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And the scream had come out. Loud, louder, loudest. She’d clamped her hands over her ears so she couldn’t hear it. She’d known she was crying, but she hadn’t been able to stop that, either.
The teacher had grabbed Izzy’s gloved hand, squeezing around all that nothingness. It had made Izzy scream harder that she couldn’t feel anything.
“Oh, pumpkin, it’s not invisible,” Mrs. Brown had said softly; then she’d gently taken Izzy’s other hand and led her down the hallway.
And the scream had gone on and on and on.
She had screamed all the way down the hall and into the principal’s office. She had seen the way the grown-ups looked at her—like she was crazy—but she couldn’t help herself. All she knew was that she was disappearing, one finger at a time, and no one seemed to care.
As quickly as the scream had come, it went away. It left her shaken and weird-feeling, standing in the middle of the principal’s office, with everyone staring at her.
She had inched her way into the corner, wedged herself between a yucky green sofa and the window. The grownups’ voices kept going, talking about her, whispering. . . .
Everyone cared about why she didn’t talk anymore, that’s all. That Dr. Schwaabe, all he cared about was why she didn’t talk, and Izzy heard Lurlene and Buddy. They acted like she couldn’t hear because she didn’t talk. Lurlene called her “poor little thing” all the time—and every time she said it, Izzy remembered the bad thing, and she wished Lurlene would stop.
Then, like a knight out of one of Mommy’s fairy tales, her daddy had walked into the principal’s office. The grown-ups shut up instantly, moved aside.
He wouldn’t have come to the school if she hadn’t started screaming, and for a second, she was glad she’d screamed. Even if it made her a bad girl, she was glad to have her daddy here.
She wanted to throw herself in his arms, say, Hi, Daddy, in that voice she used to have, but he looked so sad she couldn’t move.
He was so handsome; even since his hair had changed color after the bad thing, he was still the most handsome man in the world. She remembered what his laugh used to sound like, how it used to make her giggle right along with him. . . .
But he wasn’t really her daddy anymore. He never read her stories at night anymore, and he didn’t throw her up in his arms until she laughed. And sometimes at night his breath smelled all mediciney and he walked like one of her wobbly toys.
“Izzy?” He said her name softly, moving toward her.
For one heart-stopping minute, she thought he was going to touch her. She wormed her way out from the corner and baby-stepped his way. She leaned toward him, just a little teeny bit, but enough so maybe he’d see how much she needed him.
He gave a sharp sigh and turned back to face the grown-ups. “What’s going on here, Bob?”
Izzy almost wished for the scream to come back, but all she felt was that stinging quiet, and when she looked down, another finger was gone. All she could see on her right hand was her thumb and pointy finger.
The grown-ups talked a bunch more, saying things that she wasn’t listening to. Then Daddy went away, and Izzy went home with Lurlene. Again.
“Izzy, sweetheart, are you in there?”
She heard Lurlene’s voice, coming through the closed bedroom door. “Come on out, Izzy. There’s someone I want you to meet. ”
Izzy wanted to pretend she hadn’t heard, but she knew there wasn’t any point. She just hoped Lurlene wasn’t going to give her another bath—she always used water that was way too cold and got soap in Izzy’s eyes.
She sighed. Miss Jemmie, we gotta go.
She clutched the doll with her good arm and rolled out of bed. As she walked past the vanity, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. A short, skinny girl with dirty black hair and one arm. Her eyes were still puffy from all that crying.
Mommy never let her look like this.
The bedroom door swung open. Lurlene stood in the opening, her big feet smacked together, her body bent at the waist. “Good morning, sweetheart. ” She reached out and tucked a tangled chunk of hair behind Izzy’s ear.
Izzy stared up at her.
“Come on, pumpkin. ”
Wordlessly, Izzy followed her down the hallway.
Annie stood in the entryway of Lurlene and Buddy’s triple-wide mobile home, on a patch of pink carpet.
Lurlene’s husband, Buddy—nice ta meetcha—sat sprawled in a burgundy velour Barcalounger, with his feet elevated, a Sports Illustrated open on his chest, his right hand curled around a can of Miller. He was watching Annie carefully.
