Telling Stories

Changeling

Tracy was born when I was five and my brother Scott was three. My mother had experienced a miscarriage the year before. I vividly remember going to the hospital to pick her up and asking whether I could see the baby she lost. I just assumed that it had been kept in a jar, and I was disappointed to learn that it was gone.

I felt a sense of loyalty to that baby and thought it was odd that we just forgot about it when Tracy came along. But my parents were very happy to have a new child. Tracy was a chubby baby with a round head and funny facial expressions. She had gray eyes and a wild thatch of curly hair. She got rounder and funnier as she grew into toddlerhood. We laughed about her awkwardness and goofy mannerisms. She was the family clown.

As Tracy got older, she wasn't quite as funny. She became frustrated easily and threw frequent tantrums. She was big and strong enough to do damage to people and property around her when she raged. She flew off the handle at the least provocation, throwing herself on the ground screaming to protest, say, a diaper change. She met the usual developmental milestones, but she sometimes seemed a little slow on the uptake. When she met with something she didn't understand, her face went blank and she stared into space with pale, unfocused eyes.

To  make matters worse, Tracy drew the short straw in the birth order lottery. Scott and I were 18 months apart, and, as eldest children, we were treated almost as twins. That made Tracy the baby. But when she was 21 months old, Leanne came along. Leanne was Tracy's polar opposite -- a petite, lively, dark-eyed baby who laughed often and picked up new skills with ease. She quickly became everyone's pet, leaving Tracy in the unenviable position of the middle child -- neither family trailblazer nor adorable baby. She seemed big and ungainly next to Leanne. And her out-of-control behavior tended to repel people, who preferred smiling little Leanne and the quiet, well-behaved older children. My parents bent over backwards to be loving and patient with Tracy, but as far as Scott and I were concerned, she was the most annoying little sister ever.

When Tracy was about three years old, we took a rare vacation out of town. Tracy threw fits in the car, in the pool, in the hotel room. What was supposed to be an enjoyable family trip turned into an ordeal. Late at night, when everyone was supposed to be asleep, I heard my parents whispering. Why does she do that? She's her own worst enemy. Should we take her to a psychiatrist? They sighed and fell silent. I never heard them mention therapy again.

Sometimes I would remind my mother about the baby she lost. She would tell me not to be sad. "If we'd had that baby, we wouldn't have Tracy!" she said. This was supposed to reassure me, but it just made me wonder what life would have been like with the other baby. Perhaps we got the wrong baby after all. But I kept my thoughts to myself.

Bus stop

The little girl gets on the bus with her mother. They ride in silence. She doesn't know where they are going, but she has learned not to ask questions.

The bus passes green fields and yellow-brick buildings with low tile roofs. Water buffaloes stand as still as statues in the grass. After a while, the buildings grow taller and closer together. Clusters of people on bicycles pass the bus as it weaves through the heavy traffic.

The bus stops at a corner and the girl follows her mother out the door. They walk down the crowded streets. The mother stops at a street vendor and buys the girl a paper cup of ice cream. They walk some more. 

The girl finishes her ice cream. Her mother points at the sidewalk and says, Stay here, and I will go get you another. The girl nods and does as she's told. The woman turns and quickly walks back the way they just came.

The little girl waits for her mother to return. People come and go, but she does not see her mother. Has it been minutes or hours? She only knows that it has been a long time. The street lights come on. She begins to cry. Passers-by look at her curiously but no one stops to help. She sits down on the sidewalk. A car stops and a man leans out the window. You look lost, he says. Do you want to come home with me? She shakes her head no. I'll call the police, he says, and drives away. She sits with her head bowed, watching the tears drop in her lap.

*****

Seven years later, I pick her up from dance class and forget that her younger sister is still there playing on the playground. We get home and my husband reminds me that I left someone behind. We have to turn around and go back. On the drive home, she tells her sister, "Now you know how I felt when my mom left me somewhere. Except she never came back." There's no bitterness in her voice. She's just stating facts.

Burning bed

After my first husband moved out, I had a hard time sleeping. I would fall asleep at 10 p.m. and wake up with a jolt two hours later. I expected to see my husband sitting on the edge of the bed, his eyes burning with resentment. Midnight was his usual time to wake me up and tell me I was ruining his life, after he'd had a few hours to sit alone drinking coffee and ruminating about his troubles.

He was gone, but I kept waking up. I saw a doctor who prescribed an antidepressant. The antidepressant was sedating and got me to sleep, but I had vivid dreams that persisted for a few moments after I woke up.

One night I dreamed my bed was on fire. I woke up and found myself beating the blankets with my hands, trying to put out the flames.