by Janis Thomas
I pull away from Josh, even though it pains me to do so, and turn to Kate. “Sorry, honey. Good morning, my girl.”
“Oh, please, Mom. Gag.” She rolls her eyes, and I turn back to Josh. “Like you ever call me your girl.”
“If you weren’t such a butt, she might,” Josh counters.
“You’re the butt, Josh.”
This dialogue between my children is not their typical banter. It contains a sharp edge. It occurs to me that without Josh’s disorder, their relationship has grown and evolved differently; the dynamic has shifted. They no longer like each other. Kate is no longer his caregiver and companion; she is simply an older sibling whose thunder was stolen by the arrival of a newborn when she was not even two years old. I have taken their mutual admiration away from them, but I consider it a small price to pay for that which we have received.
“What’s with the eyes?” Josh asks me.
“Seriously, Mom,” Kate says. “What’s your damage?”
Keep it together, I warn myself.
“It’s probably the change,” Katie snipes.
“I wish you’d change,” Josh says.
“Bite me.”
Josh ignores her comment. “You okay, Mom?”
I reach up and brush a strand of hair from his face. “I’m fine. I just had a terrible dream about you.”
His eyes flash, and a ghost of a frown flits across his face. “That’s weird. I had a bad dream, too. I can’t remember it too well, but it was like . . . I couldn’t move.”
My shoulders stiffen. What is a dream and what is real?
“That sounds like a nightmare,” I tell him. His life before my wish was a nightmare.
He shrugs. “It didn’t feel terrible. I mean, I wasn’t scared or upset or anything.” He gazes at me intensely, as though he just asked a question and he’s waiting for a response. When I give him none, he shrugs again. “Anyways, I gotta get moving.” He kisses me on the forehead and brushes past me.
“No, wait!” My voice is high and shrill. I take a breath. “What . . . uh . . . what’s on the agenda today?”
“We talked about this last night.”
“Remind me. I’m getting old and senile.”
“Parker and I are going to ride over to Jesse’s house. Maybe go to the park and shoot some hoops.”
Shoot some hoops. My son is going to shoot some hoops. I have no idea who Jesse and Parker are—the memories have yet to materialize, but I couldn’t care less. Josh has friends. Friends. Kids his age with whom he hangs out. I bite the inside of my cheek to stop a fresh batch of tears.
“The new Marvel movie is out, so we might head to the Cineplex later.”
“That’s a long way on your bike, Josh.” I nearly choke on the words on your bike. “Why don’t I give you guys a ride?”
“Chill, Mom. We’ve done it before. Plus, you have to work today. Monday, remember?”
There is no way on God’s green earth I am going to work today.
“I’m going to the mall with Simone, if anyone’s interested,” Katie says. She drops the uneaten portion of her English muffin on her plate and pushes away from the table, then takes her plate to the sink.
“That sounds like fun,” I say, although my focus is firmly on Josh. I can’t take my eyes off him. So tall, so long and lean. A teenager, just like any other teenager.
“You and Simone could come to the movies with us if you want,” Josh says, and I’m surprised by his suggestion until I hear Katie’s response.
“Forget about it, Josh. Simone is never going to go for you. And not just because you’re younger. She has higher standards. Like guys who can actually pass algebra.”
“I passed algebra,” Josh says.
“D minus? That shouldn’t even count as passing.”
I can’t control myself in time. “You got a D minus in algebra?”
“Mom,” Josh says, his tone full of complaint.
“Did you totally hit your head when you got up this morning, Mom? Josh got a D in every subject.”
“I got a C in shop,” he counters.
“Oh, wow, call the newspaper. Any moron can get a C in shop.”
This doesn’t track. My son’s IQ is in the superior category, brushing up against genius. How could he have gotten mostly Ds and one C?
Doesn’t matter, Emma. He has working legs and arms and everything.
“Katie, that’s enough,” I say, because I think I’m supposed to reprimand her for her insulting remark. Since I’m doing my best to block the new memories so that I can stay in the moment, I have to rely on my instincts.
“Your brother is doing his best.”
“Oh, please. I got one A minus in calculus and you’d think I was doing heroin with the lecture I got.”
“That’s enough,” I repeat. Josh and Katie glare at each other, which I assume is their (new) normal. I glance around the kitchen, and for the first time, I realize that Colin is nowhere to be seen. I turn to Josh.
“Where’s your dad?”
He turns to Katie and a curious look passes between them. I swivel to face Katie.
“Where’s Colin?”
She cocks her head to the side, then marches over to me and places her hand on my forehead. “Do you have a fever? Are you having an acid flashback?”
“He’s at his apartment,” Josh says quietly.
This just isn’t working, Emma. You don’t love me anymore. I don’t know if you ever did. I think you needed me, at first, but you don’t now. You’ve got your job and your kids and I’m superfluous. Maybe if I were the successful author you thought I would be, things would be different. I’m trying to be that for you . . . killing myself to be that, but I don’t know if I ever will. I need to be with someone who loves me for who I am, not what they want me to be. Someone who lets me in. Someone who opens up to me. Someone who cares that I’m here.
I shudder with the sudden recollection. I know my kids are watching me closely, wondering what the hell is going on with their mom. I raise my eyes to the ceiling and pretend nonchalance.
“I know he’s at his apartment. I thought he was coming over with some papers to sign.” How quickly I’ve become an accomplished deceiver.
“You’re going to be late for work,” Katie says. She strides past me and heads for the living room. Josh moves to follow her from the kitchen.
“Hey,” I call. “Family dinner tonight.”
They both stop and turn back to face me, wearing dual expressions of puzzlement.
“Family dinner?” Josh repeats.
“That’s right. Family dinner.”
“Why tonight?” he asks.
Because I want to sit with you and watch your lips move and hear you speak. I want you to tell me all kinds of fascinating things that I won’t have to translate.
“Are you going to invite Colin and Eliza?” Katie says with a sneer.
Eliza, young, looks just like me, has lots of money and a daddy complex.
I stiffen. “No. Just the three of us.”
“I’m supposed to go to Simone’s.”
“Yeah, Mom, and I’m hanging with Parker and Jesse.”
I will not be swayed. “You can hang with them afterward. You guys are spending the whole day with your friends. You can take a break for family dinner. I’ll make your favorite. Spaghetti.”
Katie rolls her eyes. “Whatever.” She turns on her heel and heads for the stairs. The stairs with no lift.
“You sure you’re okay, Mom?” Josh asks.
I smile at my son. My smile feels neither strained nor false.
“I’m good, honey.” I am. I’ve never been better.
He smiles back. “Okay. Parker’s going to be here in a few minutes. I’ll see you later?”
I nod then watch as he walks (walks!) to the living room, phone in hand. He plops down on the couch and starts to text. Text! Josh is texting!
My heart bangs a strident rhythm. I trot to the stairs and take them two at a time.
In the maste
r bedroom, I peruse Colin’s closet. My clothes line the rack. I stare briefly at the absence of my husband’s wardrobe, waiting for some feeling of anger or resentment or heartache. It doesn’t come.
While a small part of me grieves for the loss of my marriage, I would be lying—again—if I didn’t admit that another part of me celebrates. Nothing—not Josh’s poor performance in school, not the overt antipathy between him and Katie, not even the dissolution of my marriage—can impede the joy I feel right now. Josh is walking! Josh is speaking! Who cares about the rest of it?
Truth be told, in the rare, small spaces of quiet I was granted in my former life, I often wondered whether Colin and I would have stayed together if that thing hadn’t happened. I would lie awake, listening to Josh’s breathing and my husband’s snoring, and I would think, what if? I needed Colin, because to raise a CP child alone was inconceivable. But what if?
On the day of our wedding, when I cleaved myself to him and promised to love, honor, and cherish him, I stood at the altar knowing myself to be an impostor. Because although I did love Colin, and because he was saving me from single motherhood, I knew we were doomed. Because I did not want him, not as I had wanted before. Did not love him as I had loved before.
I cross to the bed and sit, then reach for my cell phone and yank it from its charger. I make the call.
“Hi, Val,” I say when she answers. “I’m not coming in today. I’m feeling (euphoric, ecstatic, elated) under the weather.”
“Emma, no, Em, you have to come in. Richard Stein just called. He got your email. He wants to meet with you this morning.”
“I can’t.” I am not conflicted.
“You have to.” Her tone is imploring, and I know why. She’s my executive assistant. If I get sacked, her job is in jeopardy.
“I can’t,” I repeat. “I have a fever and I just puked all over my comforter. I don’t think we’ll get SoundStage back if I puke all over Mr. Stein, do you?”
A beat. “I’m just worried,” Val says.
“I’m not, Val. Reschedule.”
“And if he won’t?”
Then fuck him.
THIRTY-ONE
Timing is crucial.
I hurry through my morning ablutions, then don a pair of jeans, a light cotton shirt, and my Crocs. I step into the hall at the exact moment Kate alights from her room. She looks at my outfit and narrows her eyes.
“You’re wearing that to work?”
“Casual Mondays,” I reply. “New thing.”
She follows me down the stairs, and I can feel her eyes boring into the back of my head. She knows something is going on with me, but not exactly what. And how could she?
Just as I reach the landing, the garage door slams. I grab my purse and rush to the front door. The pictures on the breakfront catch my eye, and I pause. All of Josh’s pictures have changed. The wheelchair is gone. The photos depict a different life: Josh standing in the driveway palming a basketball, running though the waves at the beach, sitting on a rock, lying on a hammock, and always sporting a Cheshire smile.
The pictures of Colin and me are gone.
Outside, adolescent voices call out greetings. I hurry to the front door.
“Oh, sure, don’t say goodbye to me,” Katie says sarcastically. I ball my fists. I don’t have time for this.
“Goodbye, honey.” I reach for the doorknob. “Have fun with Simone.”
“Um, Mom, I need the keys to the Civic.” I turn around to see Katie tapping her foot impatiently and holding her hand out to me.
“What am I supposed to drive? The van?” My brain catches up too late. We don’t need a van because Josh is no longer disabled.
“The what? Mom, you’re totally freaking me out this morning. What the heck is going on?”
“I’m sorry, Katie,” I say, shoving my hand into my purse. “I haven’t had my coffee yet and I’m still in a daze.” I pull out a key ring with an inordinate number of keys attached to it. The Civic key is connected to the ring by way of a carabiner. I detach it and give it to Katie. The voices outside have quieted, and I struggle to stay calm. Katie stares at me, her jaw tight, but she says nothing.
“Be careful driving, okay, Katie? See you tonight.”
I pull open the front door and rush to the porch. Halfway down the steps I realize Josh’s ramp is gone. Of course it’s gone.
I stop at the herringbone pathway and gasp. Not because there is a C Class Mercedes sitting in the driveway next to the Civic. But because at this moment, my son is slinging his leg over the seat of a bicycle. A bicycle.
Another teenage boy—Parker?—with too-long sandy-blond hair wearing tattered cargo pants and a Nirvana T-shirt, is already astride his bike. He urges Josh on. “Come on, man. Let’s go.”
I feel my mouth drop open again—my new normal—as Josh effortlessly glides down the driveway and into the street.
Miracles do happen. Wonders never cease. My amazement is profound and unsettling, and suddenly my legs are beset with tremors so violent, I’m afraid I’ll collapse onto the bricks. I steel myself. If I fall down, will I get up? And if I am unable to get up, how will I follow Josh? He’ll disappear from view, and I’ll lose track of him. No, I can’t collapse, cannot falter in any way.
When I’m certain my legs will not give way, I hustle to the Mercedes. Although I’ve never seen this car before wishes, I know it like the back of my hand. I depress the button on the fob, and the doors unlock. I slide behind the wheel and turn on the ignition.
As I shift into reverse, I see Louise Krummund approaching the fence between our properties. She looks as though she wants to talk. Too bad, Louise. Not today. I cast her a curt wave, then pull into the street. By the time I shift into drive, Josh and Parker are at the end of the block, making a right-hand turn. I realize that Josh isn’t wearing a helmet, and a surge of fear grips me. He should be wearing a helmet.
This isn’t his first day on a bicycle, Emma. He’s been riding since he was four.
Guys don’t wear helmets, Mom. It looks gay.
You are gay.
Shut up, Katie.
Make me, Josh.
Enough!
I take a deep breath and gently place my foot on the gas pedal, slowly easing the silent automobile down the street. I mustn’t let Josh see me. I want to observe him in his environment. I feel akin to a spy or a secret agent or a cop on deep cover. Or a scientist peering at a new life form on the slide of a microscope. I watch the road, make appropriate stops, pull over when a car threatens to tap my bumper, and stay aware as a driver, all the while keeping constant watch on Josh. And every time my eyes find him again, I experience that same exhilaration I felt when I first beheld him in the kitchen.
Tears flow, ebb, flow again, cycling through to laughter, full-blown, belly-aching laughter. The radio plays softly, an old Aerosmith tune. I haven’t listened to Aerosmith since college. I crank up the volume and sing along, surprised that I know the words.
Josh rides his bike effortlessly, sometimes carelessly, and my heart stops more than a few times as he weaves into traffic then cuts back into the bike lane.
I watch and watch and watch, soaking in the sight of my son on two wheels. Two very different wheels than those that have carried him until now. My cell phone rings. I ignore it.
Ten minutes later—an eon, a millisecond—Josh and his friend come to a stop in front of a ranch-style house. I pull to the curb several houses down. The boys hop off their bikes and drop them onto the lawn, then head for the front door where another teenager—Jesse?—awaits. Fist bumps, back slaps, cheerful greetings, and they disappear into the house.
I move forward, stopping in front of the neighboring yard, shift into park, and gaze at the ranch-style house. Gauzy curtains hang in the window; shadowy shapes move behind them, then disintegrate. I wonder what they’re doing in there, but not with any real concern. They are kids doing what kids do. Josh is doing what kids do.
I realize that I might be here for a while
and shut off the engine. My stomach growls. I root around in my purse and come up with a PowerBar. I don’t remember putting it there, I just know it’s there. I peel back the wrapper and take a bite, then reach for my cell phone. One missed call: Wells. He’s probably furious with me. I don’t care. I should call him back. Not now.
The phone rings in my hand, surprising me. It slips from my grasp and falls to the passenger bay. I bend over to retrieve it, assuming it must be Canning or Wells again. It is neither. The LCD reads “Colin.” My estranged husband. I’m not sure why I answer, but I do. Perhaps it’s because I’ve never spoken to Colin while enjoying the reality of having a normal teenage son.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Emma.” Formal, removed.
“Hello, Colin.”
“Are you on your way to work?”
No. “Yes. Why?”
“I just got off the phone with Katie. She called me. She’s worried about you.”
“I’m fine, Colin. But thanks for the interest.”
“She said you’re acting strangely, saying crazy things.”
The little Judas.
“She’s sixteen, Colin. Everything her mother says sounds crazy.”
“Kate is very perceptive, Emma. How many times have you told me that?”
“I had a lousy night’s sleep, that’s all. I was just a little tired and out of it this morning.”
“Look, I know you’re stressed with work. If you need me to take the kids, just for a few days—”
“No!” I draw a shallow breath. “No, Colin.”
“I have them this weekend anyway. I could take them, say, Wednesday.”
“I said no.” I will not lose one minute of time with Josh. I quickly change the subject with a reflexive question. Reflexive, I assume, in this new reality, as it springs from my mouth without prior thought or scrutiny. “How’s Eliza?”
He sighs. “She’s fine.”
“How wonderful for you.”
“Why do you do this?”
“Is she helping you with your manuscript, Colin? She’s probably a terrific typist.”
“I finished the manuscript.”
I try to keep the astonishment from my voice. “Wow.”
“Yeah. I don’t know if it’s any good, but Lawrence seems to think he can sell it.”
