Identity

by E. J. Mara

  Without taking her eyes off of me, she perches on the edge of her desk. “So, what is it?”

  I look down at my hands, wishing I could just say what I’m feeling. But I don’t even know how to put it into words. “It’s me, I don’t know…I don’t know anything.”

  “Did something happen at school this morning?”

  “I’m back with Julia.”

  “Jesus Christ, Nathaniel.”

  In spite of the way my confidence seems to be collapsing and sliding into my stomach, I can’t help but smile at Mom’s faux pas. She runs a hand through her hair and sighs. “Okay, well, is that really what you want? Julia Scardina? You want to be with her?”

  My smile too heavy for my face, I let it fall as I shake my head. I meet Mom’s eyes and she crosses her arms, blinking back at me. “Then what do you want?”

  Outside, another ambulance screeches as it pulls up to the ER and as crazy as it sounds, I envy the vehicle for having something audible to send into the world. I’ve got nothing, absolutely no way to answer Mom’s question because I have no idea what I want.

  “For a long time, it’s been gymnastics,” Mom says, her voice softening. “You and Coach Peterson have been devoted to your training. But now, you seem distracted.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is there something else you want?” Mom leans forward, ruffling my hair. “If you’re tired of gymnastics, that’s fine. That doesn’t have to be your dream.”

  “No, I still want it, but…” My thoughts slow except for one, a singular idea that rushes towards me; I want to be strong enough for Karen, I want to deserve her.

  “But what?” Mom asks.

  “I don’t know how …how to be the …the,” I sigh, annoyed with myself for stammering. “I don’t know how to be that guy, the winner everyone looks up to.”

  “Aww, Querido.” Mom pulls me into a hug and I close my eyes.

  She smells like rubbing alcohol and sweat. But that’s okay.

  “You don’t have to be anyone but yourself.” She plants a kiss on top of my head.

  “I know.”

  “Nurse Colbert,” a voice announces via the hospital’s intercom, “you’re needed in the ER, Room 2B. Nurse Colbert to the ER, Room 2B.”

  Mom releases me, stands, and rights her stethoscope around her neck. “So, we’re back to Julia coming over to the house in those short skirts and that awful perfume she always wears?”

  I shrug.

  “Dear God,” Mom mumbles, heading to the door. She turns around. “Oh. I meant to ask you this morning, did everything go okay at the repast last night? Did Dr. Lyles calm down?”

  The glowing eyes in the cornfield come to mind and chills cover my arms. I shake my head. “Don’t ask.”

  Mom groans. “Poor Karen. Even before her mom’s breakdown, there was something odd about that woman, actually, about both of her parents. They were so overprotective. They wouldn’t even let poor Karen play with other kids and-”

  “Nurse Colbert, please report to the ER, Room 2B.” The intercom cuts Mom off.

  “I’ll be back to check on you as soon as I can,” Mom says, hurrying out of her office.

  “Okay.” I make my way to the window and watch two paramedics head back to their ambulance.

  Karen’s dad being Unseen, and struggling to keep his identity a secret, makes so much sense now. That’s why he and Mrs. Lyles kept Karen and Tessa at home instead of letting them get to know other kids. And that’s why now Karen doesn’t know how to act around other people our age.

  The ambulance pulls off and I lean against the window, watching it drive away.

  I wonder if Karen even knows that her dad’s Unseen.

  How would she react if I told her I’ve figured it out? I bet it would establish more of a bond between us. She’d trust me even more than she does now.

  I grab my keys and head to the door. I don’t need to talk to Mom about this anymore. I know what ...or, who, I want, and now I think I know what I need to say to get her.

  Ms. Greenich has a large ivy perched on the edge of her desk, and for some reason I find it incredibly depressing. Then again, I’ve never been much of a plant person.

  After the principal and Ms. Greenich had a long conversation in his office, it was apparently decided that Ms. Greenich would deal with me. So, for the past ten minutes, I’ve been sitting in a soft brown chair on the opposite side of her desk, and so far Ms. Greenich hasn’t said much of anything. She’s answered her office phone, which rings every few minutes, amidst typing on her computer. Every now and then she’ll ask me if I’d like some water, a mint, a bathroom break, or a miniature Almond Joy like the one she’s nibbling on.

  I expected yelling and lots of angry questioning. At first, when we were on our way to the principal’s suite -where Ms. Greenich’s guidance office is located- the principal was still with us and he did barrage me with angry questions. But there came a point when Ms. Greenich politely suggested that he let me think about what I’d done instead of asking me questions.

  That was about forty-five minutes ago and since then we’ve been quietly sitting in her office. I let my gaze wander to the rest of her desk. It, like the walls of her office, is eggshell white. But the mental institution vibe is diminished by the many picture frames and cutesy figurines occupying her desk. I guess it’s also diminished by Ms. Nancy Greenich herself.

  She glances at me and smiles before returning her attention to her computer. “Give me just a few more minutes,” she says.

  I nod and look down at the ugly bruise on my fist, a remnant from what I did to Esther. The way I went after her was horrible. I can’t believe Ms. Greenich can smile at me like I’m a normal person who didn’t just completely lose her mind.

  Then again, there’s something different about Ms. Greenich. She’s not like the other adults in our school. I’ve never talked to her much, but she makes a point of smiling at me and saying hello when we pass each other in the halls. And I’ve seen her using ASL to have brief conversations with Tessa. Apparently, she’s learned some basic signs to help her communicate with Peake’s Deaf students. It’s like she genuinely cares about people, which is unusual for a hearing person.

  Ms. Greenich now brings what’s left of her Almond Joy to her mouth and pauses, tilting her head as she frowns into her computer screen, apparently baffled by something. The Almond Joy is nearly the same color as her skin, which is a few shades darker than the cloud of thick curly hair framing her face. Her hair is really cool, but I wonder if it feels heavy on her head.

  Peake’s a fairly hick town and our guidance counselor is one of only a handful of African-Americans within its borders. Nathaniel and I were talking about this one day, and he admitted that every time he passes her in the hall, he wants to touch her hair to see what it feels like.

  I don’t know … maybe being different is what makes her more compassionate than the average hearing person. Like, even though my sister and I may not have the nicest clothes or whatever, since Ms. Greenich knows how it feels like to be different, she doesn’t judge us as harshly as other hearing people do.

  Now, Ms. Greenich looks up and catches me staring at her. I shift my gaze back to the ivy.

  “Sure you don’t want an Almond Joy? You didn’t eat much last night,” she says.

  Last night? I think quickly and recall that Ms. Greenich came to Mom’s funeral and repast.

  My eyes still on the plant, I say, “No, thanks, my stomach hurts.”

  “Well, that’s not good.” She pops another Almond Joy into her mouth, balls up the tiny wrapper and tosses it into a trash can beside her desk. “But the question is, if you make a doctor’s appointment, is your dad even going to remember to take you?”

  There’s a smile in her voice as she says this and despite myself, I grin. I guess she knows my dad pretty well.

  “When I first met your father, he annoyed the crap out of me,” she chuckles and I glance up, surprised by her bluntness. She’s still grinni
ng and her dark eyes dance as she continues. “For a while I was the only African-American on our research team and not everyone was pleased to have me on board.”

  “Research team?”

  Ms. Greenich tenses and straightens in her chair, as if she’s been shocked by an electrical current.

  “Not ‘research team.’ I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that. I meant our team of faculty here at Peake.” She clears her throat. “Anyhow, my first day on campus, I passed your dad in the hall and of course I said, ‘Hello, Dr. Lyles,’ and he walked right past me without a word. The same thing happened later in the day and I assumed he was one of the many who didn’t want to talk to me because of the color of my skin.”

  Ms. Greenich chuckles and, my face warming, I shift in my seat. Why is she telling me this? Is she trying to make me feel worse?

  “And then,” Ms. Greenich continues, shaking her head as an amused grin forms on her mouth, “that evening when I was leaving the parking lot, your dad accidently backed into my car. I was pretty upset, but since I felt conspicuous enough as it was, I didn’t want to make a fuss. But Karen…” She sighs and, absently picking up one of the pens on her desk, toys with it as she goes on. “Your dad is as kind as he is intelligent. He apologized over and over again, paid for the damage, and then he noticed something else wrong with my car, something that had nothing to do with our little accident, and he fixed it!”

  I nod politely, all the while wondering what she’s getting at.

  “So,” Ms. Greenich says, “while he and I got to know each other, I realized that earlier, when I spoke to him in the hall, he hadn’t heard me because, A, he’s hard of hearing, and B, he’s absent-minded as hell.”

  I laugh, which surprises even me.

  Ms. Greenich chuckles. “The man is so smart that, with all of the things happening in that brain of his, there’s no way he can simultaneously see the people around him.”

  “Yeah, that’s my dad,” I agree. “He barely even notices that I exist. So it wasn’t you, he’s not racist, he’s just perpetually preoccupied.”

  “Has he always been that way?”

  “Pretty much. My mom’s always been the buffer-” I stop short, realizing I’ve used the wrong tense. “My mom used to be the buffer between him and us, I mean between him and Tessa and me.”

  Ms. Greenich nods and absently toys with her pen. “I see. Was your mom good at being the buffer?”

  “For a while, yeah. She was a great Mom. She was like a best friend, but a teacher –always using playtime to, like, teach us these little life lessons or whatever. But when I started high school all of that changed. She woke up one morning with some crazy form of amnesia that her doctors didn’t understand. And things got worse when she …” My hand going to my aching stomach, I consider what I’m on the verge of saying.

  Ms. Greenich isn’t toying with her pen anymore. Instead, she sits perfectly still behind her desk, her brown eyes focused on me. I don’t know if this is a confession I really want to make. I haven’t told anyone other than the police this one very big thing about my mom. Not even Nathaniel or Julia know ...

  Ms. Greenich says nothing, she just sits there, waiting for me to continue and all of a sudden I’m saying it. “And things got worse when she developed a drug problem,” I blurt. “At first it was pills, like painkillers, but that turned into cocaine. And when she wasn’t high, she’d get mean. She’d hit my little sister and say mean things.” I pause because my mouth has gone dry.

  “She was abusive?”

  “More so with Tessa. She’d slap her, call her stupid, tell her to go away.”

  “Well, that explains a lot of your sister’s behavior,” Ms. Greenich quietly says.

  “I guess. And sometimes, depending on what Mom took, she’d get super paranoid.” Now that I’ve started talking, I can’t stop. “Like, one day I came home from school and our windows were covered with aluminum foil because she thought people were spying on us.”

  Ms. Greenich’s face is drawn. “Did she say who she thought was spying on you?”

  I shrug. “She kept rambling about scientists who wanted to make her hearing. It didn’t make sense. She was delirious and high. I told Dad we should send her to rehab, but he said he’d fix it. He tried, and once he got her off the cocaine, she went back to the pills, which explains her overdose.”

  For some reason, it’s like I’m unable to stop talking, and the rest of it tumbles out. “Now, he says Mom’s death was murder, not suicide. Course that’s not true, but I get why he has to tell himself it is. He can’t take the burden of guilt.” At this, I take a deep breath and something deep inside of me feels emptied, like a basketball that was attached to my gut has been surgically removed.

  “That must have been so rough for you.” Ms. Greenich’s voice is soft as she says, “How did you cope with all of that going on at home?”

  I squeeze my palms together and shake my head. “I had gymnastics and Nathaniel and Julia. But it was harder for my sister because before Mom got sick, she’d been Tessa’s whole world. They’re both Deaf you know, so they had this special bond. When Mom changed, she was mean to Tessa and it confused her.”

  “So, you think your mom’s behavior affected Tessa’s personality for the worse?” Ms. Greenich asks.

  I shift in my seat, a wave of sadness hitting me. “Tessa’s always had a bad temper, but that comes with being slow, and-”

  “No, it doesn’t.” Ms. Greenich’s voice is so gentle that I barely realize she’s cut me off. I glance up as she says, “Our disabilities don’t make us who we are.”

  I shake my head. “With all due respect Ms. Greenich, trust me I know what I’m talking about. My mom was Deaf and that did make her who she was. She was proud of her Deafness, it was her culture.”

  “Karen,” Ms. Greenich clasps her hands together and leans forward, “do you know what your sister and I have in common?”

  I shake my head.

  “Autism.”

  I blink back at her, racking my mind for what Ms. Greenich means. There’s no way she’s saying what it sounds like she’s saying.

  “What do you mean?” I finally ask.

  “I have a disability called ‘Aspergers,’” Ms. Greenich says, “which is considered a form of autism. But it took a long time for me to be diagnosed because my personality doesn’t fit the typical profile of someone who has autism. Just like my race doesn’t define my personality, neither does my disability. I shape my own identity.”

  “So …you have autism?” I stare at her in disbelief.

  She nods. “A form of it, yes. And get this, I’m a people person, I like people. But a close friend of mine who also has Aspergers is the exact opposite. He’s very quiet, withdrawn, and unresponsive to the people around him. We have completely different personalities, even though we have the same disability. So our disabilities affect us, but they don’t make us who we are.”

  I sit back in my seat, processing this.

  “That’s why I think it’s important,” Ms. Greenich continues, “we don’t excuse Tessa’s bad behavior by saying it’s all because of her disability.”

  I bristle. “My sister’s not ‘bad.’”

  “I’m not saying she is,” Ms. Greenich quickly replies. “In fact, it could be that the way your mother treated her after she became ill has a lot to do with Tessa’s current behavior. Just like what happened with your Mom has a lot to do with the way you treated Esther today.”

  My thoughts return to the moment I went after Esther and my stomach churns. “I didn’t mean to,” I stammer, “I don’t know what happened to me. I’m sorry. It’s just like…”

  “Like what?”

  My eyes fill and I close them, shaking my head. Before I know it, Ms. Greenich is leaving her desk and I open my eyes to find her stooped in front of me with a bottle of water and a tissue.

  “Wipe your nose and drink some water,” she says.

  For some reason it’s comforting to have someone
tell me what to do. So, I do exactly as she’s instructed and then wipe away the tears that crawl down my cheeks.

  Ms. Greenich perches on the edge of her desk, watching me. “May I ask you a question, Karen?”

  I nod, too drained to care.

  “Is there some part of you that blames yourself for what happened to your mom?”

  I set the water on the edge of her desk and shrug.

  The answer to her question is easy, of course I do. How could I not blame myself? I could’ve saved Mom if I’d been a better daughter. I bite down on my bottom lip, willing my tears to stop. I’ve already cried too much.

  “I ask because, sometimes,” Ms. Greenich continues, “when we’re used to being responsible for the people around us, we blame ourselves for every bad thing that happens to them. And I just hope you know that what happened to your Mom had nothing to do with you.”

  I glance down at my lap, rebellious tears blurring my vision. “You don’t know that for sure,” I say, my voice cracking. “I could’ve stopped it.”

  “No, you couldn’t have.” Ms. Greenich’s definite tone makes me look up. Her gaze on her desk, she frowns. “And while what happened to your mom is a terrible tragedy, it happened. You can’t control the past. But you can control your reaction. You can stop your pain from becoming rage. And you have to, Karen, because rage will ruin you.”

  I brush my index finger over the bruise on my fist, considering this.

  Ms. Greenich might be right. When I lost my temper, I don’t think I was just mad at Esther, I think maybe I was mad at myself for letting Mom die.

  “Do you understand what I mean?” Ms. Greenich asks, meeting my eyes.

  I nod.

  “Good. You’re stronger than anything that’s happened in your past.” She leans towards me, her dark eyes intense. “In fact, you’re strong enough to decide how your past shapes your identity.”

  The eye contact is getting a little uncomfortable, so I fix my gaze on the edge of her desk.