by Amy Piers
“HOT DOG! I have him!”
The principal is mid-call to 911, and I wait, painstakingly on this roof with Dallas. He’s kicking and screaming—I’m going to need superhuman strength to hold him until the fire truck arrives.
Finally, I hear sirens.
[I see red.]
I’ve been tricked! The Evil She is trying to kill me again, just when I thought her was nice. There’s no such thing as a nice killer, so she is now the most evil person I have ever knowed. I have no breath left, and I’m trying to scream to tell everyone I’m dying, but no sound is coming out. I think this has to be the start of what dying feels like. I have to kick and scratch her so I don’t die before they all find out who the bad guy really is. This lady whispers lies to me, she follows me everywhere, and she takes away my choices. I have to tell the police about her as soon as I can talk again.
I throw my head back to crack hers again, but it doesn’t work. She seems stronger today, and she’s holding me tighter than any other day. Her leg is over the top of mine, and she is not letting me win at all. I need some new ideas to make her stop killing me. Wait—is that a siren? The police heared my wishes, and they are taking her to jail. I hear sirens getting louder, and louder, then they stop. I just have to survive until they take her away.
[I see you.]
Dallas elbows me in the side, and he’s kicking like crazy. He reaches his mouth down to my arm and plants his teeth, which hurts like nobody’s business. Instinctively, I push my arm into his bite, which opens his jaw and he releases. His screams are husky, and he seems breathless. I hear him trying to scream, but it comes out all breathy.
“You’re killing me!” he wheezes, “Why are you making me die?”
My arms are loose enough around his waist to know that I’m not actually taking his breath away, but the stress of the situation seems to be choking him. If I let him go, he’ll jump off the roof, but if I hold him, he might hyperventilate. Luckily, I see the cherry picking extension rise up beside the roof. A firefighter climbs out and approaches us.
“Be careful,” I ask, “He runs. If you’re going to take him from me, you have to promise that you won’t let him go.”
“OK—I won’t,” the firefighter agrees.
“I mean, from the second you take him from my arms to the second you put him back in my arms you can’t let him go,” I reiterate hysterically. “He is hard to hold, so make your grip tight enough to contain him—but you have to make sure he can breathe. Also, don’t talk to him. Just get him to the ground safely.”
“I promise you, I won’t let him go,” the firefighter confirms and reaches over to take him. I’ve never let anyone take Dallas from me while he’s raging—not even his own mother. What if this firefighter (albeit a 6’3” man) loses grip—just for a second? A second is all it takes for Dallas to run and jump.
“DON’T LET HIM GO!” I scream with empty arms, as I watch the fireman carry Dallas from the roof to the cherry picker. They climb inside, then I hear the hydraulics mark the cherry-picker’s descent, watching strangers take him as they fade from view. I’m alone on the roof right now, and I cry from the pit of my stomach. By the grace of God, we both survived. I’m angry and thankful, relieved and terrified—all at once. I assume the firefighters will come back for me, so I make a decision to trust their ability to keep him safe. I can’t do anything from up here, except take in the beauty of the San Francisco skyline, which will be forever associated with this unfortunate moment in time. Soon enough, the cherry picker returns and I’m ushered into the bucket with a different firefighter.
Once we’re on the ground, the first firefighter hands Dallas back into my arms, and I walk him to the front entrance of the school. I corner him by the doors, blocking his ability to run.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“You’re killing me!” he says, cowering.
I stand him up again on his feet.
“Dallas, I like you every single day. It doesn’t matter what you do, I like who you are. You’re safe, Buddy. You’re safe with me,” I tell him, “What’s your name?”
“Dallas,” he whispers, almost silently. “I’m Dallas.”
He falls to the floor and weeps, so I scoop him up onto my lap. He’s not at risk of running now, he’s ‘home’ within himself. He melts like wax into my arms and cries, as I stroke his sweaty hair away from his eyes.
“You’re OK, Buddy. You’re safe now,” I whisper, gently rocking him back and forth. He falls asleep in my arms, intermittently sniffling as he starts to calm in his sleep. The principal stands there with her mouth open, not sure whether to be enraged or impressed. She walks over and sits beside me on the ground.
“He’s not welcome back here, I know,” I say, trying to save her breath.
“Sorry,” she replies. “His parents are on their way over.”
I’m a little worried about what might happen next.
“Zoe,” the principal says quietly, “Are you OK?”
“I’ll be fine. This is part of the job,” I brush off her concern.
“Maybe you need to rethink your involvement with this family,” she says carefully, knowing that her suggestion is unwelcome. “For your own health and safety.”
“Things always get worse before they get better,” I insist. “We’ll find him another educational placement, and we’ll start again.”
Nobody ever screws up so much that they’re beyond help. I believe that with all of my heart.
CHAPTER SIX
Last Resort
[I see red.]
I waked up in my bed, and suddenly I miss the red and blue cars. I wish them were still here in my pocket because them were so cool. I wonder where the blue guy went after he drowned in the toilet? Same place the poops go I guess, but I never knowed where that was. I do know I can never go there. The loudest things are happening in my house right now. There’s a grown-up who is crying and crying, and I think the cry belongs to my Mom. Moms can yell, moms can hug, moms can read books—but moms shouldn’t be crying like babies. Them are too old for that. I wonder why her is so sad? Wait—can I hear The Evil She’s voice? Here? At my house? I hope that’s not real. I walk to my bedroom door and press my ear to the wood. I listen closely:
“I’m sorry this happened, but I’m confident I did everything I could,” She says.
“I believe you—it’s Jacob that...” Mom says without finishing the words. “I’m just at a loss as to what to do with Dallas. I don’t think we’re making progress at all. I think he’s getting worse.”
“I see where you’re coming from. To be honest with you, it’s my belief that if we can manage his anxiety we’re more likely to see progress. Any kid who has a behavioral intervention taking place is likely to get worse before they get better,” She says.
Mom asks, “Zoe, can you seriously look me in the eye and tell me you think he’s going to grow out of this?”
Her does a deep breath and then some seconds go by (they feel like a hundred years), and then The Evil She says, “I couldn’t honestly come to work every day and do this job if I thought he couldn’t change. It’s not going to happen quickly, or without a lot of work, but I honestly believe it can happen.”
“Have you seen these kinds of interventions actually change kids? I mean, have you been personally involved with a child who has made significant, lasting change?” Mommy says.
[I see you.]
I rack my brains for a case that will throw her a lifeline. I have seen plenty of kids improve, but I think she’s looking for someone who is “completely normal” now. I haven’t got many squeaky clean stories from which to draw inspiration. My first kid changed schools without notice, and his parents decided he didn’t need help anymore. I waited all day at the school, but he never arrived. I heard through the grapevine that that child has since been kicked out of five schools, so obviously his folks made the right choice in ditching the intervention (not). My second kid stabbed me with some kind of stick fashione
d into a shiv, and I was never allowed to be in the same room with him again. Third kid ended up going to a special education placement, which turned out fantastically—but that case isn't relevant to Dallas, because he’s not eligible for that kind of thing. My fourth and fifth kids moved away, and I never heard from either of their families ever again. I often wonder what became of these guys, and mourn for the fact that some of their interventions were never properly realized.
Thinking over this list, I wonder why I’m so intent on continuing with this job, since the success rate appears to be so low. Big picture, it’s hard to see change—especially when the parents aren't on board. But on a day-to-day level, each of these boys progressed by leaps and bounds. Little things like learning to greet people appropriately, making eye contact, considering others before themselves, learning their body’s limits, and paying attention to the still small voice inside their hearts that some may call a conscience. I have seen glimpses of change, breakthroughs unimaginable… but somehow they struggle to translate to a full success story.
Sarah persists, “How? How did they change?”
“Time,” I say. “And a lot of really consistent adult interaction. I’m talking about interactions so predictable that they’re boring. Kids need to be able to expect something stable from their adults.”
Now I'm the kid with the shiv, and Sarah is me. A guilty expression washes over her face and remains like stagnant water. My words are like knives to her heart, yet I don't regret my cruelty. For me to have integrity, these things need to be said.
[I see red.]
Mom starts talking quiet as a mouse and I have a harder time hearing through the door. I crack it open just a little, and you wouldn’t believe how much more clearly I can hear now. Her is talking about Jacob being an angry butt head.
“Jacob doesn’t understand the time aspect. He wants a magic wand—he’s not interested in a long-term intervention,” Mom cries. “He thinks it’s bullshit. If I disagree, he gets angry.”
“You are Dallas’s mother,” The Evil She says. “Start by changing your own interactions with him. You’re ultimately in charge of your son.”
“I am doing the best I can,” Mom says, sounding a little angry. I think The Evil She maked her mad.
“I know that, Sarah. Just remember that every little interaction causes Dallas to weigh up whether or not you can be trusted. Make schedules, stick to limits, eat three square meals with him—pick him up on time,” She tells my Mom, like a bossy kid.
Mom cries more, “It’s hard to do it all on my own. Jacob only looks after Aurora.”
The Evil She puts her arms around Mommy, and I wonder if her is going to hold on until Mom dies? I am about to run out and kick she’s legs, when her lets my Mom go.
“If you don’t mind me asking, what happened to Dallas’s biological father?” She says, and I do mind her asking about that. I know that means my real Dad, and that is none of her beeswax. That’s exactly something that’s just for me to know. I want to interrupt her so bad, but I know I am already in trouble, and that means no screen time. I don’t feel like also having no dessert, so I think I just have to let my stupid Mom tell The Evil She about my Dad.
“We divorced three years ago, after a death in the family,” Mom tells her. I want her to stop telling that story, so I start humming. Now I can only hear parts of what Mom is telling the She. I hear her saying sorry to Mom and I shut the door, put my hands in my ears and hummmmm.
Hummmmm…. “Dallas and Grey—” ….hummmm….. “He was six and Dallas was just three—”...hummm….. “You know, all kids love swimming in the summertime—” …..hummmmm.... “They were good swimmers, but—” …. hummmm… “It only takes a second, you see that’s the part that people don’t take seriously—” ...hummmm…. “By the time we realized, he was blue—” ...hummmm… “Dallas never truly understood what happened to his brother. He’s never really recovered from that day. But we don’t talk about it.”
She’s lying! I know what happened to him—he died. Him breathed in water, and his insides were supposed to have air. I was next to him, I was supposed to save him, and I didn’t. Dad told me it was my fault, and I can never ever say sorry to Grey because he’s gone. He went to heaven, and we never saw him again, and he lives with Jesus now, because I made him die. If I want to be near Jesus, I need to go to church with Rachel, but I can’t because Jacob told my Mom that church was bullshit, and we aren’t allowed to go. Rachel said it wasn't bullshit, Rachel was more right than Jacob, but now I have no Rachel. Also, there’s no Grey, and there hasn’t been one for a very long time. Sometimes I can remember him, and sometimes I can’t. Sometimes I don’t remember him on purpose because he’ll never come back. Jacob said dead people just get eated by worms in the ground, but Rachel said there's heaven. I know there's a heaven, I just don't know if I'll ever get there because I'm bad.
I find my music player and untangle the earbuds again. How do they get so tangly every single day? I do my most happy playlist because I'm feeling the most sad. I put the earbuds in and close my eyes—it’s the closest to invisible I can be.
I think I disappear when I do this, so I do it for hours and hours.
[I see you.]
So, after three hours of damage control at Dallas’s house, we’ve come up with an educational solution for the immediate future: I’m going to homeschool him. It’s really great timing because this week Jacob finishes his paternity leave, and the baby starts daycare next week so we’ll have the house to ourselves. Despite the fact that today was the scariest day of my life, I’m feeling confident about the future. I’ve been face-to-face with death many times in the past three years, and I guess today was our closest shave. By the grace of God, Dallas and I are both alive and kicking. (Maybe he’s kicking a little more than I am.)
Meanwhile, if we were looking for a reason why Dallas is the way he is, then today we hit the nail on the head. I can’t stop thinking about Dallas’s brother, Grey, who drowned three summers ago. His death ultimately fractured the family—Mom's alcoholism threw her towards rock bottom, while Dad had multiple affairs within a year, resulting in a new baby with a girl barely out of college. Dallas has been through so much, and that’s why he disassociates.
There seems to be a cloud around the story of how Grey actually died, though. What Sarah told me doesn't exactly add up. I know it's an incredibly emotional story to relay, but there seem to be some significant gaps. All I know, and all I need to know, is that they've all been through significant trauma. Dallas's mind was frozen in time.
Just when I think I’ve had enough of this kid, I open my phone and flick through my photos. I keep a cute picture of Dallas in my album, so every time I’m at the end of my rope I look at his first kindergarten photograph. There’s something about the way his nose is scrunched that makes it hard to hate him, his pointy chin and baby teeth add to the cuteness. He's just a little boy, isolated from the shitshow that is his life. I’m convinced children are adorable to ensure that we continue reproducing, despite the fact they can be the absolute worst. Having worked in this field, I’m not sure I’ll ever have my own kids—they’re far too unpredictable for my liking. My feelings for Dallas run the gamut from deep affection to pity, anger to indifference, and deep down inside of me is a feeling I am embarrassed to admit, but I guess I need to be honest with myself.
There is a part of me that truly hates Dallas.
#
[I see red.]
It’s Friday today, and Mom said I’m not going to school. I asked if it was just today or forever and Mom said it was for always.
“But why I can never go back?” I ask.
“Do you remember what you did yesterday?” Mom says.
“The cars had adventures. Also I made this city out of blocks for hours and hours,” I explain. Mom grabs my face, way too rough and her hand hurts my cheeks.
“Dallas, you’re not welcome back at school. Do you know what that means?” Mom tells me in a yelly
voice, then lets my face go.
“It means they don’t want me there.”
“Yeah! Sound familiar?” she growls like a bear. “This is your fourth school in a year!”
“Do they just need space? If they tell me with words, they’ll get a gold star,” I remind her. Mom doesn’t look nearly as happy as The Evil She when I get stars.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Mom yells, very meanly. “You don’t get a damn gold star for risking your life and having no remorse for the effects of your behavior!”
“I didn’t say I get a gold star!” I am yelling now, too.
“I don’t fucking care,” Mom swears.
“Listen to me! I said the teachers would get a gold star!” I yell with all my voice.
“GOLD STARS AREN’T REAL!” she yells back. “Grey never needed a single gold star in his life. A thousand gold stars won’t make you a good kid. Gold stars won’t get you a school that sticks, dammit.”
“Well, how am I gonna learn to read if I’m not in school?” I say.
“Zoe is going to homeschool you.”
“What’s a homeschool?”
“School at home,” she says, “As the name would suggest.”
“So the teacher and all the kids will come here? That feels like too many people for the house,” I tell her, because she mustn’t have thought of that yet.
“No. You and Zoe—that’s it. That’s your school now,” Mom says, and I hope she’s lying.
“That’s not fair! You know I hate her!” I scream.
“You did this to yourself—you chose to put yourself in this position,” Mom says.
“I hate her!” I say the loudest—and I mean it.
“Well, that’s too bad. She likes you, whether you like her or not,” Mom says because she’s a mean liar. “God knows why.”