All the Ugly and Wonderful Things Read Online Free

That sweet woman? I couldn’t imagine her doing something like that to a child. In my mind that’s what bad touching was.
    â€œTouches you?”
    She stretched her arms toward me, her hands curled into menacing claws, and then brought them back tightly to her chest.
    â€œShe hugs you?” I said.
    A nod.
    â€œAnd you don’t like that?”
    She shook her head seriously. I was sick with relief, and with knowing how awful the world looked to Wavonna. Of course, she never hugged me, and whenever I touched her, she shrugged out from under my hand.
    The next day, we went to school, and I did what I should have done the first day. I walked her directly to class, planning to explain everything to Mrs. Berry.
    All that went out the window when I reached the classroom.
    In the center of the room sat three children in wheelchairs. I don’t mean to be cruel, but they were drooling vegetables. In one corner, a child flopped around on blue rubber floor mats. The school could paint the walls as bright a shade of yellow as they wanted and hang up all the pretty mobiles in the world, but it was a horrible place. I couldn’t imagine Wavonna spending five minutes there, let alone the four days I’d left her there.
    Mrs. Berry hurried over with a big smile and said, “Oh, Mrs. Morrison, what a relief! Wavonna, honey, you had us so worried.”
    That was the day I earned Wavonna’s trust. Mrs. Berry swooped toward us, clearly planning to deliver an enormous, smothering hug. I spread my feet and put out my arm to block her.
    â€œMrs. Berry, we need to talk to someone about changing classes.” She made a wounded face as we backed away from her. I had nothing against the woman, but I was too old to beat around the bush.
    When I sat down with the school counselor, I took the same approach. I looked her square in the eye and said, “My granddaughter is not retarded.”
    â€œMrs. Morrison, we don’t use words like that anymore. Our concern is that her speech problems are a sign of developmental delays.”
    â€œI don’t mean it to offend, but she’s not stupid. Look, here. Wavonna.”
    She didn’t look at me, but I knew she was listening.
    â€œGive me paper and a pencil.”
    The counselor slid a sheet of paper and a ballpoint pen across the desk. I scooted Wavonna’s chair closer and said, “Go ahead and show her. Otherwise you’ll have to stay in the class with the loud lady.”
    As soon as I mentioned the special-education teacher, Wavonna picked up the pen and put it to the paper. First, she wrote out her name, neat as can be. Below that, she wrote her alphabet: Aa Bb Cc, and on like that. Under that she put her numbers. Then she did something I didn’t even know she knew. She turned the paper over and wrote: Cassiopeia. Next to it, she drew five dots and connected them. Then seven more dots that she labeled Cepheus. She filled the paper up that way. The only ones I recognized were the Big and Little Dippers.
    The way the counselor’s jaw dropped down set me to giggling. I laughed right in that poor woman’s face. Laughed until I cried. Before Wavonna, I’d been feeling pretty good. My cancer was in remission, and I had myself a nice retirement planned, before Wavonna moved in. After everything I’d been through in the last month, I needed a good laugh.
    They put her in a regular classroom, but I told them right up front, “Don’t give her a nicey-nice teacher.” I spelled it out for them. Nobody could touch her. They couldn’t expect her to talk, but they shouldn’t assume she wasn’t listening and learning. I didn’t make requests and I didn’t apologize.
    Things weren’t perfect after that, but they got better.
    She lived with me for almost two years, and in all that time, she touched me twice. On what would have been Irv’s and my fortieth anniversary, I had a little wine and got