Life Happens Next

by Terry Trueman

  The cop blushes. “Well, he’s only eighteen months.”

  The police officer looks toward me and says, “Hi there.”

  When I don’t say anything back, Mom says, “Shawn’s profoundly disabled. He’s not being rude—he can’t understand or speak.”

  The cop nods and looks at the floor. He takes a quick breath. “You’ve got quite a handful here, ma’am.”

  Mom forces a smile.

  The policeman says, “If you ever have any problem at all, please don’t hesitate to call us, okay?”

  “I won’t, officer.”

  They are walking toward the front door when Mom adds, “If you need to check in later, feel free.”

  The cop says, “That won’t be necessary, ma’am. I appreciate your cooperation and I’m sorry to have interrupted your day. Thank you.”

  Mom says, “Thank you.”

  The cop doesn’t say anything more until they get to the door. “You take care.”

  “We will,” Mom says. A couple moments later, his car door slams and his engine starts.

  Mom watches as the police officer drives away. She turns to Rusty and says, “Shall we dig up Debi’s body from the garden now?” She laughs. “I know, not very funny, but can you imagine that little pill calling 911 because I scolded her?”

  Rusty stares at Mom intently. “And a better question,” Mom says, shaking her head, “is why am I talking to a dog?”

  Rusty glances at me, and I wonder if he’s thinking, “You talk to Shawn all the time too, and he never answers!”

  20

  When Debi gets home, Mom welcomes her like she does every day.

  “Hi, Debi,” Mom says.

  “Hi,” Debi says, as happy and cheerful as can be.

  Mom lets her set down her lunch box, her purse, and her backpack.

  Debi comes into the kitchen.

  Mom says, “Debi, you called 911 this morning, didn’t you?”

  Debi doesn’t say anything, just stops dead in her tracks and stares at the floor.

  “Debi,” Mom says again.

  Still silence.

  Mom, “You need to answer my question, Debi. I’m not mad at you, but we need to talk about this. You called 911 this morning, didn’t you?”

  Debi stares at the floor for what seems like about a hundred years. Finally she speaks so low I can barely hear her. “Yeth, Linny.”

  Mom asks, “Were you afraid you were in trouble for cutting up my family albums?”

  Debi says, “I sorry.”

  Mom says, “It’s all right—we love you, but you can’t call 911 unless there is a real emergency, do you understand?”

  “I sorry,” Debi says.

  “Were you afraid, Debi?”

  “Mad.... I sorry.”

  “You were angry?”

  “I like McDonnos.”

  Mom smiles. “I know you do, Debi, and we’ll go there for lunch on Saturday if you promise no more 911 calls unless the house is on fire, okay?”

  “Yeth,” Debi says.

  Now Mom says, “You can’t call 911 every time you get angry.”

  Debi nods and says, “I sorry.”

  Mom gives her a hug, and as they are hugging, Debi asks, “Can I say some’tin?”

  “Of course, sweetie,” Mom says.

  I think to myself, this is Debi’s eureka moment. She’s going to own up right now, take responsibility, and apologize beyond her rote “I sorry” line. She’ll show that she understands what happened and why Mom was so upset. She’ll apologize!

  Debi hesitates, but finally she speaks. “What’s for dinner?” she asks, as if the whole previous conversation never even occurred.

  Without missing a beat, Mom answers, “How about some homemade split-pea soup?”

  “Dat sounds good,” Debi answers.

  But this is what she says every afternoon when she gets home. It’s part of her ritual. Every day she asks “What’s for dinner?” and I’m convinced Mom could say, “Spoiled, sour-owl poop and a bed of rotting maggot-covered e-coli spinach,” and Debi would respond with “Dat sounds good.”

  But who am I to poke fun at Debi? She can’t rise above her limitations. And how is that any different from anybody else? Everyone has limits and blind spots. Being human means having a mix of both strengths and weaknesses. I think the majority of people who see Debi and me focus on our weaknesses and are oblivious to our strengths. I know I’ve been ragging on Debi, but she always tells the truth, or at least tries to, and she’s got a great sense of humor. Plus she never acts out of cruelty.

  I, of all people, know what it feels like to be misunderstood. And I’ve got that whole weaknesses thing totally covered. But whether people see it or not, there are a few strengths lurking inside each of us too.

  21

  I’m in a wooded area, not really a big forest, just a small grove of evergreen trees, and the light dims, as if a dark cloud is passing before the sun.

  I stretch out, my fists clench, my muscles tighten in my arms, my leg muscles flex too. Man, this feels incredibly great.

  Looking into the trees, I catch just a glimpse—the tiniest, quick image—of a shadowy figure darting behind the thick wide trunk of an ancient pine. It’s the same figure I saw when I was traveling in my earlier seizure, in that library by the raging river, when I woke up with Rusty in my lap.

  This time I don’t feel as scared as I did the last time, but I am curious. Why do I keep on dreaming about this dark figure? Who could it be, coming to watch me? Coming to spy on me and invade my dreams? Could it be someone I know? I’ve never had any dreams or seizure travels like this before, where something so confusing keeps happening. What the hell is going on?

  I call, “Hi.”

  I can’t see the figure now. Why is it hiding from me?

  I move toward the trees, and the closer I get, the more excited I feel.

  Light streams down now, casting shadows through the branches. I look up and see the sun, bright, directly overhead, making splashes of light along the forest floor.

  I reach the big tree and look behind it, anxious to see the figure. But no one is there, and again the sky darkens. Suddenly, I see the dark figure, far ahead, hurrying away, and this time it just evaporates, like molecules melting into thin air. A spirit? A ghost? Made of mist?

  I awaken from this dream with sweat on my forehead and on the palms of my hands.

  My dreams and spirit travels have always been the best part of my life. But now that I’m awake, I feel anxious. From the age of six I’ve always escaped my body, the trap that is my normal, waking life, through dreams and seizures. It’s the only time I’m ever in control. Now, this strange, uninvited figure has ruined my great escape. I tell myself “don’t be afraid,” but even as I’m thinking this, goose bumps cover my body again, and a shiver runs through me. I hate my fear!

  22

  “Hi, S–S–S–Swan,” Debi says, walking into the family room.

  Of course I can’t answer or acknowledge her.

  She’s quiet for a few moments, standing next to me.

  My head shifts a little and I can see her staring through the window. Her light brown hair comes down almost to her shoulders. She’s wearing a red T-shirt with something about a children’s book festival on it, baggy gray pants, and black shoes with Velcro straps. She stands slightly stooped over, her mouth open a tiny bit. I can hear her breathing.

  Several minutes pass. “Purtty,” she says, still staring at the view.

  I think back to her the words “Sorry, Debi, I don’t do chitchat.”

  But she continues to just stand here, until finally she says, “I like McDonnos.”

  Great, I think, she’s starting up her McDonald’s mantra again. Does she think any of us are gonna forget that invaluable factoid about her? As I’m thinking this and trying not to feel annoyed, she speaks again, so softly that I can barely hear her, “I miss Mom and Dad.” Her expression doesn’t change. She just keeps staring out at the cold water, th
e cold world beyond our window.

  A big lump forms in my throat. My skin tingles. I feel so sorry for her, and I realize McDonnos is not just a place for Debi. It’s a fantasy where she can escape, at least for a few moments, her loneliness and loss. Of all the times I’ve wished I could speak, of all the words I’ve longed to say, I can’t think of too many times when I wished it more than I wish it right now. But of course I can’t speak. All I can do is think the words “I’m sure you miss them, Debi. I know what it’s like to want to be with people who love you and not be able to be with them. I’m so sorry your parents had to leave you.”

  And now something really strange happens. Debi reaches down and takes my hand. Her hand is plump, dry, and chapped. Other than the baths Mom gives me, or an occasional pat from Paul or Cindy, hardly anyone ever touches me. I can’t do high fives or shake hands or give hugs, and people usually don’t give them to me. They don’t ever realize that I might like to be touched.

  Debi’s hand feels warm.

  I’m guessing that everyone needs to touch and be touched by others every once in a while.

  23

  Saturday morning. Paul, Ally, Cindy, and Tim are taking Rusty for a walk over in Discovery Park, just a couple miles from our house. Needless to say, I am not invited.

  But that’s okay, because Mom is driving Debi and me to McDonald’s—it’s Debi’s reward day. Mom’s always been as good as her word, and when she promised Debi a McDonald’s lunch after the 911 fiasco, she meant it.

  Mom parks our van in a handicapped parking space, right by the front entry to McDonald’s. Debi unbuckles her seat belt and slowly opens the passenger door. She swings her legs out, glancing back at Mom and me. “I like it,” she says. Both Mom and I know what she means by “it.”

  Mom unloads me, wheelchair and all, from the van, and asks Debi, “Can you go ahead of us and hold the door open, please?”

  Debi looks confused. “I … no.”

  Mom says, “That’s okay, Debi, just go on in—we’ll follow you.”

  Debi walks to the door and pulls it open to start to walk through, when she seems to suddenly understand what Mom asked a moment ago. “S-S-S-Swan first,” she says, and holds the door open.

  I can hear the smile in Mom’s voice. “That’s very nice of you, Debi, thank you.”

  Debi says, “Welcome.”

  It’s a little past one o’clock and the restaurant is not very crowded. We get in line behind just one other customer.

  At first my eyes don’t focus on anything nearby. This happens a lot. You could put the most beautiful girl in the world right in front of me in a teensy string bikini—oops, that would be my brother’s girlfriend—never mind. Let’s say you could put the most delicious deluxe bacon double cheeseburger smack-dab, twelve inches in front of my face when I was starving. But if my eyes were focused on something outside the window, like a big piece of driftwood three miles away on Puget Sound, there’d be nothing I could do but wait until my eyes shifted.

  Now my eyes do refocus. I see the counter kids in their McDonald’s uniforms and the cooks behind them by the big grill. Finally I focus on the guy right in front of us in line.

  Even from the back, I recognize him instantly. Long hair, black clothes, and black motorcycle boots. His name is Adam, and my brother almost killed him in our front yard last summer.

  I flash back to that moment: Two bullies picking on me, this big kid Adam and his friend who lit a cigarette lighter under my chin; then Paul attacked them. Blood, gasoline, Paul’s rage, and violence—it’s like it all happened five minutes ago.

  Fear pounds at my temples. Will Adam finish doing to me now what he and his friend started before? Paul isn’t here. There’s no one to stop this kid from hurting me. Mom and Debi can’t do anything. I can only pray that he doesn’t see me, or doesn’t remember that day.

  A girl at the counter brings a tray of food for him and says, “Thanks for coming to McDonald’s. Have a nice day.”

  “Thanks,” he says. He picks up the tray and turns to go to a table. The instant he sees me, I know that he recognizes me too. He freezes in his tracks. His eyes quickly scan the room, most likely to see if Paul is here with us.

  I can’t make myself not look at him. I can’t do anything but wait to see what he’ll do next. A buzz pounds through my brain, fear, adrenaline, anger, and disgust at my helplessness. It’s weird, but I feel more scared now than the night I was alone with my dad and he held that pillow in his hands, deciding my fate, life or death.

  As my eyes shift away from Adam’s face, he quickly gathers himself together and pushes past us, slightly bumping his shoulder against my mom’s arm.

  “’Scuse me,” he mumbles quickly to Mom.

  Mom has no idea who this kid even is. “No problem,” she says.

  “I like Happy Deal,” Debi says.

  “Happy Meal?” Mom asks.

  “Yeth,” Debi repeats, “Happy Deal.”

  Mom smiles and says, “Okay,” and orders our food.

  I can’t turn to see if Adam’s here with his friend, can’t see if I’m in danger again.

  Mom wheels me over to a booth, pushing my wheelchair up snug against the table. Debi slides in. Adam is off to the side of me at his table. When I finally catch a glimpse of him, I see that he is alone. Our name is called from the counter and Mom goes back to pick up our order.

  Finally my head turns fully and I focus on Adam again. He stares straight into my eyes. I feel scared, try to search for what he is thinking, try to know whether I’m in danger.

  Something amazing happens. As our eyes meet, I see as clearly as anything I’ve ever seen his embarrassment and guilt. It’s in the way his shoulders slouch down and in his sad expression. In the way his eyes keep glancing away and his face blushes. It’s like I can hear his mind and feel what he wishes he could say to me: “I’m sorry for picking on you that day. I’m sorry for what we did. I’m sorry.” His eyes tell me everything I need to know—that I’m safe and that I have nothing more to fear from him.

  I’ve never realized this before, but people connect all the time, in a million different ways. Although Adam may never know it, he and I have just connected. He’s spoken to me without words, saying something that words couldn’t say any better.

  I can’t react. But if I could, I’d tell him I forgive him, that we all make mistakes and that it’s pretty cool of him to feel sorry—even if he can’t find the courage to speak the words out loud.

  I think back to that guy in the black pickup truck who road-raged at Mom and me. Maybe he got caught up in an emotion and didn’t take the time to think about our feelings. Maybe if he had seen my eyes or had a way to see all that Mom does for me, he would have stopped and felt some compassion. Maybe at some other time, in some other place, he’d be an okay guy like this kid Adam is right now. Maybe if he saw me in a pharmacy, heard me yelling “Ahhhhhhh” and glanced over, maybe his face, his eyes, and the way he looked would say, “It’s okay kid, yell all you want—you should see me drive!”

  Debi interrupts my thoughts. “I hun’ry,” she says, staring at her Happy Meal box.

  “That’s good, Debi,” Mom says, unwrapping Debi’s hamburger. “Eat up.”

  “Yeth,” Debi says. “Are you hun’ry too, boyfrien’?”

  “Boyfriend!” I scream inside, hoping no one has heard this and assumed that Debi and I are hooked up. It must be that when Debi can pry herself away from The Sound of the Music, she watches some kinda hip TV garbage—boyfriend!!

  Mom slips a French fry into my mouth. It’s salty and warm and delicious, and it instantly soothes my mental outburst. Mom rakes her fingers through my hair, and when I happen to gaze at her, the heavenly French fry juice dribbling down my chin, she smiles. “Why should Paul be the only one who gives you treats?”

  I chew involuntarily, more like mash stuff around with both my tongue and my teeth. As I munch on my first tiny piece of hamburger, I think again, “Boyfriend!?” I wish I could
tell Mom, “New rule: No more MTV for Debi!”

  24

  It’s much later in the day, nighttime, and I’m sitting in my wheelchair and Debi comes and stands near me again. She takes my hand and holds it. We look out the window.

  There are two boats, their running lights sparkling against the dark water.

  “Purtty,” Debi says, like she said last time. “Yep,” I answer silently.

  We are quiet.

  “You smart, S-S-S-Swan, but nobody know.”

  What? What did she just say?

  “Nobody know you smart … nobody know us, S-S-S-Swan, just us know us—you know me … I know you.”

  I can’t be hearing this right. She can’t be saying what I’m hearing her say.

  But now she adds, “You love A-A-A-Ally, but she love B-B-B-Baul.”

  I feel myself blush.

  Debi says, “It okay, you sad but it okay.”

  How does Debi know all this? How does she know how I feel?

  Suddenly a rush of images races through my mind: Debi staring at me so intently that day when Rusty first came. How she sits quietly so often, watching all of us, listening and staring. I always assumed that Debi didn’t understand anything. I, of all people, should have known better. Just like everybody in the world “knows” how much of a veg I am, right? Debi was paying attention to the things most of us can’t even see. And she was paying attention to me.

  Debi mumbles, still whispering, “Wusty smart like us.”

  Mom walks into the room and says, “Hi, Debi, are you visiting with Shawn?”

  “Yeth,” Debi answers.

  Mom says, “That’s nice. What are you two talking about?”

  Debi says, very softly, “Wusty.”

  “Pardon me?” Mom asks.

  Debi is silent, just like always, acting as if she doesn’t understand Mom’s question.

  Rusty, who has been lying near us on the floor this entire time, perks up at the sound of his name, his ears rising as he looks over at Debi and me. He gets up and slowly ambles over to the foot of my wheelchair, and now he plops back down, lying on his side.