Out of My Mind (6 page)

Ollie spent all day long swimming around that small bowl, ducking through the fake log, and then swimming around again. He always swam in the same direction. The only time he’d change his course was when Mom dropped a few grains of fish food into his bowl each morning and evening. I’d watch him gobble the food, then poop it out, then swim around and around once again. I felt sorry for him.

At least I got to go outside and to the store and to school. Ollie just swam in a circle all day. I wondered if fish ever slept. But any time I woke up in the middle of the night, Ollie was still swimming, his little mouth opening and closing like was he trying to say something.

One day when I was about seven, Ollie jumped out of his bowl. I had been listening to music on the radio—Mom had finally figured out I liked the country-western station—and I was in a good mood. The music was sounding orangey and yellowish as I listened, and the faint whiff of lemons seemed to surround me. I felt real mellow as I watched Ollie do his thing round and round his bowl.

But suddenly, for no reason I could figure, Ollie dove down to the bottom of his bowl, rushed to the top, and hurled himself right out of the bowl. He landed on
the table. He gasped and flopped, and I’m sure he was surprised he couldn’t breathe. His eyes bulged, and the gills on his side pulsed with effort.

I didn’t know what to do. He’d die without water— really fast. So I screamed. Mom was downstairs, or maybe outside getting the mail, but she didn’t come right away. I screamed again. Louder. I cried out. I yelled. I screeched. Ollie continued to flop and gasp, looking more desperate. Ollie needed water.

I howled once more, but Mom didn’t come running. Where could she be? I knew I had to do something, so I reached over to the table and stretched out my arm. I could just barely touch Ollie’s bowl. I figured if I could get the fish wet, at least a little bit, I might be able to save him. I hooked my fingers on the edge of the fishbowl, and I pulled. Water splashed everywhere—all over the table, the carpet, me, and Ollie. He seemed to flop a little less for a second or two.

And I kept wailing. Finally, I heard my mother thundering up the stairs. When she came through the door, she took one look at the mess and the dying goldfish and shouted, “Melody! What have you done? Why did you knock over the fishbowl? Don’t you know a fish can’t live without water?”

Of course I knew that. I’m not stupid. Why did she think I’d been screeching and calling for her?

She scurried over to the mess, scooped up Ollie, and gently placed him back in the bowl. Then she ran to the bathroom, and I heard her running water. But I knew it was too late.

Either because of the time out of the bowl or because the bathroom water wasn’t the right temperature, Ollie didn’t survive.

Mom came back in and scolded me once more. “Your goldfish didn’t make it, Melody. I don’t get it. Why would you do that to the poor little fish? He was happy in his little world.”

I wondered if maybe Ollie wasn’t so happy after all. Maybe he was sick and tired of that bowl and that log and that circle. Maybe he just couldn’t take it anymore. I feel like that sometimes.

There was no way I could explain to Mom what had happened. I really
had
tried to save Ollie’s life. I just looked away from Mom. She was angry, and I was too. If she hadn’t been so slow, Ollie might have made it. I didn’t want her to see me cry.

She cleaned up the mess with a sigh and left me with my music and an empty spot on my table. The colors had vanished.

It was a long time before I was ready for another pet. But on my eighth birthday my father brought a big box into the house. He seemed to have trouble holding
on to it. When he set it on the floor in front of me, out exploded a flash of wriggling gold fun. A puppy! A golden retriever puppy! I shrieked and kicked with joy. A puppy!

The clumsy little dog raced around the room, sniffing in every corner. I watched her every move—loving her right away. After exploring every table leg and piece of furniture, the puppy stopped, made sure all of us were watching, then squatted and peed right there on the carpet! Mom yelled, but only a little. That’s when the dog knew she was in charge.

She checked out Dad’s bare toes, but she stayed away from Mom, who was trying to soak the spot out of the rug with paper towels and that spray stuff she uses in the kitchen. Finally, the puppy circled my wheelchair around and around, like she was trying to figure it out. She sniffed it, sniffed my legs and feet, looked at me for a minute, then jumped right up onto my lap like she’d done it a million times. I barely breathed, not wanting to disturb her. Then, wow, wow, wow, she turned around three times and made herself comfortable. I think she made a noise like a sigh of satisfaction. I know I did. I stroked her soft back and head as gently as I could.

I was the one who named her. Mom and Dad kept suggesting dumb names like Fuzzy and Coffee, but I knew as soon as I saw her what her name should be.
I pointed to the bowl on the table, which held my most favorite, favorite candies—butterscotch caramel. They’re soft enough to melt in my mouth, so I don’t have to chew, and oh, are they delicious!

“You want to call her Candy?” Dad asked. I shook my head no, gently, so the sleeping puppy wouldn’t wake up.

“Caramel?” Mom asked.

I shook my head once more.

“Why don’t we call her Stinky?” Dad suggested with a grin. Mom and I just glared at him. I continued to point to the candy dish.

Finally, Mom said, “I know! You want to call her Butterscotch?”

I wanted to shriek, but I forced myself to stay calm. I tried real hard not to do anything that would knock the puppy off my lap. “Uh,” I said softly as I continued to stroke the dog’s silky fur. I didn’t know that anything could be so soft. And she was all mine. It was the best birthday I ever had.

Butterscotch sleeps at the foot of my bed every night. It’s like she read the book on what a great dog ought to do: bark only when a stranger is at the door, never pee or poop in the house (she got over that puppy stuff), and keep Melody happy. Butterscotch doesn’t care that I can’t talk to her—she knows I love her. She just gets it.

One day, a few months after I got her, I fell out of my wheelchair. It happens. Mom had given me lunch, taken me to the toilet, and wheeled me back into my room. Butterscotch trotted behind—never in the way, just close by me all the time. Mom popped in a DVD for me and made sure my hands were properly positioned so I could rewind and fast-forward the film. She didn’t notice my seat belt wasn’t fastened, and neither did I.

She traveled up and down the stairs doing several loads of laundry—I’m awfully messy—and I guess she had started fixing dinner. The rich aroma of simmering tomato sauce floated up the stairs. Mom knows I love spaghetti.

She peeked her head in to check on me and said, “I’m going to lie down for a couple of minutes, Melody. Are you okay for a few?”

I nodded and pointed my arm toward the door to tell her to go ahead. My movie was getting good anyway. Butterscotch sat curled next to my chair; she’d outgrown my lap. So Mom blew me a kiss and closed the door.

I was watching something I’d seen a million times—
The Wizard of Oz
. I think most people in the world can quote sections of that movie—no extra brains required— because it’s one of the movies that gets played over and over again on cable channels. But I know every single word in it. I know what Dorothy will say before she
even opens her mouth. “I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore, Toto!” It makes me smile. I’ve never been to Kansas or Oz or anywhere more than a few miles away from home.

Even though I knew it was coming, when the movie got to the part where the Tin Man does that stiff little dance to the music of “If I Only Had a Heart,” I cracked up. I laughed so hard, I jerked forward in my chair and found myself facedown on the floor.

Butterscotch jumped up immediately, sniffing me and making sure I wasn’t hurt. I was fine, but I couldn’t get back up in my chair. Worse, I was going to miss the part where the Cowardly Lion gets smacked on the nose by Dorothy. I wondered how long Mom’s nap would last.

I didn’t scream like that time Ollie had jumped out of the bowl. I wasn’t upset, just a little uncomfortable. I tried to flip over, but I couldn’t from the position I had landed in. If I could have seen the television from where I had fallen, I might have been okay on the floor for a little while. Butterscotch makes a great pillow.

But Butterscotch went to the closed door and scratched. I could hear her claws ripping at the wood. Dad wouldn’t be happy when he saw that. But Mom didn’t come. So Butterscotch barked—first a couple of tentative yips, then louder and more urgent. Finally,
she jumped up and threw her whole body against the door, making loud thuds. She’d bark, then thud. Bark, then thud. Mom couldn’t ignore all that racket.

I’m sure it was only a few minutes, but it seemed like longer. Mom came to the door, looking groggy. Her hair was all messed up. “What’s going on in here?” she began. Then she saw me. “Oh! Melody, baby! Are you okay?” She ran to me, sat down on the floor, and lifted me onto her lap.

She checked everything—my arms and legs, my back, my face, my scalp, even my tongue. I wanted to tell her I was fine. All she needed to do was put me back in my chair, but she had to do the Mom thing and double-check.

“Butterscotch, you’re a good, good girl!” she said as she petted the dog and hugged me tight. “Doubles on the dog food tonight!”

I’m sure Butterscotch would have preferred a nice thick bone instead, but she can’t talk either, so both my dog and I get what they give us. Mom carefully put me back in my chair and made sure my seat belt was latched correctly. Butterscotch curled up right in front of me, making sure, I guess, that if I slid out again, she’d be there to soften the fall. That dog is amazing.

Mom restarted the video from the beginning, but somehow that yellow brick road had lost some of its
magic glow. Nobody
really
gets wishes granted by the Great Oz.

As I watched, I wondered if
I
were blown to Oz with
my
dog, what would we ask the wizard for?

Hmmm. Brains? I’ve got plenty.

Courage? Butterscotch is scared of nothing!

A heart? We’ve got lots of heart, me and my pup.

So what would I ask for? I’d like to sing like the Cowardly Lion and dance like the Tin Man. Neither one of them did those things very well, but that would be good enough for me.

When I was eight, things changed.

I think I knew Mom was going to have a baby even before she did. She smelled different, like new soap. Her skin felt softer and warmer.

She picked me up out of bed one morning, then almost let me fall back on the mattress. “Whew!” she said. “You’re getting awfully heavy, Melody. I’m going to have to start lifting weights!” Her forehead had broken out in sweat.

I don’t think I’d gained any weight. It was Mom who was different. She sat down on the chair next to my bed
for a few minutes, then suddenly ran out of the room. I heard her throwing up in the bathroom. She came back a few minutes later, looking pale. Her breath smelled like mouthwash. “I must have eaten something funky,” she mumbled as she got me dressed. But I think she knew even then. I bet she was scared.

When Mom finally figured it out, she sat down with me to break the news. “Melody, I have something wonderful to tell you!”

I did my best to look curious.

“You’re going to have a baby brother or sister real soon.”

I grinned and did my best imitation of surprise and excitement. I reached out and hugged her. Then I patted her stomach and pointed to myself. She knew what I meant.

She looked me right in the eye. “We’re gonna pray that this little one is fat and fine and healthy,” she told me. “You know we love you, Melody—just as you are. But we’re hoping this child doesn’t have to face the challenges that you do.”

Me too.

From then on, she put Dad in charge of lifting me. And although she never talked about it again in front of me, I knew she was worried. She gobbled gigantic green vitamin pills, ate lots of fresh oranges and apples,
and she had this habit of touching her bulging belly and mumbling a prayer. I could tell that Dad was scared too, but his worry showed up in funny little ways, like bringing Mom piles of purple irises—her favorite flower—or fixing her gallons of grape Kool-Aid or big plates of grapes. I don’t know what made Mom crave purple stuff.

Instead of watching hours and hours of the Discovery Channel, I found myself in my room staring at an empty TV screen—just thinking in the silence.

I knew that a new baby was really time-consuming. And I also knew
I
took up a lot of time. How would my parents ever have time for both of us?

Then a really horrible thought popped into my brain. What if they decided to look into Dr. Hugely’s suggestions? I couldn’t make the thought go away.

One Saturday afternoon a few months before the baby was born, I was curled up on our sofa, dozing. Mom had put pillows around me to make sure I didn’t fall off. Butterscotch slept nearby, and Dad’s favorite jazz station played a saxophone snoozer. Mom and Dad sat together on the smaller sofa, talking together quietly. I’m sure they thought I was asleep.

“What if?” Mom said, her voice tight.

“It won’t be. The chances are
so
small, honey,” Dad replied, but he sounded unsure.

“I couldn’t
bear
it,” Mom told him.

“You’d find the strength,” he said calmly. “But it’s not going to happen. The odds are—”

“But what
if
?” she insisted, interrupting him, and for only the second time I could remember, my mother started to cry.

“Everything is gonna be fine,” my father said, trying to soothe her. “We’ve got to think positive thoughts.”

“It’s all because of me,” my mother said softly.

I perked up and listened harder.

“What do you mean?” Dad asked.

“It’s my fault that Melody is like she is.” Mom was crying really hard then. I could hardly make out her words.