by M. E. Carter
Myra looks over at me with a blank look. “I don’t know, Mama. We’re watching TV.”
I turn around and race for the bedrooms. “Theo?” I call as I look in rooms. “Theo, baby, where are you? Do you want juice?”
His lack of answer makes me even more frantic. Where the hell is he? There’s not any water accidentally left in the bathtub is there?
I check all the bathrooms, closets, under the beds… no Theo.
“Theo! Bug-a-boo! Where are you, baby?”
I race back into the living room area. By now the girls realize something is wrong and are looking around as well. If I wasn’t so frantic, it would be cute seeing Lina check inside the toy box for him.
“Girls, did anyone come inside the apartment while I was in the kitchen?”
They shake their heads. “No, Mama,” Myra whimpers. I can see on her face she’s starting to panic as well.
I cup her cheek. “It’s ok, baby. Let’s just keep looking.”
I check the locks on the back door. It’s still locked up tight. So I race to the front door. And that’s when I see it ajar.
I suck in a breath, knowing he’s outside. Just in the last couple of days, he’s been able to open our doors because the door knob is a handle. But I thought I’d dead bolted the front. I always dead bolt the front when we come in.
Or at least I thought I always did.
“Girls, stay here!” I yell, as I race out the front door, still in my robe and fuzzy socks. Knowing how much he loves wheels and tires and cars, I run toward the road without a second thought.
I almost run over one of my neighbors down the way. An elderly woman with short curly silver hair, and her husband, who is tall, also with silver hair.
“I’m so sorry,” I say quickly. “You haven’t seen a baby walking around outside have you?
They shake their heads. “No, dear. Is he missing?”
“Are you sure? He’s got dark, spiky hair and he’s wearing Batman pajamas?”
“No, we haven’t. Do you need help looking?”
“Yes, please. I’m headed toward the road.”
Leaving them behind, I continue to the street that runs perpendicular to our apartment. As I round the corner, my heart stops.
I see him. He’s on the curb, looking up at an airplane in the sky and waving at it with his little baby wave.
“Theo!” I yell hysterically and run as fast as my socked feet will let me.
He turns to look at me just as a car whizzes by him and knocks him off balance. I grab him off the grass and hug him to me, collapsing on the ground in a heap of tears.
“Ohmygodohmygodohmygod,” I say over and over, part prayer of thanksgiving, part hysterical rambling. He sits still and lets me rock him. I have no idea how much time passes until I feel a hand on my shoulder.
It’s the elderly woman.
“Is he ok?” she asks me kindly. There’s no judgement in her eyes, just concern for his well-being.
“I think so.” Pulling away from him, I inspect him as well as I can while sitting on the grass next to a busy road. “He doesn’t look like he has any scrapes or bruises.”
“How did he get away from you, dear?”
I shake my head, trying to rid myself of the last of the adrenaline. “I… he… I thought I deadbolted the door. I didn’t realize it was unlocked.”
“Oh,” she remarks. “I did that a few times when my kids were little. It happens. But he’s safe. That’s the important part.”
I nod and take a breath. I feel like I’ve been holding it.
“Do I need to call the police?” a male voice calls out from the parking lot.
“No Marv,” the woman answers for me. “He’s safe and sound. A little shaken up, but they’re alright.” Turning back to me, she continues her kind assessment of the situation. “Do you need help getting back home? Can you walk?”
“Um… yeah. I mean, I think I’m fine.” I stand up, heaving Theo up with me. No way I’m putting him down right now. “But thank you for your help.”
“It’s no problem.” She pats me on my arm. “Watch yourself, though. With this much adrenaline running through your body, you’ll probably go into shock later. So eat a good, solid lunch and be prepared to take a nap.”
I nod in appreciation and walk back to the apartment. Theo snuggles into me, which makes me feel a little bit better.
“Mama, you find him?” Lina asks, as we walk through the door. This time, I make sure to deadbolt it.
“I did,” I say. I see the look on their little faces and know they were feeling almost as panicked as I was, so they need more reassurance than just seeing me hold him. “He’s ok. Everyone’s ok. But I bet everyone’s hungry.”
I spend the next couple of hours making lunch, feeding them, and getting them down for naps. As soon as I close the girls’ bedroom door, my body starts to shake.
I feel cold, even though it’s not at all cold outside. The old woman’s words cross my mind.
With this much adrenaline running through your body, you’ll probably go into shock later.
I have to assume what I’m feeling is exactly what she warned me about. Is this what being in shock is? I’ve never had this happen before.
I draw myself a hot bath and climb in to try to warm up. It takes a few minutes, but the shaking finally stops. That’s when the memories flood in.
Not knowing where Theo was. Racing through the apartment trying to find him. Running into the neighbors outside. And the worst memory of all, seeing him standing on the edge of the road, a car coming quickly, and him looking up at the sky. Seeing him wobble and fall over.
I’m still too stunned by the situation to even cry. And I’m still so mad at myself because I know this is all my fault. I’ve been so emotionally distant, I didn’t even remember to lock the damn front door.
I’ve spent close to a year being angry. I’ve been disappointed. I’ve been sad. And yes, I have a right to feel things, but I don’t have a right to give my children only half of myself so I can stay in my little comfort bubble of self-pity.
It has to stop. It’s time to stop.
Yes, my husband cheated on me. But I divorced him. End of story. This is my life now and I can either muddle my way through, letting the kids follow my lead and muddle through their childhood. Or I can focus on the positives. And that’s what I plan on doing.
The pity-party is officially over.
“Hey, how ya doing, Santos?”
“I’m doing ok, thanks.”
Shaking my therapist’s hand, a genuine smile crosses my face. I’ve been seeing Justin for a couple of weeks now, and therapy hasn’t been at all like I thought it would be.
I envisioned a stuffy old man making me lay on a couch while he holds a clipboard and asks me about my mother. Justin, however, is anything but a stuffy old man. Just a couple years older than me, he comes to work wearing jeans and sneakers. He’s got scruff on his face and doesn’t even have a desk to sit behind. His office looks more like a living room with a couch and a couple recliners. The only indication it’s a therapy office at all is the bookshelf full of reference material.
We talk for a few minutes about my latest game and what the chances are we’ll win the title this year. Turns out Justin isn’t a fan of soccer, but he’s been to an occasional game. Most people in Houston have, even if it’s just to say they’ve gone.
Quickly, the conversation turns to Mari and the kids. The look on his face when I tell him about Theo getting out of the apartment mirrors the horror I felt when Mari called and told me.
“Holy crap,” he exclaims. “I can only imagine how that made you feel to hear about it.”
“I was so scared, man,” I admit. “Even though it was already over, ya know? Nothing was even happening. Theo was safe and sound, but I felt so helpless. I hate not being there.”
When Mari had called me the night after it happened, the initial panic was overwhelming. As she told me about it, I paced the floor of the h
ouse; it was impossible to sit down. I was so glad he was ok, but I was so mad it had happened in the first place. Once again, I was mad at myself for putting us all in the situation to begin with. What if she hadn’t found him in time? What if she hadn’t found him at all?
“Sounds like it was just one more reason to be frustrated with the situation.”
“You have no idea. You have kids, right?”
“Yep.” Justin picks up his phone and pulls up a picture to show me. “Two girls. Three years and eight months.”
“They’re cute.”
“They take after their mother,” he says with a smile, glancing at the picture one more time before putting the phone away.
“So you get why I was so panicked.”
“Oh, yeah. Your reaction was totally understandable. The danger was over, but you still needed to process your emotions. It’s scary stuff. How was Mari when you talked to her? Did she sound ok?”
I take a deep breath and think back to how she sounded. “She was calm. Maybe too calm. It was weird.”
“She was probably in shock.”
“That’s what I was thinking. I don’t know how she kept it together long enough to even call me.”
“Shock typically doesn’t set in for a couple hours, especially if the person keeps moving for a while.” He leans back in his chair, crossing his hands on his chest. “It’s what mothers do. When you think about it, they’re kind of amazing. I don’t think I ever appreciated what my own mother went through until my wife became one and I saw it from a different perspective.”
“Yeah, I have a lot of respect for my grandmother now for raising her own kids and then raising me. Especially after this, I wish I could call her and thank her for putting up with me. I was not an easy child to take care of, I’m sure.”
“I’m assuming she passed away?”
“Yeah, right before Myra was born.” I think back to my abuela and what a wonderful woman she was. She was always baking cookies to take to the church, or doing Zumba, or running bingo at the local nursing home. She was as spunky as they come, and when she dropped dead of a heart attack at the ripe old age of 76, I was devastated. “God, it really sucked. I still miss her. Although part of me is glad she’s not here to see my family fall apart. She would’ve kicked my ass if she’d been here.”
“Do you know much about your mom?”
I stretch my legs out, getting more comfortable. “A little. She had me when she was fifteen or sixteen. Really young. I remember bits and pieces because she was around for a little while. But one day she up and left, and my grandmother raised me after that.”
“Do you know why she left? Did anyone ever say?”
I raise an eyebrow. “I was wondering when you were going to ask about my mother.”
He laughs. “I know. It’s such a stereotype. But humor me. I’m trying to piece some stuff together.”
“Ok. Well, she was kind of in and out. She wasn’t one to stick around long. I actually haven’t see her… wow, not since Abuela’s funeral.”
“Do you know anything about what she was like growing up?”
“I always heard stories about what a wild child she was as a teenager, and sometimes I’d overhear whispers about her latest dramas.”
“Like what?”
I think back, trying to remember the things that were said. I was so young and didn’t really care all that much. I knew she was my mother in title, but with my grandmother there, I never felt like there was anything missing. “I guess things like when she’d get fired from her jobs or the fallout with her latest boyfriend. I think only one of my tias actually kept in touch with her. Everyone else kind of dropped her when she started stealing money. I didn’t find that out until right before Abuela died. So I don’t know if she’s on drugs or what. She seemed fine at the funeral, a little haggard. But we all were a little haggard that day, so I didn’t think anything of it.”
He nods his head and stares off like he’s thinking.
“What?” I ask. “You’re thinking really hard right now.”
He smiles and stands up, grabbing a magazine off the table in the corner. “There’s some new research I was reading the other day and your situation with women kind of came to mind.”
“What kind of research?”
He flips through the magazine as he sits back down. Once he finds the right page, he nods. “Yeah. It’s this article right here. This is a therapeutic resource magazine, so it’s chocked full of the latest information. Sort of an overview of new research so us therapists don’t have to track down medical journals all the time. This is the article I was talking about, if you’re ever interested in reading it.”
“How about you just give me an overview.”
“I was just about to.” Tossing the magazine onto the couch, he continues. “In a nutshell, it says there is a correlation between a mother who is an addict and the likelihood of her child being an addict. In fact, the increased chances of that child becoming an addict are very high.”
“And you think my mother was an addict?”
“From everything you’ve told me, it seems likely. Your family describing her as a wild child, stealing money from everyone, can’t hold down a job, bounces from boyfriend to boyfriend. Obviously, I don’t know for sure, but those are pretty typical behaviors.”
“But I’ve never done drugs. Ever. I was always too focused on soccer.”
“That’s where this particular research is a little different. Most studies focus on a drug-addicted mother and whether or not her child becomes a drug addict. But there are different kinds of addictions, and that’s what these researchers looked at. They didn’t focus on one particular kind of addiction. Only whether or not the child would become addicted to something.”
“Wait.” I shake my head as what he’s saying starts to come together. “Are you saying you think I’m a sex addict?”
He moves his head back and forth as he considers his words. “I wouldn’t necessarily say you’re an addict at this point. A true sex addict has an actual physiological response to sex. The cravings for that release are literally painful. But I think there are different severities.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I’ll use an alcoholic as an example. You’ve got true, full-blown alcoholics who are drunk every minute of every day. They can’t go without booze to the point that they don’t even second-guess ruining their entire lives for their next drink.
“Then there’s the functioning alcoholic. This is the person who has a drink before work in the morning and may sneak a shot or two during the day. They always have alcohol within reach and it might affect their health, but for the most part, it doesn’t necessarily affect their day-to-day life.
“And then there is the situational alcoholic that doesn’t drink all that much, but when they do, they can’t stop. They’re the ones who are likely to get a DUI or alcohol poisoning because they just can’t stop once they start.”
“So which one am I?” I ask. Everything he’s saying is starting to make sense.
“Let me ask you a question. When was the last time you had sex? With a groupie, or well, with anyone?”
I swallow, not wanting to admit it out loud. I’m still too ashamed of myself. “I, uh… the day of my divorce. It wasn’t sex, it was just um…”
“You don’t have to explain. I get it,” he says without judgement. “So a couple of weeks ago?”
I nod.
“You haven’t had sex after any of your games recently?”
I shake my head. “I haven’t really wanted to go to any parties. Just haven’t been in the mood, ya know? That last time made me feel… it just didn’t give me what I needed.”
“Which was what?”
“I don’t really know. I mean, it calmed down my adrenaline and all. But I felt really gross afterwards. It just wasn’t the same.”
“That’s usually how the situational alcoholic feels when they finally stop drinking permanently.”
&n
bsp; I stare at him, unable to say anything as my mind spins. Is it possible that I’m a situational sex addict? I think back to all the times I’ve been with someone other than Mari. The situation was always the same… game, party, sex… game, party, sex… no variation. No going out and looking for a woman, just taking what was right in front of me once the regular routine started.
“I need to make something clear, Santos.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Recognizing the pattern doesn’t take away your responsibility for your actions. You still have to process through all of that because I know the guilt eats at you.”
I nod, still speechless.
“You have an opportunity to change your patterns before you turn into a legitimate sex addict. But you need to make sure you’re doing it for yourself. Not Mari. Not the kids. You. You have to be able to recognize your own patterns so you can change them if you are ever going to have a successful relationship with anyone.”
My mind is still in a fog as we finish up the session and make plans to meet in another week. I’ve never put too much thought into my choices because doing so would crush me with guilt. And no one else has ever put too much thought into my choices because they chalked it up to me being an athlete.
But now, I’m seeing it for what it is… the choices of a man who is out of control. And I want to get that control back.
Ideas on how to fix this run through my head. I have to fix this. I want to fix this. I want to get back in control. Yes, I want to do this for my family. But also for my future relationships. And strangely enough, I want to do this for myself. Because I never, ever want to feel this way again.
The shrill noise of the drill makes the kids run away holding their ears, which makes my life easier because they stay away from the front door. The last thing I want right now is for one of them to try and bolt. I’m still feeling too much guilt over Theo getting out the other day.
I was nervous to call Santos and tell him what happened. Really nervous. The entire thing was my fault. Distraction is understandable when you’re a mom of three small children. But there is no excuse for the amount of emotional distraction I was allowing myself to have.