by Amy Piers
“Ready for your second favorite breakfast?” I ask confidently.
“I like pancakes first, blueberry bagels second and then the third favorite is scrambled eggs,” Dallas says, with a full breakfast analysis. “Did you bring cream cheese?”
“Of course!” I remark, feeling like my primary intervention has somehow just been breakfast related. “Can I ask you a question?”
“What is the question?” he returns.
“Why do you run away sometimes?” I ask, nervously hoping we’re not opening Pandora’s Box. He remains on the stool, visibly thinking about the question. Then, he shrugs.
“I wonder if it makes you feel powerful?” I continue.
He shrugs again, and mumbles, “When can I have the bagel?”
The toaster pops up, and the sweet aroma of hot blueberry bagel fills the air.
“Right now, Buddy,” I say, smiling. I spread the cream cheese for him as he waits. “Want a glass of milk with that?”
“Mmmhmmm,” Dallas nods while taking a bite of the bagel.
“Want some real blueberries on the side?” I suggest, rattling a pint of organic blue superfoods. The food nerd within me waits with baited breath.
“Yep!” Dallas yells, as he puts six of them on his plate.
“You can have more, you know?” I laugh.
“Six is enough for me. I can have six more later,” he reasons.
We sit down for our twenty-second day of breakfast, thinking back to the school days—I’ll gladly accept our current fate. There’s an epidemic in education, where schools set up kids like Dallas for failure. I can tell by the look on the teacher’s face that she either doesn’t like or doesn’t understand the kid. There’s a sting in the way educators say Good Morning to a child they despise—almost imperceptible to the naked ear, but I pick it up on my radar every time. Very nearly monotonous, with a lowered inflection at the end; I notice the eye contact they make with other staff, I notice anxiety levels rise before anything has had a chance to go wrong. I see them asking kids with Tourette’s to stop their tics; I see them punishing the little ones consistently rolling on the floor during circle time instead of recommending Occupational Therapy for sensory issues. I see them angry at children with Autism because they’re well… Autistic. Nothing will change in the school system until all people are treated with respect. I’ll take the proverbial house arrest over the prison escape, any day.
I look at Dallas’s little face with his missing front tooth, realizing he’s growing up before my very eyes. His chin isn’t quite so pointy anymore, his legs must have grown three inches since we met, and he recently got a more grown-up haircut. His arms used to flap and flail as though they were a separate entity, and I haven’t seen that at all during the homeschooling period. House arrest feels like a process of detoxification; he’s losing the poison and being replenished with nutrients. The detox has been both figurative and literal, given that his dietary repertoire was exclusively nuggets, and now he’s accepting three different kinds of breakfast (FYI: He isn’t a fan of oatmeal, oh how I’ve tried). He still eats chicken nuggets or corn dogs for lunch, but I’m all about baby steps. A carrot stick here, a cherry tomato there—I’m trying new veggies with him every day.
If we get through this week without any running away, I’m going to ask his parents if they mind us going on short field trips. In the spirit of baby steps, I plan to walk him to the end of the block (I’d prefer this to happen with a leash, but I guess that’s not kosher for a six-year-old) and back again. The next day, we can walk two blocks. If we can go out for a week without any running, we’ll go to the park—the one with a fence. If he runs on any of the days, (depending on the severity of elopement) we take a break from field trips, then start again from the ground up.
After all, slow progress is better than no progress. (I think I first saw that quote on a shitty decorative throw pillow, and I’m embarrassed to admit it was meaningful to me.)
[I see red.]
The blueberries in my bagel taste different to the ones on the side. The side ones are more wetter and, did you know that fresh blueberries are actually white on the inside? A whitey clear color. I didn’t know that before, and now I do because I discovered it for myself. Also, I do feel powerful when I run away, for your big fat information.
Breakfast is my best food of the day.
#
[I see you.]
2:20 pm—PROJECT TIME: TRAINING RAMSAY
Antecedent: D prompted Ramsay to sit—instead, the dog jumped on D’s shoulders with muddy feet.
Behavior: D expressed frustration, saying that R was a bad dog, and he’ll never be good. D cried because his shirt was dirty, and then he hid under his bed.
Consequence: Hiding behavior put on extinction. D came back to ZF and R after a 3-minute break. ZF encouraged D to try again—and R sat this time.
“I can see Ramsay really upset you when he didn’t listen,” I observe.
“He knows better,” Dallas sniffles, “I already saw him be able to sit, and I want him always to be sitting when he’s told.”
“Why is that important to you?” I wonder.
“For being safe.”
“What do you mean by ‘being safe’?”
“What if the baby is outside and Ramsay jumps on her? She will need safety. I can’t always protect her from Ramsay if he doesn’t get to be good,” he struggles to admit. “Ramsay is nice most of the time, but he is too big to not listen.”
“Are you saying that having rules helps people, and dogs, to stay safe?” I suggest.
“I don’t want the baby to go to heaven,” Dallas whispers while petting Ramsay.
“I wonder if you’re thinking about Grey right now?” I whisper back, making sure I don’t make eye contact. In my peripheral, I see his head hanging low, and I hear him sniffling.
“I know you don’t like coming too close to me, but if you want a hug, I’m always here for you,” I stammer, nervously. He cries a little more and shakes his head.
“No arms,” he sniffs.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“I want a hug but don’t put arms on me,” he requests, still with his head down.
He sits in my lap, leaning his head on my shoulder. My hands are on my knees, as I sit motionlessly. At least twenty minutes go by, as we say nothing.
“If you ever feel like you are too angry, too frustrated, too sad, or too confused—you can take a break without running away. I will listen to you every time, as long as I can trust you. You can say, ‘I need a break,’ and then go to a safe place that we’ll make for you,” I suggest.
“I already have a space,” he began, “There’s a tent under the desk in my room. It’s made of my old bed sheet hanging down.”
“That sounds fantastic,” I remark, “Can you show me?”
Dallas leads me into his room, where I’ve barely spent any time. I guess it’s a matter of dignity and respect—people don’t let just anyone into their bedroom. I consider bedrooms to be extremely private spaces, and only to be entered when invited. Kids are no different. Dallas climbs under the tent, constructed from a blue and white spotted bedsheet.
“Look inside,” he commands, “But don’t come in.”
“I don’t think I’d fit,” I laugh. Dallas has piles of books inside the tent, as well as some stuffed toys and a music player with headphones.
“I lied to you,” he whispers, looking down as he untangles the headphones.
“What about?” I ask nervously.
“This isn’t my old bedsheet—my old bedsheet has red spots. The blue spotty one was Grey’s because we have bunk beds. I’m on the bottom because he is older, and we made tents from his sheets,” Dallas continues untangling the headphones as he speaks. “When he went to heaven, Mommy wanted to sell the bunk beds and wanted to throw the sheets in the trash, but I said no. I throwed out the red ones, and I keeped the blue ones.”
I sit with my knees crisscrossed under my chin, at
the threshold of the tent. I take a moment to make sure he’s finished speaking, respecting the weight of what he’s just said.
“This is a perfect tent,” I reply. I let the sheet fall down, and I leave him alone with his memories. He pokes his hand out the side, and I hold it without saying a word.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Another Brick in the Wall
[I see red.]
Here is a list of lunches I like:
Pasta and Pesto and Parmesan (All start with P)
Alphabet Soup (I write my name D-A-L-A, no that’s not right—try again—D-A-L-L-A-S)
Picnics at the park. We take pretzels (the big crunchy ones), lots of colorful veggies, some dip that’s called hummus and sometimes even a juice we make in the blender, which is from a crazy fruit called a pomegranate.
Ramsay can walk on a leash now, and he sits before we cross the street. We say, “Sit,” and he sits, then we give him a treat that’s just a little bit of kibble. He adores kibble, and adores means love, love, loves. He is still crazy and silly, but less crazy and silly than he used to be before we trained him.
Here are things I can do now, that I couldn’t do when I went to school at school:
I can do my name with a pencil (or a pen if I can’t find a pencil) and I don’t need any dots like this:
(That’s for babies.)
I do like this:
(2) I can count to every single number in the whole wide world, even one hundred. You can ask Zoe if you don’t believe me.
(3) I can read little words like a, at, cat, rat, map, app, and the. I can’t read books, though, but I hear good stories after lunch all the days at homeschool.
[I see you.]
So, we made it through another month—sometimes crawling, sometimes walking and other times it felt like we were running. We’re finally out of the house and mobilized in the community. Every day we go out somewhere, which helps with the monotony of daily life. Dallas is working towards a new behavioral goal, which is a trip to Discovery Country—a theme park outside the city. There has been so much water under the bridge, so many behaviors left behind that if he earns the field trip, I believe he’ll be able to handle it responsibly.
The relationship between Sarah and Jacob has rapidly gone downhill. In fact, it’s gone wildly downhill and crashed into a tree. Jacob and I had a… disagreement….about ten days ago. We were at the end of one of Dallas’s best days yet, and Jacob found every reason to (in his words) ‘bring us back down to reality.’ After he had stood there telling Dallas, yet again, that he was nobody and would amount to nothing—I fought back. Retrospectively, I shouldn’t have yelled at Jacob in front of Dallas, but I would have felt worse if Dallas saw me doing nothing. One thing led to another, and Jacob fired me. Dallas chased me as I was leaving, and luckily Sarah drove into the driveway at the same time. I told her what happened, and she reinstated me on the spot. This event was the catalyst for their breakup. Who knows what went down in their home that night, but the next day Dallas stayed under the bed until noon, then wouldn’t leave my side until his Mom returned.
Jacob officially moved out last weekend, and they’re in the process of working out a custody agreement for Aurora, but I don’t think he’ll be very successful (I think he might have been violent towards Sarah, but I’m not sure). Subsequently, I have worked longer hours with Dallas, and at times, I have also taken care of baby Aurora so her parents can meet at the lawyer’s office. I barely see Julia anymore, and I haven’t been on a date in half a year. As the days get better for Dallas, life closes in a little for me. This job is swallowing me whole; the fear of becoming a spinster cat-lady strengthens with every day. This revelation is not the only thing that awakens me in a cold sweat.
I am embarrassed to admit that I am suffering from frequent nightmares related to Dallas on the rooftop, Dallas on the road, and Dallas with access to firearms. By day, I’m seeing a brand new child, but in my dreams, I’m stuck with post-traumatic stress. I feel pathetic even alluding to PTSD when I’m the adult here. This is all part of a job for which I willingly signed up—and to be honest, I’ve seen it all before. Dallas’s antics (while severe) are nothing new. When I close my eyes, I see the shine of a switchblade in the hands of a child, and I hear myself discouraging him from what he’s about to do. When someone is choked or tortured in a movie, I have to look away, because I remember being held against the wall by a teenager—breath stuck in my lungs. I’m embarrassed about these flashbacks, like cracks forming in an otherwise structurally sound human. My job is the only thing I have going for myself right now, and if I stop for long enough to be afraid of my clients, I’m nothing.
After all, Dallas is the one who saw his brother drown; he’s the one who loses his sense of agency in the midst of grief and sadness, he’s the one who has been kicked while he’s down. I am called to put my life on hold to make this child whole again, yet I pay a price of nightmares — and without adequate sleep, I feel more anxious during the day. I remind myself that he’s safe now. He hasn’t run away (at least outside the house) for three months, yet, in the back of my mind, I doubt his ability to remain this way. Out loud, I declare that he’s on an upward trend. In my heart, I prepare for doomsday.
This is one time I don’t want to be right.
#
[I see red.]
At four o’clock the garage door goes up, and Mom drives the blue car with a golden shape like a plus sign into the driveway. We don’t have the black car anymore because it cost too many moneys, and Mom is running out of dollars. She said that there’s a guy who helps us stay safe from Jacob, and he will help us, but he costs too many dollars if we keep the expensive car with four rings. I don’t mind selling a car and buying a ‘No Jacob’ House in exchange.
Jacob moved out on a day that’s called Saturday after he held my Mom’s neck for a little bit of time. The Police cars with their lights and sirens came to the house, and Jacob isn’t allowed to come back here because we have a piece of paper that’s a Straining Order. I made friends with the baby because she can do more things now but she is still a diaper baby. I played with her while Mom talked to the Police Man, and I found out that she loves green toys. All she sees is green, green, green.
I whispered a secret to her ear, “My Daddy moved out too.”
[I see you.]
Sarah walks inside with Aurora on her hip. The baby smiles at me and extends her arms. I’m not sure whether to take her or not, when her Mom hands her over. She’s adorable for someone whose father is a complete dick. She looks like Dallas, but her eyes are slightly more innocent. I don’t doubt she’s seen some shit in her life, and I worry for her future. I smile at her, and she nuzzles her head into my shoulder, leaving a snotty mark as a souvenir.
“He’s trying to get weekends with her,” Sarah says, throwing her hands up in the air. “Screw that, I mean seriously, that’s bullshit.”
I nod awkwardly, wishing that I wasn’t so involved in this dysfunctional family’s shit storm.
“I guess you just need to fight with everything you’ve got,” I conclude, knowing that this is the most evident and general statement I could make.
“Anyway, thanks again for coming. We’ll see you in the morning,” Sarah says.
“Oh, by the way. Dallas needs 100 stars to go to Discovery Country with me, and as of today, he’s got twenty. Just thought you’d like to know, he’s progressing well.”
“Good boy!” she says, as I’m caught between a cringe (I hate it when parents don’t separate behavior and child) and a smile, knowing that she’s acknowledging effort. I kiss Aurora on her sweet little head and hand her back to her mother. I pick up my bag, saying goodbye to Dallas. He jumps onto me and gives me the biggest bear hug of my life.
He whispers in my ear, “I wish you were my Mom.”
I have no idea what to do with this. I just hope to God that Sarah didn’t hear what he said.
[I see red.]
Zoe sets me on the ground and gives
me a high five; then she leaves really quickly. She usually talks to my Mom for a while, but not today. I run outside so Ramsay and I can wave goodbye to Zoe as she walks to the bus.
“BYEEEE ZOEEEEEE!” I yell through the fence. Ramsay barks one time, and we watch her walk away until she’s gone. I sit on the ground by the fence, wishing that Zoe never needed to leave. I wish she brought a sleeping bag and stayed here every night, or took me home to her house. I climb onto the trampoline with Ramsay, and we watch the clouds.
It’s sunny today, and kind of hot—Zoe said it’s called Indian Summer. I roll my shorts up, so they look like underwear, and feel the warm sun on my white legs. The clouds are changing slowly today, and I start to wonder if Grey can see them too since he’s in the sky. He would see them close up, with the world underneath. I wonder if he sits on the clouds? I wonder if he ever tried to eat clouds? Also, I wonder what the clouds tasted like?
“Grey,” I whisper. “Grey, can you hear me?”
Nobody talks to me, so I guess his ghost doesn’t want to play on the trampoline again, today. I still don’t know if ghosts are real, but I try to talk to Grey’s ghost every day, just in case he’s listening.
“GREY!” I yell, and Mom comes outside with an angry face.
“Dallas! Come inside. It’s too hot out here; you’ll get sunburnt.”
I fold my arms and say, “No. I’m busy.”
“The minute Zoe leaves you transform into a demon,” Mom yells. “Every day.”
“Leave me alone,” I yell back at her. “Let me play outside!”
Mom stares at me, then turns around and goes inside. I lay back down on the trampoline and whisper Grey’s name again, hoping the ghost would listen.
[I see you.]
When I get home, Ezra is sitting on the couch using his laptop.