Beautiful Boy

by David Sheff

  I blame my hypocrisy. It makes me wince. How can I tell him not to use drugs when he knows that I have? "Do as I say, not as I did." I tell him that I wish I hadn't used them. I tell him about friends whose lives were ruined by them. And meanwhile, in my mind, as always I blame the divorce. I tell myself that many children of divorce do all right and many children in intact families don't. Regardless, there is no way to undo what I know to be the most traumatic event of Nic's life.

  The next few days, I continue to talk to Nic about drugs, about peer pressure, and about what cool really is. "It may not seem like it, but it is far cooler to be engaged, to study and learn," I say. "Looking back, I now think the coolest kids were the ones who stayed away from drugs."

  I know how lame I sound and how I would have responded at Nic's age: "Yeah, right." Even so, I try to convince him that I know what I'm talking about, that I understand the ubiquity and the persistent pressure to do drugs, that I understand their seductiveness.

  Nic seems to listen intently, though I am unsure if or how he is taking it in. Indeed, I sense that my close relationship with Nic has changed. Now I am the occasional target of his exasperation. We sometimes argue over sloppy homework or half-done chores. But it's confusing, because it all seems within the realm of acceptable and expectable adolescent rebellion.

  Three weeks later, I'm driving Nic to a doctor's appointment for a checkup. I turn down the music on the tape player and start in again. I know there is no point in haranguing him because he will just shut down, but I want to cover every angle. In the conversation that has been going on for weeks now, my tone has ranged from warning to pleading. Today is less strained. I inform him that Karen and I have decided that he is no longer grounded. He nods and says, "Thanks."

  I continue to watch him over the next few weeks. Nic's somberness seems to have diminished. I file away the marijuana bust as an aberration, maybe even a useful one because it has taught him a salient lesson.

  I think it did. Nic is in the eighth grade. And things seem much better.

  He rarely hangs out with the boy who had been (I'm convinced) the worst influence on him—the one who, according to Nic, sold him the pot. (About this, I believe Nic, not the boy's mother.) Instead, he spends a lot of his free time surfing with his West Marin friends. We surf together, too, driving up and down the coast, chasing waves from Santa Cruz to Point Arena. On these outings, there's time to talk, and Nic seems open and optimistic. He's motivated in school, too. He wants to do well, in part to increase his chances of being accepted at one of the local private high schools.

  Nic continues to devour books. He reads and rereads Franny and Zooey and Catcher in the Rye. After reading To Kill a Mockingbird, he turns in a book report in the form of a tape from Atticus Finch's answering machine with messages for Scout and Jem from Dill, and anonymous, threatening phone calls to Atticus for defending Tom Robinson. He reads A Streetcar Named Desire and then tapes a radio interview with Blanche DuBois. For an assignment about Death of a Salesman, he draws a cartoon bemoaning the Lomans' family values. Next is a biography project for which Nic, dressed in a white wig, white mustache, and white suit, walks onstage and recites, in a lilting southern accent, the life story of Samuel Clemens. "My pen name is Mark Twain. Sit back and let me tell you my story." There have been no more indications that he is smoking anything—neither marijuana nor cigarettes. In fact, he has seemed happier and guardedly excited about his upcoming eighth-grade graduation.

  It is a warm, windless weekend. Nic is thirteen. After a quiet day around the house and with the promise of a mounting south swell, he and I strap our surfboards onto the roof of the station wagon and drive on the winding road that leads to a beach south of Point Reyes. We reach the surf break after an hour-long hike on a grassy path through sand dunes.

  Lugging our boards under our arms, Nic and I trudge to the mouth of an estuary, reputed to be a breeding ground for great white sharks. Rabbits skitter past us and a V formation of pelicans flies overhead. The sun hangs low; its rays seem painted on with a watery apricot wash. As dusk settles in, the fog pours like pancake batter onto the hilly ranchland and, from there, spills over the bay. We have never seen better surf here. Six- to eight-foot waves roll in, breaking in long, peeling, silky lines. We quickly change into our wetsuits and gallop into the water, leaping atop our boards. The disappearing sun projects a stunning array of ruby-red stripes along the western horizon. Opposite, the moon, fat and yellow, dangles low. Two other surfers are in the water, but they soon leave, so Nic and I have the place to ourselves. It is thrilling surfing, as good as it gets.

  Paddling out, there is no sound other than the smooth whoosh of the surfboard cleaving the water and then, at regular intervals, the rumble of a breaking wave. We ride one, paddle out, and then ride another. Once I look up and see Nic crouched low on his board inside a barrel, the wave's waterfall encasing him.

  It gets darker. Fog obscures the moon and envelops us. I realize that Nic and I are in two different currents that are pushing us to opposite sides of the channel. We are separated by a hundred yards. I begin to panic, because the thickening fog and growing dimness prevent us from seeing each other well.

  I paddle blindly toward Nic, frantically seeking him until my arms are exhausted from fighting the current. Finally, after what seems like a half-hour of nonstop paddling, a gust of wind wipes clean a section of fog and I see him. Tall and magnificent, Nic, standing atop a sliver of ivory, carves up and down a dazzling, glassy wall of water, white spray sparking off the edge of his board, a brilliant smile on his face. When he sees me, he waves.

  Exhausted, famished, wind-burned, and waterlogged after a long session, we peel off our wetsuits, load up our backpacks, and walk back to the car.

  On our way home, we stop at a taqueria. We eat burritos the size of potbellied pigs and sip lime soda. Nic is reflective, talking about the future—about high school. "I still can't believe I got in," he says.

  I don't know if I had ever seen him as excited as he was after he spent a day visiting the school. "Everyone seemed so..." He paused to find the right word. "Passionate. About everything. Art, music, history, writing, journalism, politics. And the teachers..." He stopped again to catch his breath. "The teachers are amazing. I sat in on a poetry class. I didn't want to leave." Then, quieter, he said, "I'll never get in." The competition for slots at this school is intense.

  He did get in, and now, in the euphoric moment, he concludes: "Everything seems pretty great."

  ***

  The graduation ceremony is planned for an early June afternoon. A church auditorium has been booked and parents have been enlisted to set up chairs, a podium, decorations, and refreshment tables. On the day of the event, I come early to help prepare.

  A couple hours later, the teachers and family members arrive and are seated in rows of folding chairs. Next come the graduates. They are awkward in their fancy clothes. Many of the girls wear new or borrowed dresses. Most can barely walk in their high heels; they wobble as if they're tipsy. The boys appear surly in their stiff collars, fidgeting with their neckties and tugging morosely on their shirttails, which somehow manage to untuck a half-inch at a time until almost all of them hang out over their dress pants.

  The children may be miserably costumed, but their moods rise to the occasion. Somehow their decency does, too. One by one, the graduates' names are called by the school principal. Some more steady than others, they march up a small flight of stairs and walk across the low stage to accept their diplomas. Their classmates cheer wildly. For that day and only for that day, they root for one another with unbridled and generous enthusiasm. For each girl and each boy. With equal vigor, they hoot and holler. They applaud the nerds and foxes and dweebs and queen bees and hoods; the meek, the jocks, the hip, the outcasts.

  I never anticipated being moved by an eighth-grade graduation, but I am. We have come to know these children well after three years of driving them in various carpools and to field trips; of having the
m at our house for parties; of attending their speeches, plays, music recitals, and sports events; of commiserating with their parents; and of hearing from one another and mostly from Nic about their every success, crisis, crush, and hurt feeling. The boys and girls, still children but testing the waters of adulthood, march forward. The boy whose mother denied that her son had sold Nic the marijuana. The one with whom he got drunk. A surfing friend. The buzz-headed skateboarders. The girl with whom Nic used to speak for hours on the phone at night until I made him hang up. The carpool kids. All the children, gawky and uncertain, diplomas fluttering in their hands, walk unsteadily down from the dais, now middle-school graduates, heading to the snake pit of high school.

  ***

  It is the weekend after graduation and some families are gathered at Heart's Desire Beach on this sultry June afternoon. The bay is still. We eat a potluck dinner of chips and salsa, a whole roasted salmon, grilled hamburgers, soda. The shimmering bay is warm and the kids swim and kayak and canoe, inevitably capsizing. On shore in sweatshirts, their hair still wet, Nic's friends talk excitedly about their summer plans together—the beach, camps—but not Nic. It never gets any easier when he prepares to leave.

  The fog rolls in and the party adjourns. Back home, we sit by the fire and Nic reads us the yearbook entries from his friends. "You'll have a million girlfriends in high school." "Have fun surfing." "I'm not going to be living here next year so I'll probably see you in like ten years. Keep in touch." "I love you funny bunny baby. I've loved you as long as I've known you." "I'm dying to see the new baby whatever I should call her. I hope Jasper likes her." "Good luck with high school and the new little fart." "I didn't know you that well but have a fun summer." "Have fun this summer you stupid dickhead. Just kidding." "Dedicate a book to me sometime. I'll thank you when I get the Oscar. Toodles..." His teacher wrote: "Wherever you be, wherever you may, seek the truth, strive for the beautiful, achieve the good."

  We are beginning another summer made bittersweet by the knowledge that Nic is going to Los Angeles, though he has arranged with Vicki to wait until the baby is born.

  On the morning of June 7, Karen, Nic, Jasper, and I get into the car. The baby is breach and so will be delivered by C-section. Karen chose her mother's birthday. The appointment is for six. Karen's sister has given us soothing music by Enya, but Karen asks for Nirvana. She turns "Nevermind" up loud.

  Gotta find a way

  A better way

  I better wait

  I better wait

  I drive through the forest and then stop at Nancy and Don's, dropping off Nic and Jasper, who wait with their grandparents for a call from the hospital.

  Our daughter is born at seven in the morning. Her hair is curly and black and her eyes are luminous. We name her Marguerite but call her Daisy.

  Nancy arrives at the hospital with Nic and Jasper, who are escorted into the dimly lit room where Karen holds Daisy. A nurse asks Nancy and Nic if they would like to give the baby her first bath. Jasper sits near Karen, while Nancy and Nic, guided by the nurse, wheel Daisy in her bassinet to the nursery, where they help weigh, bathe, and dress her in a soft white nightgown with little pink elephants and doll-sized booties. She is eight pounds, twenty-one inches long. Staring at the baby, Nic tells Nancy, "I never thought I would have a family like this."

  We drive home the following day. Alongside Nic in the backseat, there are now two car seats.

  I wake up early the next morning and find the two boys, both in flannel pajamas, sitting on the couch with cups of hot chocolate. Nic reads Frog and Toad Are Friends. Jasper cuddles close to him. A small fire burns in the fireplace. Nic closes the book and gets up to cook breakfast for all, and while he stands over the stove he sings in his best Tom Waits growl, "Well, the eggs chase the bacon round the fryin' pan."

  We eat and then the boys and I go for a walk at a nearby beach, stopping afterward to pick blackberries for a pie. It takes longer than it should, because Nic and Jasper, blue-fingered and blue-mouthed, place one berry in the basket for every dozen that wind up in their mouths.

  Back home, after an early dinner and the pie, Nic and Jasper play in the grass. Like a lion cub, Jasper climbs onto Nic's head, and they roll around on a big red ball. Karen is holding Daisy, who is looking around with her wide eyes. Brutus, lumbering over like a sleepy brown bear, sprawls on the grass near the kids. With Jasper hanging on to his neck, Nic rolls over and, holding the dog by the jowls and staring into his eyes, sings, "Give me a kiss to build a dream on." He plants a big kiss on Brutus's nose. Brutus yawns, Nic playfully tosses Jasper into the air, and Daisy drifts into a soft sleep.

  I look at the three of them and recall a bewildering emotion that I recognized for the first time back when Nic was born. Along with the joy of parenthood, with every child comes a piercing vulnerability. It is at once sublime and terrifying.

  In the newspaper a few days ago, I read about a school-bus explosion in Israel and an update on some of the families of the children killed over a year ago in the Oklahoma City bombing; stray bullets hitting children in a refugee camp in Bosnia; and a story from China, where a convicted armed robber, on his way to the gallows, screamed out to his brother, "Take care of my son." I felt a new quality of anguish. Maybe parents feel for every child. Maybe we feel more than we ever knew possible. As I look at my three children, in the diffused gold light that shines unsteadily through the poplar leaves, I feel overfull with the knowledge that for this moment they are safe and happy, which is ultimately all we parents want. If only it could be like this always—the children nearby, getting along, happy, and safe.

  5

  Your psycho husband is torturing my little brother."

  Nic, addressing Karen, who has just entered the room, is standing near me with his arms on his hips. It is a rainy morning on the day he heads to Los Angeles. I am brushing out a matted tangle in Jasper's hair, and Jas is shrieking as if I am pulling out his fingernails with pliers. Nic, who after a shower is wrapped in a blue towel, dons an orange parka, steps into a large pair of green garden boots by the front door, and snaps on a pair of the little kids' dress-up driving goggles. He brandishes a wooden spoon.

  "Unhand that knave," he says to me. To Jasper, he says, "Oh, the wretched, wretched sorrow of your plight, my lovely brother. Oh, the unfairness. The cruelty."

  Into the spoon he then sings, "My Gallant Crew, Good Morning," from HMS Pinafore, further distracting Jasper, who allows me to finish brushing his hair.

  Nic, who has already packed, says his goodbyes. Jasper and Nic do their secret handshake, a complicated ritual: a normal shake, their hands skimming off each other and clasping together, Nic's fist tapping the top of Jasper's, and then the reverse, another clasping shake from which the two hands slide slowly apart, and ending with their forefingers pointing toward each other while in unison they say, "You!"

  Jasper cries. "No, Nicky, I don't want you to go." They hug and then Nic kisses baby Daisy on the forehead. He and Karen hug again.

  "Sputnik, old buddy, have a great summer," she says.

  "I'll miss you, KB." "Write me."

  "Write back."

  Driving to the airport, I take the scenic route along Ocean Beach rather than drive through the city. Nic stares at the rough sea. At the United terminal, I park the car in the garage and walk with Nic to the counter, where he checks his suitcase. We say our goodbyes at the gate.

  Nic says, "Everything."

  I respond, "Everything."

  Saying goodbye at the airport cuts a new slice into my heart each time, but I put up a good show because I don't want him to feel worse than he already does.

  After he boards, I watch through the glass wall as the massive metal shell containing him pulls away from the gate and takes off.

  Though it may be the best we can do, I loathe joint custody. It presupposes that children can do just as well when they are divided between two homes, each defined by a different parent and different step-parents and sometimes step-sibli
ngs and a jumble of expectations, discipline, and values that often contradict one another. "Home is a holy thing," Emily Dickinson said. But homes is an antilogy. How many adults can imagine having two primary homes? For children, home is even more important, the psychological as well as physical cradle of development, the brick-and-mortar incarnation of all that their parents represent: stability, safety, and the rules of life.

  The week after Nic leaves, I interview a renowned child psychologist named Judith Wallerstein, who founded the Judith Wallerstein Center for the Family in Transition in Marin County, not far from Inverness, for a magazine article. She gained international attention when she brought sobering news to divorce-happy post-60s America. Before that time, divorce was difficult, stigmatized, and rarer, but changing mores and no-fault split-ups made it easy and common. It was a liberating change for many adults—societal conventions no longer confined people to bad marriages. The general assumption, mostly based on wishful thinking, was that children would be happier if their parents were. But Dr. Wallerstein discovered that in many cases, they were traumatized.

  She began her interviews with two- to seventeen-year-olds whose parents had divorced in the early 1970s. She found that the children were having a difficult time coping with the breakups, but she assumed that the strains would be short-lived. She met these children for a second interview more than a year later. Not only had they not recovered, but they were doing worse.