Sandra M. Odell

As a special web-launch gift, here is “The Home for Broken” by Sandra M. Odell, from her 2018 collection Godfall and Other Stories. And for those of you who asked, it is eligible for the Hugo, World Fantasy, and other 2018 awards as it is original to the collection and not published elsewhere.

A knock at the front door.
You set down your toast, wipe your mouth with your napkin, and hurry to answer. Who would call so early? You weren’t expecting anyone at this hour, and the post isn’t delivered until well after noon.
The answer is a short, freckled woman with a tumble of brown curls held back by a blue plastic clip. Broad shoulders, wide hips, a smile of uneven teeth. She holds out her right hand. “I’m Becky Ward from the Home for Broken.”
           You accept the hand out of habit; she has a strong, confident grip. “Yes?”
           She presents you with a piece of paper. You take the crisp, white sheet, note the letterhead embossed in gold, scan the text, something about care, perfection, termination of parental rights. The world drops out from under you. “Oh! From the Home. We weren’t expecting you so, so soon.”
           “That’s perfectly all right. May I come in?”
           Like that, she is beside you in the entryway, in your home, an uncomfortable reality. She nods in approval at the end tables, the family portraits beside the coat rack. “Is she here?”
           “Who? Melody? I mean – wait!”
           Miss Ward is at the stairs before she looks back at you. “Yes?”
           You can’t do this on your own. You clench your hands together, crumpling the paper. “I need to call my wife. Carol isn’t here right now. I mean, she’s at work, and we thought we’d have more time.” Even to your ears, that sounds overly clinical. “More time with our daughter.”
           She smiles again, a disarming quirk of the lips. “I understand, but a space just came open and Melody will be a perfect fit.”
           She continues up the stairs. There is an odd hitch to her step, an unevenness on her left side that pulls her knee out of alignment. An off-tempo metronome. You feel like a gawker backstage at a gaudy show. Is she broken, too?
           You hurry to the phone stand and ring Carol’s office, fingers trembling as you spin the dial. Five rings, no answer. Why doesn’t she bloody answer? Right, right. She’s at her morning team meeting. You glance up in time to see Miss Ward reach the top of the stairs. The handset tumbles to the floor. “Please. You can’t … I mean …”
           This is your house, your space, yet you race up the stairs to find this stranger opening doors. Ethan’s room. Angie’s room. Linen closet. Bathroom. Your room. Fear pushes words out of your mouth willy-nilly. “Miss Ward – Ward, is it? – I don’t understand. Carol and I agreed to placement, but that was months ago. We’ve changed our minds. Melody’s perfectly happy here with us now.”
           “I didn’t see her in any of the family pictures downstairs.”
           You flush. “She doesn’t photograph well. And she’s easily excited.”
           “Of course.”
           Miss Ward reaches the door at the end of the hall, plain wood with no identity beyond the closed hasp with the open padlock hanging from the staple. “Would you mind opening the door, please?”
           A question so courteous it burns.
           “She doesn’t sleep much. I mean, she wanders and we have to keep her door closed.”
           “So she’s inside.”
           Is there something different about her posture? Shoulders back? Standing a bit taller?
           “Well, yes. We keep the door closed, otherwise, not all the time, mind you, – “
           While you fumble with the words, your hands fumble at the lock. Melody does wander at night, and you need your sleep, so does Carol, and the kids complain that Melody gets into their stuff.
           Miss Ward opens the door. “Hello, Melody.”
           The closed air is redolent with machine oil and diapers changed as an afterthought. Dim light filtered through the heavy curtains captures the slow motion ballet of dust. Melody sits perfectly still in the center of the room, hands on knees, head tilted to one side as if in contemplation of the blocks arranged in front of her. She has your coarse black hair, Carol’s high cheekbones, your mother’s button nose. Not unattractive, you tell yourself. Not really. More plain than ugly.
           There is little else of Melody in the room. A bed, a low four-drawer dresser, a toy chest filled with hand-me-downs from her brother and sister, none of them as interesting as her blocks or her favorite cardboard shoe box.
           Miss Ward walks straight to your daughter, lowers herself to the floor, favoring her left leg. “My name is Miss Ward. How are you today?”
           Everything is happening so quickly. You should try to reach Carol again. No. You need to get control of the situation. “Melody is non-verbal. She’s been evaluated twice now. The doctors have never seen a child like her. She was born this way. I mean, she’s not like normal flesh and blood people, and the therapists feel she doesn’t have the capacity for speech.”
           “That doesn’t mean she doesn’t have the capacity to listen. Ah, here we go.” Miss Ward feels around the lump between Melody’s shoulder blades, reaches under the back of your daughter’s shirt and turns her hand once, twice, three times, with the fast ratchet of gears.
           Melody blinks, straightens her shoulders, and begins to stack the blocks largest to smallest, one, two, three, all the while mouthing “ca, ca, ca” which never made sense to you.
           “There.” Miss Ward pulls Melody’s shirt down, sits back. “She just needed to be wound.”
           “You knew about her key?”
           “Of course. More common than you might think, really. We have a comprehensive therapy and self-maintenance program at the Home. She’ll fit right in.”
           You can’t watch the key turn under your daughter’s shirt with undulating intent. “We usually keep her wound, but sometimes when the other kids are off at school we let her wind down, I mean she prefers it, really.” Why do your best intentions sound like excuses? “We’re good parents.”
           “Ah.” Miss Ward only has eyes for Melody. “Hello, Melody, my name is Miss Ward. You’re building a nice tower. Crash! And they all come down.”
           You wince at the way Melody’s head bobs back and forth when she rebuilds. Miss Ward helps, then offers praise when Melody knocks it down again. You could never find the time to play with Melody this way; besides, she should have outgrown blocks years ago. Angie is interested in boys, likes to read Glamour and Cosmopolitan. Melody tears the pages of her sister’s magazines into strips and would eat them if you let her. After a long day at the office, you sometimes tell yourself a little paper can’t hurt just so you don’t have to chase her around the house.
           This is ridiculous. You have nothing to be embarrassed about. Even though she’s different, you love your daughter, right? Right?
           “Miss Ward, I must insist we wait for my wife to come home.”
           She still doesn’t look at you. “There’s no need. You already signed away your parental rights.”
           “That’s preposterous.” You take a step back, bump against the doorjamb. “We didn’t know what we were signing.”
           “Of course you did.”
           You did. You even remarked to Carol how nice it would be to have a normal family like everyone else. The truth burns like dry ice in the pit of your stomach.
           “I’ll ring my solicitor. The police.”
           “Go right ahead, but the courts have already approved your termination request.” Miss Ward gives you a quaint, sad smile. “There’s no reason to worry. We have a program already in place for Melody. Daily therapies, vocational training. We’ll request her records from the school district.”
           You look at your shoes.
           “Melody is enrolled in school, yes?”
           That damnable courtesy again. “The district felt she wasn’t benefiting from her class time so we removed her from school. Not that she noticed. I mean …” You gesture at your daughter’s diligent, incessant stacking and knocking over. Ethan has a 4.0 Grade Point Average. Angie earned a place at the district’s summer science camp. “You can see she’s much happier at home.”
           So is the rest of the family. The kids no longer get teased about their “weird” sister. Carol no longer risks being late to work if Melody’s special bus doesn’t show up on time. You no longer have to explain to your supervisor why you sometimes need to take machine oil to Melody’s class.
           Miss Ward touches Melody’s shoulder. Looking at the woman’s left hand, the way the fingers knot against the palm, makes your soul itch, much like when you wind your daughter.
           “I’m sure you know what it’s like, being broken I mean,” you continue. “Not that being broken is a bad thing, but none of our friends have a child that requires winding. It’s hard for them to relate to a child so … different.”
           “Of course.” Miss Ward stands. “Let’s get you packed, Melody. Do you have a suitcase we can use?”
           You step into the room. “Miss Ward, I can’t let you take her.”
           That weak protest is all you can muster.
           There’s that smile again. “You already have. You don’t have a suitcase? Here, Melody. Put your arms out like so. You can help me carry the clothes down to the car. Thank you.”
           You rush downstairs to the phone and try Carol’s number again. No answer. You swear, and dial the front office. The line is busy. Why doesn’t anyone answer? Don’t they realize your world is changing too fast for you to catch up?
           Miss Ward calls from upstairs, “I found a suitcase at the back of the closet. Might I have a hand?”
           You hurry up the stairs, intent on stopping this foolishness, and before you know it you’re bringing Melody’s toiletries from the bathroom. Miss Ward is too matter of fact and genial. Why isn’t she the ogre your guilt needs her to be? Why are you carrying the suitcase to the front door while Miss Ward helps Melody down the stairs one step at a time?
           You aren’t about to let a broken woman show you up when it comes to caring for your own daughter. You set the suitcase in the entryway and hurry back to the stairs. Melody is on the third step. You take her free hand from Miss Ward— “Come along, Melody. Don’t dawdle.” —and tug her forward.
           It happens in slow motion like a heart-wrenching moment on the telly. Melody’s foot catches on the next step, slips, her hand pulls free of the rail, she tumbles towards you. You could break the fall, but her key is turn, turn, turning like a great ugly thing. You let go of her hand. You mean to step forward but step to the side instead, and your daughter falls to the floor on her hands and knees. She makes no sound, not the slightest whimper. Turn, turn, turn goes the key.
           Miss Ward is down the stairs and reaching for Melody before you gather yourself enough to do the same. “Oh, my,” Miss Ward says. “Up you go. Are you all right? Let me see your knees.”
           You break out of slow motion and help ease Melody onto the bottom step. “Is she all right?”
           Melody is a right pain at the doctor’s office, and you have things to do today. Not that you mean to be cruel …
           “She’s fine. A bit bruised up is all,” Miss Ward says as if reciting the day’s weather. “We have aspirin powder at the Home.”
           “I didn’t think I’d pulled that hard. I tried to catch her.”
           “Accidents happen.”
           Are the words strained? Polite to the point of anger? “I didn’t want to break her key.”
           Miss Ward lifts the back of Melody’s shirt. You should look, but can’t.
           “It’s fine.” Miss Ward takes Melody’s hand. “Let’s get you in the car, Melody. It’s time to go.”
           As they move to the door, you stand by the stairs, flotsam in the wake of their passing. Ring your wife. Ring the authorities. Ring somebody! Yet you think of all the things you could get done with Melody gone. Guilt clenches tight around the shallow thought. Maybe you’re not fit to be a parent after all.
           You take a step, then the next until you join them at the door. “Do you . . need help with the suitcase?”
           “No need to put yourself out. We’ll be fine.” Miss Ward opens the door. With Melody in one hand and the suitcase in the other, Miss Ward turns to you and smiles. “We’ll ring for the rest of her things later in the week. You’re free to visit any time you like. We love having family over for dinners and outings.”
           You look at Melody rocking back and forth, moving to music you can’t hear over the turn, turn, turning of her key. She has your hair, Carol’s cheekbones, your mother’s nose, and looks rather pretty in the bright light coming through the cut glass window. “Certainly.”
           The word is meek and ashy in your mouth.
           “Let’s give your father a hug and we’ll be off.”
           Melody makes no move, so you go to her and hesitantly put your arms around your child. Her hair smells like strawberry shampoo. You step back. “Good-bye, Melody. I, um, I love you. I’ll see you soon, all right?”
           Melody’s free hand flutters to her stomach, her throat. She looks at you, through you.
           Miss Ward directs Melody to the door. “We’ll keep in touch. Come on, Melody, let’s get you home. Everyone is so looking forward to meeting you. Do you like dogs?”
           Together, the uneven metronome and the wind-up girl make their way down the front path and out the gate to a small blue sedan parked along the curb. You should try to ring Carol again. She needs to know that Melody is gone. To the Home for Broken.
           As you watch the car ease into traffic, something swells inside your chest. The car turns left at the light. How had you never noticed that your daughter’s hair smells like strawberry shampoo?
           The swelling pops and runs down your cheeks, but this is what you want, right? Right?

Author’s Note

At 21, my youngest son is non-verbal, not toilet trained, and has global developmental delays in addition to other facets of his multiple diagnoses. He is also loving, vexing, annoying, sly, funny, heart-wrenching, and a joy to have in my life.

I could go on for days about how people react to disabled people, the “cripples”, the “broken”. They’re contagious, a punishment, a blessing, a burden, a hassle, an angel, a victim, a lodestone, a puzzle no one has time to solve. To those beliefs I say no, no, no, and most of all no. Disabled people are not items or curiosities for your wonder. They are not broken. They are people.

I knew when I wrote this story that it would never find a market home. That’s okay. I wrote it for me, and have no regrets.