“What are we going to have for my last supper?” he joked when dinnertime rolled around.
His ability to laugh about it was unsettling. In the end, we settled on pancakes smothered in my homemade syrup. The evening stretched out endlessly before us. Neither of us could stop looking at the clock. We pretended like we weren’t but it was impossible not to. Each time it seemed a significant amount of time had passed, I’d look up only to discover it’d been a few short minutes since the last time I’d looked. It was odd that we were waiting. Would it really matter if we did it then? Did we really need to get a good night’s sleep for suicide the next day? It seemed absurd to be stuck on the date we’d designated, but we were, and there was nothing left to do besides wait. We barely talked because there was nothing left to say. We’d said it all.
But now we stood in the doorway, surveying his bedroom. There was no going back once we crossed the threshold. We had spent one of our last nights talking about how he wanted it arranged, and everything was set up exactly how we’d planned. He even made his bed. His nightstand held the framed photo of our family standing at the edge of the Grand Canyon. It was one of our funnest summer vacations. We’d rented an RV and driven it across the country, stopping at all the tourist spots along the way. We’d parked on the Northern Rim, where the view was the most breathtaking, and spent three days hiking the trails. We’d all taken turns carrying Katie when she got too tired. I loved the picture.
Yesterday, I bought fresh flowers from Trader Joe’s and put them in a vase on his dresser. We’d never gotten around to hanging anything on his walls, and I wanted him to have something pretty to look at. He laughed at me when I came home with the flowers, but his response was different today.
“Good call, Mom,” he said. “They look nice.”
“Thanks. Are you ready?”
He gripped my hand. Both of our hands were slippery with sweat. We didn’t speak, the intimacy of the moment too intense for words. We stepped into the room.
I had never been so acutely present. My body hummed with energy. Tingling waves rushed through my body again and again, all of my senses on heightened alert. The wind coming from the open window tickled the hairs on my neck. The air carried the smell of breakfast from the neighbors down the street. Every bone in my body was alive. The sunlight streaming in through the small window above his bed looked exceptionally bright and vibrant. I could feel the warmth of it on my skin.
We moved to the bed, where all our materials were assembled and lay waiting for us on the serving tray I used back when I had visitors in my house to serve. I crushed all his pills yesterday, meticulously ground them into a fine powder. It was too many pills to swallow and it would be more effective to take them this way. They were piled on two round saucers. His antinausea medication lay next to them like you’d lay out clothes to wear the next day. My dropper, water bottle, and small glass stood ready. I motioned for him to sit on the bed next to the tray. He sat, straight-backed and at attention, placing his hands on his knees.
I crouched in front of him and took his face in my hands. I looked directly in his eyes. “Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure?”
He nodded his head while he spoke. “I’m more than sure—I’m so ready.”
There was no going back. This was it.
I picked up the anti-nausea medication, the same kind they gave to chemotherapy patients to keep them from throwing up, and pulled back the lining on the tab. The dissolving tabs worked better than the pills. I laid the small tab on his tongue, eerily similar to how he received the Eucharist last Sunday.
“Can I swallow?” he asked as his mouth foamed.
I grabbed his chin and shut his mouth for him before any of it spilled out. “Yes, swallow it all.”
He gulped it down. I laid another one on his tongue. I wasn’t taking any chances with him getting sick and throwing up. I refused to consider what I would do then. This had to work. He knew what to do this time and swallowed it as soon as it started to foam.
Everything was in slow motion as I poured his pills into the small glass, dropping a few drops of water into it and stirring. Then, dropping a few more and stirring again until it was a consistency he could swallow without choking, but still as undiluted as possible.
We talked before about how he needed to take the pills, and I handed him the glass. I had another glass of water ready for when he finished. His eyes were wide with anticipation as I handed it to him. He plugged his nose and downed the concoction like he was taking a shot at a fraternity party that he’d never attend. He shuddered. I handed him the glass of water, and he quickly drained it. He wiped his mouth.
“What do we do now?” he asked. He set the glasses on his nightstand like we planned.
“We wait.”
“I don’t feel anything.”
I smiled despite myself. “It takes more than thirty seconds. Just be patient. You will.”
It didn’t take long before a dreamy smile relaxed his face. My mind raced. Soon he would be too incoherent to understand anything, too drugged to speak. Was there anything I hadn’t said? Adrenaline coursed through my body. What if I missed something? What if there was something important I’d never told him? The rush of responsibility to him, for this moment, coursed through me.
“Dear God, please help us. Help my baby boy. Let this be easy. Please let him leave this world in peace.” A sob caught in my throat. “And please meet him there. Take care of him for me.”
“You okay?” His voice was slurred like he had a mouthful of marbles to speak around.
I nodded, feeling the warmth of my tears running down my cheeks. Not the heat of the angry tears of struggle, but those of profound release. “I love you, Noah.”
“I love you too, Mom.” His lids were heavy, but there wasn’t a hint of sadness or regret in his eyes. “Don’t forget to give Katie her letter.”
He’d given me two sealed letters earlier in the week. One for Lucas and one for Katie. I was supposed to give them to them afterward. I didn’t know what they said and hadn’t peeked because they were his private words to them.
“I won’t. I promise. And Dad too.”
“Can we turn on the music now?” His face lined with concentration as he struggled to form the words.
“Why don’t you relax, honey?” I fluffed the pillows at the head of the bed and helped him lie down. He lay on his back with his arms crossed on his chest like a vampire. His arms looked too creepy arranged that way, so I placed them by his sides. He stared at the ceiling in a dreamy reverie. What was he seeing? He was here, but he was already somewhere else, with one foot in the now and the other in the later.
His iPod was plugged in on his nightstand next to the picture. I pressed play. As the first few notes of the Beatles sang out, his body relaxed into the bed. I crawled onto the bed beside him, sitting with my back against the headboard and pulled his head onto my lap. I held his hand. There was no more sweat. His hand was soft and warm in mine. He squeezed, and I smiled down at him. He smiled back, a weird lopsided grin.
“I love you, Noah,” I said as I stroked his hair with my free hand.
His eyes rolled slowly up toward me, sluggish and hazy with all the drugs coursing through his system. He nodded, too high to speak. Keeping his eyes open took great effort, and eventually, he gave in to their descent.
I tuned into the music as I watched his chest move up and down. I had expected morose songs filled with despair and angst, but as I listened I realized it wasn’t a playlist for him. It was for me. He recognized that while he was drifting away, I’d be acutely awake. The songs were for my benefit. Not his.
He started with the family favorite, “Here Comes the Sun,” that we sang throughout our house every spring when the snow we’d been buried under for months finally started to melt. Other Beatles songs were sprinkled throughout, coupled with not just my favorite bands but Lucas’s and Katie’s too. There were songs we danced to in the living room or belted out on our road trips to
the Grand Canyon and Niagara Falls. The ones we’d listen to on the way home from meets to help relax us after a stressful competition. Toward the end, the Dixie Chicks began singing “Lullaby.” It was the song I sang to both my children during my pregnancy. Noah teased me mercilessly about it the older he got. But there it was, their sweet voices singing out, “How long do you wanna be loved? Is forever enough? Is forever enough?”
His thoughtfulness moved me with such exquisite pain, but I wouldn’t cry. Not until it was over and he was gone. The one thing I could give him was a face of comfort and filled with love. I welcomed him into the world in a room filled with love and light and I could give him the same gift as I walked him home. It was so intimate. I felt the same way I did in the delivery room in the moments before I pushed him out into the world—the profound rush of God giving him to me. Now it was my turn to give him back.
I watched him die again and again. His mind was ready to die, but his body didn’t agree. His breaths grew further and further apart. Each time I was sure he’d breathed his last, he gasped for another. It wasn’t a fitful breath. More like he forgot and suddenly remembered he needed to breathe. Sometimes his eyes fluttered open after the breath. I pulled him into my lap, cradling him next to me, our bodies intertwined, his head resting against my chest as I held him as close as he could get. I knew the next step. What he was waiting for.
“It’s okay, honey,” I whispered into his ear. “You can go now. It’s all right to leave.” I rocked him back and forth. “I’m going to be okay. You don’t have to keep hanging on. You can let go.”
I kept whispering it over and over again long after the music stopped and the only sound was my voice humming “Lullaby.” I rocked and whispered. Rocked and whispered. And then, he was gone. There was finally no more air.
HIM (NOW)
I’m not sorry Noah’s dead. I know that makes me a terrible father, but I can’t help it. I won’t pretend I’m sad that he’s gone. My insides burned with hate and disgust every time I looked at him, whenever Adrianne said his name. I couldn’t even stand to be in the same room as him. It wasn’t his fault. Not at all. But I couldn’t be around him because he reminded me of everything I’d forced myself to forget.
I spent years burying the memories of what I’d done and convincing myself I was cured. It was hard in the beginning, but it got easier after I went to college because I didn’t have to be around children anymore and could throw myself into my schoolwork. Numbers were easy. They made sense and gave me order. My roommate teased me about how serious I was all the time, but I didn’t care. I had to be. It kept the monster inside of me quiet.
I tried to give back to humanity for what I’d taken, so I cleaned ditches every weekend and volunteered at nursing homes whenever I could. I spent my summers building houses for families in need with Habitat for Humanity. It’s where I met Adrianne.
I never considered telling her what I’d done. Not once. No one could ever know. It was too shameful. Disgusting. In those days, it was easy to keep it a secret. It wasn’t like the world we live in now. Barely anyone had computers in their homes, and even the ones that did didn’t have the Internet. There weren’t any sexual offender registries, and since my parents were equally invested in nobody finding out, we kept my crimes hidden.
My mom picked me up from the treatment center, gave me a huge hug, and said, “I’m glad that you’re better.” She never spoke about it again and carried on like nothing had changed.
My dad refused to speak to me when I got home and pretended like I wasn’t there. Being ignored hurt, but I didn’t blame him for how he treated me. After all, he was the one who found me with my cousins.
My uncle Shawn lived on the farm next to us and the two of them worked the land together. Shawn had two daughters—a ten-year-old and an eight-year-old. I was always stuck watching them since I was so much older. I was sixteen and hated trying to find ways to entertain them all day while our dads labored in the fields, but back then, you didn’t argue with your parents. You did what they asked.
To this day, I still don’t know how it happened the first time. It was like I was possessed. One minute we were playing hide–and–seek in the barn, and the next minute I was behind the hay bales rubbing myself on Jamie. I told her it was part of the game, and she didn’t ask any more questions after that. I swore I would never do it again. But I did. Again and again and again. To both of them. I’d lie in bed at night and promise God that it was the last time, but I couldn’t stop myself. I just couldn’t. I was out of control.
My dad unexpectedly came into the barn one afternoon and caught me molesting Jamie. He flung me off her and whipped me with his belt until I passed out. Jamie wouldn’t stop screaming. I still hear her screams in my dreams.
Shawn was just as furious as my dad. He wanted to send me to jail, but my mom begged him not to. She promised to get me help. Shawn and my aunt finally agreed not to tell the authorities as long as my parents got me help and kept me away from my nieces. That’s how I ended up at Reuters for nine months. It’s where they sent all the bad kids. I don’t know what kind of treatment Noah got, but I hope they moved beyond the shock therapy that I received as part of my therapy.
Things were never the same after I came home. Our family was torn apart. Shawn sold his land and moved his family to the northeast, as far away from us as they could get. They never spoke to my family again. My dad was crushed since Shawn had always been his best friend. My dad started talking to me again after I left home for college, but he never forgave me.
I was doing so well until Noah screwed everything up. I’d managed to convince myself I was normal. I liked having a family. Being a husband and a father brought me great joy. I never imagined my son would become just like me.
I never forgot there was a monster buried inside me, but as long as I didn’t feed it, it stayed dormant. Being with Noah was like looking in a mirror and having everything I hated about myself stare back at me. He became the part of me that was vile and repulsive. Visiting him at Marsh brought up all the memories of being at Reuters—the electric shock therapy, the boys assaulted in the locker room during showers, the never-ending terror I lived with every day. It was too much. I couldn’t go back there.
I try to make myself feel sad that he’s gone, and over everything that happened. I try to force it. Conjure up some kind of emotion in myself, but I can’t. The truth? I’m just relieved. I feel like I can breathe again. It’s finally over. I can go back to pretending like I’m normal.
Epilogue
I slid into a seat near the back. I tucked my purse behind my legs on the bleacher, pulled out a book and set it on my lap, hoping everyone thought I was waiting for one of my children to finish their lesson. I scanned the pool, searching for him. It didn’t take long before I spotted his red head bobbing up and down at the far end of the pool. He didn’t look like Noah, but he had the same energy as he moved through the water. That’s why I liked to watch him. I came every Tuesday at four.
It had been almost a year since Noah died and it was a lie that time healed all wounds. Whoever said it originally never lost a child. The wound cuts too deep to ever go away. I felt the magnitude of his loss as if it was yesterday—the paralyzing grief of losing a child. It came in waves, spastic sobs reverberating throughout my entire body, shaking me to my core. It was unrelenting and constant in the beginning. It held me in its grips and refused to let go. I felt like I would die, but I didn’t because you can’t die from grief even if it feels like you might. I stayed alive because my lungs kept breathing and my heart kept beating through no effort of mine. I didn’t have any other choice.
Nobody told me grief became so unpredictable over time. I never knew when it was going to hit, so there wasn’t any way to prepare for the attacks. The attacks had grown farther apart, but they’d never be gone, and I’d never be prepared. It didn’t help to remind myself I’d survived them before and would survive them again because, in the moment, I was sure it was
the one that would kill me.
But I had to go on for Katie, because being a mother means you live your life as a living sacrifice. Katie struggled as much as I knew she would. She cried for days when she found out, and we spent hours huddled together on the couch, taking turns crying or weeping unable to move from our spot. She refused to be alone even in the bathroom, and she’d always been an intensely private person. She followed Lucas and me from room to room like she’d done when she was a toddler. She slept with me at night, but I didn’t mind having her so close because I needed her as much as she needed me. We clung to each other through the long sleepless nights and fitful dreams when our bodies had no choice, but to surrender to the exhaustion. I assured her we would get through it. I needed to say the words for her even if I didn’t believe it.
I gave her Noah’s letter and never asked to read it. It was his words to her, and I respected their relationship. She didn’t tell me what he said, but it seemed to bring her comfort. She carried the letter with her everywhere, tucking it underneath her pillow at night. Within weeks of the funeral service, I got her into therapy with a child psychologist that Dr. Park recommended. It took a while, but she was beginning to get better. She stopped wetting the bed, which was a good sign. She kept a journal and wrote him letters every day.
Going back to school was the most difficult for her. She couldn’t make it through the day without sobbing uncontrollably over something insignificant like misspelling a word or breaking her pencil lead. Other times, she sat in her chair or on a space on the red carpet, immobilized. She never made it to lunchtime without her teacher calling me to come pick her up and bring her home. I didn’t know how to help or save her, until I stumbled on the blog of a woman who’d lost her daughter to cancer. She’d created necklaces with all her surviving children to serve as living memories of their sister and something they could touch whenever they missed her. I loved the idea.
Saving Noah Page 19