All That's Left of Me

by Janis Thomas

  “And I said no,” Colin says.

  “Maybe a few minutes before bath.”

  “Emma,” Colin says sharply. “I said no.”

  Katie pushes her chair back and stands up. She senses the tension in the kitchen and tries to defuse it. “How about I show you my new clothes, Josh,” she suggests.

  Josh shakes his head. “Yuck.” No translation necessary.

  Katie thinks for a moment. “Okay. How about we look at my safari book?”

  “Aye doe wah t’,” he says. I don’t want to.

  “Come on. All those cute little baby hippos will cheer you up.”

  “The’ cawd cafs.” They’re called calves. The barest hint of enthusiasm.

  She takes her empty plate to the sink. “I’ll go get the book while you eat a little more egg foo yong, okay? And you can tell me all the names of the baby animals and make yourself feel like Stephen Hawking with your brilliance.”

  Josh wrinkles his nose. “Seeveh Hawee i’ a fisisi a’ a cosmulju, ’ot a zoolois,” Josh announces, sounding like his old self. Stephen Hawking is a physicist and a cosmologist, not a zoologist.

  Katie comes over and bends down, wrinkling her nose back at him. “Yeah, whatever. Meet you on the couch in five.”

  Thank God for my daughter.

  For the next few minutes, Josh acquiesces to be fed. But he doesn’t say a word, doesn’t look me in the eye. Not once.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  After dinner, Colin retreats to his office and closes the door. I gather and wash the dishes, marry the leftovers and tuck the remaining Chinese cartons in the fridge. I move slowly to allow Katie and Josh more time with the safari book. When I finish, I stand in the archway between the kitchen and the living room, watching the two of them pore over the book, experiencing déjà vu.

  In this new reality, in which Lena is absent, I don’t know if they looked at the safari book last night. Judging from the fact that Katie had to search her room for the book, I’m guessing they didn’t. But their evident enjoyment is the same as it was BW.

  My children. They are fortunate to have each other, especially since I have not been the mother they deserve. Yes, I have fulfilled every obligation and duty. Yes, I have provided the unimaginable care that someone with cerebral palsy requires. But I’ve been so preoccupied with my own unhappiness that I’ve rarely allowed myself the pleasure of sitting between them looking at pictures of wild animals. Such a simple and small thing.

  Tears threaten at the loss of all those small and simple things. In this new reality, I know I’ve experienced day trips and fun times, but those outings are only real to the kids. Not to me. No matter how vivid the new memories become, they will never be real to me.

  After a while, I alert them to my presence and tell them it’s time for Josh to go upstairs. Josh says nothing, just maneuvers his wheelchair to the stairs. Katie asks if she can watch TV and I nod absently, my attention on my son. He still won’t look at me.

  I flank him as the lift ascends to the second floor, my footsteps muted thuds on the carpeted stairs. My heartbeat quickens the closer we get to the top. I am nervous—like a fledgling firewalker about to step onto hot coals for the first time, a grade-schooler speaking in front of the entire school, a novice skydiver staring through the gaping open door of the airplane, readying to dive into the vast blue.

  I hear the voice in my head, the questions. Why should I be nervous? Why should my hands be clammy and my forehead damp? I’ve bathed Josh a thousand times; why should tonight be different?

  But this voice belongs to the Emma who exists in the new reality, the reality without Lena. She doesn’t understand what I stole from Josh. She doesn’t know what I saw last night—that image is more vivid now than it was when I lay my head upon my pillow and wished Lena away. Tonight is different, because the old Emma of the old reality knows. She knows—I know that my son is no longer a little boy. He said it himself at dinner tonight. Even though he has been robbed of the memory, somewhere inside him, he knows it, too. He has become a man.

  I follow Josh to his room, the hum of his wheelchair echoing in my ears. He stops beside his bed, then pivots his chair so that he faces me. After a long moment, he raises his eyes to me. They shine with hurt.

  “Aye doe wah y’ t’ ba’ m’,” he says. I don’t want you to bathe me.

  I cross to him and kneel down. “Why are you upset with me, Josh? What have I done?”

  I know what I’ve done, but I want to understand how he knows.

  “Aye ’ot uh-se wi’ y’.” I’m not upset with you.

  “I don’t believe you. I can tell. We’ve been together a long time, you and me, Josh. You’re my guy. I know you’re upset. I’m just trying to figure out why.”

  He looks at me for a couple of beats, then throws his head back. He pulls his curled hands up to his chest and lets out a low moan. Tears escape the corners of his eyes. I reach out and place a hand on his knee.

  “What is it? Tell me. I’m sorry, for whatever it is.” A smooth liar, I am. How can I ask such a question of my son when I’m fully aware of my misdeed?

  “I’ ’ot y’,” he says. It’s not you. “Aye doe ’o wuh i i.” I don’t know what it is. “Aye fe’ ba’ bu’ Aye ehbaras ’ow wi’ y’.” I feel bad but I’m embarrassed now with you. “Y’ thi’ a m’ a’ a lee’ boi, bu’ Aye ’ot aeemo.” You think of me as a little boy, but I’m not anymore. “Aye doe wah t’ hu’ y’.” I don’t want to hurt you.

  I lower my head, ashamed. I have loved him and protected him and imprisoned him, rationalizing that it was for his own good. I’ve wanted to keep him a child because it’s easier to think of him that way. But I have been doing my son a disservice. With or without Lena, he is growing into a man. Her removal from our lives is not the issue.

  “It’s okay, honey,” I assure him. I place my hands on his wrists and gently pull them down, then interlock my fingers with his—not an easy task. “You are growing up, Josh. You’re almost a man. Everything you’re feeling is totally normal. And I’m not hurt. I promise.”

  He looks at me and manages a crooked grin. “Reee?” Really?

  “Really. I’m so sorry if I made you feel badly. I never meant to do that, you know?”

  He nods his head. “Aye ’o.”

  I smile at him. Wetness on my cheeks. “I’m going to get your dad now, okay? He can give you a bath.”

  He nods again. “Tha’, Maah.” Thanks, Mom.

  I withdraw my hands from his grasp, then gently stroke his cheek. “No problem, my man.”

  His donkey bray of a laugh is welcome music to my ears. He has absolved me.

  But I still bear the weight of guilt. Because I know that somewhere, buried in his subconscious, Josh is aware of my betrayal. I don’t know why I am so certain of this, or how it might be possible. I only know that it is. And I resolve to make it up to him.

  Colin accepts his task grudgingly. He slams his laptop shut with venom, as though I’ve interrupted something of great importance. I follow him out of his office and watch as he climbs the stairs, shoulders slouched. His defeated posture, to which I became accustomed before wishes, has returned.

  Katie is immersed in a reality show based on fashion dos and don’ts. I kiss the top of her head, then move to the family room, where I boot up my computer. I don’t check my email. SoundStage and their decision to leave my company mean little to me at this moment. My mind is full, old and new memories competing for valuable real estate in my gray matter.

  I plan to do a Google search, but first I call up Facebook. My conversation with Katie in the food court swirls through my brain. I type in Dante’s name. I’ve done this a lot over the past month, although I’m not sure exactly why. As before, his smiling face greets me. And as before, I move the mouse over the “Friend Request” button. My finger hovers over the mouse for an obscene amount of time before I close the page. As I told Katie earlier, my life is complicated enough.

  I go to Google and ente
r the words safari petting zoo into the search bar.

  Sunday, August 7

  I wake up Sunday full of energy and enthusiasm, but not because I am eager to see the results of my wish. I made none last night. I’m anxious to get the day started. I have plans. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I have plans that fill me with excited anticipation.

  The rest of my family is still asleep. Josh’s heavy breathing comes through the monitor. Colin snores. Katie’s door is closed.

  I pad downstairs barefoot, head for the garage. On one of the storage shelves, I locate a cooler bag and two small backpacks, and I carry them with me to the kitchen. Careful not to make noise, I set an ice pack in the cooler bag then fill the bag with water bottles, juices, some string cheese for Katie, a yogurt squeezer for Josh. I fill one of the backpacks with pouches of trail mix, chips, napkins, plastic straws, then take the second backpack to the downstairs bathroom, where I load it with sunscreen, hand sanitizer, hand cream, moist towelettes, and lip balm. From beneath the sink, I withdraw one of Josh’s spare urine bottles, fill it with water to check the integrity of the cap, then empty it and stuff it into the backpack.

  I bypass the kitchen and walk into the family room. The tickets I printed last night lie in the output tray of the printer. I fold the sheets in half and stuff them into the backpack.

  By the time I hear Josh’s breathing change on the kitchen monitor, I’m all ready to go.

  I hurry up the stairs and into Josh’s room. He’s awake, one hand grasping at the metal bed railing, his bedsheets a tangled mess between his legs.

  Because of the warm summer nights, he wears shorts and a tank top. I’ve been trying not to see it, to keep him a child in my mind’s eye, but in the morning light, I can’t help but notice how much darker his leg hair has become in the past few months. The hair under his arms is still sparse but markedly thicker than it was only weeks ago. He is yet to grow noticeable facial hair. It’s coming. Soon we will have to add “shave Josh” to our list of duties. I assume Colin will take that task.

  “Good morning,” I call to him as I approach the bed. “I’m so glad you’re up. We’ve got a big day to—”

  Josh’s lips are two tight white lines; his eyes are squeezed shut. I recognize one of his many expressions of pain. I bend down over him.

  “What’s wrong, honey?”

  “Craa,” he says with much effort. Cramp.

  I nod. “Okay. Where is it?”

  “Le’ ca.” Left calf.

  Reflexively, I reach for his leg, but immediately stop myself.

  “Do you want me to get Dad?” I ask.

  “No. Plee, Maah, i’ hurs.” No. Please, Mom, it hurts.

  I place my hand on his left calf, then dig my fingertips into the straining muscle. Josh jerks with anguish, then mewls softly. How many hundreds of times have I done this over the course of his life? I hate that I’m causing him further pain, but I know what I do is for a good cause—to calm the seizing muscle and bring him relief.

  I release my grasp on his leg, then rub my hands together quickly, feverishly, bringing heat to my palms. Then I place them on his calf again and begin to knead. After a moment, I feel the pop. Josh’s body goes rigid then instantly relaxes. He lets go of the rail and falls onto his back, breathing heavily. I gently lay his leg on the bed, then straighten up.

  “Better?”

  “Yaaa,” he says. “Tha’, Maah.”

  “At your service.”

  He manages a smile. “Aye ’o.” I know. His brow furrows. “Wuh w’ y’ sayee a’ow uh bi’ dae?” What were you saying about a big day?

  I smile back at him. “Let’s get you dressed. Family meeting in the kitchen over breakfast. I’ll tell you then.”

  “A what?” from Colin.

  “That is so cool!” from Katie.

  “Reee?” from Josh.

  “Yes, really. I got the tickets online last night. Everything’s set.”

  Colin, Kate, and I stand around the kitchen counter. Josh sits in his chair, looking up at me excitedly. When I dressed him, I chose khaki shorts, thinking them appropriate for our adventure.

  Colin frowns at me, a stark contrast to Josh’s enthusiasm. “Do you think this is such a good idea?”

  “Actually, I do.”

  “I mean for Josh.”

  “Colin, they have wheelchair access, I checked. And trainers who work specifically with handicapable kids. It’s going to be great. We’re taking the kids on safari, right here in New Jersey.”

  “I’m still totally going to go to Africa,” Katie says. “This isn’t in place of that, right?”

  “Of course not,” I reply. “But that trip is years away, honey. I thought we might consider this a test run.”

  She nods vigorously and pats her brother on the shoulder. Josh donkey laughs with sheer joy, and for a moment, my heart is so full I almost can’t bear the tightness in my chest.

  One glance at Colin deflates me. He is shaking his head. “Emma, I think you and I should have discussed this first.”

  “It’s Sunday, Colin. Family day. This is a fun family outing. I don’t know why you’re so opposed to it.”

  “I’m not opposed, necessarily,” he retorts. “Just surprised.”

  I manage to smile at him. “That was the point. I meant to surprise you. All of you.”

  “Come on, Colin, it’ll be fun,” Katie says.

  “Yaaa, Daah. I’uh b’ asuh.” Yeah, Dad. It’ll be aces.

  My breath catches. It’ll be aces. Josh learned the expression from my mom.

  “It’s just, I was hoping to get some work done today.” He shrugs at the kids. “Your mother keeps reminding me of my self-imposed deadlines. ‘You can’t sell a book if you don’t have a book to sell.’”

  I’ve never said that to Colin. His old agent said that to him. I resent my husband for making me the heavy, but I keep the smile glued to my face. This day isn’t about Colin or his failures or our marriage, which may or may not be a sham.

  “Well,” I say, “I’m taking the kids. I bought you a ticket. You can come if you want to, and if you don’t, fine.” I turn my attention to Josh and Kate. “GPS says ninety minutes,” I announce. “We have to get a move on. I’ll make some protein smoothies to go.”

  Twenty minutes later, the kids and I are flying down the highway in the van. Josh’s wheelchair is situated in the bay behind the passenger seat, secured with thick cords that attach to the door frame on one side and the underside of the bucket seat on the other side. Katie has opted to sit in the bucket seat next to him, even though the front passenger seat is empty.

  I thought Colin would fold under the pressure of the children’s entreaties, but he refused to come. He watched stoically from the porch, arms folded across his chest, as we pulled out of the driveway, gave a curt wave—which I did not return—then retreated into his lair.

  The Best of Eric Clapton sounds from the tired speakers. Katie and Josh sing along to “Lay Down Sally.” I ponder my marriage.

  Before wishes, Colin and I were both miserable. Me because of the heavy burden life seemed to pile upon me, and Colin because he was married to a woman tethered to her own self-pity. Now neither of us is miserable. But he is dissatisfied and I am disillusioned.

  The song comes to an end, and Katie leans forward so that I can hear her.

  “What’s the name of this thing, Mom?”

  “Zimbabwe Zeke’s Traveling Safari,” I tell her. “The owner lived in Africa for a decade. He was a guide for one of the more popular safaris down there.”

  “Coo,” Josh says. Cool.

  “Totally, right?” Katie agrees.

  “I read about him on his website. So the story goes, one of his nephews was badly injured in a car accident. His family was planning to come to Africa, and Zeke was going to take them on safari, but the kid couldn’t make the trip. So Zeke decided to bring Africa to his nephew. That’s why he started the whole thing.”

  “Reee coo.”
Really cool.

  “They travel all over the country, like the circus,” I tell them. “I printed up some info about it if you want to read it.”

  I glance in the rearview mirror. Kate and Josh look at each other and simultaneously scrunch up their faces. Obviously, neither has the slightest interest in reading about the safari petting zoo.

  “I get carsick when I read,” Katie declares, although she’s never been so much as nauseous in any moving vehicle. “Besides, I just want to see it in person.”

  “M’, t’,” Josh agrees. Me, too.

  “Fine,” I say, smiling to myself. “Let’s just crank up the tunes, shall we?”

  My kids make sounds of approval. I turn the volume up, and we all join Eric for a lively rendition of “Layla.”

  I can’t remember the last time I felt so good.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Zimbabwe Zeke’s Traveling Safari has raised its tent in Asbury Park, a place eulogized in many Bruce Springsteen tunes. The doors open at noon. Because today is the last day of the safari, and also the middle of summer, we hit gridlock as soon as we reach the Garden State Parkway. It takes nearly forty-five minutes to travel three and a half miles to the downtown district.

  Bored attendants wearing Day-Glo orange vests and wide-brimmed hats that do little to block the August sun direct the masses toward parking spaces. I stop, as instructed, and point to the handicapped card hanging on the rearview mirror. The attendant, a young Asian guy, nods and gestures toward a row of spaces abutting the boardwalk. I follow his wordless directions and maneuver the van into one of the few remaining empty slots.

  Josh is giddy as the van lift lowers his chair to the street. Katie climbs out behind him. I glance at the massive number of people already crowding the boardwalk, tourists and locals alike, pushing and shoving and weaving right and left, a tidal wave of humanity with the power to drown my son. A young boy standing by a kiosk glances curiously at Josh, then elbows the boy next to him and starts laughing. An older couple slowly moves past us, and the woman gazes pityingly at me. Two teenage girls dressed in butt-revealing denim shorts and halter tops stare unabashedly at my son from the boardwalk railing.