Lydia Netzer - Shine Shine Shine

“You mention Miss Mary,” said the director. “At the meeting today, she’d like to discuss the results of some tests. They need to be read and discussed.”

Bubber had had many tests, and Sunny had read and discussed them all with doctors of every stripe. What she should do now was to search out the appropriate files to bring, the appropriate numbers to consult for comparison.

Instead Sunny said, “You know what? No more tests.”

She found herself thinking, This will not be tolerated. Then she put the phone down, stood up, and stretched a long, long catlike stretch ending in a neck roll. On a normal day, she would now replace the wig, comb it down, inhabit it. Instead she got dressed, got into Maxon’s car, and drove over to the very special preschool to take Bubber home. She felt kind of strong in her bald head. In the moment, she was only thinking about how Bubber was being tested again, and pissed off that he would again be found wanting.

Sunny was the mom with the multicolored activism ribbon in magnet on the back of her van. Sunny, heretofore, had been a very good friend of tests.

When she arrived at the school, the other parents were waiting to pick up their children, too. It was like a minivan convention in the parking lot. Silver ones, mostly. Some burgundy. Some teal. When they had purchased their minivan, Maxon had yearned for the black one, but Sunny said no.

“I’ve never seen a black minivan,” she said. “We have to blend in with our environment.”

“Well, if you’ve never seen a black minivan, might that not mean that the black minivans are blending in very well?” Maxon pointed out.

But they bought the silver one. On the highways, it was virtually invisible. The wig and the minivan together made an invisibility cloak. Walking past the rows of other cars, the different-colored ribbons on the bumpers, the soccer balls, the black-and-white ovals from vacation spots, Sunny remembered the first of three terrible things she had said to Maxon on the day before he went into space: It is all your fault, that we don’t fit in here. I’m doing my goddamned best. What’s left, Maxon? It’s all you. You won’t even try. You won’t even give it a decent effort. Of all the children at Bubber’s school, Bubber was the one that was autistic. Bubber was pushing the limits of what the school could handle. They kept telling her this.

On the sidewalk, a little stream of children bumped past her, the few girls with their little sparkling backpacks, their hair accessories glittering, their leather shoes squeaking comfortably, each holding a larger, duller, flatter parent by the hand, pulling them along. The children did not look up at Sunny as they passed her. They were dispassionate. She could have been a talking hawk, or a rhinoceros. They were like little hairy animatronic children, marching down the sidewalk, already thinking about lunch. The parents, in contrast, had no time to hide their surprise at Sunny’s bald state. These were women she had chatted with, day after day, waiting for pickup time in the rain, or at the Christmas show, or at the grocery store, over the grapefruit bin. She didn’t know all their names, but they were Taylor’s Mom, and Connor’s Mom, and Chelsea’s Mom, and yet they walked right past, carefully averting their eyes and also smiling with lips drawn together in a line. Some crazy bald lady came to the school today.

Inside, the director was distributing art projects to take home, making sure sweaters were matched with the right children, and giving out lollipops that had no artificial colors. He was actually a man with no hair. He did have eyebrows, chin hairs, the rest of it, but his head was shining and bare. Sunny had never truly forgotten that fact, but in the days since the wig went on her head, she noticed bald people with less interest than before.

Back in the old days, it might have been like, Hey, high five, my brother. Then with the wig it was just another hairstyle, of the many that we regular humans can choose from. Now it was as if she were an animal, identifying another of her species.

The other parents began to clear out. The other children were all delivered to their families. Then there were only the three bald people in the room: the director of the preschool, and Sunny, and the baby inside her. The director’s name was Mr. Dave. He recognized her, even without the fake hair she had been putting on her head. Mr. Dave said, “Hello, Mrs. Mann.”

“I’m bald,” said Sunny. “I’ve been wearing a wig this whole time. Eyebrows too, and eyelashes.”

“Have a seat,” said Mr. Dave. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Just, you know, the wig went flying off my head yesterday. We had a car accident, Bubber and I. The wig—well, I decided to leave it off.”

Mr. Dave nodded in an understanding way. Mr. Dave’s voice had never been raised. He had never shouted at her and pumped his fist in her face and made spit flecks come out the sides of his mouth. They’d had their disagreements, but he had always stayed quiet. She wondered if Mr. Dave was capable of getting riled. She had always appreciated his calm demeanor.

“Does Bubber realize you’ve made this decision?” he asked.

“Well, yes, he knows,” said Sunny. “He was there when it flew off.”

“Did he seem upset by it?” asked Mr. Dave. “Bubber was very angry today. We were wondering if it had something to do with your husband.”

“My husband is in space. He went up in a rocket yesterday.”

“I know,” said Mr. Dave.

“Well, we didn’t think it would be a good idea for Bubber and I to go down to see the launch. We thought it was too much.”

“Okay,” said Mr. Dave. “I see.”

Sunny tried to sit down in one of the chairs in the lobby, but Mr. Dave asked her to follow him deeper into the building, into his office, where there were better chairs.

The psychiatrist was there already. She had long gray hair, parted down the middle, making a curtain around her oversized glasses, her dark pink mouth, her lined cheeks. She closed a file she was holding open in her lap, and stood up. She smiled a big yellow smile and stuck out a hand.

“You know Miss Mary,” said Mr. Dave.

“I’m so happy to see you again, Mrs. Mann,” said the psychiatrist. “I’ve had such an interesting time talking to your son, Robert.”

“We call him ‘Bubber.’ Where is Bubber?”

“He is still back with Miss Tanya,” said Mr. Dave. “They’re having some extra art time so we can have our meeting.”

“I wasn’t aware he was being tested again,” said Sunny. “I didn’t realize you could do that without telling me.”

“It’s okay,” said Mr. Dave. “We just wanted to get a good look at what was going on with Bubber before we decided what was best for him.”

“And what is going on with Bubber?”

“Won’t you sit down?” Miss Mary invited her to join them at the desk. She held out a sheet of paper to Sunny. “Mrs. Mann, I asked Bubber to draw me a picture of his favorite pet today, and this is what he gave me.”

The drawing was definitely Rocks the dog, done in pen and ink. He was black-and-white, with a squashed-up nose, pointing bat ears, no tail. The drawing was childish, with simple lines and exaggerations. However, it was as if the dog’s skin were invisible, and all the organs inside the dog had also been drawn in, too, also in childish lines and exaggerations, but with no system left unrepresented, including the lymphatic. Organs were overlapped and blood vessels ran from point to point. Each one was clearly labeled, all names spelled rigorously according to phonetic logic. The dog had produced a dialogue bubble, and inside were the words “Bow wow.”

Miss Mary handed Sunny another sheet. “Here’s one he gave me, when I asked him to draw Mommy.”