by Janis Thomas
“You’re back with Lawrence?”
“I was never not with Lawrence,” he says, irritated.
I make a conscious decision not to sift through the new memories in my head. I don’t need to get up to speed with Colin and his life right now. But I can be happy for him.
“Congratulations, Colin. I mean it.”
“Thanks.” He is silent for a beat, then says, “Maybe you can read it sometime. Give me your notes.”
“You have Eliza for that.”
He snickers. “Novels about twentieth-century literary figures aren’t really her thing. She’s more of a chick-lit kind of girl.”
“Lucky you.”
“Anyway, let me know if you need anything, okay, Em? I know we’re separated, but I still care about you.”
The front door of the house opens, and I sit up at attention.
“I have to go. I’m at work. ’Bye.”
The boys emerge from the house, laughing raucously at something. Another teenager is part of the group, bringing their sum to four.
I end the call and toss the cell into my purse, then make myself completely still. If Josh looks this way, I will be caught. He knows this car. If I don’t move or flinch or breathe, he might not notice me. I should have parked farther down the street.
A few seconds pass as Josh and his friends gather up their bikes. He glances in my direction but doesn’t spot me. I exhale as he jumps onto his bike and follows his friends down the block.
They ride all the way downtown, a posse of teenagers. Their riding is more erratic than before, as though they are emboldened by their greater number. It takes strategic driving on my part to stay behind them, and several times I’m forced to veer into an alley or a parking lot to give them time to pull ahead.
I can’t hear them, but I see their enthusiastic repartee. At one point, Josh throws his head back and laughs. A donkey bray of laughter echoes in my mind and I smack at my forehead, forcefully enough to smart. I loved his laughter, I did, but he doesn’t laugh that way anymore. I struggle to access a memory of his (new) laughter, but none comes. I hope to get close enough without being seen so that I can hear what he sounds like now.
I’m not surprised by their destination, only unnerved. The four boys guide their bikes up to the sidewalk in front of the comic book store next door to Mimi’s Hair Salon and across the street from Paw-Tastic Pets, Dolores’s antiques shop, and Lettie’s second-floor psychiatric practice.
I pull to the curb at a meter directly in front of the pet store, as I’ve done on numerous occasions in the last several weeks. I try not to think of Charlemagne, or the dollhouse, or the strange little woman who sold me a lion necklace that I hid in the drawer of my desk, or the therapist who doesn’t think I’m insane. Instead, I concentrate on Josh and his friends.
They’ve joined an even larger group, and I recognize some of the boys from the day we came for a haircut. If my faded recollection of that (altered) day can be trusted, the group of teenagers was there before we went into Mimi’s and remained there until well after the paramedics left with my son. This is their hangout. Josh could be here for hours, shooting the breeze, riffling through comics from the outside racks.
I squint across the street. Two of the teenagers, dressed in black jeans and flannel shirts despite the August heat, greet Josh. One of them looks familiar. He says something, and Josh bursts into laughter. Parker joins in.
I feel confined by the Mercedes. I can’t see my son well enough from my car and I can’t hear him at all. I need to get closer.
A few doors down from the comic book store is a street café with potted ficus trees lining the perimeter of an outdoor seating area. If I were to get a table in just the right spot, I’d have a perfect, and perfectly hidden, view. But I’ll have to cross the street at the very end of the block to escape detection. Which means I’ll have to pass by the pet store and Dolores’s antiques.
I get out of the car and shove some quarters into the meter, then trot over to the nearest building. I stay close to the storefronts, hoping they’ll camouflage my approach should Josh glance my way. I stride quickly past Paw-Tastic Pets without looking in the window. I know Charlemagne won’t be there. I don’t know if he’s still in that cage in the back corner of the store, but I tell myself I don’t care. Josh can walk. Josh can bike. Josh can joke with his friends and type on his cell phone and laugh without constraints. Josh can do anything. There is no comparison between that and the fate of a little dog.
My pace slows as I pass Dolores’s store. Try as I might to keep my attention on the sidewalk in front of me, I can’t help but glance into the front display. Mistake. The dollhouse is still there, and although I don’t stop or slow my pace, I see it. And I know, as I continue toward the end of the block, that what I saw was neither a figment of my imagination, nor a hallucination. It was there. On the first floor of the dollhouse, next to the kitchen table. An empty wheelchair.
Gooseflesh rises on my arms. I want to turn around and run back to the shop and look in the window and ask that strange little woman what the hell is going on. But I force myself to stay the course, because I’m not sure I really want to know.
I don’t want to know.
If this is all a dream and I’ll wake up at any moment, if this is an extended hallucination or lunacy or if I’ve died and I’m experiencing one final delusion of consciousness before I depart this earthly realm, then so be it. I don’t care. If any of those are true, I will wring out as many moments of seeing my son as a physically whole person as I possibly can.
I stay the course. But I feel Dolores’s eyes on me.
I reach the café without being seen, buy myself a latte and a ready-made sandwich, then step out onto the patio and choose a table that affords me a slightly obscured view of the comic book store.
Josh is leafing through a comic book. One of the black-clad kids saunters over to Josh. I flinch with sudden recognition. It is that boy. He procures a pack of cigarettes and offers one to my son. To my horror, Josh takes it.
“Thanks, dude.”
Josh walks and talks and smokes.
The mother in me, the lioness protecting her young, is compelled to march over to him and yank the cigarette from his lips. What then? Give him a spanking? Send him home? Forget the cigarette. He’s a teenager. A normal teenager trying out stupid things like all his friends. He has friends. Let him be, let him do this, just today. If this isn’t a dream and he’s still normal tomorrow and the next day and the day after that, then you can reprimand him, punish him, ground him. But today, let him be and be thankful that he is.
I sip at my latte. And watch.
A moment later, the proprietor of the comic book store comes out and glares at the group of teens.
“Come on, guys, I’ve told you before. No smoking out here.”
“It’s a free country, dude,” that boy tells him.
“Yes, it is,” the man says. “You’re free to smoke elsewhere.”
That boy puffs up his chest. “You gonna make us leave? We spend a lot of coin at your store.”
The man takes a breath. “I know,” he says calmly. “And I appreciate it. But I have the right to ban smoking within a twenty-five-foot radius of my store.”
“Fuck that.” Josh. My throat tightens. “You gonna call the cops?”
“If I have to.”
“Come on, bro,” Parker says. “Let’s get out of here.”
“No, wait,” Josh says. “Look here, dude. One, two, three . . .” Josh counts out loud, taking a step away from the store with each number. By the time he reaches twenty-five, he stands in the middle of the street. A car horn blares, and my heart jackhammers as a Prius screeches to a halt inches from Josh’s knees.
“You’re gonna make me stand in the street?” he calls to the man. “That’s, like, putting a minor in harm’s way. Isn’t that against the law?”
The other teenagers laugh, but I am aghast. My son is behaving abhorrently.
J
ust like any other teenager, I remind myself.
“Get out of the street,” the man yells. The driver of the Prius lays on the horn again. Josh smirks then ambles back to the sidewalk.
Josh. My sweet little boy.
“Put it out or get out,” the man says.
“I’m done anyway,” Josh says. He drops the butt to the ground and smashes it with his sneaker. His friends follow suit. That boy takes one last long drag on his cigarette then makes a show of putting it out against his left palm. The other boys hoot and cheer him on.
“Teenagers can be troublesome, can’t they?”
I look up to see Dolores standing beside my table. My neck spasms with tension.
“Do you mind if I sit with you for a moment?”
I don’t answer. “What is it you want?”
Without an invitation, the old woman pulls out the chair next to mine and lowers herself onto it. “Well, I saw you walk by and thought I should say hello and see if there’s anything you’d like to discuss.”
Like why there’s an empty wheelchair in your dollhouse. I don’t respond.
“It’s good to see you, Emma,” she says. “How are you?”
“Fine.” I don’t want to get into a dialogue with her. I just want to watch my son. I turn away from her and return my focus to Josh.
A flash of sunlight assaults my eyes as the glass door to Mimi’s Hair Salon opens. Devi, Lola’s daughter, walks out of the salon, clutching her mother’s hand. The hairstylist turns toward the teenagers and frowns. The group of boys goes silent as each of them sees the mother and daughter.
A ripple of laughter threads its way through the boys, and soon, they are all laughing, including Josh.
“Wha’ are they laughing a’?” Devi asks her mom as they move in the opposite direction down the sidewalk.
“Wha’ are they laughing a’?” Josh mimics unkindly, and his compatriots go into fits of hysterics. Bile rises from deep within me. I’m going to vomit.
“Troublesome and cruel,” Dolores says quietly. “That’s a normal teenager for you.”
I stand so quickly I almost overturn my chair. I leave my latte and the sandwich on the table and scurry from the patio without saying a word.
I hide in my car for an interminable amount of time. It’s better from here. Safer. I can’t read too much into Josh’s body language, nor can I hear what he says. I can merely appreciate how he moves with such ease and speaks with such vitality. Even after witnessing his unthinking cruelty, seeing him like this is a wonder.
An hour passes during which time I miss six calls from work. Three from Val, one from Bill Canning, one from Edward Wells, and one from Wally. I don’t listen to the voice mails.
Just before noon, the four boys trade fist bumps with the rest of the group, then grab their bikes and hit the street. I follow them for several blocks to the Cineplex, then watch as they buy their tickets and head inside.
I debate whether I should buy a ticket and follow them, but I know the odds of my getting caught are greater within the walls of the theater. I gaze at my son until he is completely out of sight, then pull away from the curb and make my way home.
The Civic is gone when I arrive, and I’m grateful that I don’t have to face my daughter. I need some time alone to sort through my thoughts and my memories, both old and new.
The first thing on my checklist: look at my journal to see if I made an entry for last night. I have no memory of writing down that wish. In fact, there exists in my mind a black hole between Josh’s seizure at the safari exhibit and my predawn somnambulist trek to his room. I know the rest of yesterday happened—I can contrive the events that transpired: the ambulance transporting us to the nearest hospital, Colin arriving and taking Katie home, me staying by Josh’s side, listening to the drones and beeps of the machines attached to him, falling asleep in the bedside chair. The scenario is a repeat. But while I know what occurred, when I think of the specifics, the time, the place, there is only nothingness where an image should be.
I should probably be worried. But I don’t have time.
Upstairs in the master bedroom, I sit on my bed and pull out the drawer of my nightstand. I withdraw my journal and flip to the last page. There is no mention of the wish.
I uncap the pen and make an entry: Yesterday, I wished that that thing had never happened, that Josh would no longer be disabled. It came true. Josh had cerebral palsy. Don’t forget, Emma. He used a wheelchair. Don’t forget.
I close the book and set it back in the nightstand.
The second thing on my checklist: I go to the family room. On the far wall are built-in shelves containing books and trophies. Before wishes, the trophies belonged only to Katie—cheer camp winner, girls’ softball league, creative writing competition, coed soccer. Now Josh’s name is etched into many of them—Little League baseball, boys’ basketball, regional freestyle swimming bronze medal, intramural tennis. I run my fingers along the engraved letters that spell JOSHUA DAVIES.
Above the trophy shelf is a row of photo albums. I withdraw a large brown album and carry it with me to the couch. My hand shakes as I open the cover. I know what I will see—the false memories are crowding my brain, demanding attention—but the photos are real, tangible.
There he is. Josh, a baby, gorgeous. Inquisitive eyes, hands reaching up up up. Josh and Katie when we first brought him home, big sis giving the newborn a suspicious glare as if to say, Is he really staying? Josh, a toddler, grasping the edge of the coffee table, already standing at eight months. Josh, on the move, waddling away from a laughing Colin.
I pore over every image on every page, laughing, crying, breathing, arguing with myself. I tell myself these photos, these images and memories are not real, but I believe in them anyway. Isn’t it true that manufactured memories are more real than lies? Human beings lie to themselves all the time. I’m happy, I’m healthy, I’m fine, I’m doing what I always wanted to do, I love him, I love her, it’s not cheating, it’s not stealing, it’s not coveting. Just because we talk ourselves into believing the lies doesn’t make them truer than a memory constructed by a hope, a prayer, a wish.
I push the debate aside so that I can appreciate what I see. The photos tell a tale so disparate to the one I know, of a boy, confident, egotistical even, sometimes mean, sometimes caring. A boy who plays basketball and tennis and baseball. A boy who doesn’t appreciate what he has because he’s a kid and doesn’t need to.
When I reach the end of the very last album, shadows have engulfed the family room. I glance at the clock and see that afternoon has turned to evening.
I put the albums back on the shelves and go to the kitchen, turn on the lights, and head for the fridge. I pull out the sausage and peppers, then go to the cupboard and grab a jar of sauce and some pasta.
I cook with fervor, my movements manic. I keep picturing Josh as he was BW and as he is now. I cannot question my wish. I cannot undo my wish. I can only move forward.
When he walks into the kitchen a short time later on his sturdy legs, and hugs me with his muscular arms, and smiles down at me with that extraordinary mouth, I am exhilarated anew. Until.
“So, Mom, can I take a rain check on the whole family dinner thing?”
I realize the hug was a bribe.
“How was the movie?” If I ignore the question, will it go away?
“Totally awesome. So about dinner?”
“Josh, no. No rain check.”
His tone shifts in an instant. “Come on, Mom! Seriously. We can do it another night.”
“No, Josh. Tonight. I want to hear all about the movie and your day.” And why on earth you were smoking and how you could possibly make fun of a child with Down syndrome.
He stamps his foot. “Family dinner is bullshit, Mom.”
“Josh,” I warn, even though I’ve already heard him use the F word today.
“It is!” he says. “Family dinner. Right. You and Dad are getting a divorce, he’s with Eliza, Katie hates me. You wor
k all the time. What family? It’s total BS. It’s like you suddenly get a bug up your ass and want to do the whole mom thing. And that’s cool. But I already have plans.” He stops his tirade and looks at me. His expression hardens. “Look, I’m spending the night at Jesse’s. Parker is going to the lake with his family tomorrow, so this is like the last time we can all hang out before summer’s over.”
I’m taken aback by his tirade, his manner, and the way he speaks to me. What kind of son have I raised? “And what if I say no?”
“Are you? Are you saying no? That would totally suck, Mom.”
I stare at him. My tall, handsome, cruel son. I take a breath. “Why don’t you stay for a little while, Josh. We don’t have to have dinner. But let’s just sit down at the table and talk. Just for a few minutes.”
He gives me a pained look. “About what?”
The stars, the universe, time travel, Greek mythology, all the things you used to talk about. “Whatever you want.”
“Gee, Mom, that sounds really fun,” he says, his voice rife with sarcasm. “But the guys are waiting for me outside.”
“You could invite them in.”
“No way. Ew. I’m going.”
“Josh, wait. Just stay a little longer.” I’m pleading with my son.
“Can’t, Mom. I’m out. We’ll do the whole BS family dinner tomorrow night. Okay? Thanks.”
He trots out of the kitchen and heads up the stairs. I stand, hands on hips, staring after him. A few minutes pass. He reappears carrying a backpack. He doesn’t bother to kiss me goodbye, just tosses a wave over his shoulder. I hear the front door slam shut behind him.
My cell phone rings. I grab it from the counter. The LCD screen displays Katie’s name.
“Hi, Mom. So, Simone’s dad is taking their family to Magritte’s for dinner. You know Magritte’s, right? Totally swag, and they invited me along. Is that okay?”
“Yes,” I tell her. “Family dinner’s been rescheduled anyway.”
“Thanks, Mom. You’re the best.”
I set the phone down and begin to put away the spaghetti dinner. It will keep until tomorrow, although I suspect something else will come up that will interfere with those plans.