by Amy Piers
Zoe opens the bag and I dig the bigger cup into the flour. It’s smooth and white, also a little bit cold. I tip the full cup in the big bowl; then Zoe hands me the littler cup. I fill it up and do the same into the big bowl. Her shows me two special spoons; one is bigger, one is smaller.
“This is a tablespoon, this is a teaspoon,” she says.
“Them are—those—are different spoons,” I tell her.
We add all the dry ingredients; then we have to crack an egg, which I have never done before. Eggs are hard on the outside and runny on the inside, and them have clear and yellow bits. Now we stir, stir, stir. But not too much! Zoe telled me the gluten gets tough if you do that. Now we get to cook and flip, and cook and flip—a hundred times until the batter is all used up.
[I see you.]
“Wow! We have a lot of pancakes. We must have fifty!” I exaggerate.
Dallas smiles, and uses his finger to count each pancake individually, “We have thirteen!”
I get out three plates again.
“No, Zoe! Too many plates, put one away,” he says, exasperated.
“How many do you want?” I ask.
“Six, silly! You can’t have twenty-five. Have six like me. Ramsay can have two, because him is two,” Dallas reasons.
“He is two?” I kindly correct.
“Yeah! He is two,” Dallas reiterates, using the correct pronoun.
“It was nice of you to think of Ramsay, but dogs shouldn’t eat pancakes,” I explain.
“It will hurt him’s tummy?”
“Yes, it will hurt his tummy.”
“His tummy can only have dog food.”
[I see red.]
I look over at the schedule—oh no! It’s longer than breakfast time. Maybe Zoe didn’t remember to do math? Maybe she did? I hate number activities, and I am not doing anything like school work. Nuh uh. No f-word way. Doesn’t Zoe know it’s too hard for me? Doesn’t she know I’m not smart like other kids?
Everybody else knows, I wonder why she didn’t remember.
[I see you.]
Dallas suddenly gets up from the stool at the counter, and runs into the bathroom. He slams the door behind him, leaving a plate of piping hot pancakes waiting. I wonder if nature was calling? Better leave him for a minute. Wait—I’ve been stung by bathroom disappearances two too many times before. Suddenly I’m anxious again.
“I’M NOT DOING NUMBERS ACTIVITY!” his voice echoes from the bathroom.
“You already finished numbers, dude,” I laugh. “We are eating pancakes, putting things in the dishwasher, then playing for an hour.” He cracks the door ever so slightly.
“What numbers did I do?” he interrogates me suspiciously.
“Measuring ingredients, counting pancakes…” I list.
“Are you being real?” he questions, skeptically.
“Definitely,” I promise. “I’m going to eat my pancakes now. Come out when you’re ready.”
I walk away, willing to keep my promise, but nervous that today might still turn to shit. Were there any windows in the bathroom? F-word. I forgot to check. My mind flashes briefly to Dallas standing in traffic, hair blowing in the breeze of trucks zooming by. He’s victorious, he’s smiling, he’s tempting death. Adrenaline surges through my body. Should I go outside and look? What if the window is up high and he falls to the ground? Why did I think he was fixed? Clearly, his calm behavior is temporary. It always is. OK, I need to think fast. Just as I make a beeline towards the back door, Dallas calmly walks out of the bathroom.
“I want the pancakes,” he asserts, casually, climbing onto the stool again. Is he up to something? What’s he going to do next? My breath is shallow; cortisol levels feel high.
“Are you gonna eat yours too? You have six. Do we have syrup?” he questions, like everything is fine. “Why are you by the door?”
He’s fine, Zoe—pull yourself together. He didn’t run away; he’s right here and he’s safe. I force breath into my lungs, grabbing the syrup from the bag. I exhale as deeply as my body will allow, and paint on a smile. Pulling up a stool on the outside of Dallas, I instinctively place my shoe on his foot rest. I’ve positioned myself to avoid elopement, feeling confident I can reflexively catch him if he tries anything while we eat. I help him pour syrup over his long stack, and he smiles accordingly. For better or for worse, sugar is the currency of children.
“You know what?” Dallas laughs with sticky lips. “Ramsay farted on me yesterday.”
I giggle too. Dallas giggles more… and now we are laughing like kids. I am friggin’ delirious from lack of sleep, high as a kite on maple syrup, and he’s all about fart jokes right now. Man, these pancakes are delicious.
If I can’t have sleep, I can at least have a sugar rush.
#
[I see red.]
The clock said, “Long hand twelve, short hand three,” and Jacob didn’t come home yet. When the long hand was about to be on the twelve we saw him’s—his—car drive by the house but he didn’t stop. Zoe and I kept playing with Ramsay and making him green, but Jacob just drived around again.
We are teaching Ramsay how to sit. We got a bag of treats for him, and we give him a treat when he does the right thing because treats are like gold stars for dogs. I say, “Sit!” and if he sits, I hold out the treat and he licks it off my hand. If he doesn’t sit, I am not allowed to say, “Bad dog!” because Zoe said he’s not bad. Instead, I can say, “Let’s try again.”
Long hand is on the four; short hand is between the three and four. Jacob drives into the driveway and brings the diaper baby inside. I see Zoe look both happy and sad that he’s here, but I don’t know why. Jacob and Zoe seem to not like each other.
[I see you.]
“Did you fix him yet?” Jacob repeats, like a carbon copy of yesterday’s passive aggressive comment. This time, I can’t let it go, and I feel my ability to filter my response slipping through my fingertips.
“He’s not a problem to be fixed,” I hiss with unwavering eye contact.
“Zoe, let’s be real. He’s fucked up beyond repair, and we are paying bank for you to train our dumb mutt. There's a hole in the bucket with Dallas—anything you put in comes out the other end just as fast,” Jacob growls, giving back the same level of intense eye contact.
“Can we at least step into another room so he can’t hear this conversation?” I plead. If there’s anything worse than this conversation, it’s the idea of Dallas hearing yet another episode of Jacob ripping him to shreds.
“So you agree with me?” he huffs, with a greasy smirk.
“I really, really, disagree with you,” I retort, hoping by some miracle that I can stay professional through this confrontation. I can’t let anger—even righteous anger—take away my access to Dallas. As soon as Jacob knows how much I want to be with Dallas, he’ll use him as a pawn to manipulate me into doing whatever he wants.
Jacob stands up and looks me right in the eyes.
“I’m against this whole homeschool fiasco bullshit. What are we? Like, Mormons in the middle of butt-fuck Utah? It’s bullshit. He should be in school with kids. Look, I’m sure you’re doing your best with him,” he adds, with false praise, “but the ship has sailed.”
“He’s only six years old! The ship certainly hasn’t sailed—it’s anchored in rough, stormy seas waiting for a captain,” I say through my teeth. “Lead him, or he’ll lead himself—and we both know he’s not developmentally able to cope with that.”
“And how long is this process going to take?” he yells.
“How long is a piece of string?” I yell back.
“That—right there—is why I don’t trust you as far as I can throw you,” Jacob seethes, looking like he’s about to throw me. I’m suddenly feeling very unsafe here, and the thought of leaving Dallas in this environment sends shivers down my spine.
“This isn’t about money. It’s about making something beautiful out of that little boy, who is grieving for the life he had before he
even knew to appreciate it,” I plead, hoping Dallas can’t hear me.
“To be clear, I don’t want you in our house. I don’t want that psycho child in the house either, but Sarah insists you’re both fixtures for a while. I’m counting down the days until he’s placed in Juvie, because we all know that’s his future,” Jacob snarls. “Paying you to sit around here and play with the dog, acting like you’re ‘fixing’ our biggest problem, is like throwing cash down the toilet. Dallas will never amount to anything.”
My extremities are tingling, and I feel rage inside me like nothing I’ve ever felt before. Like a moment hanging in time: we’re on opposing teams battling for good and evil. The evil side has always had a head start. It’s always been the easier team for Dallas to align himself. The good side is an uphill battle; I wish I could perch this little boy on my shoulders and climb the hill for him. I wish I could take his hand right now and leave this place and never come back. I wish he knew how wonderful, how valuable, how treasured he is.
On the precipice of my explosion, the garage door sounds. Sarah is home. Jacob is keenly aware of my lack of response and wears a smug, self-important half smile around the kitchen. I hear Sarah open the car door. I have mere seconds to respond to the beast.
“I can’t wait to see your face on the day he proves you wrong,” I reply. Jacob laughs sarcastically, then we both paint on a smile for Sarah’s arrival. I greet her quickly, then plot my swift exit. At least now, with Sarah home, I am not afraid of Jacob being violent toward Dallas. She’s a shitty Mom, but I have a good feeling she wouldn’t let him lay a hand on her son.
[I see red.]
After she talked a hundred years with Jacob, Zoe comes outside.
“Time for me to go, Buddy,” Zoe says. “See you at nine in the morning.”
I stay outside with Ramsay while watching Zoe leave. I hope Jacob didn’t be mean to her, because I know how bad it feels when he’s mean. Zoe is nice, and her doesn’t deserve that.
When she’s gone out of my seeing, I start to think about homeschool. Did you know I actually kind of like it? I wish I could fast-forward from now until 9 am. The ‘Zoe’ parts of the day are so much better than the parts without her. I wonder what kinds of things we’ll do tomorrow? I wonder if I can teach Ramsay a trick before then?
I need to have patience. That’s our new word.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
March We Onward
[I see you.]
As of today, Dallas and I have been on the homeschool bandwagon for a month. Four whole weeks have passed by, and Ramsay can finally sit on cue. Sure, we’ve had our ups and downs—but nothing like what was happening at school. I am irrevocably convinced that Dallas was not made for conventional schooling, nor is our state’s traditional education made for him. This month has been a testament to early intervention, albeit through the muddy waters of dysfunctional parenting.
Apart from my obvious disdain for all things Jacob, my greatest challenge in Dallas’s intervention is the fact that his life is built on a house of cards. His mother can’t handle her own life, let alone the lives of a baby and an emotionally disturbed six-year-old child. If I’ve learned anything these past few years, it’s that one surefire way to lose your child’s trust is being unreliable. If you say you’ll be home at three, you should be home at three (I’m looking at you, Jacob). If you threaten a child with a consequence or promise a reward, follow through. Do you want to know why you feel like you’re talking to a brick wall? There’s no weight behind your words—say what you mean and mean what you say. I know this family is bleeding, but it’s time to stop the blood. Dallas’s life depends on it.
Looking back on Dallas’s report card from last year I can see an insane amount of progress. He can count anything and everything, to any number he likes. He can hold a pencil, and he’s starting to trace letters. He recognizes his name when written down, identifying letters in the writing he sees all around the place, and can write DALLAS with magnetic letters. His speech is becoming more mature and clear, with his vocabulary expanding every day—particularly since he’s starting to like storybooks. We haven’t left the house yet, but if we continue on this upward trend I’m thinking of adding small field trips to the park, the library, or the store.
To me, the most meaningful part is knowing he’s capable of stability within himself. He might refuse the occasional math problem or writing activity, but with a little coercion, he comes around quickly. The consistency of homeschooling has been key for Dallas—every day I arrive, and he knows there are specific expectations. We have breakfast, we get shit done, we eat lunch, we play, we connect. Every day is painful, boringly similar because that’s how his healing will come about. He looks at me and sees, for the first time, an adult in his life who expects something of him and isn’t afraid of his meltdowns. He sees someone who will love him beyond his behaviors, even if I struggle to like him at times.
Jacob and Sarah have a rocky relationship that gets rockier by the day. They are in vehement disagreement about Dallas’s intervention, and I know that causes a lot of tension. Sarah vacillates between supportive mother and a total trainwreck, but at least she tries to be the kind of parent Dallas requires. I know she loves him, I know she wants the best for him, but she doesn’t seem to have the right ingredients to make that happen. Her top priority lies with preventing Jacob’s explosions.
Sometimes I think about baby Aurora, and I wonder how she processes all of this. If Dallas’s intervention is pursued, he gets a second chance at life. On the flip side, this little baby is likely to lose her father, and therefore her family unit, in the process. Jacob will never stand by Sarah as long as she’s genuinely supporting Dallas’s growth. So, are we robbing Peter to pay Paul? Are we choosing to heal Dallas at the expense of Aurora’s primary attachment experience? In a perfect world, both kids could thrive, and all parents would step up to the plate. But this isn’t a perfect world, and these parents will choose which child will flourish, and which will wither. Aurora will be the lucky one, yet she will never know the half-brother she was born to replace, and she will never know why her mother cries every night.
One child has two parents, one child is rejected, and the other is forgotten. There’s not a single photo of Grey in the house, yet they all live with his ghost.
[I see red.]
Today me and Zoe will start on a new trick for Ramsay. He can sit now, so we get to choose another thing for him to do for treats. I have been thinking it would be good to have him learn to roll over—I’ve seen a doggy do that before, and he looked cool. When I was super little, I used to like dogs, and we always wanted to have one. Grey would ask Mommy every day, and she always said no. Then him died, and we got a dog.
The clock says almost nine o’clock, so I watch for Zoe out the window. I see her, so I run to open the door. Jacob runs after me, grumbling something, but I pretend he didn’t talk. A thing about Jacob—if I pretend he didn’t talk, the mean things he says can’t be powerful to me. I always win, not Jacob. Zoe is coming up the stairs, so I hold my hand out for a high-five.
“I remembered the thing what we should teach Ramsay today,” I say, loudly and fast.
“What is it?” she says, looking puzzled. I learned that word from an old times book about a bear who loves honey and his friends are a tiger and a kangaroo. Also, it means like, “What?”
“Let’s teach him to roll over,” I say.
“That’s a great idea!” Zoe agrees.
“Let’s start now!” I am absolutely too excited to wait.
Zoe puts her stuff in the house and crouches a little bit. “I can see you’re super excited, but we have a few things to do first,” she whispers. “If we get breakfast and number activities done extra fast, we can start with Ramsay at play time.”
“But I wanna do it now!” I yell and run away to my room.
Zoe talks to Mom, which I can hear from under my bed, and the normal talk they do before school starts. Mom always is busy, busy, bus
y and Zoe is always like, “OK, you can go now.” Mommy works at an office and has a computer (also a plant on her desk). They have lunch for free and every snack ever. She took me once, but she will never take me again because I didn’t behave.
The garage door goes up, and the black car with rings drives out backwards—too fast. Scraaaaape goes the car on the driveway. Door goes down. I’m hungry because it’s breakfast time. “Rumbbllle…” says my belly, and I know I can’t wait under the bed for too much longer.
[I see you.]
Ignoring Dallas is a tactic that works every time, except when he runs away. Incidentally, ignorance has a zero percent success rate during those times. He hasn’t run away all month (as we’ve been basically under house arrest), but I can’t shake the feeling we might be sitting on a landmine. The longer he controls the urge, the crazier the outburst will be. That is, unless he’s done with running away? Developmentally, he’s getting towards the old end of elopement. I’ve had previous clients grow out of running away, so it’s not impossible to believe he’s beyond that behavior.
Having said that, he just ran away and hid under the bed, so…
[I see red.]
I’m too too hungry for hiding. Something in the kitchen smells really good, so I try to guess what it might be. I walk out of the bedroom, and I see what Zoe has. I love blueberry bagels, so I climb up onto my stool and wait.
[I see you.]
There he is! I make a mental note—
9:01 am—ARRIVAL/BREAKFAST
Antecedent: ZF arrived, D wanted to train the dog early, disregarding the schedule in place. ZF said breakfast and math were first.
Behavior: D expressed that he wasn’t interested in waiting, and ran to hide under his bed (?)
Consequence: Behavior put on extinction. D returned to kitchen at 9:05 am.