A Mango-Shaped Space (6 page)

They continue to stare at me, and I begin to squirm.

“Sounds have colors too,” I add, figuring there’s no use holding anything back at this point. “High-pitched sounds give the sharpest colors. When I hear a noise, I’ll see the color and shape that go with —”

“Shape?” my father interrupts.

“Yes, shape,” I say. “The colors appear in geometric shapes like spirals or balls or zigzags, that sort of thing. Or sometimes just a hazy patch of colored air.”

“Does this block your vision?” my mother asks hurriedly. “Does it hurt?”

I shake my head at both questions. “No, it’s not like that really. It’s more —”

“This is all your fault,” my mother informs my father before I can finish my sentence.

“My fault?” He jumps up from the couch. “How are you blaming this on me?”

“All those drugs in the sixties,” she says accusingly.

“What drugs?” he sputters. “I never took drugs in the sixties.”

“Well, neither did I,” she says.

“I never said you did.”

This conversation has taken an unexpected turn, and my head is going back and forth like a Ping-Pong ball.

“Your brother used drugs,” she says matter-of-factly, unwilling to give up this line of reasoning.

“What does that have to do with me? Or Mia?” he demands.

“Maybe you inhaled something and passed it on to her,” she says. “Or, or —”

“
Or
, maybe this is your crazy aunt Polly’s fault,” my father responds. “Maybe Mia inherited something from her.”

“My aunt Polly isn’t crazy,” my mother says defensively. “She’s just a little eccentric. That has nothing to do with —”

“I figured you’d think I’m crazy,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. They glare at each other, and then both their faces soften.

“We don’t think you’re crazy, Mia,” my father says, sitting down again. “We just don’t understand.” He reaches over and takes my hands in his. “Do you remember when this started?”

“It’s always been there,” I tell him, still stinging from their words.

“I bet I know what this is all about,” my mother says excitedly. “I bet it’s those building blocks you used to play with. You know, the ones with the colored letters on them?”

“Huh?” I say.

“You probably memorized the colored letters when you were a baby,” she says. “And you’ve been associating colors with letters and numbers ever since.”

I think about that for a second, then shake my head. “That can’t be it,” I say. “That doesn’t explain —”

“I’ll run down to the basement and get them,” she says, ignoring me. “I’m sure they’re still in the old toy chest.”

She’s off and running before I can stop her. My father and I just look at each other. Time passes very slowly until she returns.

Cradling a few dusty blocks in her arms, she holds one up in front of me. It has the letter
q
carved on each side in faded red. “What color is this?” she asks.

“It’s red,” I tell her.

“See!” she says gleefully. “I’m right!”

“The
q
is red,” I repeat, “on the
block.
But in my head it’s a dark silver, like the color of Dad’s helicopter.”

My mother doesn’t say anything. She just keeps turning the block over and over in her hand.

“Well,” my father says after a long pause, “we’ll just have to go see Dr. Randolph. I’m sure he’ll be able to help.”

Over the years, Dr. Randolph has cured us kids of everything from chicken pox to broken bones. He means well, but he’s getting old and a little forgetful. For the last few years, he’s called me Beth. I even heard him call
Zack
Beth once, but Zack denies it.

“Dad, the last time we went to Dr. Randolph you said he wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed anymore.”

“Never mind that,” he says. “We have to start somewhere. I’ll call him right now.”

He goes into the kitchen and opens the cabinet with the emergency numbers posted on it. Mom is still staring at the block, as if she’s trying to see what I see. I know how frustrating it is to see something differently from someone else, or in my case,
everyone
else, and I feel sorry for her.

I have to go give Mango his pill, so I stand up to leave. Mom breaks her gaze away from the block and looks at me solemnly.

“Why didn’t you come to us before?” she asks. She sounds hurt.

My throat tightens. “I tried to, back in third grade. No one believed me, remember?”

“I’m glad you’re telling us now,” she says, reaching out to hug me. It feels good. Mom’s not usually the touchy-feely type.

“We’ll find out what’s going on,” she assures me. “Don’t worry.”

I nod and leave her holding the
q
up to the light.

Mango is asleep on my bed, wheezing his mango wheeze contentedly. He springs up as soon as I open the box of tuna-flavored cat treats. Without my colors, Mango’s wheezes would just be wheezes with no comforting mango puffs. Is that worth giving up for good grades? I guess I have no choice. After all, everyone else manages just fine without seeing them. He gobbles down the treat, never suspecting a pill is hidden inside it. He’s so trusting. I give him a few more treats without pills in them, and then he yawns in my face and I wave away his icky tuna breath.

That night, I go to bed early and dream that Dr. Randolph has turned Mango into a stack of dusty building blocks. Every time I pile them up, someone comes and knocks them back down.

I can never turn around fast enough to see who it is.

By morning my parents are still waiting to hear from Dr. Randolph, so they decide to send me off to school. On the bus I randomly open my art book to an artist I haven’t seen before. I decide instantly that this is the guy for me. His name is Kandinsky, and the shapes he uses in his paintings look a lot like the ones I see when I hear noises. His images are all twisted together and overlapping, like when I hear music with a lot of different instruments. The colors he uses are flatter, more primary than the ones I usually see, but they’re still pretty close.

In history we are divided into groups of four and told that each group will have to present a big project at the end of the marking period. It will be based on an event in American history that America would rather forget. Roger Carson is in my group, along with Jonah Finley and Laura Hoffson, who is always the first to volunteer the answer in class. Roger and I glance at each other, and he quickly looks down at his desk. We’re supposed to get together outside of school to decide the topic. Half of our grade will depend on this assignment, but no one seems too eager to make plans. Least of all me. The marking period isn’t over until Thanksgiving, and that seems very far away right now.

During lunch Jenna tells us about the boy-girl party she’s planning for her birthday in November. Molly starts pointing at the boys she thinks should be invited, when the school guidance counselor shows up at our table.

“You’re Mia Winchell, right?” she asks me.

Surprised, I nod. Had I done something wrong? Had I put my history homework in the wrong pile?

“Your mother is here,” she informs me. Then she lowers her voice and says, “You have an appointment with your doctor.”

I gather my books while the guidance counselor waits.

“It’s nothing,” I assure my friends. “I’ll see you later.”

My mother is waiting on the front steps of the school, and she tells me Dr. Randolph has agreed to see me right away. For some reason Beth is in the front seat of the car, her newly red hair glowing unnaturally in the sunlight.

“What’s
she
doing here?” I ask.

“She has poison ivy all over her arms and legs,” my mother informs me, holding open the back door. “Be nice.”

I slide in and lean forward, noting that Beth has tube socks on both her arms. “So, how’d the herb-picking go, Beth?”

“Shut up.”

“Can’t you just cast a spell and make the poison ivy go away?” I ask.

“Mom!” Beth says.

“Mia,” my mother warns.

I lean back in my seat. “Sorry.”

Beth looks at me over her shoulder. “Why are you going to Dr. Randolph anyway? You don’t look sick.”

I don’t know what to say. Luckily Mom jumps in and says I just need a checkup. Beth doesn’t seem convinced, but she drops it and starts scratching the back of her hand through the socks. Mom tells her to stop or she’ll get scars. That stops her instantly.

Dr. Randolph’s waiting room reminds me of the vet’s except with kids instead of animals. A group of toddlers play with toy trains and Legos while a baby hollers in his mother’s arms. I cover my ears to soften the shrill screams, but it doesn’t stop the silver spears from shooting across the room. I wish everyone else could see them. At least here I’m not the only one covering my ears. I’m dreading going in there and having to explain everything again.

The three of us sit as far away from the chaos as possible. Beth has started scratching again. I make sure I don’t get too close.

“Why do you still bring us to a baby doctor?” Beth asks our mother. I am wondering the same thing.

Mom frowns. “Dr. Randolph is a pediatrician,” she says. “That means he sees children of all ages. Including sixteen-year-olds and thirteen-year-olds.”

Beth is finally called in, and my mother starts to get up with her. “That’s okay,” Beth tells her. “I can do this on my own.” My mother sits back down with a sigh.

“By the way, Mia, I spoke to your math teacher this morning.”

I try to ignore the toddler pawing at my sneaker. “You did? What did she say?”

“She doesn’t understand why you’re having so much trouble, since you do so well in most of your other classes. She said if you don’t improve you’ll have to go to summer school next year.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“I wish I were.”

“What am I going to do?” I ask. Nothing could be worse than summer school.

“We’ll figure something out,” she promises. “I’ll go over your homework with you.”

I don’t have the heart to tell her it’s not going to help. I know what I’m supposed to do to solve the equations; somehow I just manage to get all mixed-up in the middle.

Ten minutes later Beth returns covered in pink lotion, clutching a prescription. She doesn’t look happy. The nurse pokes her head out of the door and motions me in. I wait for my mother to join me. There’s no way I’m going in there alone.

Dr. Randolph meets us in the examination room. I hop up on the table and wait for him to cure me. He’s always done it before. He finishes flipping through my file and then turns to me.

“Hi, Mia,” he says, smiling his friendly-neighborhood-doctor smile. “How are we today?”

I look at my mother, and she gestures for me to answer.

“I’m fine,” I tell him, relieved he remembered my name.

“Your father told me what’s been going on with you,” he says. “And I have to admit, it has me puzzled.”

My shoulders drop, and my mother’s face falls a little.

“But I’ll do my darndest to figure it out,” he says, and I allow myself a small surge of hope.

He proceeds to give me a regular exam, checking my ears, eyes, throat, and reflexes. He listens to my lungs and heart with a cold stethoscope and even tickles my feet to see if I feel it. I do.

Then he asks if I’ve started menstruating yet.

I feel my face start to burn. I don’t see what that has to do with anything. “No,” I reply, looking away. I think many girls in my class have their periods already, but as far as I’m concerned there is no rush to cross that threshold into womanhood. It sure hasn’t made Beth any nicer. After that day in fifth grade when the boys were sent out of the room to play kickball and the girls had to learn about becoming a woman, Jenna and I swore we’d never get our periods. So far, so good.

Dr. Randolph makes some notes in his file and scratches his head. Then he weighs me, measures my height, and has me bend over so he can see if my spine is straight. I keep glancing at my mother, but she is wearing her just-be-patient face.

Suddenly he opens the door and slams it. My mother and I both jump.

Dr. Randolph turns to me. “So,” he says. “What did you see?”

It takes me a few seconds to realize this is a test. “I saw brown rings,” I tell him.

“Where?” he asks.

“About three feet away from me, in the air.”

“Just hanging there in space?” he asks.

Did I sense an edge of disbelief creeping into his voice? “Just hanging there,” I say.

“Are they still there?” he asks. His eyes flicker toward my mother.

“No,” I tell him. “The colors and shapes only last about two seconds unless the noise keeps going.”

“What color is the word
doctor?
” he asks.

I answer without hesitation. “It’s mostly hot pinkish purple because that’s the color of the
d
, but the colors of the other letters add a gold tinge to it. Oh, and it’s also kind of grainy.”

“Anything else?” he asks wearily.

I think for a minute. “Nope, that’s all.” I cross my arms and wait for the next question. Instead he motions for my mother to step into the hall with him. I wonder if I failed the test somehow.

A minute later they’re back. “Well, Beth,” Dr. Randolph begins, “I think it will be best if —”

“Mia.” I correct him, ignoring my mother’s glare.

“What?” he asks.

“My name,” I say clearly, “is Mia.”

“Of course it is,” he says defensively. “Now, as I was just telling your mother, I think it will be best if you see a psychotherapist. I’ve given your mother the name of a young woman who I’m sure will be able to help you.” With that he ushers us out the door and back down the hall.

My head hangs low. I feel deflated, as though the air is slowly leaking out of me. “So he thinks I’m crazy too,” I say to my mother as we rejoin the fray in the waiting room.

“No, he doesn’t,” she says softly so Beth won’t hear. “He’s just trying to help.” Beth hops up when she sees us. The lotion flakes off her as we walk to the car. If I didn’t feel so sorry for myself, I would feel pretty bad for her.

“If Dr. Randolph doesn’t think I’m crazy, then why is he sending me to a therapist?” I ask my mother as we walk to the entrance of my school together. “I watch television. I know what therapists do.”