by KL Donn
“It was okay,” he says, shrugging his shoulders.
I make sure he straps his seatbelt correctly, watching as he goes through every safety check in his revered routine, then hand him his water before shutting the door.
I get behind the wheel and adjust my rearview mirror to see him. I wait until his eyes meet mine before asking, “What would you like to do this afternoon? It’s really hot. We could go swimming at Ian’s?”
Panic fills his eyes, and the color drains from his face. Stupid, Neenah. That was a bad suggestion. He kicks the back of my seat hard. The beginning of an anxiety-filled, temper tantrum causes him to push his foot into the lumbar of my back.
“I’m sorry, Dane. Forget that idea. Let’s just go home and relax? Maybe play some board games? What do you think?”
He starts screaming out loud. Non-coherent words spill from his mouth in a wild volley of frustration. His fists pound on the window while both feet pummel the back of my seat.
“Dane, please calm down. Please, stop. Please?” I unfasten my seat belt and jump out of the car.
A few other parents leaving camp look in our direction. A mother starts to walk toward me but slows her pace, not sure if she should assist or not. She’s probably afraid I’m going to beat him.
I open the back door, and his crying screams explode into the parking lot. He’s still strapped in by his seatbelt, so I reach in to hug him. He throws a few wild punches at the back of my head and shoulders for me to release him, but Maggie taught me to hold him tighter in his violence. My weight should calm him down.
Cars slowly creep by us, looking at my stance, hanging awkwardly half-inside half-outside the back door of the car. His screams are mostly blocked by my face and hair. I’m sweaty and already exhausted from holding him so tightly, but he isn’t relaxing into me either. As I ease my hold on him, he gets a second wind and screams directly into my ear, but not before he clenches onto my hair and yanks with all of his might. He jerks his knees up and jabs them into my ribs hard, knocking the breath out of me. As I push away from him, his elbow smashes into my windpipe. I release him completely and fall out of the door, onto the ground, struggling to catch my breath. A chunk of my hair pulls out by the roots and remains gripped inside his little fingers. If only I could scream.
Dane wails into the midday air, getting louder since my body weight isn’t pressing into him any longer. My breathless body flops on the ground like a fish out of water. Tires screech and squeal as they come to a quick stop. A car door slams behind me, and I get up onto my knees, still straining for air to breathe. My lungs finally inflate, and I gasp deeply almost knocking myself back to the ground. Oxygen. I sway with dizziness but manage to lean against the back tire.
“Neenah. Dane. Are you all right? What’s wrong?” Ian begs, coming to me first. The panic in his voice warms my soul.
“Dane,” my raw voice squelches.
Ian leans into the car to check on him, but Dane kicks violently at his arms and legs. Ian is too fast for him and grabs both of his feet, holding them forcefully together with his hands.
“It’s okay, Dane. Everything is going to be fine. Just fine. Shhhhhhhh,” he repeats over and over while tapping on this chest like he’s calming a newborn baby. Dane mewls like a kitten, exhaustion clearly taking over.
The sound of several car doors slamming invades my mind.
“You need help?” one person asks while another follows with, “Is the car broke down or is something else wrong?”
Ian and I turn around to see his teammates stopping to assist.
Right now, I want to melt into the asphalt of the parking lot and just lie here like a bump in the pavement. Without anyone noticing me. Without anyone judging me. My face flames with embarrassment. I can handle public humiliation with Dane by myself. God knows I’ve been here more times than I can count. But to have a connection to these people during a bad moment…for them to know me by knowing Ian, I can’t even stand the thought of it. He releases Dane’s legs before turning around to greet his friends.
“We’re fine. Just an overly tired kid after a great day at soccer camp. Thanks for stopping and checking on us,” he says with a huge grin on this face. He waves some of them away, while he fist bumps and high-fives the ones closest to us.
“All right, man. See you at practice tomorrow,” a tall player with long, curly hair says in a Spanish accent. “Ma’am.” He nods his head at me before getting back into his car and leaving.
Ian slides his fingers under my chin and raises my face to his. “Are you okay?” He plays with a few wild strands of hair and tucks them back behind my ears, making me wince. He steps around me and surveys my head, releasing a slight gasp.
“Is it bad?” My fingers immediately reach for the throbbing pain, and I feel my newly acquired bald spot. A hissing breath escapes my lips.
“Don’t touch it while it’s swollen,” he commands, reaching for my fingers and pushing them away from my head.
“It’s swollen? Oh, jeez. It’s bad, isn’t it?” I turn several times, trying to see my reflection in the windows, but the sun is too bright.
“Stop. It’s not as bad as how you probably imagine it. And besides, you’re still beautiful. I kind of dig bald chicks. They’re badass.”
I slap at his arm teasingly, and we both laugh until I start crying. I peek over Ian’s shoulder and see that Dane is asleep.
Ian shuts the door to let him rest.
“C’mon. Let’s go home and take a nap. We’ve all had a trying day, and the sun’s not even high in the sky yet.
“Nap?” I quirk an eyebrow at him.
“Yeah, someone is going to have to carry him upstairs with your head throbbing. I promise to be a good boy. We’ll nap. No shenanigans.”
“No shenanigans? I took you for an Irishman. They don’t know how to go without shenanigans.”
“Legend is Scottish. We’re descendants of kings actually. So, my word is my honor, lassie.” He nods, squinting into the sun while looking at me. A slow smile spreads across his face. Those eyes are my weakness.
“This should be interesting.” I push off the side of the Jeep and slide into the driver’s seat.
“See you in a few, and don’t stop for the media and protesters. Chances are they won’t bother you now since I’m not in the car.” He opens his car door but stops before getting in. “I’m right behind you.” The smile on his face eases my anxiety.
I take a look at his car and notice the windows are blacked out. Smart man.
I pass through the front entrance easily enough then make a quick left turn onto the main road. No one cares that’s it’s just me and my child, but Ian is pelted with microphones and camera flashes as he waits for traffic to clear. I adjust my rearview mirror to see him fully as I wait at the light. He creeps forward, inching slowly to the road. A few reporters back away, giving him a moment’s chance to dart out in front of an oncoming delivery truck. Within seconds, he’s back behind us, and we meander our way home.
Ian pulls into the driveway after us. Before I can turn off the car and open my door, he’s unbuckling Dane’s belt and lifting him. Dane’s long legs dangle loosely as Ian hoists him up and into his arms. My keys hang from the door lock as I push the back door open wide for him to enter. The smell of breakfast still lingers in the air.
I clear the sink and set the dishwasher to sanitize while Ian tucks Dane into his bed. The stairs moan as they carry his body weight down each step.
“Would you like some lunch before we nap?” I ask when he enters the kitchen.
“Yes, please. Something light, preferably,” he suggests.
I scrounge around in the fridge pulling out some Caesar salad and leftover rotisserie chicken. “Chicken Caesar Salad?”
“That would be great. Thank you,” he says, taking a seat on the same saddle bench he sat on this morning.
I pull a frying pan out and dribble some olive oil in to heat up the chicken. Once that’s sizzling slowly, I arrange
the salad on some plates and grab the dressing from the refrigerator door.
“So, how often does Dane have these meltdowns?”
“They’re a common occurrence with Asperger’s and being on the spectrum. Each child is different with their quirks. You have to know your child, pay attention to the signs and symptoms, and know how to relieve them when they occur. So, I can’t say how often. It depends on what’s going on in our lives. You were great with him today, by the way. Thank you for that. How did you know what to do?”
He didn’t answer for a few minutes. I look up at him while stirring the chicken and see the distress of a faded memory on this face.
“I grew up in a violent home. I told you before about my dad. When Dad had fire and brimstone madness running through him, he was excessively loud, smashing everything in the house that he could. Todd would get upset, and the only thing that would calm him down while we hid from Dad’s wrath, was to pat his chest and shush him. Dane was mewling like Todd used to, so I tried the only thing I knew. I’m just glad it worked.”
“Well, I’m grateful to you for stopping. He’d kicked me in the ribs then elbowed me in the throat, knocking the breath out of me right when you arrived.” I finish plating the chicken over the salad then carry both plates and silverware over to the benches.
“Here. Let me take a look.” He reaches for my shirt, but I stand quickly move to get some water to drink for us.
“I’m all right. I promise.” My hands shake as I set the glasses down on the island.
He picks up his fork and begins to eat. A cold chill washes over me as we eat our lunch in silence. Guilt.
“I’m sorry,” I say, reaching over and touching his arm resting between us. The warmth of his skin calms my own anxiety. “I’m fine. Really I am. It’s…well, I’m…I’m not used to having anyone care for me after one of Dane’s episodes.”
He sets his fork down and pushes his plate away.
I swallow my last bite and place my plate on top of his.
“Well, you’ve got me now. C’mon. Let’s go rest for a bit,” he says, taking my hand and walking me into the den. He pushes the oversized footstool against the sectional and grabs a throw from the basket next to the fireplace. We both take a seat, propping our legs up and snuggling deep into the cushions at our backs. He lifts his arm and tucks me into his side. I swear I fit perfectly—like an old rusty key into a well-oiled lock.
I take a deep breath and release all of the tension I’ve been holding inside ever since breakfast. He runs his fingers over my hand. Oddly enough, it’s the most intimate way anyone has ever touched me.
“Ian?” I swallow hard, feeling the tension I just released slowly creep back into my stomach.
“Neenah, relax. Whatever you’re worried about, let it go. It’s worse in your mind only. I swear,” he assures me, caressing the top of my hand, then flipping it over and running his fingers in a long figure eight along my wrist and palm. He entwines his fingers with mine, and for the first time in my life, I feel protected.
He’s my dreamcatcher. He makes me feel like nothing can harm me with him by my side. Like I can finally step out of this nightmare I call life and have a life worth living; one that makes me happy and fulfilled.
“Can we talk now? I’m not really tired, and God only knows how the rest of this day is going to unfold. I’d rather spill my guts now and get it over with.” My voice shakes with my admission.
“Yes, if you really want to,” he says, spreading the throw over us.
“I want to get it over with, so you can hurry up and decide to run or stay.”
“Nothing you say will make me walk away. You’re going to have to ask me to leave if you want me to go. This will be an honest telling. Give me all of the ugly, because I have a feeling it’s pretty horrible,” he admits, tucking the blanket tightly around us.
“All right. Should I start at the beginning and work forward or the end and walk backwards?”
“It’s your story, and I’m not going anywhere. Jump around if you have to, but don’t leave anything out just because you think I won’t like what you’re going to say. Remember, this is an honest truth-telling.”
I sit quietly for a few moments, gathering my thoughts. I’m not sure where I should start because nothing is good about any of it, except the day Dane was born. That’s my only joy. He’s my joy. Well, him and my book covers—if that doesn’t sound too crazy. They’re my pride.
With knots in my belly and throat, I start with a shaky voice.
19
Ian
I squeeze her hand to boost her confidence. I know this isn’t easy. Her face is flush with anxiety, but her aquamarine eyes are clear. I hope she understands that nothing she says could make me ashamed of her.
“My dad beats my mother or rather he used to. Now he just yells when he has the energy. He has pancreatic cancer that’s spread to his lungs and throat. It’s the culmination of his vices—too much drinking and smoking. My mother says it’s his penance for all the wrong he’s done us in his life. She prays every day he suffers and dies a long, grueling death. He used to beat me too when he needed an outlet and my mother wasn’t around or she was already too broken or bruised to withstand his torture.” She bows her head in shame for a moment but squares her shoulders and looks at me again.
“I take it they’re still married?” I ask without judgment.
“Yes. Thirty-one years next month. My father was a captain in the Marines, stationed in Panama during the invasion against Manuel Noriega. When the troops invaded, my mother was given to a local brothel to entertain the troops in hopes of keeping them happy so they wouldn’t ravage their country. My mother was eighteen at the time and a rare beauty.”
“You’re a rare beauty. You must take after her?”
She plays with a loose string on the throw before answering me, wrapping it around her finger tightly then releasing it. “No, actually, I’m the spitting image of my father, with the exception of having my mother’s eyes,” she admits reluctantly. She untucks herself from the blanket and turns to face me, sitting cross-legged on the large sofa. “My mother was a virgin, having just been brought to the brothel. She was offered to several Marines who came in that night. When they found out she was a virgin, my father, being the only officer in the facility, claimed her as his own. For two weeks, until she could no longer walk or provide services for the brothel, he beat and ‘roughly fucked the feistiness out of her’ to use his terminology.”
“How did you learn this story about them?”
“My father loved to tell this tale to anyone who’d listen. He’s a sick beast of a man,” she hisses.
“Jesus, I can’t imagine.” I pull her face to mine, and we sit with our foreheads touching. “I’m so sorry he treated you both with disrespect. At least you got away from him.” I grab both of her hands and hold them in mine.
She nods in agreement. Within a few seconds, her tears drop and splatter on our entwined hands resting between us. I separate from her and lift her face, gently cradling her head in my hands and wiping her tears.
“If hell was a neighborhood, I only exchanged one address for another one down the street. Justin Wells turned out to be worse than my father.” Her words are bitter and seethe from her lips. “My dad was full of anger and ranted his emotions, both mentally and physically toward us. Justin was the exact opposite–quiet, studious, highly intelligent, and could talk for hours on end about sports. He knew every detail of every game it seemed and could spout player statistics until he turned blue in the face.” A distorted smile spreads across her face but disappears quickly when she looks into my eyes.
“But when you crossed him, there wasn’t any place to hide. He’d drag me across the floor by my hair. Over whatever was in the way, never caring if nails and splinters from the old wooden floor shredded my skin. And then when he physically tired of the beating, his ‘apology’ came in the form of rough sex. He didn’t care if it hurt. And he didn’t care where
we were. I learned to just stand and take it.”
Jesus Christ. I kiss her trembling hands and pull her into me, holding her tightly for the longest time.
“How did he deal with Dane?”
She leans back, breaking our connection and laughs incredulously. “Deal? He didn’t deal well at first, and then not at all later on. He once tried to get two-year-old Dane to sit still and watch a full-length soccer match. I don’t know if you know much about child development, especially a child on the spectrum, but they don’t sit still for very long. He used to beat him…with the remote and anything else he could find within reach. When Dane didn’t relent like I’d learned to, well…suffice to say, Justin was emotionally clueless, and it got worse for Dane.” She clambered off the sofa and stood up then, highly agitated. She paced the edges of the large rug that covered the massive room.
Sweat beads on her forehead as she moves. I get up and go to the kitchen, not sure if I should get her a bottle of water or pour her a stiff drink. I decide on the stiff drink and am prepared to stay here all day if she gets drunk. God knows she probably needs to.
I return to her with a watered-down version of her usual cranberry cooler concoction. We’ll start out slow to ease her stress. She smiles when I hand her the glass, and my heart suddenly starts beating wildly. I crave her smiles. Fuck, I crave everything about her. “See, I’m still here,” I tease her.
“We haven’t gotten to the bad part yet,” she volleys back at me.
Fuck. How bad can this get because it’s already been pretty damn brutal?
She sets her drink down on the mantle of the fireplace and walks over to the pictures on the bookcase. I’ve never noticed them before, but I’ve only been in this room twice since she moved in. She gently cradles a silver frame in her hand, tracing the outer edge of the filigree design. I walk up behind her and see it’s a picture of a baby.
“Dane?” I ask solemnly. She nods, handing it to me. We both look at it together for a long while. “He’s got your cheekbones and deep-set eyes.”