this, my grandmother did her best to scare words out of me. I was sent to doctors and speech therapists, but any progress I made disappeared at home.
Of course the explanation is simple. Nothing I had to say was welcome or correct. Why speak when I would be instantly challenged or shamed? Selective mutism was a simpler solution.
To make matters worse I was painfully shy and terrified of new situations, even though I badly wanted to escape my daily life. I was frightened that everyone would treat me the way Olive did, so I rarely made eye contact and preferred escaping to places where nobody could judge me, often inside my head.
Olive was a great believer in diagnoses but not in therapy. She simply wanted an excuse for the way I behaved. One psychiatrist labeled me autistic, but once I began first grade I excelled at written work and scrupulously followed the most complicated directions, disproving that diagnosis, which was then traded in for the more generic “depression.” This one, with its finger pointed straight at my grandmother, surely pleased her less.
Rather than being traumatized during Olive’s hospitalization, I began to interact with other foster children and to slowly speak again. Not often or fluently, but well enough to get by. Each time my grandmother underwent more treatment, my speech temporarily improved. Each time I went home again I regressed.
My grandmother died when I was nine. I had been placed in emergency care two weeks earlier when she was rushed to the hospital. Just before she passed away I was taken there to say goodbye. I brought flowers the sympathetic foster mother and I had picked from her garden. Olive took one look at them and me, then turned toward the wall to block out the sight of such a common gift and useless child. My foster mother explained that my grandmother was too sick to know what she was doing. But I knew better.
None of the homes I had stayed in previously were available after Olive’s death. The county looked for mature, experienced parents committed to helping me and thought a therapeutic foster home with one other child would be helpful.
The right parents were Dick and Lillian Davis, and the other child was Cecilia Ceglinski, nearly thirteen. Within moments of our meeting Cecilia demanded that the speechless me call her CeCe. By then she had already decided that someday she would be famous enough to jettison her last name.
On the day I was taken to the two-bedroom concrete tract house in an older neighborhood of Tampa, Florida, social workers were still attempting to find my mother, whose rights hadn’t been formally terminated. I knew from conversations I overheard that my chances for adoption were slim to none. I was too shy, too withdrawn, and while authorities no longer believed I was autistic, that diagnosis remained as a question in my records and was guaranteed to give even the most enthusiastic adoptive parents pause.
I was all of nine, but the people in control believed it was enough at that moment that I was safe and well fed. After their own children left, Mr. and Mrs. Davis had welcomed more than a dozen children into their home. They were strict but fair, affectionate but not demanding, and they were happy to work with other professionals to provide the best for their kids.
Cecilia had already lived with the Davises for four months before I arrived to take the place of an eleven-year-old girl who had wreaked havoc. Cecilia claims that no matter what was wrong with me—and in her estimation there was plenty—she saw right away that she could finally sleep with both eyes shut. If I was too scared to get up and use the bathroom at night, I was unlikely to murder her in her sleep.
Cecilia isn’t prone to downplay anything in her life. In the retelling a casual date becomes a marriage proposal. Polite applause becomes a standing ovation. I’m one of the parts she doesn’t have to exaggerate. She saw something in me that convinced her I needed her. No one but Maribeth, her drugged-out mother, had ever needed her for anything.
Cecilia looked at me and saw a project that might have a happy ending. That was enough.
My grandmother had named me Roberta Ingrid after two maiden aunts who had raised and molded her into the woman I feared. Cecilia was the first to call me Robin. The day we met I was wearing a red sweater. With my pale brown hair and red breast she thought I looked exactly like one.
When I turned eighteen I petitioned the court to make Robin official. By then Cecilia had been there first to remove Ceglinski.
Kris claims I’ve always allowed Cecilia to make the important decisions in my life. If he knew how hard she lobbied me not to marry him, he might feel differently.
I thought about that now as the house grew quiet and I heard Kris turning out the lights downstairs before he came to bed. Earlier Donny came back from town with enough takeout to last for several days and casseroles to carry next door tomorrow. My children devoured rotisserie chicken and sides. Kris finished a beer and picked at whatever was in reach, and the rest of us enjoyed vegan dishes from an Indian restaurant. Then, after sisterly advice on how to take care of myself for the next few days, Cecilia and Donny left to fly back to Arizona.
I’m sure my husband is delighted they’re gone. Kris is always polite to Cecilia. Cecilia is always polite to Kris. Their pseudotolerance comes down to insecurity. Neither of them is sure who will win if I’m forced to choose.
I was carefully smoothing a nightgown over my hips when Kris came into our bedroom. His wheat-colored hair was standing on end, as if he’d run his fingers through it repeatedly, and he looked exhausted, which was no surprise.
“Did you tell Nik he could stay up and read?”
I had expected something a little warmer, but I wasn’t surprised by his question. Even when Kris arrives home early enough to see his kids, he’s usually on his computer or the phone and they’re already asleep by the time he comes upstairs.
“He’s always allowed to read if it’s a real book and he’s in bed.”
“I asked him what he was reading, and he said, and I quote, ‘A book. Can’t you tell?’”
“He jumped on the one Cecilia gave him tonight. He started reading the moment he got into bed.”
“Let me guess. A rock star biography.”
“Boy band. It’s a Horatio Alger story updated for the twenty-first century. Kids from a tough neighborhood who find their way out through talent and drive.”
“Well, he needs sleep more than he needs fairy tales.”
I didn’t remind him how close the book was to Cecilia’s life story. “I’m sure you made a hit if you called it a fairy tale.”
“I’ve already had more conversations with our son today than I needed.”
I tried to sound pleasant, although it was getting harder. “Is that how it works? We get to choose a number? Because some days one is too many.”
“He’s hostile and rude. Oh, and let’s not forget sarcastic. What’s come over him? Or do you even know?”
“I have some good ideas.”
“He seems to think he can get away with it.”
My head was starting to throb again. “I hear an indictment of my parenting skills.”
He didn’t answer directly. “What are you doing to change things?”
I swallowed a reminder that the decision to have these children had been mutual. “Truthfully,
