The Tiger’s Child and Somebody Else’s Kids 2-in-1 Collection. Torey Hayden

and the little stream.”

      Taking the photographs from me, Sheila bent over them, studying the faces. “Who’s this kid?”

      “Emilio.”

      “What’s wrong with him? Is he handicapped?”

      “He’s blind,” I said.

      “Oh, yeah, the blind one. What did you call him in the book?”

      “Guillermo.”

      “Oh, yeah, I know who you’re talking about now.”

      Tongue protruding slightly between her lips, Sheila remained intent on the photos. “I think I remember that park,” she said slowly. “Did it have trees that bloomed or something? They had a really sweet scent? Because I seem to remember that.”

      “Yes. The locust trees.”

      “Who are these girls?” she asked, handing over one of the pictures.

      “Don’t you recognize her? In the middle? That’s you. That’s Sarah and that’s Tyler, but that there is you.”

      “Really? God, is that me? Shit.” She craned forward to study it more closely in the dim light. “Shit. Did I really look like that?” She looked up in amazement. “My dad doesn’t have any pictures of me when I was little …”

      My heart sank. She didn’t even remember herself. Watching her as she bent back over the photos, I felt so lonely. What was I doing here with this punky-looking adolescent? This wasn’t Sheila. This was just some kid.

      The pizza came just in time. We had ordered a huge one, loaded with everything save the proverbial kitchen sink, and we both tucked in enthusiastically. For several moments our attention was focused on the food.

      “I’ve had so much fun today,” Sheila said as she maneuvered most of a full slice of pizza into her mouth. “You know, I think it’s brilliant that you live so close by now.”

      “Good, I’m glad.”

      “It’s just like the old times, isn’t it?”

      “Yeah,” I said, probably not too convincingly.

      Sheila’s expression grew rather sheepish. “I’m sorry I don’t remember more about when I was in your class.”

      “Well, you were little.”

      “Yeah, but I can tell I’m, like, a real disappointment to you.”

      “Of course not!” I said a little too heartily. “You were very young when we were last together and nobody remembers much from that age.”

      “But you want me to, don’t you?”

      “Yes, if I’m honest, I suppose I do, but just because it was a meaningful year for me and it was you who made it meaningful.”

      This disarmed her. She smiled. “Really?”

      “Yes, really.”

      “You liked working with little kids, didn’t you?” she said.

      I nodded. “I still do.”

      “It showed.”

      Silence came then and we went back to our food. Then Sheila looked up.

      “Can I ask you something, Tor? It’s from the book.”

      “All right.”

      “How come you didn’t marry that guy Chad?” she asked.

      “I was too young. I wasn’t ready,” I said. “If I had, it wouldn’t have worked out.”

      Pensive over her pizza, Sheila picked at it, ferreting out the olives and eating them with her fingers. “Too bad,” she said. “It would have made for a brilliant ending to your book.”

      “Probably, but this was real life.”

      “Real life never follows the script, that’s the problem,” she replied. “You and him getting married and adopting the little girl. That’s how every single person who reads it is going to want it to come out.”

      “Yes, I know, but it isn’t how it did come out.”

      “Yeah, I know.” She smiled faintly. “But you know, his eldest daughter? The one called Sheila? Well, that’s right. She should be called Sheila, but by rights, she should have been me.”

       Chapter 11

      The summer program at the clinic had been my idea. I had always felt there was a better chance of effecting change when I was with a child several hours a day, day in, day out, rather than in just one or two hourly sessions, which was one of my original reasons for choosing teaching over psychology as a career. This was borne out to me at the clinic, which was the first place I’d worked that stuck so strictly to the fifty-minute “psychiatric hour.” I felt there must be some other way.

      My office partner, Jeff, was intrigued with the idea of working with children in a different setting from the therapy room; so together we developed the idea of a morning summer-school program to run for eight weeks in June and July. We made plans to use a nearby school that was normally vacant over the summer, and from the clinic client list, we began to handpick the children we felt would benefit most. Because of the experimental nature, we decided to keep the number modest. It was just Jeff and I supervising, and I thought it was best to start out with something I knew we could keep in control. Thus, we settled on having eight.

      In the group, three of the children were severely handicapped. Joshua, five, and Jessie, six, were both autistic and couldn’t speak, and Violet, eight, was labeled a childhood schizophrenic. Of the five remaining, there were two girls, Kayleigh, a five-year-old who persistently refused to speak in group settings, and Tamara, eight, a startlingly beautiful girl with dark, exotic features, who suffered from depression and bouts of self-mutilation. Of the three boys, there was David, a bright, beguiling six-year-old arsonist, Alejo, a seven-year-old Colombian boy who had been adopted at four by American parents, and a six-year-old tornado named Mikey.

      Experience had long since taught me that the higher the adult-to-child ratio, the more effective a program generally is. I didn’t want a one-to-one situation, as I felt this would destroy the benefits of the group, but I felt we needed enough adults in charge to minimize the chance of any given situation degenerating into total chaos.

      Jeff took umbrage at the idea that we couldn’t handle eight children between us. He pointed out that he was, after all, a fully qualified doctor, ready to sit for his final board exams in child psychiatry, and well on his way to certification as a psychoanalyst. I pointed out in turn that this setting required rather different skills. Over the course of the three hours each day that the children were with us, they would need not only therapy, but entertainment, exercise, refereeing and nurturing, to say nothing of Band-Aids, drinks, snacks and taking to the toilet. This was more than two adults could sanely do, if we wanted to accomplish something more than baby-sitting.

      Thus, together we approached Dr. Rosenthal to fund us more staff for the project. He agreed to do the best he could. As a result, we gained Miriam, a former teacher. She was an older woman, lively and decisive, with silvery hair and an enviable figure. I liked her instantly. She had a sensible, down-to-earth approach, but with that touch of class I admired but didn’t possess myself. Yet, even with Miriam added to our staff, I was still eager for more help. With such young, handicapped children, we didn’t need many expensive, highly trained professionals. We just needed hands, real hands, plain and simple.

      I was editing One Child during the period when Jeff and I were setting up the summer-school program, and the contrast of reading about my situation with Sheila’s class in comparison to the luxury I was currently working in struck me dramatically. There were eight children then, every bit as severely handicapped, and what