Dwarf: A Memoir by Tiffanie Didonato, Rennie Dyball Read Free Book Online

around my tiny finger and her long,
     beaded necklaces swayed from side to side as I shimmied atop the lobster pot.
    Before Cyndi could begin singing, Mom was standing over me, holding the very certificate
     Nick had found. She turned the music off with a flick of her long, salmon pink fingernail
     and tossed her feathered, blond Farrah Fawcett–style hair.
    “Why was this in your room?” Mom asked. She looked very confused. “This belongs to
     my sewing machine, Tiffie. If I lose it and something happens to my machine I can’t
     get it replaced.”
    I felt a rush of relief and a twinge of embarrassment.
    “I don’t want you going through my sewing room,” she continued. “There are pins and
     needles and scissors in there. You could get hurt. Promise me you will stay out of
     that room.”
    “I promise!” I shouted happily. “I love you.”
    “I love you, too! Now, it’s really time to go,” she said, motioning for me to hand
     over her jewelry. “We’re going to be late for your doctor’s appointment, sweetheart.”
     I wiggled out of the necklaces, my hair falling into my eyes as I pulled them over
     my head.
    On our way to the hospital that afternoon, Mom and I boppedalong to my Cyndi cassette. The volume was turned up obnoxiously high and I made sure
     to sing along extra loud. Our time together in the car made the exhausting trip to
     Boston fun. It was a mini party in her car.
    Compared to our very small bedroom town of Douglas, Boston seemed like the land of
     endless possibilities. It was intriguing. Even if all I knew of the city existed between
     the walls of the hospital’s orthopedic ward, to me it was like the Land of Oz. It
     took forever to get there, but the huge silver skyscrapers and the cars, trucks, and
     ambulances that whizzed past us always enchanted me. Clusters of people maneuvered
     up and down the skinny streets, drivers blew their horns constantly, and my mom cursed
     at the ones that cut in front of our car.
    In my imagination, the people who sat up above our car in glass boxes— Mom called
     them tollbooth operators— protected the city.
    “Jesus Christ,” she hissed as she handed over money through her window.
    The tollbooth operator was expressionless and stood perfectly still with his hand
     outstretched.
    “Soon we won’t have a pot to piss in if you keep raising the prices.”
    After the hassle of the tollbooths, parking was the biggest challenge. We’d circle
     around and around trying to find a spot. Eventually it became a game. Who could spot
     an open space first? The way I had it figured out, if the operator at the gate was
     nice, the parking gods would be, too. If he was grumpy, we’d spend at least forty-five
     minutes hunting for a space. On this trip to the hospital, because I was already happy
     from dancing to Cyndi, I made sure to wave and smile at the tollbooth operator. And,
poof!
We got our best parking spot to date, right in front.
    Mom and I made our way through the wide corridors of the massive hospital, much of
     which was worn, faded, discolored, and drab. I never liked the furniture inside Boston’s
     Children’s Hospital. Furniture always made a big impression on me since chairs and
     tables were usually right at eye level. The hospital wood seemed too pale, as if it
     were sick. But I wasn’t sick. I was there to look at my bones on X-rays, to make sure
     they were straight and strong. I was also there to pick out a stuffed animal from
     the gift shop. Other kids didn’t have animals to accompany them down the halls or
     in their beds. Instead, they had tubes and wires with them, and mounds of blankets
     covering up their bodies. Some kids couldn’t sit up. They’d lie there, tired, sad,
     and scared, while their moms or dads hovered over them, wiping away their tears. I
     wasn’t allowed to cower like they did.
    “Everyone has problems; everyone has pain,” Mom would say to me during any moments
     of weakness. “Some you see and