Hazard

by Margaret Combs

  “Alright, stand right here in the middle, bounce three times, and when I say three, pick up your feet and sit down. Ready? One, two, three!”

  He bounced and lifted his feet up in front of him, full of courage. For all he knew, he might die from this. My heart leapt as he plummeted to the bed, his feet flopping in the air, legs akimbo. His hips hit and he ricocheted sideways, heading for the springs. I lunged and grabbed him before he shot off altogether but not before he landed on his side, half on the bed, half on the springs.

  “Are you okay?” I asked, hysterically, lifting him, straightening his T-shirt and brushing invisible dirt off his pants. A deep scratch reddened on his arm, blood beading along the cutline. A furor rose in me.

  “Mom! He can’t do this; he’s going to end up in the hospital. I think he should get down now.”

  My mother, standing a few feet away on the grass, shielded her eyes from the sun. She didn’t answer me. Tiny creases appeared at the corners of her mouth, and a deeper fold in her brow, but her eyes held steady.

  “Go again,” Roddy said.

  I turned to him, astonished. “What? You want to try again?”

  “Yaas,” he said.

  We all stood there, silent. I chewed on my lip. Roddy had so few passions; how could I deny him this, something I so easily and randomly sampled for myself? In a deep place, I knew this wasn’t mine to keep from him. His autism had not caused him to ricochet. I had. I’d taught him as if he were me.

  “Okay,” I said, “but we have to do it another way.”

  I made him sit still on the bed, his legs out front, and pressed his ankles together with my hands, telling him to squeeze his muscles. I showed him exactly where his hands had to be when he dropped and where his arms needed to reach as he bounced back to his feet. Then, I let him up to try again.

  “No bouncing this time, just push off the bed once and pull your feet up,” I said. “Go ahead, when you’re ready.”

  In the next instant he dropped to his bottom, legs straight out in front, and bounced back to his feet. I caught him and cried, “There! You did it! You did it!”

  I had never taught a seat drop to anyone or any other trick for that matter. I had only been a learner up to that point, a hungry swallower of new things, rather than a giver or a guide.

  Mama clapped and laughed, and Roddy smiled his odd smile.

  “Again,” he said in his flat voice, looking off to the side, as always.

  Again and again he jumped. That entire summer we spent in the backyard together, taking turns, me doing flips and twists and Roddy doing ten seat drops in a row, without stopping. I was about to become a champion—eight years of winning lay before me—and I didn’t know I could or would want anything else from my life. I didn’t know that my brother was seeding in me something that would carry me through, after the winning was over: the sensitivity to be a good teacher, the ability to coax courage and triumph from a child.

  Even now I didn’t know this as I padded to where Rod sat on the pool’s edge and lowered myself beside him. I had no idea what I carried within me or what I had to offer. He shifted an inch away from me, then settled again. We sat together for a few minutes, not saying anything. Finally, I opened my mouth.

  “Could you do something for me?” I asked. “Will you rub lotion on my back?”

  I had never requested a favor from him, much less something this intimate. The act of smearing lotion on his skin, let alone on mine, was fraught with sensory land mines. This had been true for as long as I could remember, an enduring part of his old self. For a moment, he studied the bottle in my hand, and then he shifted his eyes to his glass of iced tea.

  “I can hold your tea, if you’d like,” I offered. “I won’t drink any, I promise.”

  He ignored me, choosing instead to set his glass carefully on the edge of the pool. And then, with the tips of his long fingers, he took the Coppertone from my hands.

  This alone was a marvel. My brother’s response to any request was like a tangled almanac, a set of warnings that might or might not advance to a full-blown tornado. Often, without warning, he bellowed, “No!”—especially when the request meant contact, eye or otherwise. Touch to him was like a thorn.

  I had no reason to believe he would behave calmly or do as I’d asked. But I was desperate for distraction and unmoored enough to throw caution aside. Holding my breath, I turned, offering him my shoulder blades.

  In the moment that my brother touched me, the broad stretch of flesh between my shoulder blades rippled awake, an ocean of nerves. His touch was like nothing I had felt before. In those first few seconds I thought it couldn’t be him. He pressed the pads of his fingers and palms flat to my skin, sweeping and circling around the peaks of my shoulder blades with an inexplicable rhythm. I had expected a tentative touch, a dabbing of sorts, but his strokes were smooth, as if coming from a learned someone who had been soothing skin for years—nuanced, subtle, graceful, tender, kind.

  I sat there, stilled, my eyes closed. The wings of my scapula unfolded with a sensation of cool, purling air.

  If he and I had grown up embracing, tangled in one puppy knot or another, I might have glazed over this moment, barely marking it in my mind, the familiarity of his touch little more than a rote sensation, like the brush of a terry cloth towel, or the bump of an elbow, rather than what it was: a shocking, breathless sensation.

  In those first few seconds I realized he had never touched me of his own volition. I had always been the one reaching for him, closing my fingers around his soft hand when stepping from the car, tapping his knee when I needed his attention, pressing on the back of his flapping hands so they quieted for a moment. All of these were planned touches, without surprise or spontaneity, triggered for safety and designed for protection.

  Unlike now. Three minutes passed. Under the temperature of his touch, I fell back to what might have been possible: to the brother he might have been if he’d been born free of autism. I imagined him pestering me to play tag, pulling me outside to escape our parents as we rolled our eyes, his teenage arm flung about my shoulders, goosing my side, or, as now, his young man’s hands smoothing lotion on my shoulders. Not a lover’s touch, or even a friend’s, but a brother’s—a touch that echoed the very beginnings of childhood, of sorting out bad dreams and monsters together, of weathering the storms of family.

  I wished for more—for his touch to last. I was losing everything, all that I had yearned for: a husband, a nest of my own, a sense of rhythm and purpose to my life, the joy of a young body’s strength and fluidity, and the satin assurance of blue ribbons around my neck; a life that added up to something—to triumph. Folding my arm across my chin, I reached around to the back of my shoulder and tapped the scapula with my forefinger, that oh-so-human gesture.

  “Can you put a dab more, right there?” I asked.

  “Yaas,” he said.

  I don’t remember how long he complied. Perhaps it was the nature of his fingerprints, the whorls and arches, the tiny ridges unique to him, a special signature, a kind of personal map that made me believe, made me realize his touch was showing me a part of him I’d despaired of ever knowing.

  I learned years later that touch is the most ancient sense, that feeling doesn’t take place in the topmost layer of skin, but in the second layer, the deeper one. This is where I felt my brother’s touch. His may not have been a caress to console me, but I felt it as one.

  How kind of him, I thought, as I sat there warmed by the sun and his hands, to set himself aside, to deny his aversion to touch for these few moments. For me.

  Chapter 24

  Sebastian

  On a muggy New England afternoon, I knelt in a small windowless gym, surrounded by a forest of equipment: low and high balance beams, two tethered sets of uneven bars, and, pushed up against one wall, a slow-bedded trampoline. A haze of chalk permeated my nose. Sweat filmed my hands and face, staining the thighs of my sweat pants.

  “Okay, up up up, on your fe
et,” I said. A gaggle of preschoolers, seven tiny people, unfolded their legs and jostled for a place in front of the line, closest to me.

  I was barely twenty-three, fresh out of college with an English and journalism degree and a national gymnastic championship, and, for the first time, I didn’t know how to live my life. Having aged out of competition with a creaky set of leftover joints, I longed to follow my other self—my passion for poetry, words, and stories. Still, this physical side had a grip on me, entwined like a vine throughout my veins. I didn’t know it had more to teach me and that, in time, it would shape me into a teacher and a mother.

  I couldn’t see this yet. In my mind I had failed at this sport, failed to reach the heights I had hoped for, and I had failed at my marriage. All I could see was that I was a beginner again, a beginner in my own life. For months I had been going through the motions, hour after hour, teaching preschoolers to lift tiny bottoms in the air, duck chins, and roll without snapping necks, to get up on a four-inch-wide piece of wood and walk across without crying and clutching my hand.

  “Don’t start yet!” Ellie, my former teammate, and now the gymnastics school director, called from across the gym. Coming toward me, she held a four-year-old boy by the hand. He was slight and gently brown-haired. He didn’t look at me. “This is Sebastian,” she announced, cheerily.

  I bugged my eyes at her. If there was one thing I had learned in these few months of teaching, it was that little ones have a tendency to zoom off in all directions. Eight was a large number to keep safe and under control. “Sorry,” she mouthed, sloe-eyed, exaggerating a frown, and then, leaning closer, added, “His mother begged me. She asked for you as his teacher. He has allergies and he’s shy.”

  In the five years we had known one another, Ellie and I had slid back and forth between friendship and vexation. She was theatrical, sensuous, overwrought—the opposite of me. I was observant, wrapped, reserved. Together, we had carried our collegiate team to a national championship—half the time with her in tears. Separately, we elbowed each other for first place in each event. We couldn’t have been more different on the gymnastic floor: me, a lover of kinesthesia and technique; her, of power, punch, and cheeky charm.

  Now, she trotted away in her monogrammed sweat jacket, knowing exactly who she was and how she was going to make a go of it, this life after competitive death.

  “Okay, up you go,” I said, grunting and lifting each miniature body onto the trampoline bed, and then hoisting myself up onto the frame. Patiently, I waited as they all settled in a row on the frame pad, like miniature Peeps. In spite of the hour and the sticky heat, I smiled. Little Max, as always, sat with his arms wrapped around his knees waiting for my next word. He was a dreamboat: blond curls and big eyes. Beside him was Zoey, beribboned and adorned in a purple leotard, already possessing flair and fearlessness; she didn’t know the talent she carried. Her limbs and torso were supple and strong, graceful and precise in an effortless way. Even at this early stage, before she could balance on one leg or hold a proper headstand, it was unmistakable: she would be a champion.

  And then there was Sebastian. He lolled to the side, his muscles and joints like jelly on a warm day, flopping and squirming.

  “Don’t be on me!” Zoey cried, full of despair, pushing him off.

  Suddenly, Sebastian bounded to his feet and leaped off the frame pad onto the trampoline bed, boing-ing helter-skelter, arms flailing like spaghetti. In an instant, his body ricocheted to the side, shooting straight for the springs. Lunging, I grabbed him, stumbling, but catching my footing just before we both flew over the side.

  Part of my job was discipline, planting the proper percentage of fear in a child’s heart. Squatting down on the bed, I held him firmly in front of me so we were face to face.

  “Look at me, Sebastian. You must sit and wait until I say you can take your turn. Understand?”

  His gaze darted away, even though his nose was a few inches from mine. He twisted his chin to the side.

  I hesitated, taking him in: the small slump of his shoulders, the anxiety in how he pulled on his lip. Slowly, a deep and old recognition came to me. His fragility, the dark circles under his eyes the color of smoke, his hollow gaze. I know this boy, I said to myself. A wave of protectiveness flushed through me, muddied with dismay. I have known him all of my life.

  The children sat still and silent. They had squeezed together so there was no room between them, no chance for this odd boy to wriggle his way in.

  “Sebastian,” I said, exhaling and relaxing my vocal cords, dropping my voice. “Come sit over here, by me. You can help me teach today.”

  Interest flickered and died on his face. Still, he came with me and, as soon as he was settled, he melted into me, a soft, exhausted puppy. I put my arm around him and called Zoey out onto the trampoline. Like the champion she was, she stood at attention, waiting for my cue.

  “All right, Zoey. Three bounces and a seat drop. Ready?”

  “One two three!” Sebastian shouted, sitting up for a brief moment, then collapsing against me again. The other children stared at him, wondering and unsure.

  Out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of a mother in the doorway, one hand gently holding her throat. As a rule, parents were discouraged from watching class, their presence proving too much for the children. It triggered show-off behavior and a lot of incessant waving in the middle of a trick. Apparently, the rule had been waived for this mother.

  She stood just shy of the door frame, young, dark-haired, carefully groomed. Her features were a tangle of uncertainty and misgiving. Her face, the way she held her throat, the longing and the worry in her eyes, told me that she was Sebastian’s mother. Around the edges of her mouth hovered a dread that this would turn out like all of the other times—all those activities when, in every instance, Sebastian had been asked to leave class before it was over and not return. Nudging Sebastian to his feet, I took his hand and stepped with him onto the middle of the trampoline bed. Then, I said what I said to every child.

  “You can do this. Listen carefully; I’ll help you.”

  He rubbed his eyes, wearily, as if he held all of the confusion of the world. Squatting down, I looked into his face, even though he wouldn’t look back. I knew he could hear me.

  “Stay with me, Sebastian. I know how it is.”

  Ever so slightly his chin tipped back toward me. His eyes still did not meet mine, but I could tell he was with me. Softening my grip, I let go and stepped back onto the frame.

  Sure enough, he waited for me, his arms by his sides, his little body gently bobbing on the bed.

  “Now, just push off, lift your feet up, and sit down. I’ll be here to catch you.”

  He stood there, glancing around the room as if he hadn’t heard me. Then he did exactly what I’d told him to do, full of courage, and when he rebounded back up to his feet, he reached for my hand.

  I didn’t know at the time that this moment was indelible. It would always stay with me, this touch of a small boy’s hand in mine, a boy like my brother. It awoke a protectiveness and tenderness in me that I hadn’t felt in a long while. I was about to embark on a different life, an independent quest to reach another dream, to be a writer. I had an English degree and not a clue as to where to go from here, but within a few rapid years I’d be in Boston, writing for a women’s sports magazine and interning in the newsroom of WBUR. I would go on to win broadcasting and journalism awards, and I would marry again. And also for many years I would coach an elite girls’ gymnastics team. All the while, this moment with a child would stay with me, reminding me of the tender spot I had for the heart of every child, a sensitivity I would take with me into motherhood.

  Chapter 25

  Apparition

  I always cherished visiting the farm—craved it, really. In 1986, we arrived halfway through August, later in the summer than usual. The northern Canadian air had already cooled and light drenched the wheat fields in a deeply golden hue, bending toward fall. Ah
ead of us lay weeks of respite. This trip to Prince Edward Island was the only time all year I felt my husband, Don, and I and our two-year-old son, Dylan, were a true family, away from Boston, away from my in-laws, away from the interdependent bond my husband had with his parents.

  Flinging off my seat belt, I freed Dylan and together we scampered together toward the back door. The house was a big Victorian, over a hundred years old, with carved cornices and a dried fountain in the front yard. Don’s parents had snapped up the property in the recession of the Seventies, and restored and furnished it to its 1880s glory. Now it was the family’s coveted summer compound, a rural hideaway cut off from the frenetic urban pace of our Boston life, where we could replenish ourselves in the farming life without having to do the work.

  “Wait a second, Turkey. Daddy needs our help,” I said, stopping Dylan from scurrying up the stairs. He was a sweet, sensitive boy, high in emotion and curiosity, and so intuitive and aware that at times he astonished me. Life was not going to be easy for him.

  We retreated only to find Don nowhere near the car. In the distance, across the vast front yard, I spotted his bulky frame hurrying for the shore. Not to take in the sunset or inhale the sea air, but to smoke a cigarette, a habit he assumed I hadn’t noticed. I let him believe it was undetectable—a mistake on my part. The more I colluded in his secrecy, the more I nurtured mistrust in both of us, though I didn’t know this at the time. He had tried to quit twice since we had married, each time turning hot-tempered and bullish. When his snoring worsened, rattling me awake from the depths of my exhausted mother-sleep, I knew he had started again. By day, he slipped away on sudden, urgent errands, refusing to take Dylan along so that he could smoke freely in the car.