Tuesday, April 5 @ 7:55 a.m.
SoNotWicked wrote:
MORNING, everyone!! I had initially planned to spend today talking about summer camp—there’s been chatter on here lately about how the last day of school isn’t far away. It’s THAT time of year AGAIN—time to think about what we’re gonna do with the munchkins for TWO months. But I’m gonna save that one for ANOTHER time.
I don’t know about all of you, but ever since MOTORCITY reminded us about LMan’s upcoming departure, I’ve been thinking about this: HOW do you foster parents and guardian types let yourself pour all this love and attention into a kid you might NEVER see again, once he goes home? Do you protect yourself a bit by holding SOMETHING back, stop short of investing yourself 100%?
I personally can’t IMAGINE putting in the kind of time and energy it takes to look after a kid without having some assurance that in return, I’ll get lifelong love and loyalty. Someone to visit me when I’m old and decrepit and muttering my days away at SHADY PINES! And here you guys are, doing all this for kids who may never contact you after this. How on EARTH?
Scott ran a hand across his chin and wished SoNotWicked had gone with the summer camp topic. Scanning the day’s responses, he lingered as always on the posts by his closest forum friends. The first was from LaksMom, sending a “thinking of you” message as she had done every morning for the past several weeks.
At first, he had pictured LaksMom sitting in the lotus position on a big shiny purple cushion, her laptop balanced on her knees, long black hair hanging in a braid down the length of her back, a beatific smile on her face as she chatted away to her online friends. It was a stereotyped vision, to be sure, and likely racist. And completely inaccurate, he thought, now that he knew her better. Now he imagined her in an expensive suit, briefcase in one hand, travel coffee mug in the other, tapping out posts to the forum on her phone before jumping into her car and rushing downtown to her fiftieth-floor corner office. Scrolling further, he saw another post from her, this one directly responding to SoNotWicked’s question.
Tuesday, April 5 @ 9:15 a.m.
SNW, I have to say I’ve been thinking a lot about that myself. I think it’s pretty clear MotorCity’s the all-in type. Same with FosterFranny, though that situation might be a little different—I know FF is planning to adopt those kids out of foster care. I’m interested in hearing from you on this, MotorCity. I know it must be tough to think/write about. But I’m hoping discussing it with us will make your upcoming goodbye easier somehow? Or not *easy* but at least more tolerable?
Scott scrolled further and found a message from another friend, flightpath:
Tuesday, April 5 @ 4:20 p.m.
Also interested in hearing from MotorCity on this—and FF. You all know I think the foster/guardians among the group are the true heroes. I don’t have it in me—too selfish.
Flightpath had joined the forum to find moral support and advice for living with an aging parent after her dementia-suffering mother moved in. She became so close to the regular members, though, that even after her mother died, she still checked in every day. Hers was a voice of reason among the sometimes helicopter-parentish questions posed by the younger members, even if her responses were sprinkled with the tiniest bit of acid. When someone asked a few weeks ago how to help a child finish a third-grade science project, flightpath answered, “Tell him you’ve already passed third grade, then leave the room and let him do it himself.”
She had chided plenty of them off the ledge when they were twisting themselves into knots about something they were unable to offer their children, whether fancy vacations or college educations or, in Scott’s case, a permanent father figure, after Curtis returned to LaDania.
“Knock it off, MotorCity,” flightpath ordered. “You can control one thing here, and that’s what you offer that child while he’s with you. And since you seem to have forgotten what that is, I’ll remind you: a whole year with the best father figure he could ever hope to have. Beyond that, you can’t control anything. Stop pretending you can.”
Another of Scott’s closest forum friends was the brash-talking, sports-loving 2boys. He never married the mother of his son, who left them both shortly after the boy was born. Several years later, he married a woman with a child of her own. A year into their marriage, she was diagnosed with leukemia, and two years after that he was a widower and the single father of two young boys.
He joined the forum shortly after his wife’s death, declaring himself a bachelor for life (“they either take off on me or they die on me; one way or the other, i appear to repel women”). Scott and 2boys bonded quickly over sports, often filling the message board with so many posts about team records and player statistics and draft picks that one of the others would lightly tell them to take it over to a sports blog so everyone else could get a word in. Scrolling a little further on the page, Scott saw a note from 2boys from later in the day.
Tuesday, April 5 @ 4:33 p.m.
@flight—not sure i could do it either. hell, half the time i resent all the time i spend on my 2, and they’re attached to me by blood and law. if it weren’t for the tax break they provide, i swear i might try to unload ’em.
@motor—first things first, you hear about the missiles pettitte threw in the first 2 innings last night? the guy’s on fire; yanks’re gonna take the series this year, i’m tellin ya right now. nah, first thing is l-man, i know that. you know i’m in awe, i’ve said it before. and i’m as interested as the others are in hearing how you’re handling it.
Scott hovered over the keyboard for a moment while he composed his thoughts, and then began to type.
Tuesday, April 5 @ 6:53 p.m.
@SoVERYWicked—that’s what you should be called, for raising this issue right now! j/k—it’s a fair topic, and I know others on the forum are/have been in a similar position and may want to discuss it. Seconds before I logged in, I was listening to LMan reading aloud and thinking how much I’ll miss having that sound in the background as I grade papers or write out basketball plays or chat with all of you. I can’t believe I only have 5 days left with his whispered, stuttered reading.
But to answer your Q, I don’t think of it in terms of what I’ve poured into him and won’t get back. I think of it in terms of what he’s poured into me this past year, and how much it’s gonna hurt to live without it. I’m trying to focus on being happy about what he and I have in store—he’s going to be reunited with his mom, and I’m going to have my own new family.
As I’m sure my wife would attest, though, I’m not doing all that well at keeping the positive focus. I’ve been told I act too much like a man who’s about to lose a child, and not enough like a man who’s about to gain one.
@LaksMama—you’re the virtual sister I never had. You know that. But you can’t know how much your morning shout outs help, or how much I’ll be counting on those for the next few weeks (well, now you know).
@boys—Post something when you can contribute intelligently. Yanks r done. Tigers alllll the way.
He hit “post” and angled his head toward Curtis, listening.
“You . . . can . . . sit . . . in . . . that . . . care.”
Music to his ears. He logged off the forum and shut down his laptop. “LMan, try that sentence again. I think you mean ‘chair,’ not ‘care.’”
“LMan? Since when do you call me LMan?”
He flicked the side of Curtis’s head. “I meant Little Man. ‘Chair.’ Try it again.” He flopped onto the couch, a few inches from Curtis, who wriggled closer, pressing himself against Scott’s side.
“You can . . . sit in . . . that . . . chair.”
“Awesome. How about five more pages, then some math.”
“Five more? I’ve already done five. Laurie only said I had to do five. And we might not have time to shoot if I do a whole ten.”
“Well, if five is good, then ten is great. And you want
to be great, right?”
Curtis huffed, and Scott shot him a warning look. “Fine. But only two math pages would be great, right? Anything more would be not so great, I think.”
Scott laughed. “Yeah, two math pages would be great.”
The trifecta of torture—reading practice, math practice and a shower—took too long to allow for a game of hoops. Curtis stood in front of his bedroom closet, sighing as he pulled on his pajamas. “I told you it should’ve been five pages.” He made a show of looking wistfully at the basketball posters that plastered his wall, then at the indoor hoop Scott had hung near his closet. Finally, he dragged a set of sad eyes to Scott, who leaned against the door frame and tried not to show his amusement at the melodrama and self-pity the kid had perfected.
Crossing the room, Scott grabbed the well-worn copy of Stuart Little from the bookshelf under the window and sat on the bed, stretching his long legs in front of him. He patted the space beside him. “How about we read an extra chapter about the mouse tonight? Or would you rather waste all of our tuck-in time pouting? Because we can do that instead, if you want.” He stuck his lower lip out, exaggerating the child’s expression.
Curtis tried to maintain his pout but was unable to prevent his lips from curling into a smile. “Extra Stuart!”
As the boy got settled, Scott pretended to study the cover of the book as he allowed himself a few moments to enjoy the contented silence, the feeling of the warm little body against his, the narrow arm resting on his leg. Curtis didn’t appear eager to interrupt the moment, so Scott rested his chin on the boy’s head and let his gaze move slowly around the room.
It was the ultimate little boy’s room: sports posters on the walls, an assortment of race cars, Legos and army men scattered on the wooden floor. Two rubber dinosaurs lay on their sides on an area rug designed to replicate a city map. Scott and Laurie had listened from their room as the dinosaurs decimated the city before school that morning. The brutes sent the city’s Lego occupants fleeing over the rug and under the bookshelf. A few made it as far as the closet, whose open door revealed an overflowing hamper and some very poorly hung clothes. A unit of the army had evidently tried, and failed, to protect the city; green limbs poked out from under one of the dinosaurs and Scott noticed a few deserters cowering among the books on the bookshelf.
The wiggling beside him told him it was time to read. He opened the book, gingerly retrieving the wrinkled photograph that marked the place where they had left off last night. The picture showed Scott and Curtis, huddled together on the bed as they were now, the then-brand-new Stuart Little in the boy’s hand. It was Curtis’s first night with them and Laurie had taken a million pictures to mail to LaDania and Bray, to show them Curtis was doing fine in his new, temporary residence. Curtis had asked for a copy, and it had served as their bookmark ever since.
As Scott was turning to set the picture on the bedside table, a small hand reached out to stop him. “Can I see it?”
Scott handed the picture over and the boy held it gingerly in both hands for a few seconds before tracing a finger slowly around the outline of the two images. “I’m gonna miss you, too,” he said. An answer to what Scott had said in the driveway hours earlier. “I love my mom, but . . .” He ran a pajama sleeve across his nose and mouth.
“Of course you do,” Scott said, kissing the boy’s head. “And the fact that you’ll miss me doesn’t mean you don’t love her, or you love her less. You can love both of us, the same way I love you and Laurie. And Bray. You’re not doing anything wrong.” He pulled Curtis closer. “I’m going to miss you more than I can tell you. But I’ll always be right here. And you can come over anytime. I’m counting on it. Who else am I going to wipe the court with?” He nudged the boy in the ribs and smiled.
Curtis giggled, nudging Scott back. “Yeah, but if I bring Bray with me, you’ll be the one being wiped all over the court.”
“Well, you got me there. But bring him anyway. You two are always welcome here.” He gave the boy’s shoulder a squeeze. “Always.”
Curtis sniffed and dragged his sleeve across his nose again before handing the picture over. While Scott was reaching to put it on the table, he felt fingers poking his armpit. He whipped around, grabbing the mischievous hand in his.
“Are you . . . tickling me? Are you saying, basically, that it’s tickling time? Because you know if you tickle me, that’s the message you’re sending.”
The boy shrieked and tried to move off the bed, but Scott grabbed him, flipped onto his knees and pinned the boy underneath. He held two wriggling arms with one hand and used the other to tickle until the shrieking grew to its usual deafening level. After a few final armpit pokes for good measure, he delivered the fake punch to the gut that always signaled the end of their matches, and sat against the headboard.
“Awwwww!”
Scott grabbed the hands that were poking his armpit again, trying to goad him into more tickling. “I know, I know. But it’s time to quiet things down, not torque them up.”
He turned to the book, not open to further negotiation about whether they would settle down or not. “Now, where did we leave the mouse last night?”
10.
Mara
Mara crossed the kitchen to the sliding glass doors and peered into the nighttime sky. Something moved in her peripheral vision and she drew back; it was the suncatcher, swinging from its fixture above the door frame. She touched it with a fingertip and watched it spin slowly, a miniature replica of Montreal’s Notre-Dame Basilica. She and Tom had bought it when they were there four years ago, visiting the city where they’d fallen in love in hopes of rekindling those feelings.
They met at McGill during their sophomore year, Mara having grown up mere blocks away, Tom across the border in upstate New York. She was planning to go to law school in the States; her parents were eager to move to warmer weather when they retired and wanted to live near their only child. Thanks to Pori’s work as a chemical engineer for a company with business on both sides of the border, he had dual citizenship in addition to an Indian passport, making life someplace warmer than Quebec a real possibility. Tom was thinking vaguely of medical school, though he made his plans sound a little less vague when he realized how serious his exotic, raven-haired companion was about her future.
She talked about her intended legal career on their first date, as they sat on the front steps of the church, drinking coffee from paper cups and pretending it was the cold that forced them to huddle closely together. She described in detail the high-powered litigation practice she planned to have, the fast track to partnership she intended to jump on, the long career that would last well past normal retirement age. And she teased him that if he was looking for an MRS to go with his MD, someone who would stay home all day and leave the working world to him, they had better part ways right then.
Tom laughed that night, but two years later, at the start of their senior year, he took her back to Notre-Dame. And as they stood on the steps where they had spent their first date, he told her he was looking for an MRS after all. He had always imagined he would end up with the kind of wife who stayed home and cooked meals, he confessed, but had come to realize that the only woman for him was one who would be as married to her career as she was to her husband. Who would infuriate him by bringing work home on weekends and away on vacation and everywhere in between.
That’s the kind of MRS he wanted, he told her, as he dropped to one knee, held out the ring he admitted wasn’t good enough for her and asked: Did she know anyone who fit that description? Mara tapped the suncatcher again and as it twirled faster, she spun her engagement ring on her finger. Tom had begged her many times to let him replace it with a better one. An expensive one, with the huge diamond he had wanted to give her then and could afford to give her now. She told him he had better not ever dare.
Mara eyed the church as it slowed once more. He had surprised her with the trip
four years ago, a few months after their visit to Dr. Misner. Tom hadn’t mentioned Huntington’s again in those few months, and Mara had taken better care to keep her moodiness in check. As a result, some of the wall of tension between them had crumbled a little, but it was still there, and she had been shocked when Tom had sprung the idea of a weekend away.
The trip was ostensibly for their anniversary, but on the morning of their second day, Tom sat Mara on the couch in their hotel room and confessed the real purpose for the getaway was for him to make a renewed effort at convincing her that all was not right with her. He desperately wanted her to reconsider seeing Dr. Thiry at the Huntington’s clinic. She could tell from the rigid way he held his shoulders that he was prepared for her to react aggressively at the mention of Huntington’s. Instead, she folded forward, head in her lap, and sobbed—about the symptoms she finally admitted she had, the diagnosis she conceded Tom was likely right about. She told him she’d been thinking about it since the night they’d seen Dr. Misner. She had thought about everything the doctor had told her about the disease, and she had done some research on her own. Eventually, she found a website with hundreds of comments written by early-stage Huntington’s patients themselves, or by the spouses, children and other family members who were caring for them. Mara recognized herself in the list of symptoms and in some of the early-stage testimonials she had read online, and she had decided, finally, that she wanted to be tested, to confirm the suspicion she now shared with Tom and his former classmate.
“If I have Huntington’s, I want to know,” she told Tom, as they gripped each other’s hands in their Montreal hotel room. “I need certainty, like you said. I want to prepare. And I want to find a way to explain it to Laks—maybe not the gory details, but at least the fact that it’s going to take me from her. She’s already been abandoned by one mother without explanation. I don’t want her to go through that a second time. If she’s going to lose a second one, I want her to know why.”
Five Days Left Page 7