All The Hidden Pieces

by Jillian Thomadsen

  Hard rock music suddenly blared from the floor beneath them – a cacophony of electric guitar and drumming.

  “Is that John? Or a houseguest?” Mary inquired.

  “That is John,” Greta answered, and she hopped up from the couch with an alacrity that sent a quiver of pain through her body. Somehow her anger was able to assuage her pain receptors, and she raced to the basement to find the door to John’s room locked.

  Greta pounded on the door. “Let me in!” she yelled.

  The noise subsided and Greta heard footsteps, then the door opened. John stood on the other side, his hair straw-thin and long enough to reach his upper chest. He had dark stubble across his upper lip and jawline – a shaggy adolescent determined to appear older than he was.

  “Why are you pounding on my door?” John asked.

  “Why aren’t you at school?” Greta asked. “It’s ten-thirty on a Monday.”

  “I thought you would be at the hospital,” John said.

  “That doesn’t answer my question,” Greta said. “Do you skip school every time you think I’m not home?”

  John shrugged. “It was raining and I missed the bus. Didn’t want to bike over and I didn’t think you were around. I’m not missing anything. It’s just a long day of study halls anyway.”

  “John, your entire day does not consist of study halls,” Greta said. “I think that would be a violation of state requirements. Now come on and I’ll take you to school.”

  Greta stayed resolute but she had to chase some oppositional thoughts from her head. She had no reassurance that the school was meeting any of John’s needs and she wasn’t certain that a day of study halls would have been any less didactic than the curriculum he was receiving. Every year, Greta was amazed that the school passed John into the next grade and since he didn’t show any outward indicator of progress, she had resigned herself to trust in a system that didn’t seem to be working.

  “Ugh, school, I hate school!” John said, but he laced up a pair of sneakers and pulled his backpack from under the desk.

  Greta smiled at him. “Just don’t be like me. I stopped going to high school and every day I wish I’d stayed in and paid attention.”

  “Right,” John agreed. “You only ended up with a nice house and two amazing children!”

  Greta laughed and lingered by the doorway until he joined her. It was so rare between the two of them these days – a moment of levity. Every interaction between them seemed fraught – the decision to move his bedroom down to the basement to make room for the baby, the constant nagging about homework or study time, the friends he chose to hang out with and of course, the worry about his incessant time on the computer.

  These seemed like normal worries of any parent of a teenager, but to Greta, they felt exaggerated – as if somehow, John’s predilections for isolation, experimentation and rebellion were more harmful than they were for other teenagers.

  First were the two boys John hung out with: Robert was constantly at her house and then there was a new friend, Tai Gausman. These boys seemed to exist in a permanent fog – their eyes inflamed and their appetites voracious. Greta watched their interactions with her son whenever she could, suppressing her antipathy to their existence, her knowledge about their obvious extracurricular activities.

  She told herself it was okay as long as they didn’t exert their influence over John – and as far as she could tell, they didn’t. John was coherent, ever-present, and he never avoided her even while his friends raided her refrigerator and succumbed to laughing fits. It’s just them, she would tell herself. It’s not him. His room smelled fine and his behavior was normal, so she let it go.

  But the problem with teenagers was the startling buffet of issues that threatened them. Even as Greta chose not to address John’s friends’ drug use, there were other concerns she didn’t know how to ignore. John locked himself in his room most days – not to huddle over magazines or alter his state of mind (so far as she could tell) but to be on his computer. He was protective about his activities as well. The boy who still constantly misplaced his backpack and forgot to comb his hair was fastidious about passwords and screen locks, so it was impossible for Greta to tell exactly what he was doing.

  Greta let this go on for a while, hoping it was just a phase, until she couldn’t take it anymore. Perhaps it was the new feeling of distension in her abdomen unleashing hormones and an overbearing feeling of maternal rigidity, but she reached her breaking point just after John turned fourteen.

  It was early March 2013, the weather just showing signs of warming up, when Tuck and Greta sat down with John and talked to him about the dangers of unsupervised internet use – a little family intervention. John seemed genuinely interested in what they were saying at the time, nodding frequently and saying all the right things. He showed them all the websites he visited – mostly news and sports sites, and occasional music videos.

  Greta watched his guided tour through his computer activities with an ounce of skepticism. She felt there was more beneath this little display that John would never show them and they had no means of discovering on their own.

  This is why, as Greta scanned John’s bedroom while she waited for him to finish packing his bag that morning, her eyes alighted on a black blinking computer monitor.

  She wasn’t even sure what stirred her to cross the room and study the screen. Nothing about the monitor itself was particularly telling – it was white font on black background, a blinking cursor, and the rest was indecipherable, a lattice of letters and symbols.

  What surprised her was John’s reaction. He leapt through the room as though his mother had unearthed a body bag, cutting through the air until he landed just in front of her, his right palm on the computer table.

  “Mom!” he yelled. “Don’t go through my stuff!” The computer screen went blank and then John pointed to the door. “Stay out of my room!”

  It took a moment for Greta to piece together exactly what had just happened. Instead of leaving, she stood in place, her eyes darting from the computer to John. “What are you doing on the computer John?”

  “Nothing!” he yelled.

  “Then why are you acting like this?”

  “Because you’re invading my privacy! You’re always up in my business! Now come on, I’m already really late for school!”

  John had a way of insisting that betrayed his message. His eyes had darted just to the right of hers, his upper lip curled to cover the beads of sweat. It was this way with him – and it had always been this way – that she could tell when he was lying to her, omitting something from her. And she desperately wanted to sit down with him again in a momentous face-to-face, to tell him how much potential he had, how harmful whatever he was doing on the computer could be. But at that moment, he was already by the front door, opening it quickly and shutting it again and whining about how she was making him even later to school.

  She could also hear the piercing shrill of her baby’s cry, a scream so dramatic that it echoed clearly through the floorboards.

  “Greta!” Mary called out. “I think your baby’s hungry!”

  Greta took a deep breath and turned out the lights to John’s room as she headed upstairs. The momentous face-to-face conversation would have to wait.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  November 1, 2015

  Greta was folding laundry in Olivia’s room when the baby toddled over to her, a thin book trapped under her arm.

  “Read this one, Mommy,” Olivia said, reaching up and pressing the book against Greta’s torso. She was over two years old now and pudgy, her hair white-blonde and her eyes blue. Olivia’s aesthetics reminded Greta of herself as a child but her demeanor could not have been more different.

  Greta remembered being wild and obstinate when she was younger – a rambunctious pit bull who couldn’t conform to expectations. By contrast, Olivia was easygoing and malleable. She played quietly, she entertained herself and she loved books. Every morning, while Greta was f
olding laundry in Olivia’s room, the child toddled over and requested her mother read at least one of the many books in her room.

  Greta put the pile of clothes in a drawer and reached for the book Olivia had chosen. Jacob Gray Wants a Dog.

  “Oh I remember this book,” Greta said, and then swallowed as the memories inundated her – first, reading this book to John when he was very little, and then, watching him struggle as he tried to read it to himself.

  Greta pulled Olivia onto her lap in the rocking chair and opened the book. “Jacob Gray wants a dog,” she read.

  Olivia melted into her mother’s embrace and put her thumb in her mouth.

  Greta turned the page. “I will love my dog. My dog will love me too.” She turned the page. “I do want him. I will take care of him. I will give him food to eat.”

  The door to Olivia’s room swung open and John walked in. “Oh, hey Mom,” he said.

  Greta turned sideways and looked at him. She was doing that more and more these days – studying him as though he was a boarder in the basement. It wasn’t that his personality or proclivities had changed over the years – he still spent as much time in front of the computer as he had at fourteen and hung out with the same friends; it was his appearance. He constantly tried on new looks – always dyeing, growing or shaving his hair. On that particular morning, she thought that he looked like an ephebe in rocker’s clothing – a boy growing into a man but still clinging to gawky rebellion.

  The changes weren’t limited to John’s appearance. There were a few adjustments to his schedule too, now that he was in the eleventh grade. Edwardsville High had a work-study program for students like him – those kids who did better when their hands were put to use instead of their minds. John went to school some mornings and to work at an auto body shop other mornings. Greta wanted to intervene and steer him back to full-time schooling but he actually seemed to like working on cars.

  When she saw John in the driveway examining an engine – hood up, his face burrowed behind it – she could occasionally hear him humming. Likewise, she had never seen his mood so lifted as when he solved an engine problem. He actually sat down with them at family meals on occasion and told them stories about auto work with a sanguine tone he’d never used when talking about school. And so, Greta bit her tongue and stayed silent despite her ability to see the long game.

  On that morning in early November, John stopped into Olivia’s room to say good-bye before he walked up the street to work. “I have two pickup trucks the guys want me to take a look at,” he announced.

  Greta shifted and pulled Olivia off of her, then stood up and handed the book to John. “Can you please read this while I run to the restroom?” she asked. It was more of a command then a request he could deny, and as Greta shot off towards the bathroom she could hear Olivia screeching behind her, “Book! Book! Book!” and John responding, “Okay, okay.”

  When she returned, she lingered in the doorway to Olivia’s room while listening to John read.

  “My dog will play with Spot,” John read effortlessly. Then he continued: “Spot lives ac…ac…access the street.”

  The word was across and Greta could feel her heart sink. Sixteen years old and he was still obstructed by two and three syllable words. It was all so anachronistic – six years had passed since she’d first bought him the book and it was as though no time had passed at all. The difference was that he was optimistic back in those days, a freckled, bright-eyed child who got frustrated when confronted with words he didn’t know. When he was ten he was still striving, still hopeful.

  Now he was sixteen and resigned. The struggle was familiar to him, and he’d long since stopped trying to overcome the blockade.

  “I will wash my dog in the sink,” John continued. “I will use sssooo…shhh…soap? Ssss…shhh…I will use…oh hey, Mom.”

  Greta had taken cover behind the frame, biting her lips while she tried to mentally toss the word to him. Shampoo.

  John shook the baby off of his lap and tossed the book to Greta. “Gotta go,” he said as he passed her in the doorway.

  No sooner had Greta gotten back into position with Olivia – the toddler bent, shrimp-like against Greta’s torso – than the twin slams of car doors from outside made her jump.

  The noise itself caromed across Olivia’s bedroom. It sounded ferocious, dangerous, as though there were a right and a wrong way to slam the door. And yet, Greta was still surprised when she heard the screams. First the shouts of men and then a shriek that was unmistakably John’s.

  Greta hoisted Olivia into her crib and screamed, “TUCK!” as she raced out of the room, loping through her house like a sprinter. When she reached the front yard, she saw two men attacking John, who was curled on the sidewalk in the fetal position. The men weren’t tall but they were burly, each wearing a denim jacket, blue jeans and boots. One man – bald, coated with arm and neck tattoos – was kicking John in the ribs.

  The other man – skinny, with curly hair – was leaning over John and smacking his face.

  “STOP IT!” Greta screamed as she ran across the yard. Both men looked up at the sight of her and stopped their assault. The bald man took a few steps backwards. Greta hadn’t thought about what to do when she reached the scene – whether she was putting herself in danger or risked making the situation worse.

  It was only when she was leaning over her son’s furled body, cradling his head in her hands and rocking him slightly, that she became aware of a third man – a driver in a red convertible. The incident seemed frozen in time -- the perpetrators as still as statues while the driver stared at them.

  And then she heard Tuck’s voice behind her, thunderous and bellowing – and life moved in fast-forward again.

  Tuck descended upon them, both hands rolled into a fist. He was tall and athletic, half a foot taller than the curly-haired guy. Before Tuck could land a punch, the men were gone – two figures who leaped into the awaiting car and sped away.

  Greta turned all her attention to John. He was unconscious but still breathing, with a red, bloody jaw that was beginning to swell up. Greta held her body aloft, trying to cradle him without smothering him. She could hear Tuck’s strained voice as he spoke to an emergency dispatcher.

  “We need an ambulance at 12 Avery Place! Please come right now!”

  She looked down at John’s body and stroked the top of his bangs across his forehead. “You’re going to be okay, Johnny,” she said over and over again because she couldn’t think of what else to say. In the distance, she heard the wail of sirens.

  Tuck was still shouting into his phone. “No! We don’t know why, and we don’t know who it was!” His voice sounded strained – a sibilant yell.

  Greta stayed on the ground with John until the ambulance arrived and then she rode with him to the hospital while Tuck drove separately with Olivia.

  Once at the hospital, she wasn’t allowed to see John right away, so she sat with Tuck and Olivia in a waiting area. The room had metal benches and vinyl chairs, a vending machine and a mounted rack of magazines with some children’s books.

  Tuck passed the time reading to Olivia but all Greta could do was pace silently. The wait to see her son felt endless, a drawn-out agony in which she could feel the passage of every minute. Eventually a doctor showed up and told them of fractures, bruises and contusions. If there was a silver lining, the doctor assured them that John would eventually make a full recovery from his injuries.

  When he was finished speaking, the doctor told them they could visit John in his room, although Olivia was too young and had to stay behind.

  It was silently agreed that Greta would go back and Tuck would stay in the waiting room with Olivia – but Greta paused before she allowed herself to go back. It was as though she wanted to take measure of the situation, to prepare for what she was about to see.

  And then she nodded at the doctor and followed him around a corner, into an area where small rooms encircled a nursing station. In one of those roo
ms, John lay unconscious on a hospital bed, his arm tethered to an IV drip, his right index finger wrapped in a plastic sheath. There were tubes and cords coming out of him, trussing John to machines that blinked and beeped.

  Greta managed not to gasp when she saw his swollen, discolored face -- but she couldn’t prevent her tears from falling. He looked like a character in a play – an impersonator of her son wearing a patina of rose hip colored make-up.

  “He’s going to be okay,” the doctor assured her. “We’ve given him some medicine for the pain. He’ll be out of it for a little while.”

  Greta nodded and wiped the edges of her eyes. “I’m just going to stay for a little while,” she said in a weak voice, as she took a seat in a nearby chair.

  The doctor looked down at his pager and left the room without saying anything.

  For the rest of the day, Greta stayed in that spot and watched John sleep. He opened his eyes every so often but these were short, fleeting moments unaccompanied by cognition.

  At some point in the afternoon, Greta texted Tuck to take Olivia home and assured him she would call a cab when she was ready to leave. But she never felt comfortable leaving John’s side. Instead, she kept a vigil that night, her mind occupied with all the assorted thoughts to tell him once he woke up.

  Greta needed to let him know how much she loved him; that much was clear to her. But just as important, she needed to express to him the weight of his choices, the burden of responsibility over his life that was once entirely hers now shared with him. She needed him to take stock of his life’s course and change it – to confront his beating as an opportunity to turn his life around. And she needed to do all of this before it was too late.

  ***

  John woke up around noon the next day. He surveyed the room – listless and glassy eyed. When he focused on his mother his lips parted into a half-smile.