Nick had a strong personality, and extremely definite ideas. Like many children his age, he hated wearing clothes, and loved running around naked. I have a million photographs of him, with his bare, dimpled bottom staring at me as he played on my bed or ran across the room while the camera caught him. And conversely, as a toddler, he absolutely hated being dressed by anyone, or having his clothes changed. It was one of the rare things that made him scream in outrage. You could hear him for miles. There was something very distressing to him about getting dressed, or changed. And more often than not, even at a year and a half, and certainly by two, he had strong opinions about the outfit he was being changed into. “I won’t wear that!” he would say with a look of outrage. At twelve or fourteen or fifteen, or maybe at seven, that seems understandable. But at eighteen months, it seemed ridiculous to be arguing with Nicky about a pale blue corduroy jumper. And when he said, “I won’t wear that!”, he meant it.
I often dressed Beatie and Nick alike, in little matching outfits. She was a good sport about it, and would wear almost anything I chose. Not so with Nick. Every outfit was the cause of a major negotiation. I was still living a little precariously financially in those days, although things were slowly looking up with my writing. But I loved buying outfits for the two of them, sometimes with little giraffes on them, or flowers or bunnies at Easter. Nicky always viewed them with horror. “You expect me to wear that, with a giraffe on it?!!!” he would scream at me in horror, looking insulted to his core. I would beg him to humor me, and most of the time he would, but not until we had debated the issue for an hour with the utmost passion. Very early on, Nick had definite ideas about everything, his clothes among them, and he wasn’t shy about telling me what he thought, on any subject.
By the time Nick was a year and a half old, he was a whole person, with opinions and tastes and desires and quirks, and somewhat entrenched habits. There was no question that he was extraordinary, but he was also very different. Different from other people’s children, different even from his own sister. He was smarter than everyone, brighter, faster, had more energy than any child I’d ever seen, and he had a way of looking at me that made me feel he was a grown man in a small child’s body. He seemed to be watching me all the time, as though searching for clues to a mystery, and when his eyes met mine, I saw someone wise within them. And although at times it enchanted me, and I was endlessly proud of him because he was so remarkable and so brilliant, there were also times when it made me feel uneasy.
I remember a vague feeling of malaise when I looked at him one day. He was wearing a yellow fuzzy sleeper suit with feet in it, and he looked adorable, but something in his eyes worried me terribly as our eyes met, and for the first time, at eighteen months, I wondered if there was something wrong with him, if he was just too different. I felt guilty for even thinking it, and frightened. And when I tried to articulate it to my pediatrician a short time later, he soothed my concerns. Nick was just an unusually bright child with a lot of attention focused on him, which seemed to explain a lot of things. Besides, I thought, how could you be too smart, too cute, too brilliant? In retrospect, it is easier to see that in many ways he had the classic symptoms of Attention Deficit Disorder. But at the time, even his doctors could not see it clearly. I’ve been told since that 90 percent of children who manifest the same behaviors as Nick grow out of it, which makes pediatricians and psychiatrists loath to make that diagnosis. Most kids do grow out of it. Nick didn’t. It seemed ridiculous even to me to worry about him.
Nicky was obviously unusually intelligent, and extremely advanced, and with that kind of intelligence one had to expect a few quirks, and a few things that were different. I felt foolish and ungrateful for questioning gifts like Nicky’s, and put it out of my mind with relief. What could possibly be wrong with a child like Nicky?
3
Casanova
Dating with Nicky in residence was a nightmare. I stayed very busy with him for a long time, and he and Beatrix were the focal point of my existence. Between my work and my kids, I didn’t have the time or the energy to date much, or the interest. But eventually, I began to make room in my life for other people. Bill was long gone, and I had had a tough time taking care of Beatie and Nick alone. I was ready for some companionship in my life, even if only on an occasional basis.
But Nicky had had me to himself by then, doted on by me and Beatrix, and he saw no particular need for an intruder. And he let me know it in no uncertain terms.
By the time Nick was two, he was extremely articulate, still in both Spanish and English. He remained bilingual all his life, and we often spoke to each other in Spanish. French is my native tongue, and early on I had tried adding it to Nick’s repertoire, particularly as Beatrix and I spoke more French than English. She had spent her summers in France all her life, with family, and was completely fluent, and it was more comfortable for me to speak to her in French. But even as a small child, Nick hated French and refused to learn or speak it. Throughout his life, he made fun of me when I spoke it, exaggerating the sound of it, and he did a great double-talk gibberish imitation. I always teased him about it because he had a Spanish accent when he mimicked me in French. He decided early on that, whatever my origins, it was a ridiculous language, and flatly refused to learn it or let me speak it in peace when he was around.
But whatever language my suitors spoke, he outsmarted them with ease, and provided endless entertainment. I would hire babysitters for him and Beatrix when I went out at night, and I had a wonderful Salvadorian housekeeper, Lucy, who arrived shortly after Nick’s first birthday. She is still with me and adored Nicky. And I would count on the babysitters I hired to get the kids to bed at a reasonable hour. My hope and expectation was to find Nicky curled up like a cherub in his bed when I returned. I would look at him lovingly from the doorway. It was an utter fantasy that had no relation to reality during my dating years. When I would come home, Beatie would be sound asleep, the babysitter would be passed out in front of the TV, and Nicky would be waiting for me, and would leap to the door the moment he heard my key turn. And I will confess to you that my heart sank more than once, as I opened the door cautiously, and found him looking up at me impishly, with a wicked gleam in his eye, and an appraising glance at my date, who had no idea what Nick had in store for him.
I would shoo Nick off to bed, and usually have to take him up myself and tuck him in, admonishing him to stay there. Then I would wake the sitter, pay her, and watch her go, as my unsuspecting date would pour himself a drink. And as I ushered the sitter out the door, Nick would reappear in his pajamas with feet, and offer to show my date his toys, though he usually tried to make the offer sound both sophisticated and enticing. To one friend who was a connoisseur of rare guns, Nick offered to show him his gun collection, and my date found him so irresistible and adorable that he disappeared upstairs hand in hand with Nick, while I waited on the couch, praying Nicky would release him soon, but of course he didn’t. By the time Nick would finally allow him to come downstairs again, like the sitter, I would be sound asleep in front of the TV, and it would be one or two o’clock in the morning. Most of the time, my dates found him enchanting. And sometimes he really annoyed the hell out of me, and I could have sworn he was doing it on purpose.
My love life, with Nick in residence, was nonexistent. He never went to sleep, was impossible to keep in bed, and he acted as though the men in my life were visiting him and not me, and some of the time I think he was right. Those I have remained friendly with and still hear from, still reminisce fondly about their long midnight chats with Nicky.
Nick was also absolutely enamored of women. And just as I had thought early on, he often seemed to me like a grown man in a toddler’s body. His passion for pretty women was certainly extreme. He groped, he hugged, he caressed, and who would suspect a two-year-old of anything other than being cuddly? I did. I knew him better. Even at two, Nick was a Don Juan in the making.
He used to sneak up behind my housekeeper
, creep under her skirt and pat her bottom, and then laugh outrageously. It was the laugh that gave him away. He always reminded me of my father, who was a real Casanova too, and my grandmother had claimed that even as a child, he had chased pretty women. So did Nick.
When I took him to our neighborhood ice cream store for an ice cream cone, he would invariably stand in line with a look of innocence, and reach up to a comfortable height for him and pat some woman’s bottom. I let him go for ice cream with a (male) friend once, who returned looking a little chagrined, as Nick dribbled chocolate mint chip innocently all over his overalls. But apparently, he had done his usual bottom-patting routine, and the woman of his choice had turned around in outrage, thinking that the man who had accompanied Nicky had done it, and she had told him off soundly. He was too embarrassed to even try to blame it on the real perpetrator of the crime, Mr. Nicky. Who would believe that a two-year-old child had done it?
And when we went to the beach house we still rented then, he would cheerfully suggest we go down to the beach and “hug the ladies.” He loved ladies! Always! It was a condition that, with time, grew worse instead of better. He was endlessly charming, cuddly, and adorable, and women flocked to him all his life. He was irresistible, and he had a kind of innocent charm and magnetism that drew females to him like bees to honey. And I have to admit that most of the time, it amused me. (It is a lot different being the mother of a son than of a daughter.)
He used to tell me interesting stories when he was small. He would go on for hours sometimes, just talking about things. We would go for walks, and to the park, or just sit on the little terrace outside his bedroom, or in our garden. And it was during one of these talks that he looked at me pensively one day, and began what he was saying to me with “When I was big …” and then he went on and told me a long story. I couldn’t help asking him what he meant by what he had said. “What do you mean, ‘when you were big’?” It seemed an odd thing for a child to say, and a little eerie, and it unnerved me, but he explained with a thoughtful look, as though trying to remember something.
“I used to be big a long time ago, and now I’m small again. But when I was big …” He went on again then, while I watched him, and then he looked up at me oddly. “I used to be here before,” he said quietly, “and I was big then.” It was certainly an odd thing to say, and I didn’t question him again. It made me too uncomfortable, and touched on things I didn’t want to know. But I never forgot it. I don’t know if he was just rambling, in his thoughtful, intelligent way, or talking out a fantasy, or if there was more to it than that. But I was not then, and am not now, ready to know.
In contrast to his extreme intelligence and precociousness, there was of course a childlike side to him as well. He was cuddly and adorable, affectionate and very loving. He was a delicious child, and at two Beatie and I loved him more than ever. He was hungry for male company at times, and would latch on to some of the men I went out with to talk or play, but he never got seriously attached to anyone, nor did I. I think Nicky liked having me and Beatrix all to himself. He had a perfect little world that revolved almost entirely around him. He remained two years and some after his birth the gift that he had been since the beginning. Beatie and I both considered him an enormous blessing in our lives, and when I wasn’t spoiling and kissing and cuddling and loving him, she was, or Lucy, my housekeeper. Nick had his own little harem, and we all adored him.
It was difficult toilet training Nicky. As quickly as he learned everything, he seemed to find that concept boring and not worth his notice. At two and a half, he still wet his bed at night, and would have wet mine, except that I was smart enough to put him in diapers at night. And although he used the potty in the daytime, he used it as his sister and I did. There was no man in my life to teach him any other way. And being unable to teach him a skill I had never been able to acquire, I bought something called “Tinkle-Targets” for him, they were small floating paper bull’s eyes and battleships that floated in the toilet. Nick was meant to take aim at them, and sink them. They worked very well, and considering there was no man in the house, Nick learned his lesson well. I still have some put away in a cupboard somewhere, and smile whenever I see them. It was a funny game, but it taught him what he needed to know, and it always made him laugh and squeal with glee while he did it.
He had an absolute passion for certain things. He would become obsessed with a toy or a character or a movie. It was Sesame Street for a while, and very soon became Spider-Man. He lived for Spider-Man, and had to have everything made about him. He wore Spider-Man pajamas to bed, Spider-Man sneakers to the park, Spider-Man T-shirts, drank out of a Spider-Man cup, ate on Spider-Man plates, and of course had a Spider-Man doll … Spider-Man birthday cake … Spider-Man everything. And he pretended to be Spider-Man most of the time. It was a real love affair that went on for a long time, until he replaced it with a new obsession. After Spider-Man came Star Wars, and ten million little action figures that he collected for years.
Nick loved games that he could fantasize, where he could be the central character and make things up. He preferred that by far to actual games where he had to follow rules and was constrained by someone else’s idea of how to play. Anything set in stone like that annoyed him instantly and he would pay no attention to it. Later on, when we became aware of his learning disabilities, which seemed hard to imagine then, I wondered if he actually couldn’t follow rules and directions, so he simply ignored them. But his fantasy life was a rich one.
As he had when he was younger, Nick had very definite ideas when he was two and a half, and if he didn’t want to do something, I’d have a hard time trying to get him to do it. He would get belligerent and angry and stubborn. If he didn’t like the plan of the hour, it was nearly impossible to get him to go along with it. It made it difficult to take him places, even at that age, because if he didn’t like what was happening, he made your life a living hell. It actually worried me at times. It was easy to say he was spoiled, which was what the pediatrician said when I mentioned it to him. Nick was so extremely stubborn sometimes that it made me wonder about him.
My pediatrician was experienced and wise, and I know now how unimportant many of these early differences seem. They all seem so trivial and relatively normal. It is only with hindsight that we can see where they would lead. It is so easy to brush these things off at first, to discount them, or explain them. But I already had a gnawing feeling in my gut by then that Nick was different, and from time to time I would get brave enough to say so to a friend. It was always comforting to me when the warning signs I pointed out were explained away. But despite the reasonable explanations, the gnawing feeling of malaise remained. I just hoped I was wrong, and that he was in fact as normal as I wanted him to be.
Nick lived in a world where he was the constant center of attention. Two women and a young girl doted on him. There was no regular man in evidence to take a firm hand with him, not literally, but just to use a stern voice now and then, or impress him a little. His every whim was our command, and I loved him so much and thought he was so unique and wonderful that I was completely under his spell, as were all those who knew him. He was still “incredible!” at two and a half, and everyone who saw him said so. It was easy to assume he was spoiled, and the occasional “difficult” spells were easily attributed to the fact that he was too greatly loved by too many women, and had no father figure in his world.
Around that time, John Traina came into my life romantically, a handsome, elegant, dashing man, who dazzled me with his kindness, good looks, charm and sophistication and I fell deeply in love with him. He was recently separated after a sixteen-year marriage. He was very social, far more so than I, had two little boys, and during his marriage was obviously a good father to them, as I had seen for years when we were just friends. I had been lonely for a long time, and my life had been a struggle. My previous marriages had been disappointing. My recent forays into the dating world were sporadic and had meant nothing to me. But afte
r the trauma I had experienced with Bill, of touching even peripherally a world which truly frightened me, John’s very sane, elegant, wholesome world seemed a safe and wonderful place to me. He was the Prince Charming of whom I had dreamed.
Nick the Warrior (photo credit 1.6)
Nick at Christmas, 1982
Nick at four (photo credit 1.7)
John swept me off my feet, and after we dated for six weeks, he asked me to marry him, on Valentine’s Day. It was too soon to know each other as well as we should have, and we paid a price for that eventually. But for long years, we shared a safe, happy world, where dreams seemed to come true.
It was also very important to me that he seemed to like my children, and I loved his two boys, Trevor and Todd, whom I had known for several years through my daughter, and who had come to play often at the house with Beatie and Nicky. They made a perfect foursome. It was a ready-made family, and I loved the fact that John wanted more children. I did too.
John seemed very fond of Nick, although he expressed cautiously once or twice that Nicky wasn’t an easy child, which by then was something of an understatement. I remember once when we were dating, John took us out for a hansom carriage ride at the piers, Nick objected to it vehemently. John was making an effort to please him and Nick was so vocal about hating it that he embarrassed me. I wanted to put my hand over his mouth to muffle the awful things he was saying. I figured I’d never see John again, but was relieved when he seemed nonplussed by it. But Nick didn’t make it easy for us. Sensing that this was a serious relationship, Nicky was highly suspicious of him, and wasn’t embarrassed to say so whenever he chose to.
It was a whirlwind romance. Six weeks after we started dating, we were engaged, and we married exactly four months later. We entered into it with high hopes and loving dreams. John appeared to be the protector I had longed for. I looked forward to a long, happy life with him, surrounded by our children. It was clear to me that it would be good for me, good for my children, and hopefully for John’s as well. I was crazy about them, and they were nice enough to welcome me with open arms. And Nicky was more than a little intrigued with the prospect of having two brothers. From his all-female world, he was about to be catapulted into a real family, with two brothers and a father. It seemed to me that all my dreams had come true, and I was happy for all of us. Life had turned around finally. The fates had smiled on us at last. And Nicky had a new daddy.
His Bright Light Page 4
