Mary, Mary-not contrary

BLESSED

 

My husband, Carl Twitt and I live on Circle Royale in a lovely up-scale development of single homes starting at $250 K to 2 Mil. We have two daughters and a married son who has a son of his own, conceived out of wedlock. Our third daughter, Mary, is pathetically mentally slow. She has a  moon face and is too often ridiculed by other children. I boil, become furious when Mary is taunted, chased by unfeeling kids.  From my purse I usually can find a red licorice stick or a small plastic bag of miniature Hershey bars as a treat for my 'baby'. It's like magic as Mary forgets all about the nasty children and starts licking the red candy. She goes to the foyer mirror, sticks out her tongue, sees how red it is and laughs and laughs at herself until tears run down her cheeks.

 

Last Halloween four of the children who live in our development snuck into our lovely garden near the lake, stood under Mary's window and called her ugly names.  Carl heard the raucous, nasty words and went after those kids, grabbed them by anything he could and took them to their parents, spoke with great anger in voice. Apologies came along with promises that such a thing would not happen again. Meaningful but empty words changed nothing.

 

Our household  recovers from Halloween and are hit immediately by Thanksgiving. It's haste gives us little breathing space. Catered dinners are de rigeur for those who do not go away. The weeks ahead are known only as 'The Holidays.' They either come too close together, or are too much trouble or are fantastically wonderful, soooo friendly. With the caterers gone, the trash and garbage taken away, Christmas season starts. The Donaldsons, in the next section of our development, set up the first colored lights on their very young shrubbery and so  begins the parade. Wreaths of all sizes, red ribbons dangling, come from nowhere to the front doors. A six foot high iridescent glass  candle stands like a soldier on the lawn next to the ours. It is simple, not offensive and we are pleased. An army must come in the middle of the night to sprinkle star dust on the sidewalks. No one claims the responsibility nor asks for funds to cover the cost. There are silent objections to a huge old sleigh with a stuffed Santa holding the reins. It must be an antique and surely valuable, but over done. This year the Maxes who own a chain of radio, music shops, donate piped in carols from noon November 30 until 10 p.m. Christmas eve. It drives most of us bananas. Our windows stay closed.

 

Mary loves the big displays of moving toys, the Santas ringing their bells outside and drops dollar bills in each kettle she and I pass.
I keeps careful tabs on Mary because she has wandered off before and may just do it again. Bribing her I lewt her know that her father and I want her to have a new outfit for church Christmas eve. 'My heavens, you have grown so tall I can barely recognize you.' Let's go to Nordstrom's. Their salespeople will be so nice to us and will find something pretty for you, something Dad and I will like. Mary claps her hands and goes around the revolving door three times before being forced out into the store.

 

'Music, Momma,' she says and pulls her mother towards the escalator where the white  grand piano sits. A wonderful pianist plays Christmas songs, ballads, semi-classical pieces. Mary stands in one place, tapping her foot, swaying to all of the lovely sounds. The happiness on her face brings wide smiles to all those relaxing, listening. Only when the pianist takes a break will Mary go to the children's department. Not truly seeing how the dresses look on her, she loves them all. I think they are all too childish and lead her the junior department. We are both getting tired. Mary begins to cry. From the top of the escalator, her mood changes. She is full of spunk because the pianist is back! 'Momma stay. Momma stay,' she whines. I don't want to but do it for my 'baby'. We stay thru several Vienna waltzes and then, with no dress purchased, I give the valet my stub and drive home. Weary, disappointed, I send Mary to wash up, use the toilet and put on her pajamas. ' Get in bed, darling. Sleep tight.' A night light is left on in the hall.

 

Carl stops snoring, rubs my back gently. In just a moment I am wide awake. 'Lois, did you leave the t.v. on?' A mumble of 'no' and I sit up, alert to music down in the den. The music gets louder as Carl and I go slipperless down the winding stairs. Someone is playing the Moonlight Sonata and playing it perfectly. That someone turns out to be Mary.

 

We are dumbfounded, speechless. Mary has never been interested in our Steinway or even discs of music. I am frozen to the floor, don't want to stop her total concentration and bide my time. When the last notes sound, she starts a Vienesse waltz. Carl and I can't resist and twirl and turn until Mary stops, says nothing and goes to bed.

 

First thing in the morning I call her internist. My words flow faster than a flooding river. I explain as best I can. Dr. Schwartz puts me on hold while he sets up an appointment for me with a specialist who handles mentally retarded children. At 4 p.m. Dr. Johanson calls to explain what has happened, assure me that Mary is not that unique. 'Don't give her piano lessons. She has more in that slow mind of hers than you and I have together.

 

Mary is what is called an Idiot Savant. Enjoy her. Let her play and play. She will never tire of it. Your only duty is to show your love for her. It is her medicine.' Carl, I  and our other children, neighbors, strangers, come in to listen to Mary. She has been on the Today Show, Dr. Oz.

 

Her story is in next month's Parenthood, centerfold. $2.25 a copy. I tell my friends not to buy it as Carl and I have ordered a hundred
copies and will distribute them as soon as they hit the  news stands.