I very much don’t. “Those first few days are a little foggy,” I reply, licking my lips again.
“You had to be sedated much of the time. The narcotics often impact short-term memory.”
I feel my face flush at the reminder and the slight recollection that I had been so uncontrollable. “I’m so sorry about that.”
Dr. Townsend smiles at me, but he returns to the conversation at hand. “A mid-July due date, then. Dr. Melson says your baby appears to be healthy and developing normally. A good sign.”
I don’t know what to say to this. How had this Dr. Melson been able to discover all this? What had he done to me? I say nothing as I ponder this.
“Since you will not be an adult when the baby is delivered, nor married, and since you do not have any responsible adult family members or next of kin, and as the state is custodian of your care, and hence your baby’s care, it is the state’s decision that the infant be transported to a state-approved facility after delivery so that a proper home with two parents can be found through adoption. I need to know if you understand this.”
I know it is to my benefit to say yes, I do. But the words are slow in coming and my eyes burn with ready tears. This place would likely take my very soul if I let it. But I will not let it. I have a plan. I just need to get out. I blink the tears away as he waits for my answer. I don’t care what he thinks or what he writes downon that piece of paper. I will not be here when my child is born. I won’t. It is only coming on March now. I have four months to find a way.
“I understand,” I say.
“Good. I’m glad we’ve taken care of that.” The doctor makes a notation on the paper in front of him and then looks up. “Now we can concentrate on you. Mrs. Crockett says you’ve adapted well to our routines here. You have duties in the kitchen, a job you chose, yes?”
“Yes. I like to cook.”
“Good.” He again consults the papers in front of him. “And you’re in our modified classroom in the mornings, I see. Behind in your studies, though. You have some catching up to do.”
“I stopped going to school so that I could work.”
He looks up. “Why is that?”
“I didn’t enjoy school that much.”
“Any particular reason?”
I am about to say math had been hard and the colors relentless and the looks from my classmates upsetting. But I lasso those words before they fall from my lips.
“I liked working better.”
He studies me for a moment. “I hear from Nurse Tipton that you were unhappy about a flower bulb that was in your bag when you arrived here and which had been disposed of.”
He continues to study me, waiting for me to acknowledge that this is true. The loss of the amaryllis still haunts me, but I don’t want him to know it and somehow use my sadness over it against me.
“Yes,” I say hesitantly.
“Nurse Tipton said you were quite upset about it.”
“Well, it was mine,” I say, as though the offense wasn’t that my amaryllis was tossed into the garbage but that something that belonged to me was taken.
“But it was more than just a flower bulb to you, yes?” he asks. “It had additional meaning? It might assist me in helping you if I understand why.”
In my mind I see an amaryllis brilliantly in bloom on Celine and Truman’s kitchen counter, a gift from Helen Calvert to help me bear my first Christmas without my family. I see the note in her fine handwriting explaining to me that a blooming amaryllis at Christmastime has been lovingly coaxed into life by a gardener who has convinced it that it is spring, and that it will continue to bloom every year if I care for its bulb the same way. I was enchanted by the way the wordamaryllisfell on my ear, and the color that filled my mind when I said it out loud. It was such a beautiful word.
And I loved even more the notion that its bulb was a promise of beauty to come, despite the harshness of winter.
But I will not share this with the doctor. The bulb is gone now. What does it matter that I feel this way about it? “The person who gave it to me said it would bloom every year if I took care of it,” I say with a casual lift of my shoulders. “I was upset because now I can’t. The bulb wasn’t trash, but it was treated like it was. I should’ve been asked.”
I wait to see what Dr. Townsend will say, and after a moment he seems satisfied with my answer.
“Fair enough,” he replied. “Now. You mentioned a few moments ago that you understand now why you are here. I’d like to hear more.”
I’m glad to move on from talking about the amaryllis. I wasn’t prepared to talk about it. This conversation, though, this I have practiced for. As I open my mouth to speak, I feel as though I am stepping onto a stage. Donning a mask. I have indeed been rehearsing my next words for several days.
“It’s because of the colors I told people I can see. I shouldn’t have been doing that. It is wrong. I realize that now. Lying topeople, especially to my parents, was a wicked thing to do. I’m ready to learn how to be the kind of person who doesn’t lie.”
