Modern Screen (Jan-Dec 1960)

it and looking at it. And when this girl told me this, she and the other one began to laugh. And I got mad and I said, 'My sister loves her teddy bear, that's why she was holding it so long. It's a very special teddy bear which J used to have and which J gave her.' I said, 'Besides, besides, she doesn't walk funny really, and she does talk a little. You see, if it's any of your business,' I said, 'she happens to be still only a baby. Three years old, that's only a baby still,' I said . . . And it is. Mommy, isn't it? Isn't it?" "Of course it is," Bette said. She opened her purse and reached for a handkerchief and wiped some of the tears from her daughter's eyes. "Some children develop more slowly than others," she said. "Some children — " She stopped. "Barbara," she said, after a moment, "I want you to promise me one thing. I want you to be a big girl and strong and listen to what I have to say. To promise me this — that if we ever do find out that something is wrong with Margot . . . that you won't love your sister any less than you do now. That you'll love her even more, if that's possible. And that you won't cry, the way you're crying now . . . And that you'll understand." The girl looked at her mother now, trying to understand what she was saying. And then, as if she did — even a little — she said, softly: "All right, Mommy . . . all right. . . ." The awful diagnosis The doctor examined the child, thoroughly, carefully. When he was finished, he called in a nurse. "Stay with her outside," he said, "and send in Mrs. Merrill." Bette sat, a few minutes later, across from him. "Is it bad?" she asked. The doctor nodded. "Margot is retarded," he said. Bette clutched her hands together. "Retarded," she said, slowly, after him. He had examined the child — four and a half years old now — this past hour, the doctor went on, and during the examination he had even called the orphanage from which she'd come. The people at the orphanage had checked the little girl's records. There had been no mention of anything unusual regarding her medical history for the first year of her life. However, there was a notation in her records stating that, at birth, delivery had been difficult and that there had been a "minor injury." Obviously, the doctor told Bette now, it had been more than a minor injury, a concussion perhaps. "What will happen?" Bette asked. "I think," said the doctor, "that it would be best for you to send her away ... to a home. She is a very sad little girl, a lost little girl. They can help her there, at a home." Bette pursed her lips. "And then?" she asked. "There is always hope," the doctor said. "But for now it's clear that only one-half of her brain is functioning and . . . It's best, Bette, for the child, for everybody, if you send her away." "I don't want to," Bette said. "I can't . . . Can't we get a nurse and keep heist our home, with the other children, where she belongs? Certainly we could afford that, and would want to do that. Certainly — " "I'm afraid it's more serious than that," said the doctor. Then, again: "It's best this way, Bette." He lit a cigarette and handed it to her. She took a quick puff. "Would she be able to come home week "No," the doctor said. "We find it's best, at the begiiming, at least, to keep the children in the home, away from what they've known. Holidays, maybe — after a while. But not weekends . . . It's just better all around that way." Bette looked over at the doctor. She wanted to talk to him more, as if by talking things might become suddenly, miraculously, solved. But she knew that that would not be so. And so, putting out her cigarette, she asked, "When does she have to go?" "As soon as possible," said the doctor. "Yes," Bette said rising, and turning, and walking out of the office. In the anteroom she saw little Margot, sitting on a long wood bench. She walked up to the child. She took her hand. ' Come on, darling," she said, "we've got to go home now." The girl looked up at her. Then she lowered her eyes. And then, slowly, she slipped off the bench as Bette held to her hand, tightly.... Home for Christmas It was Christmas morning, 1955. Margot had been away for two months. Bette and Gary and Barbara got into the car, to visit her, this first time these past two months, and to pick her up and take her back home with them for Christmas dinner. The institution, they saw when they got there, was gaily-decorated, with a big tree near the door, big wreaths on the windows, a giant papier-mache Santa Claus in the garden, with sled and reindeer, all circled by a fort of fake snow in which giant, live poinsettias grew. It would have been a fine place for children to play, they all thought — in their separate ways, except that there were no children around. A nurse, a tall woman, met them at the door, and began to write out their pass. "The children are all in the assembly room, opening their presents," she said. "You'll have to wait just a few minutes . . . Now, the name of the child you've come to fetch?" "Margot Merrill," said Bette. The nurse finished writing out the pass. And then she said, "Would you like to see Margot's room, meanwhile?" They followed the nurse as she led them to the room, and opened the door. It was a small room, they saw. with a little bed, a bureau, a tiny blue rocking chair — nothing more. It struck them all — Bette and Gary and Barbara — as the saddest, loneliest little room they had ever seen. And they were glad, very glad, that in a few minutes they would be able to take Margot away from it, this room, this place, and bring her back home for a few hours at least. "Now," the nurse said, looking efficientlydown at her watch, " — the assembly room's back this way. Why don't we go there and wait in the rear. . . ." They stood there, a few minutes later, trying to single Margot out from the dozens of children who sat in a large circle in the middle of the room. "There she is," Barbara said, softly, excitedly, pointing. "Look." They all looked now and they saw her. Margot . . . She sat, like the others, leaning forward a little in her chair, holding a small toy in one hand, a big candy stick in the other, listening wide-eyed to the man in the center of the circle who was dressed as Santa Claus and who was in the midst of a rousing refrain of Jingle Bells. They continued watching her — as, like the other children, she listened, joined in on the final chorus, clapped and then rose to leave. "Margot," Barbara called out. jus over to her now, past some of the o children, grabbing her, hugging her. "'. are you? . . . How are you?" "I fine," Margot said, " — Barbara." She smiled a big smile suddenly. As smiled, too, when Bette and Gary c over and bent and kissed her. Then, after a few moments, the n stepped forward and said, "All right, S got, you've got to get ready to go now, The little girl looked at her. The s began to leave her face. "Go?" she as She looked at them all. "Go?" she asked, again. The other nodded. "Don't — don't you want to come h with us?" Barbara asked, confused. The little girl didn't answer. But stead she turned and looked around big room, at some of the other chil< still there, some of them playing with t new toys, some of them sucking t candy sticks, some of them just stani there, looking back at her. "What's wrong. Margot?" Barbara as approaching her. Margot's gift The girl didn't move, nor look at Barbara looked up at her mot "What's wrong?" she asked. "Wrong?" said the nurse, standing ] to them. She shook her head. "Five even four weeks ago," she said, "sometl was wrong. Margot was as unhappy 1 as the day she arrived. She missed all, so much. She cried lots, she woul eat more than a few mouthfuls of food, she sat alone in her room mos the time, on that rocking chair you there, just rocking away, and staring, rc ing and staring all the time . . . And tl as it happens with most of the chile here, something changed suddenly. Ma made a friend. Don't ask me exactly ] it happened, I don't know. But she m one friend, then another, then anot And suddenly she was happy here . . . she missed you all still. She always a I'm sure . . . But this has become her i home. These children have become new family. And. strange as it may se you must explain to her now that si be coming back here." The others looked at the nurse. And then they turned again to Mar The little girl had her back to tl still; she had not moved and she was : watching the other children in the ro Bette stooped, after a moment, gently, she picked the girl up in her ar She began to talk to her, slowly, softl explaining to her about how they wanted to take her with them now, dinner, for just a little while; how, a dinner, they would all get back into car and come back . . . "here," she s: "right back here." She looked into the little girl's eyes. "All right, Margot?" she asked. The little girl smiled again, as she ) before, and she nodded. "All right." said. "Good," said Bette. "Good." And then, still carrying Margot. Be took her daughter Barbara's hand. "You see, Beedee," she asked, "h things work out in strange and beaut ways sometimes? We came, thinking gift to Margot would be to take her he for a few hours. We didn't think Mar would have any gift for us, did we? 1 she has. The most wonderful gift any ol will ever receive . . . She is happy, final They brought Margot home that day As they will this Christmas to come for a few short and very precious hoi Bette appears in John Paul Jo: Warner Bros., and The Scapegoat. MCI