I didn’t fault people for thinking there was something wrong with our family. I would’ve thought the same thing, but I wished they’d been in our home before our lives changed. Back when I could answer her question with a definitive no. Our family was a safe place. We worked hard at providing a place for our kids where they were nurtured, loved, and respected. We did our best not to raise our voices and apologized when we did. We’d never hit our kids. Not once. Or each other. The only problems in our home started after Noah’s confession.
It didn’t take Dr. Park long to figure out Noah didn’t fit the typical profile. He was unlike the other kids he was institutionalized with, and it became apparent almost immediately. Most kids struggled to conform to the rules and spent the first month balking against the restrictions placed on them, but not Noah. He was the perfect client. He learned the rules and followed them. He stayed within their guidelines. Each boy was assigned a job, and his first job was kitchen duty, where he was responsible for washing the dishes of all thirty-two boys. He never complained and took pride in cleaning up after meals. During recreation time, the others were continually getting into fights with each other, but Noah remained off to the sidelines refusing to participate. He was often the one breaking up the fights. I checked in regularly with Dr. Park on his progress, and as time went on, I could tell she was finding herself faced with the same dilemma as me: how did a boy who seemed so good do something so bad?
As I pulled into the long, familiar driveway, I replayed our last conversation, the one where she told me she’d never had a teen who was so easy to work with, but there was a hesitation in her voice that hadn’t been there before as she told me about his final request—he’d asked to write a letter to the girls apologizing for what he’d done. I was surprised she didn’t think it was a good idea.
“I’m not sure I agree.” It was strange for me to disagree with her since we rarely disagreed. She’d grown to become my only ally when it came to Noah. “Maybe it would be good for him. It might bring him closure. It might even bring the girls closure.”
I could hear the doubt in her voice. “Yes, it’s good that he’s remorseful. He’s always been apologetic. He’s never had a problem admitting what he did was wrong. I’m just concerned he wants to contact his victims after all this time.”
“He’s sorry. What’s wrong with that?”
“His victims are eight years old.”
I still didn’t understand. I wished we were having the conversation face-to-face. I couldn’t read her over the phone.
“Tell me what you’re getting at,” I said.
“I’d feel more comfortable if he was concerned about getting out of treatment and all the changes about to take place. His focus should be on how he’s going to integrate himself back into life. Not on having contact with his victims. Besides, his probation specifically states he’s not to have any contact with his victims, and he knows that.”
“It’s a letter. He just wants to write them a letter.”
“It’s a bad idea.”
“Why?” I didn’t like how she wouldn’t come right out and say what she was thinking.
“Noah has made a great client. You know that. We talk about it all the time, but there haven’t been any battles. None. It’s almost been too easy. I’m wondering if we missed something.”
“Missed something? What does that mean? What’s wrong with being a good client? What’d he say when you told him that it wasn’t a good idea?”
“He said okay and agreed not to write the letter, but I’m not sure he understood why it wasn’t a good idea.”
“Of course, he didn’t. I don’t understand either,” I snapped.
“You really don’t understand?”
“He’s sorry. He’s spent hours going to empathy training. How many exercises have you gone through in group therapy about the importance of being able to recognize other people’s feelings and how your actions hurt others? He’s doing exactly what you asked of him.”
She let out a deep sigh. “That’s just it. He doesn’t understand contacting them would cause them more damage. I’m afraid there’s another reason he wants to talk to them.”
My head spun. How could she have spent so much time praising his progress and raving about what an exemplary client he was and days before his release plant a seed of doubt that there was something wrong with him? That he hadn’t been fixed? It was cruel and unfair.
“I’ll be there at three on Friday to pick him up. Please have his things ready.”
“Adrianne, please don’t be upset. I just—”
“I don’t want to hear it. He’s done his time, everything you and the courts have asked of him. You’re the one who told me all he had to do was follow your treatment protocol, and he’d get better. That’s exactly what he did. He went above and beyond what you asked him to do. I won’t sit here now and listen to you tell me you might’ve missed something.”
“He’s a good kid. He is. I’m not saying that. But even good kids—”
“Stop. I’m not listening to you anymore.”
I hung up on her and hadn’t spoken to her since. She’d left a few messages since then asking me to call her back, but I ignored them. Her betrayal hurt. She promised treatment would help. She gave me a false sense of security that once this was over we could put it behind us. She promised a new life and a new beginning. It was posted on all their pamphlets. How could she wait until the last few days and then drop a bomb on me? I wouldn’t have any of it. He was better. He had to be.
HIM (THEN)
I stare straight ahead at the dirty wall in front of me. The cold water pelts my body. Today I don’t even care that the water’s cold. My body is already shaking because he’s coming. I can feel it. You can’t get away with what Sam did on the yard. I hate the yard almost as much as I hate the shower because the guards relax and don’t pay as much attention to what’s going on. Bad things happen when they’re not watching.
And something bad is going to happen. The air is charged with it. The others have filed in around me and taken up their spots in the trough, all of us in a straight line underneath our assigned spout. Staff tries to pretend like the small dividers give us some privacy but it’s a joke. They’re only waist-high and you can still see everything if you look. I try not to think about the filth squishing underneath my feet.
We only get seven minutes in the shower, and I’m counting down the minutes until it’s over. Maybe I’ll get lucky and won’t be here when it happens. I’m on 362 seconds when I hear his voice. It’s impossible to miss. He’s laughing and joking with the guard at the door. The guards like Joe for some reason. It’s not his shower time but they let him in anyway. My stomach drops to my knees. Everything stills.
I hear the smack first. Then, the cry. I clench my teeth.
“Please, Joe. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it,” Sam cries from two stalls down.
Sam is new and hasn’t even been here two weeks, but he still should’ve known better than to piss off Joe. Laughing with Joe is okay. Laughing at him is unacceptable. Everyone knows that, so when Sam laughed at Joe after he missed a shot on the basketball court, we all froze, expecting him to do something, but instead he just smacked him playfully and walked away. But I knew it wasn’t over.
“Shut the fuck up.” Joe’s voice is a deep growl. “Bend over.”
My lunch heaves into my throat and I force it back down. The vomit leaves a horrid taste in my mouth. I stare at the murky tiles in front of me, counting them up and dividing them by three. Anything to keep me from hearing. Stop me from seeing. I made the mistake of looking once and I’ll never be able to erase the image from my mind. It’s permanently burned in my brain.
Sam whimpers like a kitten. It’s painful to hear but I’m glad he’s not screaming. I hate when they scream. It’s over quickly and Joe pads back through the shower.
“Don’t you worry about what you heard and don’t even think about saying shit,” he says from behind me. He sla
ps me on my bare ass before heading back out, passing the guard something as he leaves.
Sam cries. His sobs reverberate off the walls. Nobody moves. Nobody speaks.
Sixty-four seconds.
The water turns off.
5
He was quiet on the drive while I chattered on, trying to fill the silence. I flipped through my iPod, trying to find something to make him tap his fingers on his leg like he used to, but nothing grabbed him. He stared out the window as the barren trees passed by. I hated that he was getting out on the brink of winter, right after everything had died and was about to be covered in snow for months. It made his release feel ominous and dreary rather than light and hopeful like I wanted it to be. I wished he’d been released in the summer, and I tried not to think about how we’d make it through the winter months.
“Do you want to stop at Wood Ranch for something to eat?” I asked. Wood Ranch had been a family favorite for years. It was our go-to spot after swim meets because they had the best barbeque in town.
He shook his head.
“That’s okay. You’re probably right. I’m sure you just want to get home.”
He shrugged his shoulders.
I looked at him out of the corner of my eye. Even though it’d been over a year, I still wasn’t used to seeing him with short hair. He’d worn it long since he was a toddler, but they cut everyone’s hair at Marsh in the same buzz cut like they were all in the army. It made his head look too big for his body. He grew taller every time I saw him and today was no different. He’d grown another inch, but he carried himself like he wasn’t sure what to do with his long limbs. He no longer held the strong, confident muscles of an athlete. He was lanky, awkward, and hunched over. His face showed the battle fatigue of what he’d been through. I longed for the smile that used to easily light up his face, but his full lips that used to curve into his trademarked mischievous grin were set in a straight line.
I took a deep breath reminding myself like I’d been doing all day that it was going to take time. I couldn’t expect him to go back to the person he was before any more than I could expect myself to go back to the person I was. Those people no longer existed.
“Katie’s so excited to see you. It’s all she’s been talking about all week. She wanted to come see you tonight, but I told her you’d probably be too tired. I promised her she could come spend the day with us tomorrow.”
“What about Dad?”
It was the first time he’d asked about him in months. He stopped questioning why he wasn’t coming to the visits, and I quit making excuses, but his quiet exit wasn’t lost on Noah.
“I’m not sure if he’s coming,” I said.
He put his hand on my leg. “I’m sorry I ruined your marriage.”
I’d told him we decided to separate to give ourselves some space to think about our marriage and reevaluate things, because there was no way I was going to tell him his father didn’t want him living under the same roof as his sister. Emotions rose in my throat, but I worked hard to control my voice and keep my face expressionless. “You didn’t ruin our marriage. It’s not over. It’s just different. Things have changed.”
“Yeah, because of me.” He pulled his hand away. I reached over and took his hand in mine, squeezing tightly.
“Listen, you aren’t responsible for anything going on between me and your dad. None of this is your fault. Do you hear me?”
He nodded, but he didn’t believe me any more than I believed myself.
*****
I watched as Noah eyed the apartment, nervous about his reaction to the space. He sized up the rooms and meager surroundings—the living room filled with our secondhand couch and the TV balancing on the stand in front of the other wall. It was only a few steps into the kitchen lined with cracked linoleum and cupboards that didn’t completely close because they’d been painted so many times. A small folding table with two aluminum chairs functioned as our dining room. I put fresh flowers in a pretty blue vase yesterday hoping it would brighten up the room.
“Not our old house, huh? It’s a little rough around the edges, but it grows on you.” I did my best to sound happy. “You should’ve seen what this place looked like before I painted it.” I motioned to the empty walls in the living room and dining room. “I waited to put anything up until you got here. There’s a really great flea market on Forty-Ninth Street on Saturdays. I thought we could go and pick out pieces together sometime.”
“Sure, Mom. Sounds great.” He forced a smile, his voice flat. “I’d like that.”
There was too much silence between us while we ate dinner. I filled the air with idle conversation, trying to fill up the space. It just like when I visited him in treatment. He was polite, kind, and well-mannered. He smiled when it was appropriate and answered questions when asked, but his eyes were emotionless and there wasn’t any life behind his words. He didn’t get excited about anything. My lively boy had been replaced with a Stepford Wife.
“My room looks nice. Thanks,” he said as I tucked him into bed that night, something he hadn’t let me do in years.
Out of habit, I reached to brush the hair out of his face, but it was no longer there, so my hand landed on his cheek, and I rubbed the side of his face instead. “It’s over, honey. You can relax now.”
I sat on the edge of the bed. I held back the urge to lay next to him and wrap my arms tightly around him like I would’ve done in the past because my previously affectionate son now stiffened at physical touch. I didn’t want to make him uncomfortable, so I reached for his hand and took it in mine.
“I love you no matter what,” I said.
I’d been telling him it since he was a baby. I couldn’t count the number of times over I’d taken him in my arms and said the same thing. When he was a toddler, one of his favorite games to play while we were driving was for me to call out, “Who loves you?”
“Mommy wuvs me!” he’d yell with glee from the backseat.
“How much?”
He’d raise his arms straight up above his head, straining against his seat belt. “This much!”
“No matter what?”
His echoed “no matter what” came out sounding like no mamma what, and he’d always collapse into giggles afterward.
Stressing I loved him no matter what was even more important the older he got because he was such a perfectionist. He didn’t fail very often, so he took it hard when he did, especially when it came to swimming. It was obvious from his first mommy and me class that he was gifted in the water. Most kids his age were scared and clung to their parents, but I struggled to keep him from leaping out of my arms. He had no interest in learning how to blow bubbles or rowing his arms like a paddleboat. He wanted to learn how to swim for real, and was skilled in all of the strokes by the time he was five. His swimming academy spotted his talent immediately and took an interest in him early on. He started working with a private coach in first grade and by the next year, he was competing in competitions with kids two years older than him.
He had a hard time whenever he didn’t perform like he wanted. When he was young, he cried when he didn’t come in first and his tears morphed into anger as a teenager if he didn’t come in first place. Lucas and I did our best not to put any pressure on him since he put enough on himself.
“Honey, we love you whether you come in first or last,” Lucas would always say.
Our most important goal as parents was for our kids to know we loved them based on who they were rather than any external criteria. We tried to keep our compliments and praise focused on qualities about them rather than their performance. It was easy with Katie, but much more difficult with Noah since he was always so focused on his performance. I admired his drive, and it served him well, but I’d always worried about the amount of pressure he put on himself to be the best.
I worried all the pressure took the fun out of swimming, so I was happy when his coaches asked if he’d coach a team of young swimmers during the summer because it’d h
elp him loosen up and put the fun back in it. The first time they asked him was the summer between eighth and ninth grade. The kids on the team were six and seven-year-old kids, and he jumped at the opportunity because they were the same age he’d been when he started competing. He made time to work with them twice a week and attended their meets despite his busy schedule. He loved working with them, and they loved him just as much. By his second summer of teaching, his classes had a wait list.
The first sign something was wrong with Noah was when he abruptly quit coaching halfway through the summer. He didn’t tell me he’d quit, and he told me everything. I only found out because one of his supervisors called to ask me what was going on and if Noah was okay. I’d been shocked. It was so out of character for him to quit anything, especially if it was related to swimming.
“Andy called me today and told me you quit coaching the pee-wee league. What happened?” I asked him at dinner that night.
He shrugged his shoulders, refusing to look at me.
“What? You quit coaching?” Lucas asked. He was as shocked as I’d been.
Noah stared down at his plate of lasagna. “I can’t do it anymore. I’ve got to focus on my own stuff right now.”
“But the kids love you,” I said. He had an amazing ability to work with them. It could be such a difficult age to hold their attention, but he made their lessons fun.
He shrugged his shoulders again.
“It’s the middle of the session. You can’t leave them hanging. Don’t you think you should at least finish out the summer season?” Lucas asked.
He shook his head.
I looked at Lucas, and we exchanged the “it’s his age” look in the same way we did when he was two and throwing a fit because his peanut butter and jelly sandwich was cut in squares when he wanted triangles. Every parent fears the adolescent years, and we were no different.
Saving Noah Page 6