We’d been waiting for the tumultuousness of adolescence to hit and holding our breath, hoping to be spared, but over the next few weeks, he transformed before our eyes. From out of nowhere, his former bravado was gone and replaced with a teenage slump. He stopped showering regularly, his greasy hair always hanging into his eyes. He no longer cared about his looks and wore the same clothes for days. He usual engaged chatter disappeared and was replaced with one-word answers.
At first, I wrote it off as normal, joking with my friends about how my little boy had disappeared overnight and been replaced with an alien. We all shared our stories about the ways our teenagers were changing, and most of them were similar to mine.
“He never comes out of his room anymore,” I complained over coffee after a PTA meeting.
The president, Rochelle, burst out laughing. “Don’t worry. When my boys were teenagers, I don’t think I saw them for three years.”
It was helpful not to feel so alone, but I couldn’t erase the gnawing in my gut that something was wrong despite what they said. My fears were magnified when he stopped hanging out with his friends. Our home had always been filled with them. He rarely came home from school alone, and I used to joke about needing another refrigerator to feed them all, but I secretly loved being the house where they all hung out. He stopped bringing anyone home, and no longer spent time anywhere besides his room, the door shut tight behind him.
I kept trying to get him to talk to me, but he refused. He snapped at me when I asked, or rolled his eyes and said everything was fine. I didn’t know what to do or how to help him. We’d always been able to talk about anything. I listened when my kids talked. I didn’t pretend like I was when I was really thinking about something else. I paid attention to what they told me. Always had. I wanted to be the one they were comfortable talking to about the things happening in their lives and to create an environment where they felt safe coming to me when they were in trouble.
I couldn’t accept his denial that there wasn’t anything wrong when there so clearly was. I wasn’t like other parents, who were too afraid to dig deeper into their child’s life and risk upsetting them. Not me. I was convinced he was on drugs and started searching his room regularly but kept coming up empty-handed.
Lucas was just as worried. “I always thought Katie would be the tough teenager,” he said. “I’ve never really worried about him before. It feels so weird.”
We doubled our efforts, wracking our brains to come up with new ways to draw him out. Lucas dragged him out of bed on Saturday mornings to go fishing, but he sat like a lump on the side of the river the entire time, often wandering off by himself into the woods. Lucas bought new running shoes and suggested they start training for a marathon together. Lucas hated running, and the idea of him making it twenty-six miles was ridiculous, but he was willing to try anything. Noah refused to go, barely acknowledging his dad’s efforts, whereas before he would’ve teased his father relentlessly about his running skills.
We took turns trying to get him to open up on the weekly date nights we had with each of the kids. Friday was my night with Katie, and Wednesday was Noah’s turn. Kid date nights started shortly after Katie was born, during the days when the incessant demands of an infant stole all our attention. We’d wanted Noah to know he was still special and important, so we’d started taking him out by himself. We added Katie to the practice once she was old enough so both of them could have special individual time with each of us.
Wednesdays were my favorite day with Noah. Lots of teenagers would’ve been embarrassed to be seen hanging out with their mom, but not Noah. He searched for me in the carpool lane on the afternoons when he didn’t have practice, and his face slid into a wide smile when he spotted my car. He liked going out on our dates especially because I let him choose the place, but his behavior surrounding Wednesdays and our relationship changed too. More and more, he was refusing to go, making up excuses about homework or having to study for a big test the next day.
“Can we stay home tonight?” he asked after I’d knocked on his door and told him it was time to go on the evening of our last date night.
Disappointment washed over me. He’d gotten out of our date the previous week, and I’d put a lot of thought into this one. I’d chosen his favorite restaurant and decided I wouldn’t pressure him to talk at all, hoping he’d do it on his own if I quit pushing so hard.
“Let’s go out. I already made reservations at Sawatdee. Besides, you skipped out on me last week, remember?” I stood talking to the wooden door.
He let out a deep sigh. “I really don’t feel like going out. What if we popped some popcorn and watched a movie here?”
I didn’t want to risk pushing him further away, so I relented. “I’ll pop the popcorn, but you’ve got to meet me in the family room in ten minutes. Deal?”
“Sure,” he said without any enthusiasm.
I felt nervous as I made the popcorn. I’d never been unsure about how to approach Noah. I knew him better than I knew myself and could tell his moods and what he was thinking just by looking at his face, but I was losing my ability to read him. It was a normal part of adolescence, but it didn’t make it any easier.
We were halfway through our movie when he hit pause and turned to look at me with a look in his eyes I’d never seen before. His eyes filled with tears. “I need to talk to you.”
I breathed a sigh of relief that he was finally ready. I grabbed the remote from his hand, flicked the power off, and turned to face him. I sat cross-legged next to him on the couch, ready to listen to whatever he had to tell me. I braced myself for him to tell me he was on drugs.
The tears in his eyes spilled down his cheeks, and he began to sob. I took him in my arms. “It’s okay. Whatever it is. We’ll work it out. I promise.” I started to rub his back.
He pushed me away, detangling himself. “I c-can’t. I can’t talk about it.” He was crying so hard it was difficult to make out his words.
“Honey, you have to talk about it. Keeping things inside destroys you. Things are never as bad as they seem when you’re keeping them a secret.”
His entire body shook. A torrent of sobs ripped through him, and I didn’t say anything while he cried. I tried to hold him again and this time, he let me. He gripped my shirt in the back and buried his head on my shoulder like he’d done when he was a little boy. I held him until his sobs subsided and he pulled away, leaving trails of snot and tears behind. He shook his head, embarrassed at his outburst.
He jumped up and began pacing the living room, back and forth, rubbing his arms up and down with his hands. His eyes were wild, flitting around the room. I was hoping it was only pot he was smoking, but as he grew more agitated, I started to worry it was meth, and our problem was much bigger than I’d originally thought.
“Do you promise to love me no matter what?” He looked down at me like a frightened bird.
“Of course, Noah. There’s nothing you could say or do that would ever change how I feel about you.” I hadn’t moved from my spot on the couch. I was determined to follow his lead on this one. Let him get it out in whatever way he needed to.
“I did something terrible.” His voice quivered with emotion.
I steeled myself, holding on to the couch with both hands. Had he stolen money to pay for his drugs? Was he wrapped up with some crazy drug dealer? I tried to listen without emotion.
He gulped, hiccupping on the sobs threatening to come up again. “Really bad, Mom. I’m a terrible person.” His face twisted with grief. “I’m so scared.”
My mouth went dry.
“I can’t believe I did it. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Something’s really wrong.” His words tripped over each other. “I touched those girls. I did. I touched them.”
“What girls? What are you talking about?”
I’d been steeling myself for his confession about trouble with drugs, and it was only a stupid girl making him crazy. I felt a twinge of hurt that he hadn�
�t shared he had a girlfriend, but there had to be a reason he didn’t want me to know and it didn’t matter now as long as he was talking to me. They must’ve broken up. First relationships were always brutal. I felt like my world was ending when my high school boyfriend broke up with me.
“Maci and Bella,” he said under his breath.
I flipped through the names of girls he hung out with or ones he talked about before, but couldn’t remember anyone named Maci or Bella. Maybe they didn’t go to his school. He could’ve met them online. I’d warned him about meeting people online.
“How’d you meet them?” I asked.
“I coach them.”
“Did you decide to take on a private client?”
“No, God, Mom, you don’t get it.” He was raking his hands up and down his arms so hard that I was afraid he’d leave marks. “They’re six years old.”
Shockwaves wracked my body. Black spots spun in front of my eyes. My dinner came up in my throat. I forced it back down. My hands shook.
“Sit down. Tell me what happened.” I didn’t recognize the sound of my voice.
I tried to keep my expression impassive and hide my revulsion toward what he had to say, what he was admitting to. He perched next to me on the couch, shaking his legs back and forth, wringing his hands together on his lap as he spoke.
“I tried so hard not to. I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t help myself...”
“W-what did you do?” My breath was rapid and shallow. I put my hand on my chest and instructed myself to breathe slowly.
He brought his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, curling into himself. He rocked back and forth.
“I touched them ... on ... on their privates.” His voice was barely a whisper.
“On purpose?” It had to be a mistake. An accident.
He nodded.
I rearranged my face to hide the shock and horror.
“How many times?” My voice wasn’t mine. It belonged to someone else.
“A lot. It’s why I had to quit, Mom. I had to. I couldn’t stop.”
“Oh my God, Noah. Oh my God.” I brought my hands up to my face and held them there, holding perfectly still. Not moving. My brain couldn’t formulate thoughts. He started talking again, but I couldn’t hear him. His voice was muffled and far away. I couldn’t speak. The word for what he’d done, who he was, bounced around in my brain, but I couldn’t say it. The word wouldn’t fit in my mouth.
“Mom?” He reached over to touch me.
I flinched. Ice water shot through my veins.
“Did you hurt Katie?”
“No. I’d never hurt her.”
He curled up at the end of the couch. He needed me, but I couldn’t move. I didn’t want to touch him. Didn’t want to be in the same room. I bit back the screams in my throat, the ones that wanted to yell at him to get out of my house and give me my son back. I couldn’t connect with the confessed child molester in front of me when that morning he’d been the teenager who studied for his social studies test at the kitchen table and quizzed his sister on her spelling words over a bowl of Cheerios.
All the air was sucked out of the room. I stayed rooted to my spot on the couch. Stunned. Paralyzed with fear and disgust. We sat in silence. I had no idea how much time had passed before he announced he was going to bed.
I felt the annihilation of our world and started to weep uncontrollably. It was so far removed from any of the nightmares I’d imagined having to deal with. Like every parent, I’d imagined all kinds of scenarios that could happen to my children—illness, death, accidents, being kidnapped—but in every scenario, I’d pictured them as the victim. None of them included him in the role of the perpetrator. I’d imagined all of it. But this? Never this? This couldn’t be my son.
I couldn’t stand the thought of facing Lucas or Katie when they got home from their date night. Lucas would take one look at me and know something was wrong. I forced my body to stand and move upstairs. I lay down like I was in a trance and pretended to sleep as I listened for the sounds of them coming home. I didn’t move when Lucas got into bed with me.
“It’s early. You okay?” he asked.
“I have a horrible headache.” I tried to sound sleepy.
I got up once I was sure he was asleep. I paced back and forth down the hallway separating Noah and Katie’s rooms, tortured with questions. How did I live with him all these years and never notice something was wrong with him? Nothing amiss. Would it be possible to live with him all those years and not have any idea? How could I not know? I was his mother. Nothing he’d done matched the son I knew and loved.
As I lay next to him on his first night out of Marsh, I wished for the thousandth time I’d handled his confession differently. I failed him during the most critical point in his life, and I wasn’t sure I’d ever forgive myself for rejecting him when he needed me the most. I’d give anything to go back in time and reverse my actions. He’d been afraid of me not loving him anymore, and I did exactly what he feared. It didn’t matter that I’d been making up for it every day since or that I’d gone into his room in the morning and apologized for the way I’d handled myself and told him how much I still loved him, how I promised we’d get through it, and that I loved him no matter what. It was my fault he disappeared, and I was afraid of never getting him back.
6
The green grass in front of the courthouse was immaculate, but it was only a matter of time before it was covered in dirty white snow. I’d been here at every season, from the red leaves in the fall to the blazing heat in the summer. It never mattered what it looked like outside, though, it was always cold on the inside. I pushed open the heavy wooden doors behind the pillars, bracing myself for what was to come.
I was well versed in the routine. We emptied our pockets into the white plastic trays, and I set my purse in another. We stepped through the security arms one at a time. I was motioned through without a second glance, but Noah wasn’t as lucky. He never was. They swabbed him from top to bottom with the security wand while I gathered our things.
Our first stop was the city clerk to check in. She was where you went when you didn’t know where to go, and today was new for us—the next step in our journey. We didn’t talk as we walked up to her window. She was innocent looking, with blond hair and a round face.
“We’re here to register,” I said quietly so no one behind us might overhear.
She raised her eyebrows. “Register? For what?”
“As a sex offender.” The word rolled easily off my tongue even though the emotional reaction was always the same.
She pointed to Noah first and then me. “Which one?”
“Me,” Noah said.
“What’s your name?” She shot him a scathing look.
“Noah Coates.”
She typed quickly into the computer and turned up her nose as she read. She tapped a few more buttons and paper shot out of the printer next to her computer. She slid it under the glass with a pen and paper.
“Here.” Disgust flickered through her eyes. Her stare slid from him to me, seething hatred as her eyes landed on me, breathing contempt. I was familiar with the look. It was the one everyone gave me when they found out who he was.
Noah signed himself in and slid the paperwork back underneath the glass along with the pen. She didn’t take her eyes off me as he handed her his information. She used her folder to push the pen he used to the top of her desk as if it was contaminated. I reminded myself of what Dr. Park always said in family groups, “We are not our loved ones’ crimes,” hoping this time it would make a difference, but it never does. Noah wasn’t just guilty—we all were. And once you were dirty, you couldn’t get clean again. You were like a chewed piece of gum.
“Where do we go?” I asked, keeping my head held high and my shoulders back.
She pointed to the right. “Down the hallway, take your first left, and then your second right.”
We walked down the hallway with faces of impo
rtant-looking people housed in wooden frames lining the walls. I recognized two of them as Jefferson and Washington. Our footsteps echoed as we walked. It was always so quiet. We found the office we were looking for and a short man with broad shoulders and an angular jaw greeted us after we opened the door.
He stood from behind his desk and stuck his hand out to me. “I’m Sheriff Anderson.” He didn’t shake Noah’s hand. Nobody does. “Have a seat.” He pointed to the chairs in front of his wooden desk, cluttered with papers and folders. I fought the urge to tidy them up as we took our seats.
“What’s your plan?” he asked.
He was referring to the safety plan—the one the last three weeks of treatment were spent creating. I made three copies, one for me, one for Lucas—although I didn’t think he ever read it—and one for the sheriff. I pulled it out of my purse and handed it to him. His forehead crinkled as he read through the document. The clock on the wall ticked. I could hear Noah breathing next to me.
“How are you going to make sure he’s not offending again?” he asked, finally looking up from the paper.
“He’s gotten help and so have I. I’ll be able to recognize his symptoms because we’ve talked about them, and I know what to look for,” I said with a calm I didn’t feel. Noah’s expression was impassive and didn’t change as the conversation moved around him.
Sheriff Anderson dug through the piles of paperwork on his desk, finding what he was looking for and handing it to me. “Here’s the conditions of his probation. Give it a read through.”
The conditions of his probation were what I’d expected. No unsupervised contact with young children, no contact with his victims, no use of pornographic materials, and no Internet. He would submit to monthly drug testing even though he’d never shown any signs of drug use. He wasn’t allowed to drink alcohol or be where it was served. He couldn’t leave the state of Illinois without permission. He had to follow his safety plan. And lastly, what we were there for today—he had to register as a sex offender.
I had tried to fight his registration as a sex offender, but it was useless because of the Adam Walsh Act. I’d never heard of the act until Noah’s conviction. It was formed in response to the kidnapping and brutal murder of Adam Walsh. Adam’s father hosted America’s Most Wanted after his son was kidnapped and fought for stricter registration laws after he was found murdered years later by a known sex offender.
Saving Noah Page 7
