I See Red

by Amy Piers

  “He actually does really well with things like that,” she retorts. “I mean, you’d know. He’s extremely smart.”

  I smile. Only someone who knows Dallas, and sees him for who he really is, would call him ‘extremely smart.’ To the rest of the world, he’s ‘not the brightest crayon in the box.’

  “I’ll go in first,” Dr. Martinez explains, “Alicia, you stand by the door in case anything unexpected happens.”

  Dallas running away would not be unexpected, thank you very much.

  “I will wave you in, Zoe. Just focus on reuniting—you’ll know what to do when the time comes,” he finishes.

  “Can Cinnamon go in first?” I ask.

  The Dr. shrugs, “Sure.”

  [I see red.]

  I have been in the corner for two and a half hours.

  Alicia walks in, along with Dr. Poopy and him tells me there’s someone here to see me. I say nothing, because that’s all I ever say to him. Suddenly I hear something all jangly, and there’s this little dog on my lap licking my face. Him sure looks like my old dog, Cinnamon, but him is a lot more grown because this is a different dog. I look at him’s collar, and it is the exact same one that Zoe and me bought for the real Cinnamon. Then I notice that there’s a name tag that actually says Cinnamon, and I can hardly believe it.

  “CINNAMON!” I yell, then I look at Alicia. “Is it really my dog from my old house?”

  Alicia nods and smiles. I am so happy to see my puppy, and I hug him so tight that him kicks me when him’s trying to get away. I wonder when him is leaving? I wonder if I shouldn’t play with my sweet puppy because saying goodbye is harder when you love something.

  “Dallas,” Dr. Martinez says, “Someone else is here to see you.”

  Wait. The only persons who could bring Cinnamon here are Mommy or Zoe. My heart is loud in my ears, and I stop moving completely. Fifty-two days without my Zoe and here her is. Her is coming to take me home to our big new house in San Francisco. If we leave now, we can eat hotdogs for dinner with Grey.

  Grey will be so happy that our new Mommy is here!

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  What’s Your Name?

  [I see you.]

  I hold Dallas in my arms and inhale his shaggy hair. His familiar scent transports me back to the endless days we spent at his house, learning life skills on the trampoline with Ramsay. For the first time in a long time I remember Dallas as he was then, instead of the boy rescued by a helicopter.

  He rests his head on my chest and cries.

  [I see red.]

  Boom, boom. Boom, boom. Boom, boom.

  I hear she’s heart, alive inside of her body. I want to listen to my Zoe living and breathing forever, I want to know what it’s like to have someone the same for all my days. I can’t believe it’s Zoe—the real Zoe. I look up at her face and look away just as quick. There is a thousand and fifty things I want to say to her, but I can only think of one thing.

  “I’m sorry,” I sniff.

  [I see you.]

  My tears fall into his wet dog hair, which is longer and shaggier than last time we were together. I hold him closer, deeply ashamed of myself for alienating a child who doesn’t know any better. He’s so troubled, he’s so broken, and I wonder if he’ll ever be successfully healed. Attachment trauma is a bitch.

  “I’m sorry, too,” I whisper. I wonder how long we’ll have before he snaps. I wonder if I can handle another outburst, or if I would even need to, since there’s two other adults in here. I decide in advance that I will let them handle him if something sets him off. I don’t want to induce a meltdown just by being here, and I mentally second guess my visit. Dallas stretches his hand out to mine and holds it to his heart. The cadence is irregular; sluggish then fast.

  I was never meant to be the reason for his broken heart and its damaged beat.

  [I see red.]

  “Where have you been all these days?” I question.

  Her doesn’t know what to say, and jumbles the words. Her starts to say something and stops, then starts again. “I got a new job.”

  [I see you.]

  It occurs to me that Dallas might not realize that my being with him was employment. I want to eat my words and start over.

  [I see red.]

  I remember now that Zoe got paid from Mommy. That’s how jobs work—people do stuff that other people don’t want to do, then they get money in their bank. The plastic card in their wallets connects to the bank who keeps the money. But not credit cards, them are for money that the person doesn’t have yet. Mommy always said that her credit card was called Max, and Jacob said she was a stupid bitch.

  I remember now.

  [I see you.]

  I am going back and forth in my mind between elaborating on my new job, and saying nothing at all. The seconds passing by feel like years. I tap the floor so Cinnamon will come sit with us. Dallas stands abruptly and his left arm shoots up, then flails at his side. He jumps twice, as his eyes squint and his face fixes in a strange smile.

  I’m scared.

  I know this look.

  [I see red.]

  “YOU A STUPID BITCH, ZOE!” I yell in her face. I kick her, too, and Cinnamon runs away to hide in the corner. Dr. Martinez and Alicia come towards me, but Zoe grabs me first.

  [I see you.]

  The drive to bring Dallas back to himself is deep within me—dormant but ever present. I grab him involuntarily, and I’m mad at myself for not letting the other two adults take one for the team. I hold him on my lap as he thrashes around, with his arms crossed in front of his body. He’s trying to bite me.

  “Are you OK?” the Dr. says.

  I nod my head, “I’ve got this.”

  Alicia’s jaw falls to the ground. We spend the next God-knows-how-many minutes bearing through the storm, until Dallas quietens.

  “Are you ready to talk?” I ask. He spits, then throws his head back to hit mine. I dodge his skull and wonder if the action hurt his skinny little neck. I turn Dallas around so that I can see his eyes.

  [I see red.]

  “My name is LOSER!” I yell.

  “What’s your name?” The Evil She says again.

  “My name is GREY!”

  “What’s your name, buddy?”

  “I killed my brother, and I can kill you too!” I scream.

  [I see you.]

  A shiver runs down my spine. He repeats this phrase so often, I’m convinced that he believes he killed Grey—to the point where part of me wonders if he did. We’re wading through so much unprocessed grime—he’s sinking in quicksand. We’re no longer at triage, we’re performing open heart surgery. I take my hand and place it on his heart. He swats it away, but I put it back.

  “What’s your name?”

  He looks down, then I see the whites of his eyes as he rolls them back in his head. This is the stuff of horror movies, yet moments like this have become commonplace in my life.

  “Dallas,” he whispers.

  “What’s your name?” I repeat, “Say it loud and proud.”

  “Dallas!” he yells.

  “What’s your name, buddy?”

  “Dallas Jedidiah Jensen!” he yells again. I know he’s back, I feel it in the way his weight has shifted. Almost imperceptible to the naked eye, I see his spirit return to his body. I guess I don’t 'see' it per se, but rather, I sense that whatever chaotic spiritual grossness just occurred has now passed. He sinks like dead weight, and just as I suspect, he falls asleep on my chest.

  I have no idea how much time has passed since this meltdown began, but I get the sense it’s been a while. Both Dr. Martinez and Alicia are sitting on the floor staring blankly at what just happened—the air is thick with questions.

  “Is... he,” Alicia croaks, then clears her throat. “Is he… done?”

  “He usually sleeps after these kinds of episodes,” I whisper. “When he wakes up he’s unlikely to remember what happened. It might come back to him in a few hours or days. What do
you guys do when he freaks out like this?”

  Alicia looks at Dr. Martinez, and he returns the glance with the same blank expression.

  “He doesn’t… he hasn’t gotten to that level before,” the Dr. brags. At least I think he’s bragging. Why did he bring me here if I make it all worse?

  “He’s never mentioned Grey to us,” Alicia admits.

  And there it is; the huge Grey elephant in the room. The thorn in Dallas’s side. The genesis of his problems. The catalyst for his parents’ separation, his dad leaving, his self-hatred, his mother’s co-dependent relationships with abusive men, and his replacement of a sister.

  “We’ve heard him, I guess, talking to Grey in the times when he’s ‘gone.’ You know that look he gets and he’s clearly 'out to lunch,'” Alicia continues. I’m intrigued. We have different names for the same thing, but we both recognize the disassociation going on. We both identify the marked difference between Dallas when he’s in his body, and outside his body.

  “What does he say to Grey?” I inquire.

  “Sometimes he just tells him everyday things—he whispers when he’s just making normal conversation. Then other times he screams his name, and he’s always looking up when this happens. He tends to climb high when he’s screaming, with his arms outstretched,” Alicia reveals. The look in her eyes tells me that she’s been freaked out by Dallas more than once. She inhales, straightens her spine, shakes her head, and her eyes grow wide. Alicia has clearly seen some shit, but it was just the tip of the iceberg. There’s a sobering moment when we all realize the magnitude of damage that has been done to Dallas.

  He stirs, and slowly opens his eyes.

  [I see red.]

  I am like a bear who hibernates all the winter long.

  I will eat all the food, then never eat until it’s warmer. I will go from fat to skinny. I will become strong in the summer. I will be green like Ramsay, and I will be an oak, not an acorn. I’ll do it all this summer. I’ll be seven, and seven is big enough to become a good boy. Six-year-olds aren’t good. Except Grey… he was good, but then him died.

  Only dead six year olds are good.

  I wake up from my long, long nap and guess what? It’s still stupid winter. I cup my hand and whisper into Zoe’s ear, “When are you taking me home?”

  [I see you.]

  My breath stops. My heart arrests.

  What is the best way to tell him that he isn’t going home? I want… I need backup on this one, but because Dallas whispered, I’m in a corner. This is just between him and me. I clear my throat, “I’m sorry…”

  He holds a defeated expression. “What do you mean?”

  This is a familiar manipulation tactic. He knows what I mean, but he’s drawing me in with questions and puppy dog eyes. He wants me to feel every burning coal which he is dragging me across. In his eyes, we’re still in this together.

  He whispers again, “I want you to be my mom.”

  I’m frozen. The other two adults are staring at me, oblivious to what he’s saying. They’re watching for my reaction. I stare at the wall, which is an all too familiar feeling.

  “I need a break,” I hiss towards Dr. Martinez. I try to stand up, but Dallas doesn’t budge. He grabs me until his knuckles are white, setting his face like flint and his teeth are closed tight. The Dr. and Alicia both attempt to pry him off, and each time his arms find me again. Finally, Dr. Martinez grabs him from behind and contains his torso. Alicia peels his claws from me, holding each fist in her hands. Dallas is wheezing, absolutely gasping for breath. As they pull him away in the hopes that his legs let up, I fall to the ground—literally crawling to the door.

  I need air. I need to be somewhere other than here.

  I run for the door.

  [I see red.]

  “GREY!” I yell. Then I whisper, “She’s leaving us. She’s leaving us, Grey.”

  I throw my elbow in stupid Dr. Shit Head’s ribs and he makes a sound like it hurts. GOOD! I roll myself into a ball and pull my hood over my face.

  If Zoe leaves, then so do I.

  [I see you.]

  Dr. Martinez catches me as I’m halfway to the stables.

  “Zoe!” he yells, rubbing his arms in the cold. I turn around.

  “Why did you bring me here? Why do you insist that Dallas and I reopen this giant gaping wound that was closing? Do you know what he said to me in there?”

  “No… I was going to ask you. But, can we go inside? It’s literally freezing out here.”

  “Oh? Are you uncomfortable? You’re uncomfortable? I just had a seriously emotionally disturbed six-year-old asking me to be his new mother,” I yell. “But poor Dr. Know-it-All is uncomfortable in the snow.”

  He stops in his tracks. “I’m sorry. Out here, if we must—but let’s talk about this.”

  I kick the snow in a seething rage.

  “I always thought we could make something out of nothing, you know. I always told Dallas what you’re telling him now—that from little things, big things grow. I told him there was hope for his future, and I believed it too. I believed that we could save this fractured child, with these piecemeal interventions. His inevitable diagnoses aren’t for kids, so there’s over a decade between here and some answers… or medicine to mask the pain. His formative years are closing in on him. He’s never going to heal, Luis. He’s fucked.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Acknowledging the Elephant

  [I see red.]

  Zoe walks back into the room after I’ve already peed on myself. I stay still like a statue.

  [I see you.]

  Amber liquid is pooling on the floor, before absorbing into the carpet. He never wet his pants with me, not once. He’d use the bathroom as an excuse to skip nonpreferred activities. There's no denying we had our bathroom problems, but the incontinence is new to me. Except I’m not convinced it’s accidental—this is textbook reactive attachment manipulation. He knows what he’s doing. He might regret it afterward, but he knows what he’s doing. I want to scoop him up and change him like a toddler; I want to get him into a warm bath with a rubber duckie, and read him stories while he uses bubbles to make a beard. I want to give him all he missed out on, and nurture the three-year-old trapped in an almost-seven-year-old’s body. But in order to break the behavior, our treatment needs to be counterintuitive—we can’t show pity for this kid or his demons win. He will go all out to prove he’s beyond fixing, and as his adults, we need to show him that there is redemption. Even if it feels impossible, we can’t let him drown with his brother. I will choose to see beauty in Dallas, even when everything inside me says he’s not worth the effort; he can’t be a lost cause, I will go to my grave proving this fact.

  Dr. Martinez stays put, and I ask Alicia to show me to Dallas’s room. As I walk through the house I see kids drugged out of their minds, staring blankly into space. On the other end of the spectrum I watch as two teenage boys punch each other’s lights out while adult men try to separate them. A little girl, maybe around nine or ten, comes and holds my hand. She tells me she likes my necklace. Alicia encourages the girl to go back to her group.

  “That’s Anastasiya. She was adopted from Bulgaria when she was five. Things didn’t work out so well in her new family, and she was sent here after an incident at school,” Alicia explains. “She's sweet, but, don't let her draw you in. There are alarms on the doors here for a reason."

  We turn a corner and enter room forty-nine, where the dry erase board on the door is marked: Matthew and Dallas. There are twin beds against opposite walls and separate chests of drawers for keeping each child’s clothes organized. Two winter coats hang on hooks, two beanies are stored above, and four small snow boots are lined up by the door. On Matthew’s side of the room there are family photos, stuffed toys, and love notes. On Dallas’s side hangs one lonely drawing of a skinny Victorian house with three people sitting on the roof. Two are boys, and one looks like a lady. They’re eating hot dogs.

  I open his draw
ers to get him a new set of clothes. He’s got four pairs of camouflaged cargo shorts, nine black t-shirts, and three gray hoodies.

  “How did he bring his clothes with him?” I ask Alicia, suspiciously. “I was under the impression he was flown here from the hospital in a medical helicopter.”

  She shakes her head, “His Mom sent us a bag of stuff after the fact.”

  “Did she send any photographs… or stuffed toys… or anything?” I clarify.

  “Just the clothes,” Alicia reiterates. “No return address.”

  I choose him a t-shirt with a wolf on the front, cargo shorts, white ankle socks, and a pair of undies with dinosaurs on them. He still wears size four clothes, which by Alicia’s account, were hanging off him a few weeks ago after he stopped eating. The thought occurs to me that soon enough he will shoot up, even if he doesn’t fill out, and these clothes will be way too small for him. Nobody will send him a new bag of his favorite clothes in the next size up. He’ll be wearing the hand-me-downs of the big, swearing, fighting boys. I don’t want him wrapped in the mantle of societal failure, shoved away in some corner of some town in Wyoming.

  I close the drawer and Alicia leads me to a room with all kinds of supplies. We grab latex gloves, cleaning spray, a bunch of paper towel, and some baby wipes, before heading back to Dallas and Dr. Martinez. I look at nothing and no-one, ignoring the group activities being inevitably disrupted by maladaptive behaviors. I ignore Anastasiya as she waves at me with the enthusiasm of a toddler reuniting with a parent at the end of the day.

  Dallas is still laying in his own piss; Dr. Martinez sits beside him, yet on dry land. I hand Dallas the supplies.

  “Here you go, Buddy. Everything can be fixed,” I say, with a positive inflection.