Where'd You Go, Bernadette(11)
The same clock was in the elevator, the hallways, and even the bathrooms. It ticked down that whole meal in Dad’s office, where we sat on the inflatable balls he uses instead of chairs, our take-out containers wobbling precariously on our knees. I was telling them about all the different kinds of penguins we were going to see on the trip.
“You want to know the coolest part?” Mom chimed in. “There isn’t assigned seating at the dining room, and they have tables for four. That means the three of us can sit down and if we pile the extra chair with our gloves and hats, nobody can sit with us!”
Dad and I looked at each other, like, Is she joking?
“And penguins,” Mom quickly added. “I’m wildly excited about all those penguins.”
Dad must have told everyone we were coming, because people kept walking by and peeking through the glass, but acting like they weren’t, which is what it must feel like to be famous.
“I wish this was more of a celebration,” Dad said, glancing at his email. “But I have a video conference with Taipei.”
“That’s OK, Dad,” I said. “You’re busy.”
*
From Dad
Dear Ms. Loundes,
First off, we’re thrilled that Bee has been accepted to Choate. While I’m an Exonian myself, my wife, Bernadette, always said her happiest days were spent at Choate, and Bee has wanted to attend ever since she was a little girl.
Secondly, thank you for the kind words about Bee. We agree, she’s extraordinary. However, we are strenuously opposed to her skipping a grade.
I have just looked over her application, and I realize there is no way you would know the essential fact about Bee: she was born with a heart defect, which required a half-dozen surgeries. As a result, she spent her first five years on and off at Seattle Children’s Hospital.
Bee entered kindergarten on schedule, even though her little body was having difficulty keeping up. (She was in the zero percentile for height and weight during this time; she is still struggling to catch up, as you saw for yourself.) Yet her profound intelligence was already making itself known. Teachers encouraged us to get Bee tested. Really, though, Bernadette and I had no interest in the gifted-child industry. Perhaps because we both went to prep school and Ivy League universities ourselves, we did not fetishize them like other Seattle parents. Our primary concern was that our daughter know a modicum of normalcy after the sickening circumstances of her first five years.
It was a decision that has richly benefited Bee. We found a wonderful neighborhood school, Galer Street. Sure, Bee was “ahead” of the other kids in her class. In response, she took it upon herself to teach the slower kids to read and write. To this day, Bee stays after school and helps in homework lab. She didn’t mention that on her application, either.
Choate has marvelous facilities. I’m certain Bee will find more than enough to keep her from “growing bored.”
While we’re on the subject, please indulge me while I tell you the story of the first and last time Bee ever claimed she was bored. Bernadette and I were driving Bee and a friend, both preschoolers, to a birthday party. There was traffic. Grace said, “I’m bored.”
“Yeah,” Bee mimicked, “I’m bored.”
Bernadette pulled the car over, took off her seat belt, and turned around. “That’s right,” she told the girls. “You’re bored. And I’m going to let you in on a little secret about life. You think it’s boring now? Well, it only gets more boring. The sooner you learn it’s on you to make life interesting, the better off you’ll be.”
“OK,” Bee said quietly. Grace burst into tears and never had a playdate with us again. It was the first and last time Bee ever said she was bored.
We look forward to meeting you in the fall, when Bee arrives with her fellow third formers.
Sincerely,
Elgin Branch
*
I am not sick! I was born with hypoplastic left heart syndrome, OK? It’s a congenital condition where the mitral valve, left ventricle, aortic valve, and aorta don’t develop completely and which required me to have three open-heart surgeries plus three more because of complications. The last surgery was when I was five. I know I’m supposed to be so smart, but guess what? I don’t remember any of it! And double-guess what? I’m totally fine now, and have been for nine and a half years. Just take a time-out and ponder that. For two-thirds of my life I’ve been totally normal.
Mom and Dad bring me back to Children’s every year for an echocardiogram and X rays that even the cardiologist rolls her eyes at because I don’t need them. Walking through the halls, Mom is always, like, having a Vietnam flashback. We’ll pass some random piece of art hanging on the wall and she’ll grab onto a chair and say, Oh, God, that Milton Avery poster. Or, gulping a big breath, That ficus tree had origami cranes hanging on it that awful Christmas. And then she’ll close her eyes while everyone just stands there, and Dad hugs her really tight, tears flooding his eyes, too.
All the doctors and nurses come out of their offices hailing me like the conquering hero, and the whole time I’m thinking, Why? They show me pictures of when I was a baby tucked into the hospital bed wearing a little cap, like I’m supposed to remember it. I don’t even know what the point of any of it is besides I’m totally fine now.