"the disappearing act": a story in 2 or maybe 3 parts

January 30, 19__

My therapist, Miss D, has asked me to keep a journal of any memories I have of how I came to possess my preternatural power. And well, besides school classes, there isn’t much else to do here right now. I can’t lay around in my room, because I must both “socialize” and “be productive.” I know that Miss D will pass through the room sometime soon to check up observe how I’m doing. Mom says that I’ll be released sooner if I do what is expected of me. “And isn’t that what you want?” My mom never seems to notice that I never answer her when she asks that question. She presumes that’s what I want.

So, here I am writing in my journal in the “dayroom,” which has floor to ceiling windows that overlook a garden that the staff here call the “meditation garden.” And it’s probably a pretty garden in the spring, summer and fall, but right now it’s a gray winter day. There are no colors outside, that I can see, except for the birds that come to the feeders. My English teacher would probably prefer it if I used a word like “monochromatic” to describe what I see. But, I thought of that word too late. Plus my pencil has no eraser. This is because Miss D and my English teacher want to see everything I write, even the mistakes I make. I’m only allowed to draw one single line through any words or sentences that I change.

I just looked out again. I was right, except for the tiny bit of red on the back of the Downy Woodpecker’s head, everything outside is a shade of gray. Everything inside, where I am, is filled with bright, cheery colors. It reminds me of the Wizard of Oz, where Dorothy’s dream was in brilliant “living color,” but her real life was monochromatic.

The special boarding school that I’m in has two bird feeders that hang outside in the meditation garden and they both are designed to make it difficult for “nuisance” birds to feed. Once I asked the custodian who fills the feeders, “What is a nuisance bird?” He looked at me like I was crazy and then shook his head as he remembered that that is exactly what I am. He barked at me, “They’re the birds that people don’t want around.” In case my English teacher reads this, I chose the word "barked," because that’s what his voice reminded me of, a dog barking. And also, his face has too much skin and it hangs down around either side of his muzzle mouth area, just like a dog’s jowls.

I feel sorry for the birds I see, because even though they can fly anywhere they want, these birds are stuck in a rut routine that keeps them here in the gray cold. It’s because they are non-migratory birds. So, even though it’s bone-chilling frigid outside and the wind is gusting 20+ mph, so that they are forced to struggle just to hang on, hang onto the feeder that is, they don’t leave and fly south. And here I am inside, warm, and surrounded by people who prepare food for me, people who look after me, people whose jobs are to “provide a positive atmosphere in which to build the competence necessary to thrive socially and academically.”

I look at the birds again and I recall my father saying to me, “Must you be such a nuisance?”

Miss D just left my side. She came because one of the staff told her I had zoned out. And while she was “observing” me she, of course, read what I’d written so far. She furrows her brow and says, “That’s not what your supposed to be writing about.” (My English teacher says one should never end a sentence with a preposition,” but that’s the way people talk in real life (even smart well-educated people like Miss D.) I am, trying hard to be “honest” about my feelings, as Miss D tells me I ought. “Fine,” I say, “I’ll try to do better but, I don’t know how or where to begin.” “Start with your earliest memories. It’s good to include memories of your childhood, not so much about the birds and the weather.”

Okay Miss D, my earliest memory is of me waking up in my crib when I was about eight months old and hearing and seeing thunder and lightning crashing and flashing all around me in a little one-room shack. Why do I think I was eight months old, Miss D? (I know she’d ask me that if we were talking.) I think I was eight months old, because, I was able to sit up, but I couldn’t stand up yet. My mom says that I learned to pull myself up to stand when I was around nine months old. Why do I think it's a shack? Well, Miss D, because I can easily see that it's just a big box of a room and I can see where the lightning is flashing through every crack and crevice on all four sides of me.

Anyway that is my very first ever memory. What a portent that my very first ever memory is of  being afraid and wishing I could disappear.

In fact, I’ve spent so much of my life either not being noticed, being afraid or trying to hide, that it’s really not such a surprise that I finally perfected the ability to actually disappear. And this, for my English teacher, who disapproves of the current overuse of the word “literally”: I don’t mean figuratively, I mean I can really physically disappear, in the sense that although some part of me is still around, people lose sight of me. I’m there, but not visible to the world. I guess it’s like being the Invisible Man, except that my clothing disappears with me.

My second memory is hearing my parents arguing. We lived in what, now that I think about it, must have been a studio apartment and not really “a shack.” There was a bigger fold-out bed in the middle of the room, that was where my folks slept. I had a little cot off in the corner. I remember Dad lying in bed and my mom standing next to the bed pleading with him to get up soon or he’d be late for work again. He yelled at her, “I said my back hurts. Now leave me alone.” If I had to guess, I’d say I was about 2 or 2 1/2 years old.

In my third memory we are in a different apartment and it has a separate kitchen with an old-fashioned stove that stands on four legs. It’s just the right size for me to fit under. I remember clutching my little blanket and running and hiding under the stove. Dad was tending me because mom was in the hospital having my baby brother, so I must be 3 1/2 years old. I remember that just before I ran to hide, I was standing next to Dad while he read the newspaper and even though I was there for a long time and even though I was so close that I was practically touching him, he didn’t notice me. Hmm, I wonder, now, if this is one of the first times I actually disappeared. When I finally touched his arm, he looked up and said, “Must you be such a nuisance?”

Miss D just came to read what I’d written so far, so I’m guessing the staff must have noticed me starting to zone out again. If you haven’t guessed it yet, they’re told to report whenever I “zone out.” “You’re doing fine with your journal,” says Miss D after carefully reading every word, “but why don’t you take a break now? Take a rest. Maybe read or do some art therapy? That’s enough writing for today, don’t you think?” Miss D is like my mom in that she doesn’t wait for my reply, she just presumes that’s what I would want.

... check in a day or two for "part two."