by Halli Gomez
“This is B-B-Blane,” Jo said. “He is a therapy d-dog. He knows when my tics are about to get out of c-c-control and calms me d-down. That’s his j-job. It’s amazing how in tune he is with my emotions already, and we’ve only been t-together t-two weeks.”
The room was quiet as she talked. No one sighed or moaned. Everyone waited patiently like a woman taking fifteen minutes to tell a five-minute story was completely natural. Maybe that’s why Susan called this a safe group. We understood each other’s disabilities and didn’t judge. Except me. I’d called her son selfish. I bowed my head.
She finished at seven fifty-five. No one else volunteered to share or ask a question. Our lives were too complicated to sum up in five minutes. I sighed and said a silent thank you to Miss Therapy Dog for taking so much time. Not that I would have talked anyway.
Susan gave us a reminder for the next meeting, then everyone stood to leave. Because of my seat choice, I was the first one out. I stood against the wall and waited for the Isenhours.
I opened the folder and stared at the picture. Nope, hadn’t changed from an hour and a half ago when I left the house. Or five years ago when Mom sent it to me. Man, that was a disappointing mail day. I thought she’d sent a letter about how much she missed me or filled with questions about my life. Did I like my teacher? Were kids being nice to me? Did I have friends? No, no, and no. She probably knew the answers already, so why ask?
I still didn’t get why she’d thought I’d want a picture of a stranger, even one with Tourette. It was as useless as the face staring back at me in the mirror. It couldn’t answer questions, reassure me that life didn’t suck, or that my head wouldn’t be permanently bent to the left. I slammed the folder closed, hoping it would bang like a door. What a disappointment. I would have thrown it across the hallway, but it would have fluttered to the ground like a dying butterfly.
Finally they came out. I stepped away from the wall and shoved the folder in Mr. Isenhour’s hands.
“This is for David. You said he likes sports, so I thought he would like this.”
Mr. Isenhour dropped his wife’s hand, opened the folder, and smiled. “David mentions him a lot. He’s a great role model.”
There was that role model thing again. I opted for the polite response, which meant trying to change the subject. “I’m Troy.”
“I’m Frank.” He stuck his hand out to me, then tilted his head to the woman on his right. “This is my wife, Rita.”
Rita did the head turn. I did the neck twitch. Frank stood with his hand still out. I shook it.
“I’m Troy,” I said again.
“Nice to meet you,” Mr. Isenhour said. “Are your parents here?”
I shook my head. “They had to work.”
“Uh huh,” the wife said.
Were my lying skills fading? I did so well with Dad.
Mr. Isenhour held the folder to me. “Thank you very much for this, but we can’t accept it. It must mean a lot to you.”
I squeezed my hands tight. In frustration and as a way to not take the folder back.
“It doesn’t mean anything to me. I’ve had it a long time, and it’s been in a box.” I shifted my feet. Go ahead, say it. That’s why you’re here. Rah rah, cheer cheer. You can do it. “It brings back bad memories.”
Mrs. Isenhour nodded. Her eyes drooped. Maybe she had a bad role model growing up and wanted to be different for David.
“I’m sorry to hear that, but we really couldn’t,” she said. “Someone must have gone through a lot of trouble to get that for you.”
Yeah? Well, Mom should have saved herself the trouble and stayed. Now who would I give this to? I couldn’t leave it for Jude. The last thing he needed was a reminder of his dead brother. My neck twitched ten times. How would I cross it off the list? My neck twitched again. I counted over and over.
“David. He’s nine,” Mrs. Isenhour said. “We like to share what we learn, especially when it comes to the school system. A lot of people with disabilities have a hard time getting consideration. We also come to hear good news about other kids. It gives us hope for a happy future for him.”
Was that a hint or something? Did she think I had good news? I would have if they took the picture, and I could check something else off my list. But their idea of good news and a happy future was probably a lot different than mine. Anyway, she had Tourette and obviously made her decision a long time ago about risking her son’s future. What could I possibly say to make things better?
I glanced toward the bus stop. “I, um, I have to get the bus home. I don’t want to miss it.”
Mr. Isenhour handed the folder back to me “Can we drive you home?”
“I should take the bus. Nothing personal. My dad wouldn’t want me to take rides from people I don’t really know. He’s a cop. Kind of obsessed about it.” He also wouldn’t want me riding the bus downtown by myself at eight-thirty at night, but he never specifically told me not to.
“Of course. Your dad is right,” he said. “It was nice to meet you, Troy.”
“Thanks. Nice to meet you, too.”
I got to the bus stop just as it pulled up and found a seat by myself. My hand squeezed together. I wanted to scream at Tim Howard, who looked so damn athletic and well adjusted. My hands squeezed again, and I fought the urge to crumple the picture all the way home.
FEBRUARY 20
Dad and Terri came out of the bedroom all dressed up, suit and dress kind of dress-up. Tonight was their anniversary. They were going to dinner, then to do whatever grownups did when they had a free at-home babysitter. A movie? Dancing? For Terri’s sake, I hoped they stayed away from the dance floor.
“Jude had his bath, and he’ll be ready for bed soon,” Terri said.
Got it. I’ve done this before. Story, bed, and don’t forget his turtle. My hands ached to shove Dad and Terri out the door.
“Thanks, Troy. Try not to play video games all night,” Dad said.
No problem. I had other plans. I brought Jude to the family room and took out blocks and a train for him to play with while I updated my list.
Mom:
3. Photo albums
4. Dad’s room
The door into the garage closed, and the car engine started. I scanned the photo albums on the shelves. It was easy to pick out the ones of my family. My first family. Pre-Terri and Jude. There were four, all dark blue and the same size. Consistent. Organized. Based on Mom’s choices, Terri’s rainbow albums would have offended her sense of order. I know they offended mine.
Headlights beamed through the window. The motor from the garage door groaned and squeaked and finished with a thud. I pulled the photo albums off the shelf. Four chances to find a clue about Mom’s current location.
“Jude, do you want to see old pictures of Dad?”
I sat next to him, put the albums on the floor, and opened book one. There were trip pictures from New York City, the Grand Canyon, and Europe. Obviously pre-me. Mom and Dad stood next to each other holding hands and smiling. They appeared happy, but vacation pictures never showed the horrors of real life.
Jude patted the pictures. “Yes, that’s Dad. You can’t miss him with the same hairstyle and same clothes. Probably the exact same. And the lady next to him is my mom.”
“Do gee ya,” Jude commented.
“Yes, I do look like her.” She had wavy brown hair like mine and brown eyes that had no sparkle.
I opened book two. My debut.
“There’s me. Bald, big brown eyes, and no teeth.”
“Go ya ya ah.” Jude showed off his four teeth.
I flipped the pages. Pictures of Dad and me, me in my crib, and a few with Mom. She held me in her arms, snuggled with me on the couch, and in bed. Did her brain fight her like mine fought me? Was that why she looked sad in most of the pictures with me? Tourette: a genetic disease with a fifty percent chance of passing it on. Percentages were practically the first fact you read on every website. Knowing that, why even have a kid?
Jude rubbed his eyes and snuggled with his blanket. I sat him on my lap, and we flipped through the pages. Mom, Dad, and I posed with animals at the zoo, stood in front of the Empire State Building, and were soaked from head to toe in front of Niagara Falls.
But sometime after my fifth birthday, things changed. My face became distorted. My school pictures ranged from nonexistent to bizarre. I’d managed to be sick on a few picture days, but on those occasions when I was trapped in the photographer’s chair, I focused hard to stay still. That translated into wide eyes and lips pressed together. Those who didn’t know better would have thought I’d just been chased out of a funhouse by a clown with a knife dripping blood.
I slammed the book closed.
“Bedtime, Jude.”
I carried him to his room. “What should we read tonight? How about Oh, the Places You’ll Go! by Dr. Seuss.” For Jude’s future.
When he was tucked in the crib with his turtle, I went back to the family room and opened album three. I held my breath as I flipped each page. Would the clown jump out? Or worse, me?
I scanned the pages faster for signs of Mom’s previous life. Letters, souvenirs, reunion pictures with childhood friends. Nothing. Not even a glimpse of my grandparents.
My grandfather died before I was born, and Mom did tell me something about my grandmother. What was it? That they didn’t speak? I wasn’t even sure my grandmother knew I existed. There was an emptiness like part of me was missing.
I grabbed my hair and pulled like it would yank out a deeply buried memory of my grandmother and bring it to the surface. An image, a city, even the mention of death. Nothing. Just like the photo albums of the family after my ninth birthday.
. . . . . . . . . .
Eight thirty. Dad and Terri were probably still on appetizers, which left me hours to search their room. There had to be something there about Mom in case of emergencies. What if I died, wouldn’t he want her to know? Would she want to know? I sighed.
I stood in the master bedroom doorway and glanced around. Except for the pile of clothes draped over the chair in the corner, the dresser and night tables were clean. Now where to start? The laptop. Would they leave it out if it had a clue to Mom? Was this a reverse psychology thing? I couldn’t distract myself by trying to psychoanalyze adults.
I moved to the dresser, turned on the laptop, and logged in with Dad’s password. It was only supposed to be used in emergencies, like if my computer broke. I assumed he meant for homework, but he never actually defined emergency, and to me, this was life or death.
The background picture loaded. It was of me pushing Jude on the swing. I didn’t know Dad took it, but it made me smile. Focus! Did I take my medication this morning? My neck twitched.
I read the folder names and started with the obvious one: Troy. Please no more insane-looking pictures. I crossed my fingers, wished for something good, and double-clicked.
Documents. Generic school information, a PDF of a Tourette syndrome brochure, and a letter to Principal Brooks explaining what TS was. Dad clearly plagiarized from the national website but added a note of his own requesting special consideration if I was late to class, needed to be excused, or pissed people off.
I closed the folder and went through the other ones just in case he tried to be tricky and hide something there. But this was Dad. He was clear-cut, a right and wrong kind of guy. All I found was a copy of Jude’s birth certificate and birth announcement. Boring kid. But I wanted to be like him.
I shut the computer off, put it back on the dresser in the exact spot, and went to his night table. I took everything out, cards from Terri, iPhone batteries, and condoms. Ugh! I wiped my hands on my jeans. Besides visuals I could never erase from my mind, there was nothing. I shoved everything back in and went to the closet.
Both sides had blue uniforms, but the left side had dresses and pastel-colored shirts. The right side, much smaller, had suits and dress shirts. I started with the built-in shelves straight ahead. They were filled with winter clothes, and I ran my hand under each sweater and hat. Then patted down the hanging dress shirts, suits, and uniforms. Nothing.
The shelf that ran above the hanging clothes had shoeboxes. I counted twelve. Not divisible by ten. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty. Did Dad keep cards in a shoebox like I did? My heart raced.
I ran to my room, grabbed my desk chair, and brought it to the closet to stand on. The boxes on Terri’s side were filled with high heels and sandals, just as the descriptions said. On Dad’s side, I opened box after box. Dress shoes. Hiking boots. The next box was lighter. Nikes, size 9.5, blue and black. Cards were light. Papers almost weightless. I pulled it down and lifted the top. Empty.
I searched the floor for the shoes. They were there, one turned on its side underneath a flip-flop. I squeezed my hands together and fought the urge to straighten them. I counted to ten. Squeezed. Counted. Repeat. I hopped down, lined up the sneakers and flip-flops, then climbed back up. The only thing left was the gun box.
I stroked the metal. My finger traced the lock. I reached across the closet, grabbed the key from the opposite shelf, and rubbed it between my fingertips. Smooth. Cool. I stuck it in the lock. Turned it. The lock popped open.
The semiautomatic pistol rested in gray cloth. A box of ammo next to it. I took a deep breath, wrapped my hand around the black grip, and lifted it out. It fit like the pill bottles, but solid. Firm. Absolute.
It would be so easy to do right now. I raised the gun to my head and closed my eyes.
“Aaaayyyyy!”
Jude? I spun around and wobbled on the chair. I gasped and yanked the gun away from my head. Jude couldn’t be here when I did it. What if he saw me? After. His dead brother bleeding on the ground, head missing, brain splattered on the wall. I shivered, closed the gun box, and put the key back.
“Ayyyaaaa!”
“I’m coming,” I yelled.
I jumped down, carried the chair back to my room, then ran to Jude.
“Did you have a bad dream? It’s okay, I’m here. I’m not leaving yet.”
I lifted him out of the crib, gave him a hug, and brought him to the rocking chair. We sat and rocked. I rubbed his back until he stopped crying and fell asleep.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “Sorry I have to leave you.”
I wiped the tears from my face and closed my eyes.
FEBRUARY 23
Khory leaned against the locker next to mine. The girl who used it was going to be pissed when she smelled coconut instead of cigarettes and coffee. Khory smiled. My body felt weak. She had to stop being so damned breathtaking with that long smooth hair, or I’d collapse right there.
“I looked for you during lunch,” she said. “You were all the way in the back.”
“Yeah, I’ve been neglecting Riley and Nicholas. We had crucial video-game info to discuss.” Woo-hoo! That was me being all witty and clever.
She giggled.
“We haven’t talked lately. I thought you might be avoiding me,” she said.
I tilted my head. “Why?”
“All those questions last week. Maybe they were too personal.” Her cheeks turned pink like a smiley emoji.
My chest tightened when I thought about how easily she said Tourette. I couldn’t talk about it now. Not here, not yet. Actually, I’d prefer to just stand here and stare at the way her hair fell over the right side of her face. And how her eyes accepted whatever they saw in me.
“No, it’s fine. This just isn’t a good place to talk about it. And lunch, I didn’t know I was invited.”
“You’re always invited,” she said.
I wanted to ask if the invitation was as a math
tutor, but I was happy in my little fantasy that she invited me as a friend. I closed my locker, leaned next to her, and watched people pass by. And Jay strolled up.
“Am I interrupting something?” he asked.
I sighed. “No.” Unfortunately.
“You going to Math?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Okay. See ya there.” He knew better than to wait for me.
“I’ve got to go, too. See you in a little while,” Khory said.
She pushed herself off the locker and walked down the hall. I stared at her until the bell rang, then started the ten-count-bend-down to math.
As much as Mrs. Frances was cool with my issues, except letting me organize her desk, Mr. Nagel was annoyed by them. I tried not to take it personally when his glare followed me from the door past two rows of desks to the second seat from the back, or eight steps from the door. He scowled as I fell into my seat, counted to ten, and scrunched up my face to match his.
On the positive side, he craved order, so there was no urge to straighten or fix anything. If he just accepted my OCD, I would have been his favorite student.
I pulled out my notebook and pencil while Mr. Nagel started the new lesson on solving basic sinusoidal equations. Ugh! At least it didn’t stress me out like Jay, whose legs had been stretched out when I first got to class but now were tucked under his desk. He leaned forward and gripped his notebook.
Since Mr. Nagel “strictly forbade the use of cellphones in this class, with the only exception of there being an active shooter on the premises,” I opened to a blank page in my notebook. I didn’t have time to waste on math. There were only forty-three days left.
1. Meet someone with Tourette syndrome—COMPLETED
2. Get my first kiss—IN PROGRESS
3. Be pain-free
That would take more research and maybe a relocation to farther down the list. My current meds clearly weren’t enough, but there was Rainn’s mom’s offer to do something. Color my aura? Then there were the people at the TS meeting. Had they ever wondered what being pain-free would be like? But more importantly, had they found an answer? Maybe they discovered a new medication or some ancient inner peace thing. Breathe in, breathe out. Count to ten. Rainn said use my diaphragm. I couldn’t remember where my diaphragm was. I tried it again. Still nothing. I kept writing.