And yet, I'm curious. How would she react?
To see her and trace back to learn what I was?
Or to forget her?
Is the past worth knowing?
Why is it so important for me to say to her:
"Mom, look at me.
I'm not retarded any more.
I'm normal.
Better than normal.
I'm a genius?"
Even as I try to get her out of my mind, the memories seep back from the past to contaminate the here and now. Another memory—when I was much older.
A quarrel.
Charlie lying in bed, with the covers pulled up around him.
The room dark, except for the thin line of yellow light from the door ajar that penetrates the darkness to join both worlds.
And he hears things, not understanding but feeling, because the rasp of their voices is linked to their talk of him.
More and more, each day, he comes to associate that tone with a frown when they speak of him.
He has been almost asleep when through the bar of light the soft voices were raised to the pitch of argument— his mother's voice sharp with the threat of one used to having her way through hysteria.
"He's got to be sent away.
I don't want him in the house any mote with her.
Call Dr. Portman and tell him we want to send Charlie to the Warren State Home."
My father's voice is firm, steadying.
"But you know Charlie wouldn't harm her.
It can't make any difference to her at this age."
"How do we know?
Maybe it has a bad effect on a child to grow up with… someone like him in the house."
"Dr. Portman said—"
"Portman said!
Portman said!
I don't care what he said!
Think of what it will be like for her to have a brother like that.
I was wrong all these years, trying to believe he would grow up like other children.
I admit it now.
Better for him to be put away."
"Now that you've got her, you've decided you don't want him any more…."
"Do you think this is easy?
Why are you making it harder for me? All these years everyone telling me he should be put away.
Well, they were right.
Put him away.
Maybe at the Home with his own kind he'll have something.
I don't know what's right or wrong any more. All I know is I'm not going to sacrifice my daughter for him now."
And though Charlie has not understood what passed between them, he is afraid and sinks beneath the covers, eyes open, trying to pierce the darkness that surrounds him.
As I see him now, he is not really afraid, just withdrawing, as a bird or squirrel backs off from the brusque movements of the feeder—involuntary, instinctive. The light through that door ajar comes to me again in luminous vision.
Seeing Charlie huddled beneath the covers I wish I could give him comfort, explain to him that he has done nothing wrong, that it is beyond him to change his mother's attitude back to what it was before his sister came.
There on the bed, Charlie did not understand what they were saying, but now it hurts.
If I could reach out into the past of my memories, I would make her see how much she was hurting me.
This is no time to go to her.
Not until I've had time to work it out for myself.
Fortunately, as a precaution, I withdrew my savings from the bank as soon as I arrived in New York Eight hundred and eighty-six dollars won't last long, but it will give me time to get my bearings.
I've checked into the Camden Hotel on 4lst Street, a block from Times Square. New York!
All the things I've read about it!