara Sesemann (said rich girl) possesses an array of astonishing frocks, lustrous coils of brunette hair, and a wheelchair so elegant it should have been harnessed to a team of caparisoned horses. But poor Klara. Being rich made her spoiled, being motherless made her timid, and being crippled made her sulky. Luckily, Shirley Temple never met a human disaster she couldn’t fix.
Back on the screen, Herr Sesemann was thanking Heidi for his daughter’s cure. You dear child. You’ve worked a miracle. He gathered Heidi in one arm as Klara sprawled on his lap like an enormous toddler.
My parents’ black-and-white Zenith TV sat on a long mirrored dresser. If I scooted just right, I could watch Mom and the movie at the same time. I saw the reflection of my mother’s wide, slow curves, from the planes of her forehead to the swoop of her rounded chin. I needed to know—did we still have the same mouths? The same dark hair and eyes, a pinch darker than the cola in our cups?
Her fingers spun fine wet wisps onto rollers. She saw me staring, blinked, then reached out a speculative, blue-gelled finger to catch a lock of my hair. Twisted it around to make a ringlet—a very, very Shirley ringlet.
“Did I ever tell you that Gertrude Temple had rules for Shirley’s hair stylists? She insisted that they put her hair into fourteen identical sausage curls. Can you imagine? She knew her daughter’s head that well.” I huffed and batted at her hand, but inside I was so glad Mom was back that she could have styled my hair with Elmer’s glue.
After a minute or two of fuss, she settled back down. Her heavy body pressed the mattress into a valley; I slid down the tufted slope against her hip. She winced.
I’d hurt her. “Rivie, I better take these pills. I’d love another Coke, can you get us some?” Mom didn’t often ask me for stuff, but at eight months pregnant, her belly pinned her down like a giant paperweight. I grabbed her tumbler and poured from the green glass bottle in the fridge, careful not to leave a sticky circle on the countertop. When I came back, the baby was kicking the pale blue nylon of my mother’s gown. Fabric rippled like a wind on a pond.
Second grade
How I hated this baby. This baby was going to kill my mommy.
At least that’s what Grandma Fannie said.
* * *
—
Months earlier, I’d come home from school and walked into one of their screaming arguments. Grandma’s words were sharp as cider vinegar. “For a smart woman, you sure are acting stupid. I heard your doctors tell you not to have this baby. Such narishkeit! You know better than anyone that the mess in your back is serious, Carole. You want to end up paralyzed? What good will it do your other children if this one kills you? Deal with this before it’s too late.”
“I would never, ever do that to a baby! How can you even ask me that?”
Ask her what? What did Grandma want? I hid in my bedroom but their voices leaked through the doors and underneath my pillows and covers. I waited to come out until I heard Grandma’s car pull away. Mom was sitting in the den, a million Kleenexes balled up under the table. She smiled like her lips hurt. “You were so quiet I thought you fell asleep. Tell you what…why don’t we pick out names for the baby?”
I stared at the floor awhile and mumbled, “Donald.” I’d had a crush on freckle-faced Donald ever since the day I met him in kindergarten. More important, a baby named Donald would be a boy. I did not want a perfect little sister who’d have no need of hospitals. Mom said, “That’s a nice name, pussycat. Oh, please don’t cry, I promise, there’s nothing to be afraid of.”