Out of My Mind Read Free Page A

all the animals he had pictured there had babies called a “calf.” I thought doctors were supposed to be smart. What to do? I hit each picture slowly and carefully, then did it once more just to make sure he understood. I don’t think he did.
    I heard him mumble “cow” as he wrote more notes. It was clear he was giving up on me.
    I noticed a copy of Goodnight, Moon on his bookshelf. I think it was written in Spanish. It was called Buenas Noches, Luna . That would have been fun to look at, but I had no way of telling him I’d like to see the book.
    After watching Sesame Street and Dora the Explorer a million times, and sitting for hours watching the Spanish channels, I could understand quite a bit of Spanish if it was spoken slowly enough—and at least enough words to read the title of that book. He never thought to ask me about that, of course.
    I knew the words and melodies of hundreds of songs—a symphony exploding inside my head with noone to hear it but me. But he never asked me about music.
    I knew all the colors and shapes and animals that children my age were supposed to know, plus lots more. In my head I could count to one thousand—forward and backward. I could identify hundreds of words on sight. But all that was stuck inside.
    Dr. Hugely, even though he had been to college for like, a million years, would never be smart enough to see inside of me. So I put on my handicapped face and took my mind back to last summer when Mom and I went to the zoo. I really liked the elephants, but talk about stink! Actually, Dr. Hugely sort of reminded me of one of them. My mom and the doctor had no idea why I was smiling as we rolled into the waiting room while he wrote up his evaluation of me. It didn’t take long.
    I’m always amazed at how adults assume I can’t hear. They talk about me as if I’m invisible, figuring I’m too retarded to understand their conversation. I learn quite a bit this way. But this conversation was really awful. He didn’t even try to soften the news for my mom, who, I’m sure, felt like she got hit by a truck.
    He began by clearing his throat. “Mrs. Brooks,” he then said, “it is my opinion that Melody is severely brain-damaged and profoundly retarded.”
    Whoa! Even though I was only five, I had watchedenough Easter Seals telethons to know this was bad. Really bad. I felt a thud in my gut.
    My mom gasped, then said nothing for a full minute. Finally, she took a deep breath and protested quietly, “But I know she’s bright. I can see it in her eyes.”
    “You love her. It’s only normal to have wishful thinking,” Dr. Hugely told her gently.
    “No, she has a spark. More than that—a flame of real intelligence. I just know it,” my mother insisted, sounding a little stronger.
    “It takes time to accept the limitations of a beloved child. She has cerebral palsy, Mrs. Brooks.”
    “I know the name of her condition, Doctor,” my mother said with ice in her voice. “But a person is so much more than the name of a diagnosis on a chart!”
    Good try, Mom, I was thinking. But already her voice was losing its edge, melting into the mushiness of helplessness.
    “She laughs at jokes,” my mother told him, the ice in her voice replaced by desperation, “right at the punch line.” Mom’s voice faded. What she was saying sounded ridiculous, even to me, but I could see she just couldn’t find the words to explain her gut feeling that I had some smarts stuck in here.
    Dr. Hugely looked from her to me. He shook hishead, then said, “You’re lucky she has the ability to smile and laugh. But Melody will never be able to walk on her own or speak a single sentence. She will never be able to feed herself, take care of her own personal needs, or understand anything more than simple instructions. Once you accept that reality, you can deal with the future.” That was just plain mean.
    My mom hardly ever cries. But she did that day. She cried and cried and cried. Dr. Hugely had to give