Green House: Based on a Life Ch. 01

Now that the story is over, the TV screen in my mind matches the cartoon pictures I've just seen in the book. I imagine babies' cribs all lined up in many, many rows. Too many rows. Too many babies. They all lay there playing with their toes and smiling. I don't think I ever played with my toes.

I am for sure I never smiled. I am especially sure I never smiled at people. Maybe I smiled at dogs and cats. But dogs and cats probably aren't allowed near all those babies. If there are no dogs and cats then why were all those stupid babies smiling? Dumb babies. I feel confused.

Mother asks if I understand the story.

"So, it's a grocery store to buy babies?" I ask. Never ask questions. I should have just told her I understand.

Mother seems angry. She tells me no! It's not a grocery store for babies.

"They just give away babies for free?" I ask. I feel hope float up into my chest. If people can give away babies, then I think they can give away five-year-olds, too. Maybe I can go live at the store where people give away kids to all the nice homes.

Mother begins to talk slowly. She seems confused like me. She tells me that the people paid for the babies.

"They pay money for the babies?" I ask. "You can buy people?" This makes me feel very strange. Something awful is happening at these stores, but I don't really understand what it is. Not understanding is scary.

Mother says the money isn't for the baby. The money is for the paperwork.

"Are we going to buy a baby?" I ask her. Then there will be more of us. I think I'd like to buy a baby, so that I can become more invisible.

Mother ruins my happy idea. She says we're not buying any more babies. She tells me the story in the book is about me. She says I was adopted. Mother is lying. I couldn't be in that book, because I never smiled or played with my toes.

"Did I have paperwork?" I keep breaking my rule about questions.

Mother says I did. She says all babies must have paperwork.

"So, you bought me? Like in the grocery store?" I ask. Even though Mother is lying, if I was already a grocery store baby, then I'm sure I can definitely be a grocery store five-year-old.

Mother tells me that they paid money for me, but they didn't buy me.

"Then you bought the paperwork?" I ask. I make a fist and knock, knock, knock on my forehead. I want the confusing parts to leave my brain. I don't like this book even though it has shiny, squeaky pages. This story seems bad.

I look down and start searching on the carpet for my favorite patterns. When I find the tornado-shaped patterns, I'm going to count them.

Mother is getting mad. Her voice raises too much, and she yells that I am not even trying to understand. She says I am being obstinate. I don't know what that word means, but the beast doesn't seem to like it.

"You didn't buy me. And you didn't buy the paperwork. But you paid money to someone, and they let you take me home."

Mother says yes and sighs like she's glad I finally understand.

Just like in a grocery store.

I only think this to myself. I am all done saying it out loud. I know about buying. I know how getting things works. When you want something, they just line up all the things you can buy, you pay the money and then you can have it. There isn't any point in arguing with Mother. I go back to looking for my favorite carpet patterns.

"How much did I cost?"

Mother tells me I was a lot of money. She says it is very expensive to adopt a baby. She sounds proud of all the money she paid. She tells me I should be grateful for being adopted into a loving family. I think I'd be more grateful if I could go back to the baby store and try again with a different family buying me. I wouldn't even charge them very much. I could make a coupon for them to use. I'd make a really good coupon and then I'd be almost free.

Mother asks again if I understand the book, and I tell her I do. I ask her if I can go play in my room. She says yes. I jump down off the couch and leave the book behind. As I run away, it slides onto the floor. Mother leaves it there and walks into the kitchen. I am fast like a lightening streak when I run down the hallway to my room. I am quick enough that none of the snarling Mother-smiles touch me.

Down the hall. Turn right. Into my room. Slam!

I shut the bedroom door hard. I pretend to seal all around it with the strongest glue in the world. It's a thousand times stronger than the Elmer's glue at preschool that has the man's scary face on the bottle. No one will ever be able to open the bedroom door again now that I have glued it shut. I lean against it for a while. I'm proud of my glue-job.

The room is messy, because I have spread the Little People world all over the floor. I have the house, the hospital, the Holiday Inn hotel, the farm, the village, the airport, the plane, the school, the parking garage and the castle. Ten-thousand pieces are set-up ready. From my place at the door, I begin to count all the little plastic and wooden toys. One, two, three, four... maybe there aren't ten-thousand pieces. But, it could be pretty close.

On very careful tip-toes, I zig-zag around the room to get to the record player. It looks like a great big suitcase stood up on its stand. I like to imagine it really is a suitcase. Someday when it's the right time, I will pack it and go away. Wherever away might be.

But today, I undo the lock and pull down the middle part. I stack the records on it in just the right order. "Bad Blood" first. Always first. "These Boots are Made for Walking" second. I mix "Tie a Yellow Ribbon" somewhere in the middle of a whole bunch of mystery songs. Two of them have worn out centers. The little plastic middle piece doesn't really fit inside, but I make it work. I push the record player's arm over carefully, so it doesn't break. This used to belong to my sister, Tammy, so it's kind of old. It sometimes lands too hard and knocks the records out of the holder. Mother calls them 45s. But I think she's lying. That doesn't sound like a name to me.

This time they're ok though, and my brain thinks do-run do-run d-d-d-do-run-run along with Neil Sedaka as he sings. Sometimes I sing, too. Really loud. I like how he repeats those sounds over and over. Repeating things is good.

I sing this song almost every day. But today the singing part of me isn't around. It's lost. Or it's gone hiding. Or maybe it ran away forever.

I lay down on the carpet. Together, the beast in my stomach and I play with the Little People for a very long time— the entire thousand hours before dinner. But the beast doesn't really play, and so I eventually forget he is there. For this little while of a minute, he is quiet. It's time for him to rest. He's had a very rough birthday so far.