by Jim Lombardo
Monica was in the middle of knitting a woolen baby cap, when she paused and looked over at her baby with unease. “I don’t understand why Hannah never cries. It just doesn’t seem right.”
“It is weird, but she seems okay,” Brian answered. “What’s your book say?”
“It says they cry for a bunch of reasons, and then it goes on and on about how to cope with it. I’ve just never heard of a baby that didn’t cry the entire first month of life. I mean, she wails for stuff, but there’s no tears.”
“I know, and then when she gets her way, in one millisecond she’s happy as a flippin’ clam at high tide. It’s like she’s scamming us.”
“I read about this condition where you can’t feel any pain,” said Monica. “What if she has that?”
“I doubt it. I mean, she’s probably not doing the ‘Ma-ma’ thing ’cause her throat’s hurting. And she definitely winced when she got the Hep B shot last week.”
“Yeah, but she didn’t even cry then. It’s so strange.”
Monica spoke to her baby playfully. “Maybe Hannah has such good parents that she has no reason to cry. Is that it, sweetie? Hannah has no reason to cry?”
The baby returned her gaze and grinned broadly.
“Look at her face, Bri’. That’s amazing. You know, the last time I was diapering her, I swear to God it seemed like she was trying to help me attach the adhesive strips. She’s reaching for stuff, and she can definitely see what’s happening on TV. She’s not supposed to be doing that yet. I mean...she’s totally blowing through the What to Expect the First Year book.”
“Yeah, I know. She’s definitely ahead of the bell curve. Let’s ask the doctor about it when we go back.”
As exciting and fulfilling as watching TV was, Hannah’s favorite experiences were in the three-dimensional world, the realm of real people and things. The resolution of her eyesight continued to sharpen, and while being pushed in her stroller along the sidewalk each day she was enthralled at the spectacle of the world around her. She studied birds carefully, tracing the paths of their flight in her memory. They caressed the sky with beautiful arcs and spirals. Even the most simple of objects filled her with wonderment, such as the white lines on the road, and mailboxes. What could they be? She decided that things so perfectly and symmetrically designed must have some special purpose, and wondered if the purpose of the power lines sagging between telephone poles along the street were to provide a perch for the birds she saw resting there. The non-symmetrical things, such as potholes and jagged cracks in the sidewalk, probably had no intended purpose.
Laughing was something that Hannah still did not understand. She watched her parents as they talked to each other. Occasionally they would close their eyes, turn their heads upward and blurt out unrecognizable sounds in a rhythmic manner, while rocking their bodies. This was vocalizing, but distinct from speaking. She noticed that this behavior was usually preceded or followed by a smile, which Hannah understood was a reaction to something that made the person feel good. So laughter must be some type of exaggerated smile. She hoped to straighten that out soon in her mind.
The twins that lived downstairs had visited several times, and Hannah was infatuated with them. They reminded her of Pudge in a way because they had so much more energy than larger people, and were more entertaining to watch. One thing that puzzled her about speech was the children’s repetition of words. Hannah had found that often when the talking noise “wuht” was spoken, and turned up into a high note at the end, the other person talking would repeat their previous word sequence precisely. Also, when her mother spoke to her in musical notes, she often repeated her words or phrases, “Mama’s gonna buy you…mama’s gonna buy you...,” and then always, “Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird.” But with the twins, it was different.
“I’m way better than you.”
“Are not.”
“Am too.”
“Are not.”
“Am too.”
“Are not.”
“Am too.”
“Girls, stop it right now,” chided Marie.
“Sophia started it.”
“Did not.”
“Did too.”
“Did not.”
“Did too.” Et cetera.
Hannah wondered what the point of this conversation was.
The cycle of night and day was another curiosity to Hannah. She recognized that at regular intervals the world outside their home changed back and forth between light and dark. When it was dark, objects were much more difficult to see. She noticed that when she closed her eyes, or even blinked, the same phenomenon occurred. Was everyone existing on a huge eye that was slowly blinking each day? Hannah also observed that by flipping little levers on the wall, Monica and Brian could instantly change a space inside their home from light to dark, and back again. The baby definitely preferred light over dark. But she loved that when it was dark her mother would often bring out the pink toy star that lit up while singing, “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.”
Another strange phenomenon to Hannah was her sense that an unseen force seemed to be pulling downward on her body. This made it difficult to hold her head or arms up for an extended period of time. She noticed this effect on many unattached things around her, including a plastic baby bottle falling out of Monica’s overstuffed bag and being pulled straight to the floor. Birds in flight were an exception, she observed, as they weren’t falling to the ground like other unattached things did. They moved in all directions, even up. But she noticed that whenever birds were still, they were always attached to something.
Over this period of time, Hannah had twice experienced the bodily reaction where her head bulged and vibrated, but both episodes ended after a minute or two, with her returning to normal. Both incidents had gone unnoticed by others.
At this point, the infant was now playing with the rudimentary nature of math. She understood that there could be one of something, or two of something, such as the twins living downstairs. People walked on two legs, whereas dogs walked on four. So she deduced that dogs had twice as many legs as people. She noted that the tall floor lamp in the living room had only one leg.
Hannah also marveled at the awareness of her own being. Just over a month old, while positioned near the TV, and with the morning sun shining brightly into the room, she had spotted the image of a small entity on the screen. It was clear that this was not part of the program being broadcast, and Hannah studied the reflection carefully. Who was this? She watched as Brian passed in front of her, and saw his mirror image pass along the screen, momentarily blocking the picture of the small being on the glass. The baby realized that if that image was Brian, then the other image must be herself! She tested this premise by raising her hand up, watching her reflection exactly duplicate the motion. Hannah gazed at herself with utter amazement. It was frustrating that she couldn’t explain why her image was on the TV, not as an integral part of the scene but rather as an overlay. The meaning of the word “I” was beginning to dawn on her.
Chapter Eleven
Brian Blake
Brian Blake was born in 1984 in Gloucester, a seaside city on Cape Ann in Massachusetts. He was the third child of Patricia and Francis Blake; all sons. The oldest boy was Thomas, followed by Peter, and then Brian. In his early years of school, his report cards were middling academically, and invariably the teacher’s notes would comment that he needed to learn how to control his temper and avoid mischief. The anger problem may have been a result of growing up in the shadow of his two older brothers, who didn’t spare him much agony. He was used to having his treasured possessions taken away on a regular basis—money, candy etc.—and there was no way to snitch on them without paying a harsh price. His father, a fourth-generation commercial fisherman, would often be away for weeks at a time. Because his mother worked many hours as a hairdresser, the house was one of youthful anarchy and vigilante
justice. They were boys. This had instilled in Brian a mental and physical toughness. At the same time, Brian learned the value and strength of familial loyalty. If anyone outside of the family ever gave Brian problems, whether in school or on the playground, they would need to deal with his older brothers.
A life-changing event occurred during the summer of 2001, when Brian was 17. His father had fulfilled a long-held dream by scraping together enough money to buy his own fishing boat, so that he could be his own boss. Frank and his boys had set out on the vessel the very first day of the official Atlantic Bluefin Tuna fishing season that year, headed for Stellwagen Bank, a rich fishing ground about a three-hour ride east out of their marina in Gloucester.
Mr. Blake’s purchase was a used, 55-foot Ocean Seaway, with a steel hull 17 feet at its maximum width, and a powerful 535-horsepower, diesel-fueled engine. It offered some charming features, including a galley down in the hull with a forward cabin that slept three, a shower and head, a dinette that could convert into two additional beds, as well as a lounge area that was snug but comfortable. There was a generously sized cockpit located at the stern, where the fishing would be done. A ladder off the cockpit led up to a bridge which sat two, overlooking the bow from a proud height. Frank had gone “all-in” on this boat. With its size and sleeping capacity he had planned to hire crews for week-long fishing expeditions to Georges Bank, or perhaps even longer trips to the Grand Banks off Newfoundland. These fishing grounds were huge shoals, shallow underwater plateaus, with an abundance of marine life. He was also excited about the possibility of being able to take his family out on the waters for overnight vacation cruises during breaks over the summer.
On this day with a cruising speed of 22 knots, or slightly over 25 miles per hour, Frank estimated that the maiden voyage of the My Three Sons would have them fishing for the massive torpedo-shaped tuna with hook and line by about nine o’clock that morning.
It was a rather cold day for May, with gray, low-hanging clouds, but the weather report had forecast clearing throughout the day. What no one had predicted was the fog that completely enveloped them about two-thirds of the way to their destination. Frank was comfortable steaming ahead with limited visibility because of the radar system he was operating, but, in fact, his was a false sense of security. Due to his inexperience with the newly updated guidance equipment, he had over-adjusted the performance controls for rain clutter suppression and interference reduction, and the system failed to warn him of the massive fishing trawler that was on a direct collision course with the My Three Sons. Tommy and Pete were in the forward cabin catching up on the sleep they had missed getting up early, while Brian sat beside his father up in the bridge, now and then getting a chance to take over the wheel.
Often tragedies are not due to a single cause, but rather a combination of factors overlapping to produce a horrific result. On the bridge of the trawler, an elderly captain with cataracts and skin weathered by decades spent battling the elements was busy downing his third shot of vodka of the day. Brian remembers being in the middle of a wonderful chat with his father about the upcoming summer—all the giant tunas they were going to land, the barbeques and bonfires, fireworks over the harbor—and then, the final words he would ever say to his father.
“Dad, do you hear a humming sound? Is that our engine?”
Fortunately just before impact, Brian’s brothers had emerged from the depths of the boat to prepare the chum. The collision catapulted them away from the craft, rather than being trapped in the belly of it. Because they were strong swimmers, the young men were able to avoid being sucked in by the trawler’s powerful turbine-driven propellers. Brian was never able to recall how he managed to end up hanging onto a chance piece of debris from their boat. But he did always remember watching the trawler towering over him, and swiftly disappearing into the mist as he screamed for his dad.
After his father’s funeral, Brian sank into a long depression. He swore he would never fish again, dropped out of high school, and began binge drinking with his friends. Still his work ethic remained strong, and he earned decent money through landscaping, and handyman-type jobs.
After moving out of his family’s house to get his own place, and feeling dispirited about his livelihood, Brian began to reconsider his vow never to fish again. He thought back fondly of his old summer jobs working on small boats, reeling in cod and haddock. Like his father, he had always adored the sea, and the thrill it gave him. Out in the deep ocean, Brian felt a connection with nature, its power, and raw beauty. Of course there was the importance of fishing for the food and income it produced, but there was so much more to it. He would look out and marvel that if he could go back a billion years in a time machine, the view of the ocean would be exactly the same.
Brian was also captivated by boats, this rather odd form of transportation that man had devised, and how it had altered human history. Growing up, his father had loved gathering his boys together to tell them tales of epic Viking sea voyages, the Mayflower and the Santa Maria, which had left port amidst warnings that they would sail over the edge of a flat-shaped world. There was the inspiring tale of Sir Ernest Shackleton who in 1914 on The Endurance had led a group of brave explorers on an expedition to Antarctica, only to face the ultimate human challenge when their ship had been caught and crushed in pack ice, stranding the group for almost two years at the bottom of the world in sub-zero temperatures. The story of survival was legendary.
It was one misty morning, much like the last one spent with his father, when Brian found himself sitting on the granite base surrounding the Fisherman’s Memorial Monument overlooking Gloucester Harbor. Trudging back to his apartment after an all-night party, he had stopped to rest and think. In the distance, through the early haze of dawn, he tracked a fishing vessel dutifully making headway toward the open ocean. A crimson hull was lined with a row of tire fenders dangling down. Near the bow sat a weathered white wheelhouse, and above the deck hung a seemingly chaotic collection of ropes, booms, and winches. Behind the gunwale, Brian could barely make out the tiny figures of deckhands scampering around in their bright yellow bibs. Must be preparing the chum and the lines, he thought. A bittersweet smile graced his listless face as he recalled his days as a fisher—the camaraderie, the sense of adventure, the hunt, even that familiar funk of fish and diesel fumes. The faint dinging of a bell buoy teetering atop the harbor’s gentle swells graced the moment.
Though Brian wasn’t thinking about it, a confluence of waves gamboled about him. The sea swells were waves of extraordinarily long length. Their energy and motion was causing four clapper arms inside the buoy’s cage to swing as pendulums and strike a bronze bell. This in turn generated sound waves that travelled into Brian’s ears, stirring something in the depths of his soul. As he watched the craft shrinking as it steamed away, trailed by a batch of gawking gulls, he knew there was no sense fighting it any longer. He wanted to be on that boat.
Commercial fishing became Brian’s primary profession during the seasonal months of the year. He supplemented that income with a steady stream of painting and minor construction jobs while he was not at sea, and by hitching a plow to his truck during the winter months and battling nor’easters on land for a change, freeing those trapped inside their houses by swells of snow.
Chapter Twelve
Paroxysm
“Brian! Come here! There’s something wrong with Hannah!” Monica was looking down at her baby who seemed oblivious to the world, her head quivering and pupils rolled upward. “Oh, my God! She’s having some type of seizure. Briaaaan!”
Brian had been busy on the phone in their bedroom trying to nail down some odd jobs before the fishing season began, but within seconds he was rushing into the living room. “What’s going on?”
“The baby!” screamed Monica in a panic.
Brian slid a supporting hand under Hannah’s head, then scooped her up from Monica and sat down on the edge of the sofa. He
lay her across his lap to examine her and pressed his thumb down against her chin to open her mouth, trying to see if there was any blockage.
“I’m calling 911!” shouted Monica.
“No way, we’re not waiting around for an ambulance. We’re taking her to the hospital now.”
But Monica was already dialing. “We need help! 421 Washington Street. Our baby’s having a seizure or something,” she cried, sounding out of breath.
Brian felt the rhythmic throbbing of Hannah’s head against his hand, which was cradling the back of her skull. But in the next instant, all of the symptoms disappeared. Her body relaxed, and her eyes shifted back to their normal position. She stared into Brian’s eyes and smiled, until realizing the distress on his face. Two little worry lines cropped up between her eyebrows.
“She’s fine, Monica! She’s fine...it’s over,” he said with relief.
The ambulance arrived with sirens wailing just minutes later. The EMTs checked Hannah’s vital signs, then rushed her into the ambulance along with Brian and Monica for the ride back to Gloucester Hospital where the child had been born just five weeks before.
At the emergency room, Hannah was given a cardiogram and X-ray of her skull, and the results were negative. However, a blood test did indicate evidence of a seizure, a slight rise in a chemical released by muscles in spasm. The parents were told the results were inconclusive as to what had triggered the paroxysm, and were advised to make an appointment with a specialist at Fahey Regional Hospital near Gloucester who could examine her more thoroughly.
During her several hours in the hospital, Hannah enjoyed herself tremendously. Most of her life up to this point had been spent in and around her house, but in this environment she was flooded with brand-new sensory input. New objects, new people, new words and sounds. It was all electrifying to her.
Monica and Brian were able to schedule an appointment with a neurologist for the following morning. The night before the visit was a sleepless one for Monica. As they prepared for bed, she wrapped a lampshade scarf around her bedside table light to dim it, and pulled the baby’s bassinet flush with her mattress so Hannah would be as close to her as possible. Throughout the night she watched intently for any recurring symptoms, despite Brian’s efforts to coax her to get some sleep. The only solace she felt was during feedings, and when the morning’s light finally started to filter through the curtains.