But then she disappeared into Jewish Hospital.
And I imagined a baby with a knife inside the red room of my mother’s stomach.
* * *
—
Heidi had diagnosed Klara just by running her hands over her body. Your back feels just like mine! Your legs do, too! I should think you could walk if you wanted to. Why don’t you try? And hey presto! Klara could walk. I wasn’t stupid, I knew that Shirley Temple was Heidi and the Little Princess and Curly Top and Bright Eyes and the Little Colonel. And that Shirley’s movies had been made a long time ago. Still…Shirley Temple really did seem to have magical powers. What if I persuaded her to make a house call?
Mom was in trouble, but so was I. Like Klara, the way I walked was wrong. Both of us were broken dolls in everyone’s eyes. Unlike Klara, I was still waiting to be fixed.
People kept giving me books about little crippled girls. One had illustrations of a polio girl who was put in a full-body cast: from neck to toe, she was one long white slab of plaster. When they cut the cast open, her two sides no longer matched up—but her doctor prescribed ballet lessons, and in no time she was leaping in midair, a fluffy pink tutu like a flower around her waist.
In another book, a little crippled girl learned to ride a pony. She fell off lots of times and got really hurt, but she kept smiling and riding and being tough. And brave. And in no time, she started winning races! And got to throw away her crutches! None of my doctors ever prescribed dance lessons or horseback riding. Maybe I should bring those books to my next checkup—or maybe not, if I didn’t want to spend the next year in a full-length plaster cast.
All the books agreed on one point: all you really needed to get better was willpower. Heidi gave Klara so much willpower that she literally grew a new spine.
* * *
—
By the next commercial break (Dream Whip Dessert Topping! With Country-Fresh Flavor!), I had a plan. I’d get out my Crayolas and make the most incredible drawing anyone had ever seen. I’d draw Heidi’s mountain cabin, with goats dancing all over the roof, sweet white goats with garlands of flowers on their horns, all colored with my favorite crayons: cornflower blue, goldenrod, bittersweet, periwinkle, aquamarine, lavender. I’d even sacrifice my precious gold and silver crayons.
Drawing a picture unsnarled me, made me calm, the way I felt when I reached my hand into the rooms of my metal dollhouse. I figured I’d mail my drawing to Shirley’s/Heidi’s house, then she’d come and lay her small plump hands on my back, and then my mother’s back, and no more hospitals for either of us, ever again, amen.
I was so happy that I hopped off the bed and twirled across the floor, arms raised in arcs like the ballerina in my jewelry case. I didn’t care that one of my legs was shorter than the other, so that I bobbed up and down like a carousel horse. In the middle of making myself pleasurably dizzy, Mom said, “You know, we were told you would never walk, either. I told them you would, but they didn’t believe me. Those doctors. Just look at you now! It was a miracle, you know. Grandma Dora said she’d save your life, and she did.”
I nearly whacked into the tray tables. “What? Who’s Grandma Dora? Do you mean Grandma Fannie? Or Grandma Rose?”
“No, Grandma Dora was Daddy’s mother. She was Grandpa Willie’s first wife. Willie remarried a long time ago, so Grandma Rose is Daddy’s stepmother.”
Well, whoever this “Dora” person was, I couldn’t see what she had to do with me. Mom was the reason that I was alive. She’d fought for me from the minute I was born. Truth was, I wasn’t sure if my father had even been involved.
“Why don’t I remember her?”
“Well, you were a tiny baby.” She trapped her bangs in a bobby-pin X. “I’m pretty sure I told you some of this. You were a year and a half, and seriously ill…?”
“Right, right! I know this story. It’s ‘When I Almost Died’?” This was a good one. Very dramatic. I was the star; Mom and Dr. Martin were my co-stars.
“Okay, then…Daddy and I had been in your room all night. Dr. Martin came in later than usual. He was really kind, but he told us you weren’t going to live much longer. There was nothing left to do. He told Daddy to make arrangements.”
“What are ‘arrangements’?”
“He meant we should call Weil’s Funeral Home. But we couldn’t, because we had to go see your Grandma Dora.”
“You left? After Dr. Martin said I was dying?” She was being so matter-of-fact! I raked my fingernails across the seams of the quilt and made the threads go snap, snap, snap.
“Stop that.” Mom plucked at my wrist. “You done wrecking my bedspread? Look, we didn’t have any choice. Grandma Dora was right across the street, in Jewish Hospital. She was dying of cancer. Every night, Dad would meet me at Children’s and visit with you, then we’d go and see Dora.”
I turned my face to stare at the television. In Switzerland, all had gone cold and dark. Heidi and the grandfather were searching for each other in snowy, monochrome silence.
“Dora asked how you were. When your father explained what Dr. Martin had said, Dora grabbed his wrist so hard I worried she’d pull out her IV. She told us, ‘Listen to me! I am going to die tonight, and as soon as I get to Heaven, I will tell God to take me instead of Riva.’ ”
Whatever I was expecting, it wasn’t this. Miracles had angels and the voice of God coming out of the sky. Not a sick old lady in a hospital bed.
“There was no good decision—no matter what we did, we were leaving one of you, and maybe forever. But she insisted we go, so we went, and we did as she said and went back to your room. We fell asleep on those horrible visitor chairs, and only woke up when Dr. Martin came in the door. I jumped up and ran over to the crib.
“And that very minute this nurse stuck her head in the doorway and said there was a call at the front desk. Jewish had been ringing our house for hours until somebody finally thought to try Children’s. Grandma Dora had passed away right after we left.” Mom flickered a smile. “After that night, you just got better and better, and soon you were allowed to come home. So you see, Grandma Dora kept her promise.”
I looked down. My glass of Coke had sweated a puddle on the TV tray. Pools of water made the enameled roses darker, sharper, like a magnifying glass. I felt peculiar, like I’d never seen the trays before, or even my own elbows.
Mom beamed, happy that we were both there, both fine, both together after weeks apart. We had just spent two hours talking about death and cancer and hospitals. I was six years old.
The credits for Heidi began to roll, printed in the spiky Gothic letters of a fairy tale. I caught my reflection in the mirror. Was I worth it to Dora? Was I worth saving, if I was never going to be normal?