Читать книгу The Styx - Patricia Holland - Страница 25

After my mother left, my life was shit. Survival shit. Sad shit. Sick shit. But when I started school, some things at least, started to change. That first bus trip into school began the trudge of undeathing. My father hated that I went, that he had no say in it. Losing control. It was like history repeating itself one generation along.

My mother had organised it all. Before she left, she had me registered with the Education Department and, back then, failing death—my death—or protracted medical appointments he’d never bother to make or attend, it was too late for him to change anything. Once I was “on the books” Education Department-wise, I was in the system. I was mainstream. He had to send me. He must have been livid—under the surface, and a bit above.

My mother had fought and made many enemies in insisting that I get to go to school. She was pretty determined. Quietly. She would probably have even pulled out the racist card if she’d needed it. Every card, if she’d needed it.

The occupational therapist and special-ed teacher she’d been taking me to were not supportive of me going to school. Or of me having access to an electronic communication board. People always thought I was dumb—less than dumb really—virtually vegetative. They refused point-blank to fill in any of the necessary forms. They were pretty toxic, and very patronising.

“Hello, Sophie,” they’d over-enunciate as if my hearing had Rett.

They’d talk the same way to my mother. “Hello, Rose, and how is Sophie today?”

They said “Rose” in a drawn-out manner, especially the “o” elongated into an “owww” and a downward intonation of superiority.

They used to say, “Hello, Rose, and how are we today?”

But my mother replied, “You look much the same as usual, fairly fresh really, government job I suppose …” and on she rambled.

They weren’t impressed. My mother was getting uppity, they thought. And they were being so nice to her. Nice in an as-long-as-you-keep-to-the-rules way. Social rules, I mean, their social rules, run by “people like them”. All was well as long as Mum knew her place within the racial tolerance dance.

The occupational therapist and special-ed teacher had been initially a little too welcoming to us—instant best friends. Progressive, small “l” liberal types, glowing in showing indigenosityship—as long as my mother was who she should be, and grateful for their patronage.

But Mum strayed. When she didn’t agree with them, brought up the subject of communication boards, schools for me—proper schools, where you learn things schools—their eyes rolled. And their words were more carefully enunciated and stretched and went down at the end of the sentences. As if they were statements of what would be.

Mum stopped lifting the ends of her sentences too. And didn’t flinch—well not much—at their exchange of contemptuous looks. The volley of looks that said, “these sorts of mothers will never face the fact that their child is simply retarded.” But eventually their voices went up at the end of their sentences, squeakily up—a fair while later though, after Mum wrote to the Minister.

She would never have written to him but, if she hadn’t run out of options. If they hadn’t kyboshed all her suggestions, hadn’t been dodgy, Mum would never have done it. But they really gave her no option. Just after I turned five, my mother again brought up the subject of communication boards and schools. We were at the special-ed unit in Heathwood, the nearest biggish town to Styx River. Heathwood lost its country charm as it started to service the local coal mines, and developed into supermarkets, McDonalds, Kentucky Fried Chicken, endless takeaway outlets and rockblock motels designed for driving into and not staying long.

The special-ed unit was in an upmarket donga, a little way off the main drag, down a newly bitumened road, and positioned just before and beside the flash new Heathwood State School. Mum parked at the back of the car park under the only tree, a sad and lonely specimen, and walked fast, wheeling me up the ramp, eager to get me into the air-conditioning. Instead of going straight into the big “school” room, Mum stopped at the office marked “Director”.

“Hello, Kourtney,” Mum said. “I’d like to talk to you about a communication board for Sophie.”

“Yeeeessss?” Miss Kourtney enunciated the word into a question loaded with surprise that it was an issue, and that it wouldn’t be for long. I was nervous. I knew there was going to be an “issue” issue, and my repetitive back-of-hand to mouth flapping-slapping increased speed and intensity. The dribble started dribbling. My mother automatically leant over and held my slapping hand gently to stop it getting damaged by my teeth. Her touch was cool, and I relaxed. She let my hand sit in my lap, and the flapping-slapping slowed to a gentle pinching then slowish flap-slap.

My mother’s voice was very pleasant, as if it was the first time she’d said it. “I would like Sophie to have a chance to communicate. For her to get an education. A communication board might allow her to communicate, to make choices. Then next year, I’d like her to attend a proper school just like other children. She should be given an opportunity to learn.”

My mother took a breath, almost a sigh. Miss Kourtney’s mouth turned into one much older in response to the “proper” comment—a mistake on my mother’s part perhaps, but in hindsight I think intentional.

“Yes, Rowwwse, I received your written request—on both accounts; and I have written back, yesterday,” Miss Kourtney said.

That meant she hadn’t sent it yet. She didn’t poke her chest out, and she would have, to award her own pious diligence, if she’d already sent it. But I think she’d written it. Her words were like written words.

“I don’t think that sort of equipment would be suitable for Sophie,” Miss Director Kourtney pompoused.

“And furthermore, my professional opinion is that I don’t believe it is appropriate for Sophie to attend a mainstream school.”

Miss Kourtney spoke from the back of her throat, with assumed authority. Then the look of superior “professional” wisdom crossed her face, setting her eyes, followed by the lingering silent sneer of “mothers like you …”.

Miss Kourtney always made out that everyone should feel grateful for being allowed to attend “her” school. Especially so after the sign “Director” appeared on her donga office door. And her breasts looked larger after that too. There were limited places in the unit, she’d intimate. Total crap—she was always watching her arse and making sure that she maximised her numbers, to maximise her pay scale. It simply wasn’t in her interest for anyone to “graduate”. It was a small town, limited catchment area.

“Kourtney, Sophie needs to be given a chance.” My mother’s voice was still pleasant and reasonable, but quite definite, especially the first and last words.

She felt it was my chance for an education. All the other kids my age at our playgroup had already started pre-school at the schools they would be going to the following year. I was going to a “special” pre-school, and there wasn’t any grade one progression planned—it didn’t have a grade one. In those days it wasn’t automatic to integrate students with severe disabilities into regular schools. Jesus, I couldn’t even graduate from pre-school in those days.

“I want her to be given a chance to learn. I want her to have a communication board. A young boy in Leichhardt suddenly became ‘intelligent’ when he was given access to a communication board,” Mum said, doing the finger inverted commas. “I want the same for Sophie.”

“Sophie is a very different situation,” Miss Kourtney said.

“I’m a situation now?” I thought.

“She has a different skill set from that Leichhardt boy,” Miss Kourtney said.

“Yeah right, Miss Missy, say what you really mean. I don’t have any skills is what you really mean.” But Miss Director Kourtney wasn’t listening to my thoughts.

“I have considered it,” Miss Kourtney continued, “but after discus­sions with Kittie (occupational therapist), we decided against it.”

K-Kourtney and K-Kittie—the two Ks, just need another one, hey.

As far as Director Kourtney was concerned, that was the end of the discussion. She stood up, stretched her mouth into double white lines and as she walked past us said, “We’d better start our lesson session now.”

So far, my education “lesson sessions” had consisted of Miss Kourtney sticking fluffy toys and her face in my face saying, “This feels soft, soft.” Enunciating extra clearly and loudly and slowly. It was a sort of chewing motion with her mouth.

I quite liked having the outing, but I agreed with Mum. I was so over the fluffy toy and face-in-my-face thing, and I didn’t like the way she dissed my mother and dismissed her concerns.

“Ahhh-owwwwwwwww-gedddoffff-owww,” Miss Kourtney said.

My mother has such self-control. She didn’t laugh once as she untangled my fists from Miss Kourtney’s hair. Mum had her lips close to her teeth—her determined look—but when she determined her next step, she probably didn’t think Miss Director Kourtney would get sacked.