by Lisa Genova
“Can I please have control over my own window?”
I press the button and hold it there, “rolling” my window all the way down. Cold air whips into the car. It feels great for a few seconds, but then it’s way too cold and way too windy, but I leave the window where it is, determined to have my way about something.
Bob turns onto our exit, and then we turn right onto Main Street in Welmont. The center of town is all dolled up for Christmas. Wreaths are hung on the streetlamps, garland and white lights line the windows of the storefronts, and, although not lit up at this hour, the magnificent two-hundred-year-old spruce tree in front of the town hall is strung to the top with colored lights. The sun is low now, no longer blinding. It’ll be dark any minute, and Main Street will be aglow with postcard-perfect holiday cheer. Nearing the shortest day of the year, it changes from day to night in the blink of an eye, reminding me of how everything can change in an unnoticed moment.
Bob turns onto Sycamore Street. We drive up the hill, around the bend, and onto Pilgrim Lane. He pulls into our driveway, and there it is.
Home.
CHAPTER 20
I remember coming home after Charlie was born, stepping through the front door into the mudroom, looking into the kitchen and the living room beyond that and thinking that everything had changed. Of course, I was seeing the same kitchen table and chairs, the same brown couch and matching love seat, the same Yankee candle centered on the same coffee table, our shoes on the floor, our pictures on the walls, the stack of newspapers by the fireplace, all exactly as we had left them two days before. Even the bananas in the bowl on the kitchen counter were still yellow. The only thing that had really changed was me. I’d left the house forty-eight hours ago an enormous pregnant woman and returned (only slightly less enormous) a mother. Yet somehow, the home I’d lived in for almost a year felt strange, like we were acquaintances being formally introduced for the first time.
I have that same feeling today. Only this time, it’s not just me who’s changed. As I inch my way through the mudroom, granny cane in my right hand, Bob guiding me on the left, an overwhelming but nonspecific sense that something is different washes over me. Then, one by one, each something reveals itself.
The first change that registers is orange. Streaks of bright orange are splattered all over the kitchen. The walls, the doorframes, the table, the cabinets, the floors are all covered with bright orange graffiti, like the ghost of Jackson Pollock paid us an inspired visit. Or, more likely, someone gave Charlie a tub of orange paint and ignored him for the afternoon. But before I scream for someone to fetch paper towels and a bottle of Clorox, it dawns on me. The streaks aren’t paint, and they’re not haphazard. Bright orange tape lines the left side of the doorframe. It runs the left edge of the cabinets, the left side of the refrigerator. It covers the doorknob on the door leading to the backyard. And who knows how many more orange strips of tape are stuck to surfaces I’m not even noticing? Probably many, many more.
Then I notice the handrail drilled into the stairwell wall, which is stainless steel like the grab bars at Baldwin and not at all like the handsome oak banister on its other side. I guess that was necessary. The handsome oak banister is on the right when going up the stairs, but then it’s on the left, and therefore not really there at all, when going down. There’s also a new, more industrial-grade baby gate installed at the bottom of the stairs and another one at the top, which I first assume are for our now toddling Linus, but then I think they might also be for me. We’re not allowed up or down without adult supervision. My house has been baby-proofed and Sarah-proofed.
My granny cane and right foot take their first steps into the living room and land on a floor that feels completely foreign.
“Where are the rugs?” I ask.
“In the attic,” says Bob.
“Oh yeah,” I say, remembering Heidi telling us that we’d need to get rid of them.
Three handmade, expensive Oriental carpets. Tripping hazards. Rolled up and gone. At least the hardwood floors are in good shape. In fact, they’re gleaming, pristine. I scan the length of the room. Unless they’re all clustered somewhere to my left, there are no Matchbox cars, tiaras, puzzle pieces, balls, Legos, crayons, Cheerios, Goldfish crackers, sippy cups, and nukies strewn all over the floor.
“Do the kids still live here?” I ask.
“Huh?”
“Where’s all their stuff?”
“Oh, your mother keeps the place really neat. All their things are in their rooms or down in the playroom. We can’t have you tripping over toys.”
“Oh.”
“Let’s sit you down on the couch.”
Bob replaces my granny cane with his forearm, tucks his other hand under my armpit, and performs what the therapists at Baldwin would call a moderate upper-body assist. I sink deep into the plush cushion and exhale. It took us probably fifteen minutes to walk from the driveway to the living room, and I’m wiped out. I try not to think of how easily, how unconsciously, I used to whip into the house and how much I used to get done in the span of fifteen minutes. I’d normally already have booted up my laptop, I’d have listened to the phone messages on the machine, gone through the mail, I’d have the TV on, coffee brewing, and at least one of the kids at my feet or on my hip.
“Where is everyone?” I ask.
“Abby’s picking up Charlie from basketball, and Linus and Lucy should be here somewhere with your mother. I asked your mother to keep them out of the living room until I got you settled. Let me go find them.”
Now that I’m facing the way I came in, the other side of the living room and the sunroom beyond that, which were hiding in the shadows of my Neglect during the journey in, show themselves. Our Christmas tree is up and decorated, colored lights strung and aglow, angel spinning on the top. It’s a big tree this year, even bigger than our usual big, well over ten feet. Our living room ceiling is vaulted and at least twenty feet high, and we always buy the biggest tree on the lot. But every year, just before we do, I always hesitate. Do you think it’s a little too big? And Bob always says, Bigger is better, babe.
I’m more than a little unnerved by the fact that I didn’t notice the tree as I entered the living room. It’s one thing to ignore a piece of chicken on the left side of my plate or words printed on the left side of a page, but I just missed a ten-foot-tall evergreen covered in blinking colored lights and shiny ornaments. Even the fresh pine smell, which I love and did notice, didn’t tip me off. Whenever I think my deficit might actually be subtle and not that big of a deal, I experience something like this, indisputable evidence to the contrary. The extent of my Neglect is always bigger than I think. Sorry, Bob, sometimes bigger isn’t better.
The French doors to the sunroom are closed, which is unusual if no one is in there. Bob or I will go in and close the doors if we take a work call and need to muffle out the madness of the rest of the house, but otherwise, we keep them open. I love spending time alone in there on Sunday mornings in my pajamas, drinking coffee out of my deepest Harvard mug, reading the New York Times in my favorite chair, soaking in the warmth of the coffee through the palms of my hands and the warmth of the sun on my face. In my fantasy life, I spend an entire Sunday morning in this sanctuary undisturbed until I finish both my coffee and the paper, and then, in my ultimate dream world, I close my eyes and take a luxurious catnap.
This never happens. I probably get only about fifteen minutes at a time before Linus cries or Lucy screams or Charlie asks a question, before someone needs something to eat or something to do, before my cell phone vibrates or my laptop announces an incoming email, before I hear something break or something spill or the most attention-grabbing of all—the eerie sound of everything gone suddenly too quiet. But still, even fifteen minutes can be bliss.
It occurs to me that I should now be able to fulfill this fantasy quite easily. Monday through Friday, the kids will be at school and day care, and I won’t be at work. I’ll have six whole hours each day of unint
errupted time. And it just might take me six hours a day for five days to read every word of the entire Sunday paper, but I don’t care. I’m excited about the challenge. Today’s Thursday. I’ll try my first day in my sunroom retreat tomorrow.
I peek through the windowpanes of the French doors from where I sit on the couch and notice that the sunroom appears to have been redecorated. My favorite reading chair has been turned and pushed up against the wall, and I don’t see the coffee table at all. I see some sort of green-leaved potted floor plant that looks like it requires watering, in which case, if I’m at all responsible for this, it will be dead within the week. I wonder where that came from. And is that a dresser?
“Mommy!” yells Lucy, running to the top of the stairs.
“Slow down,” says my mother, walking behind her and holding Linus.
My breath catches for a second, and I swear my heart stalls. Hearing my mother mother Lucy, watching my baby boy at home on her hip, seeing my mother here, living in my house. Living in my life. I don’t think I can handle this.
Lucy works both gates open, barely breaking stride, bounds through the living room, and dives onto my lap.
“Easy, Goose,” says Bob.
“She’s okay,” I say.
She’s barefoot and smiling and giddy in her eyes as she bounces up and down on my lap. She’s more than okay.
“Mommy, you’re home !” she says.
“I am! is this new?” I ask, referring to the Disney princess dress she’s wearing.
“Yeah, Grandma got it for me. I’m Belle. Aren’t I beautiful?”
“The most.”
“Linus is the Beast.”
“Oh, Linus is too cute to be the beast. I think he’s the handsome Prince,” I say.
“No, he’s the Beast.”
“Welcome home,” says my mother.
My inner teenager rears its hot head and begs me in her awkward and whiny voice to pretend that I didn’t hear her.
“Thanks,” I say in a barely audible tone, my inner adult compromise.
“What do you think of the tree?” asks Bob, beaming.
“It’s huge, I love it. I’m surprised you didn’t put it in the sunroom this year to keep Linus away from it,” I say, imagining that they’ve been constantly defending the irresistible glass and ceramic ornaments.
“There isn’t any room in there with the bed,” says Bob.
“What bed?”
“The futon bed. That’s where your mother is sleeping.”
“Oh.”
I guess that makes sense. She needs to sleep somewhere, and we don’t have an extra bedroom (if we had that extra bedroom, then we’d have a live-in nanny, and then my mother wouldn’t need to be here). For some reason, though, I’d been picturing her on the pull-out couch in the basement, probably because with the door to the basement shut, I could pretend that she’s not here. Even with the sunroom doors closed, I’ll still be able to see her through the windowpanes. She’s here. Maybe we could buy some shades.
But where am I going to read the paper and drink my coffee and take my restorative nap now? What about my retreat? My inner teenager is outraged. She stole your sacred space! I seriously don’t know if I can handle this.
“Mommy, watch me dance!” says Lucy.
She hops down and begins spinning with her arms overhead. My mother lowers Linus onto my lap. He feels heavier than I remember. He turns his head, looks up into my eyes, touches my face, smiles, and says, “Mama.”
“Hi, honey,” I say and wrap my arm tighter around him.
“Mama,” he says again, patting my cheek over and over.
“Hi, sweet boy. Mama’s home.”
He snuggles into my lap, and we both watch Lucy perform. She kicks her bare feet and wiggles her hips and twirls, delighted to show off her billowing red and gold skirt, and we all clap and beg for more. Always a ham, she happily obliges with an encore.
My gaze travels over Lucy’s head through the kitchen to the windows overlooking the backyard. The outdoor lights are on. I see the swing set and playhouse draped in snow. I see a snowman wearing one of Bob’s winter hats, a carrot nose, and at least five stick arms. I see a red saucer sled at the top of our modest hill and a wild tangle of footprints and sled trails.
And no prison anywhere.
In some ways, everything about my life has overwhelmingly changed. But in other ways, my life is exactly the same. Backyard winter joy, Lucy dancing, Linus’s fingers on my face, Bob laughing, the smell of Christmas pine. This, I can handle. And I soak it all in.
CHAPTER 21
The biggest change around here turns out not to be the orange tape on the walls or my mother sleeping in the sunroom. Charlie has ADHD. Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. Bob broke the news to me in bed on my first night home, said that the doctor was sure and that Charlie’s symptoms are classic but not severe, and I cried quietly in his arms while he assured me until I fell asleep that Charlie would be okay.
Charlie’s taking Concerta, which is like Ritalin but releases medication steadily over time for twelve hours. He takes one each morning with breakfast. We call them vitamins instead of medicine so he doesn’t think of himself as sick or disabled or broken. So far, he hasn’t complained of any headaches or loss of appetite, and Ms. Gavin says she’s noticing a positive difference in his behavior at school.
We’ve also started making lots of “Lifestyle” adjustments that are supposed to help him succeed. We’ve modified his diet—no more sugar cereal, no more gummy sharks and Popsicles loaded with Red No. 40 and Blue No. 2, no more soda, no more fast food. He’s less than thrilled about this particular change, and I don’t blame him. Even I miss the gummy sharks. He has a morning and evening To Do list neatly printed out in a grid on a poster board taped to his bedroom wall, so he can clearly see and check off what he needs to accomplish before school and before bed each day. And Charlie’s Rules are written on a piece of paper magnetized to the refrigerator.
No hitting.
No yelling.
No interrupting.
Listen and do what you are told.
Do your homework without complaining.
With Ms. Gavin’s guidance, Bob and I also designed an incentive program—Marble Minutes. Charlie starts each day with six marbles in a coffee mug. Each marble is worth ten minutes of TV plus or minus video games. If Charlie follows all of the rules without infraction all day, by five o’clock, he can have one hour of television. But for each crime he commits, he loses a marble.
Today, he’s having a typical day. It’s 4:00, and he’s already lost half his marbles. He ripped Lucy’s iPod out of her hands and smacked her on the head with it when she tried to grab it back. My mother had to ask him three times to pick his coat up off of the floor and hang it on a hook in the mudroom. And I was talking on the phone with my outpatient occupational therapist when he peppered me with a machine-gun volley of Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom. I should’ve taken away one marble for each Mom, but he’s desperate to play Super Mario, and I already know better than to run out of marbles before we tackle homework.
We’re sitting at the kitchen table, his homework in front of him, my outpatient homework in front of me, both of us wishing that we could be doing something else. I know he’s praying that he doesn’t lose the rest of his marbles. I hope I don’t lose mine along with him. Bob is at work, and my mother and Linus are at Lucy’s dance lesson. The TV is off, the house is quiet, and the table is cleared.
“Okay, Charlie, let’s get this done. Who should go first?”
“You,” he says.
I size up the cafeteria tray centered in front of me. A vertical line of orange tape divides the tray in half. The tray is empty.
“Okay, go,” I say.
Charlie’s job is to drop up to five red rubber balls, each about the size of a clementine, onto the left side of my tray. My first job is to identify how many balls are there.
“Did it,” he says.
I begin my hom
ework by tracing the bottom edge of the tray with my right hand, moving left until I feel the right angle of the bottom left corner. An uneasiness invades me whenever I cross my own midline with my right hand and leave it somewhere in the unknown Land of the Left. The feeling reminds me of a trust exercise that I once participated in at a Berkley employee workshop. Standing, eyes closed, I was asked to fall backward and trust that my colleagues would catch me. I remember that split second before allowing myself to fall, not being able to see or control how and where I’d land, not wanting to crack my head on the hard floor over a silly exercise, when common sense and primitive instinct chimed in, Do not do this. But somewhere inside, I was able to hit the override button. And of course, my colleagues caught me. I go through a similar experience when my right hand crosses the orange line. Instinctive fear, inner courage, blind faith.
Now I scan to the right of my right hand, which feels natural and easy, and which happens to be across what is the left side of the tray.
“Four,” I say.
“Yes! Good job, Mom!” says Charlie. “Gimme five!”
Finding the balls is the easiest part of my homework and doesn’t deserve a celebration, but I don’t want to discourage his encouragement. I smile and give him a quick slap of the hand.
“High-five me with your left hand,” says Charlie.
He loves working me. I have to find my left hand for the next part of this exercise anyway, so I humor him and begin the search. I find it dangling down by my side and manage to lift it up, but I can’t say for sure exactly where it is now. Charlie is waiting, his high-five hand held up as my target. But he’s using his right hand, which is on my left, which makes it less than easy to keep track of. Charlie might just be the toughest occupational therapist I’ve had yet. Without a shred of confidence that I’ll succeed, I swing my arm from the shoulder. I miss his hand and smack him square in the chest.