Page 25 of Releasing 10
“It’ll be okay.” He gave me a reassuring smile. “I promise.”
SEPTEMBER 19, 1993
Lizzie
“HELLO, SWEETHEART,” MAM SAID WHENIWALKED INTO THE KITCHEN AFTER SCHOOLand found her baking cookies. “Did you have a good day at school?”
I shook my head.
“Ah, now, don’t say that,” Mam mused, placing a tray of cookies in the oven. She closed the oven door and turned to smile at me. “Surely there was one good part.”
There wasn’t.
There were only ten other children in my class, and some of them wore nappies. They were all younger than me and all we did in class was color pictures and play with toys. Then I got taken out to the “therapy rooms” to talk about my feelings, or play with toys, or do strange exercises, or practice my words. I knew my words, and it made me cross that the teachers acted like I didn’t. They watched me all the time and wrote in a secret book about me.
I hated it there.
The best part of the day was coming home to her.
“I don’t want to go to preschool,” I told her, making a beeline for my mother. “I’m five. I want to go to big school and make friends. Like Caoimhe.”
“St. Anthony’s isn’t a preschool, Lizzie,” Mam replied in a gentle voice. “It’s a private school for boys and girls of all ages that need a little extra help.”
“But I don’t need extra help,” I complained, leaning against the counter. “I know all my letters and numbers. I can write my name and do my sums, and I can read, too.”
“I know you can, clever girl.” She was still smiling, but it was a sad one. “But Dr. Wolfe thinks a year at St. Anthony’s will help you.”
I narrowed my eyes. “I hate Dr. Wolfe.” He was old and cranky, and he always looked at me funny. “He thinks I’m bad.” Same as Daddy.
“No, he doesn’t,” Mam said, correcting me. “He’s trying to help you.”
Yeah, with tablets that made me feel sleepy.
“St. Anthony’s isn’t forever,” Mam offered with another sad smile. “It’s just a stepping stone.”
“To what?”
“To getting you back on track,” she replied, crouching down to stroke my cheek. “You need to start talking to people again.”
“I’m talking to you.”
“Other people,” Mam encouraged. “Teachers and other children. You were doing so well last year.” She smiled sadly. “I know you’re bright, sweetheart, but the teachers can’t know if you don’t show them.”
“I don’t want to talk to them,” I replied. “They’re always cross with me.”
“Now, I’m sure that’s not true.”
“It is,” I argued. “I’m always in the corner.”
“Okay.” Mam chewed on her lip, looking worried. “I’ll talk to them again.”
It wouldn’t matter.
She talked to them last time and I still ended up in the corner.
“I’m bad.”
“No, you are not.”
