Is the past worth knowing? Why is it so important for me to say to her: "Mom, look at me.
I'm not retarded any more. I'm normal. Better than normal. I'm a genius?"
Even as I try to get her out of my mind, the memories seep back from the past to contaminate the here and now.
Another memory—when I was much older. A quarrel. Charlie lying in bed, with the covers pulled up around him.
The room dark, except for the thin line of yellow light from the door ajar that penetrates the darkness to join both worlds.
And he hears things, not understanding but feeling, because the rasp of their voices is linked to their talk of him.
More and more, each day, he comes to associate that tone with a frown when they speak of him.
He has been almost asleep when through the bar of light the soft voices were raised to the pitch of argument—
his mother's voice sharp with the threat of one used to having her way through hysteria.
"He's got to be sent away. I don't want him in the house any more with her.
Call Dr. Portman and tell him we want to send Charlie to the Warren State Home."
My father's voice is firm, steadying. "But you know Charlie wouldn't harm her. It can't make any difference to her at this age."
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