Zoe

What is a day in the life of Dr. Richard Kwan after he met Zoe?

Before I begin any research when I arrive at the Kerville Children’s Hospital, I go into Zoe’s room to check on her. No, I don’t work on her abuse case, I research on and try to civilize her, since she’s “special”. “Zoe” isn’t even her real name, but a nickname for her that means “life”, and she’s getting a second chance at life.

For the first 9 years of her life, Zoe was locked in an old, dingy room described by her caseworkers as “pathetically filthy”. Also according to them, Zoe only received small T.V dinners from her mother every 8 hours. Because of that, when discovered, Zoe could only walk with support, which resulted in her crawling most of the time. She had no language at all, and she expressed herself through drawings, which, according to the caseworkers, were scattered everywhere.

I think the caseworkers appointed me to “civilize” Zoe for three reasons: I’m a psychologist, she seems very comfortable around me, and I’m pretty young (at 31).

As I knock on the door, I think of what I’ve accomplished with Zoe these past 5 months: She’s mostly toilet trained, can walk certain distances without help, and she now knows a few simple commands and words in English by heart. I’m proud of Zoe for achieving them, and me because I get to work with her.

“Come.” I hear Zoe’s small voice from the other side of the door.

As I enter, I see Zoe’s petite body in the clean hospital bed. Her amber hair gently touches her shoulders, and her emerald eyes glare directly at me.

“Richard.” She smiles.

To her, I’m not known as Dr. Kwan anymore; we’re on first-name terms.

Hi, Zoe,” I walk up to her bedside, “how are you?”

She gives me a thumbs-up.

“That’s good,” I grin, “are you ready for your session today?”

“Ses-ion?” She looks confused. 

“Lesson.” I correct myself. 

“Yes.” She replies as she grabs her little knee-board desk next to her nightstand.

I pull up a chair and take out a pack of flashcards from my bag. 

For about two hours, I show Zoe pictures as she learns what they are of, teach her basic math, and study how well she’s learning. 

“…blob?” She guesses when I show her a flashcard with a cloud on it, 

“It’s a cloud, Zoe,” I explain, “you can see them out your window.”

Zoe looks out the window and points, “Oh, cloud!” 

“Yes,” I laugh, “cloud!” 

At the end of the lesson, Zoe stops me before I go. 

“Wait,” she says, “drawing.” 

“I can see it after lunch.” I smile. 

“No, see now!” She fiercely begins to draw.

“Alright.” I turn to her as she draws. 

When she finishes, Zoe shows me the paper: It is a drawing of chicken and mashed potatoes on it. 

“Oh,” I say, “do you want lunch?”

“Yes, please.” She smiles. 

“Well, I’ll request it.” 

I call the hospital food hotline to ask for grilled chicken with a side of mashed potatoes and a drink of water. I decide that she can have something special, and secretly order her vanilla ice cream.

“Why…there?” She asks as I finish the call in the bathroom. 

“Just felt like it.” I shrug, “Now, I’m going to have my lunch. I’ll see you after lunch!”

“Bye, Richard!” She waves as I walk out of the room .

Lunch is different today that usually. Instead of having it with my co-workers as we talk about each other’s lives, I’m having it with Zoe’s caseworkers because they’re checking up on her condition. So, they ask me questions while I’m eating my Caesar salad. 

“How does she communicate?” A female caseworker asks me. 

“She knows some English language, but she also draws to express words she doesn't quite know.” I explain. 

“Mm-hm…” She writes in her notebook. 

“Can she walk?” Another caseworker asks. 

“Yes,” I start, “Zoe can walk distances up to 50 feet without help.” 

“Alright.” 

After an hour of more questions, Zoe’s caseworkers leave, happy to have all the answers to their questions. I finish my salad, and then I return to Zoe’s room, where I see her watching some cartoon on T.V. 

She looks at me, “White stuff was good,” 

I chuckle a little, “That’s called ice cream, Zoe.” 

“Ice…cream?” 

“Yes, though it doesn't always taste like that.” 

“Okay.” 

“What are you watching?” 

Zoe doesn't answer; I guess she doesn't know how to express what is on the T.V. 

I decide to work on a little more vocabulary with her being able to study on her a little more. After we finish, it’s 4:00: Time to go.

“Alright, Zoe,” I start, “today was a good day, I’ll come back tomorrow.” 

“Sherri?” She asks. 

I glance at her for a little bit. A few months ago, I promised Zoe that one day, my wife, Sherri, would come to the hospital and meet her, 

“Sherri?” She asks again, frowning. 

“One day, I promise.” I say. 

“Tomorrow?” 

“Maybe.” I get up, grabbing my bag, “Bye, Zoe.” 

“Bye, Richard.” Zoe says as I leave the room and the hospital.

When I get home, Sherri is waiting for me with a dinner of my favorite food: Kimchi. 

As we eat, she asks, “How’s Zoe?” 

“Good.” I smile. 

“I would love to see her soon.” 

“I would love for you to see her too.” 

“You know, spring break starts for my students tomorrow, I can visit then.” 

I look at my wife, grinning, “Then I’ll see if you can come tomorrow.”

“Alright,” Sherri says, “I look forward to meeting Zoe.” 

She gets up and walks to the living room, as it’s my night to do the dishes. 

As I pick up the plates, I smile. Zoe’s wish will finally (hopefully) be granted tomorrow.

Author's Note

This is loosely based on a true story (the story of Genie). I wrote this because Genie's case inspired me to write about a girl who needs to be civilized because of how severe her abuse is. So, what do y'all think?