I See Red

by Amy Piers

  [I see red.]

  Zoe doesn’t mention the pee, but she gives me a pile of cleaning stuff instead.

  “What do you want me to do?” I ask, even if I know what she wants. If I ask her, she’ll have to answer me, and if she has to answer me, she’ll stay. I’ve got her all understood.

  “I wonder if you can figure it out,” she says, then the Dr. and the Zoe leave the room. Alicia turns her back to me, so I try to ask her more questions. I am lonely here.

  “What do I do with these?” I ask.

  “First, clean yourself. Then, change yourself. Next, clean the floor,” Alicia tells me. “I’m turning this way so you’ll have privacy as you get changed. I’ll set a timer—if you can get it all done faster than five minutes you can have ten minutes playing with blocks.”

  The timer beeps to start, and I know I can choose to listen to her or not. I take a deep breath, then take off my stinky, wet clothes. I put them in a plastic bag, and use the wipes to get clean. I put the wipes in the trash. I squirt the cleaning spray on the carpet and lay a hundred paper towels on top. I stand on it and watch the pee and spray soak through. It looks like wet footprints on dry paper. I stand on it a hundred times more, then put it in the trash.

  “Done,” I say in a whiney voice. Alicia turns around.“HAHA!” I yell, because I am naked, and I tricked her. Alicia looks away so quickly.

  “You’re almost done,” she says strongly. I put on my undies, then my shorts, then my socks, then my shirt, then my sweater, and then after all of that hard work, I put on my shoes.

  “OK, really done!” I yell.

  “You have to earn back my trust, Dallas. If I turn around, and you’re not ready, you won’t be able to play with the blocks.”

  I look at my whole body, and it’s totally dressed. The timer beep beep beeps because five minutes are up. “I’m actually ready, Alicia!”

  She turns around a bit nervously, then says, “Thank you, Dallas,” in a voice that isn’t happy or sad. “Go ahead and play with the blocks—I’ll set the timer.”

  Alicia slides the red part of the special timer clock out to make ten minutes. The red bit disappears as time happens. I wonder if I get to go home with Zoe after I play with blocks?

  #

  [I see you.]

  We’re back in the soft room with Dr. Martinez, playing with Cinnamon. Alicia has finished her shift, which is kind of relieving for me. I get the sense that we’re competing for something, even though I’ve taken myself out of the equation.

  “Dallas,” the Dr. says. “Let’s talk about what’s going to happen these next few days.”

  Dallas makes eye contact with Dr. Martinez, nods his head, and says, “OK.”

  The Dr. smiles and approaches a sticker chart on the wall with Dallas’s name on top. There are no gold stars yet, even though the first week was dated in early November.

  “Wow! Eye contact, using your body to communicate, responding when spoken to! Dallas, these are your first three stickers on the chart!” he beams. “If you get two more stickers, you get to choose what we do with our next session!”

  Dallas looks underwhelmed, but I know it’s self-preservation. He is uncomfortable with achievement. But I see that half-smile curling the left side of his mouth.

  [I see red.]

  Dr. Poopy Diaper gets a piece of paper and starts making a schedule like what Zoe used to do. I remember our home school—it was so good.

  “Today is Monday,” he says. “Yesterday was Christmas, and today we have Zoe and Cinnamon. Zoe is staying from now until next Tuesday.”

  As he talks, he writes and draws with the marker that smells good. I follow his writing and drawing with my eyes. I wait for him to tell me that I get to go home with her, but he starts talking about something else.

  “We are going to try something very special, but you have to prove that you can handle it,” he says with a serious face. I guess this is where he tells me I get to go home with Zoe, and if I’m good, I get to stay.

  “Do you know what a service dog is?” he says.

  I don’t know what service dogs have to do with anything. My eyes get wider, and I’m waiting, waiting, waiting for the part where he says I’m going home.

  [I see you.]

  He’s going to be so excited when he realizes he might be able to keep Cinnamon.

  “Dallas,” Dr. Martinez repeats, “Do you know what a service dog is?”

  Dallas shakes his head, but he’s smiling.

  “They’re specially trained dogs who help people,” the Dr. explains. “We’d like to train Cinnamon, so he can stay here with you.”

  [I see red.]

  “...So he can stay here with you.”

  SO HE CAN STAY HERE WITH ME? No, no, no, no, no.

  [I see you.]

  The half smile morphs. His eyes become narrow slits, then widen as he stands. Oh shit, there go his arms. The volcano is erupting; get ready for the lava.

  [I see red.]

  “I’M GOING HOME WITH ZOE!” I scream in Dr. Shit Head’s face. I spit on him too, but he closes his eyes when it lands on his face. “HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU? ARE YOU STUPID OR SOMETHING?”

  [I see you.]

  His words are directly from Jacob’s mouth. The phrases spoken over Dallas are spewing from the top of the volcano, from his core, deep underground. They’re molten, glowing with anger. They’re red: the filter through which he sees life when he’s disassociated from his body. His immovable faith that I will be his new mother is haunting, pressing on my shoulders like a heavy ghost. Sarah’s face fills my mind, and she’s just as haunted as I am, yet by the ghost of Grey. He’s the center of all this, an innocent child who ran out of oxygen. Grief never disappears—it can evaporate, but it’s ever present, waiting to rain down on a cloudy day.

  “Do you need a break, Dallas?” I ask, voice trembling. He starts banging his head against a wall—albeit a soft one. He’s certainly not the first kid to meltdown in a soft room at Starlight. There’s a stretchy hammock in the corner, and if I can just herd him there, he may calm down without being held. The hammock provides deep pressure sensory input, like a great big hug, with the added benefit of not punching anyone in the face.

  I push gently on his back, leading him to the hammock, and of course he resists. So I grab him, and literally throw him in the hammock. He lands softly, bouncing in the stretchy fabric. Inevitably, he thrashes, but he can’t get out. Within a minute, he surrenders to the hammock and calms. For the hundredth time today, we sit beside Dallas and wait it out.

  There’s always tomorrow.

  [I see red.]

  I’m trapped in this hammock and I’m trapped at this house.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Rewriting the Story

  [I see you.]

  At 8 pm I leave Starlight and trudge through the snow to the guest house by the stables. There are three rooms for parents to use when they stay, and the other two are empty—in fact, this whole establishment is pretty empty right now considering the vast majority of kids are home for the holidays. The guest house is dated; decorated with maroon and pine green plaid curtains, oak wood furniture, and a touch lamp by the bed.

  It smells musty. Unused.

  I fall face down on the bed. What a day.

  #

  Around 10pm I feel able to dial Ezra.

  “Hello,” I say.

  “Hey babe,” he answers. “How did it go?”

  “It went.”

  He takes a deep breath. “Are you OK?”

  “I’m exhausted,” I admit. “Dallas had several violent meltdowns today, and I had one too.”

  “I’m sorry,” he croaks. “I wish I could be there for you.”

  I stand by the window, and touch the lamp so it shuts off. I slide it open and feel the freezing breeze on my face, taking in the sight of the stars I haven’t seen in years.

  “It’s beautiful here. A little creepy in the residential part, but I got a guest house out
back. It’s for parents, but I guess they don’t visit much. The whole idea of residential care is tragic, it’s like a greenhouse for criminals.”

  “Are you safe?”

  “Yeah,” I say, not sure whether it’s a truth or lie. “There are tons of staff.”

  “How’s Cinnamon?”

  “Cute,” I smile, scruffing his furry neck. “He’s been a real life-saver. I can’t leave him with Dallas yet, but hopefully by the end of the week.”

  “How’s Dallas?”

  “Skinny,” I choke. “He’s peeing his pants, too.”

  Ezra pushes. “You need to make things right with him.”

  “I’m trying,” I say, holding back tears. “It just didn’t happen today.”

  “There’s always tomorrow,” he tells me, before changing the subject to something completely unrelated. The conversation doesn't last long, considering I'm emotionally spent, and truth be told—I can't think of anyone but Dallas.

  [I see red.]

  I wake up alone in my room, because Matthew is still at home with his family. The clock says 7:15 am, and I’m only allowed out of the room after 7:30 am. If I open the door, an alarm goes BEEP, BEEP and I don’t want that to happen. I get dressed and wait.

  I wonder what time Zoe will be here?

  At 7:30 am Alicia comes to the door. Alicia, ugh, wrong girl. I feel like hitting her, but I don’t. She takes me to breakfast at the dining hall. I cross my arms and say nothing the whole way.

  [I see you.]

  I meet Dallas over breakfast and conversationally walk on the very same eggshells that broke to make my meal. All I want is a couple of hours without him flying off the handle, and I wonder if that’s realistic. Dallas, Alicia, and I sit around a table for three, and I notice her left foot fixed on his chair. She’s pushed the chair in so far that he can’t escape quickly, and my respect for the girl skyrockets. Alicia knows what she’s doing.

  “Zoe, I eated protein all the meals,” Dallas brags. “I gotted so skinny that Alicia said her could play guitar on my ribs. She telled me that if I didn’t start eating, then a doctor would put a food tube in my nose. Not the same doctor that you meeted, him is just a feelings doctor. The food tube doctor is from the hostable.”

  I mentally note three things:

  (1) His speech has regressed—he’s lost the ability to use past tense appropriately, the pronouns have slipped, and he sounds basically like a three-year-old again.

  (2) He’s, in my opinion, deathly skinny—but I’m aware this isn’t the worst he’s been. He fixed his own meals (chicken nuggets) from the ages of three through six. He didn’t know how to accept food from others/this is another power play.

  (3) He’s himself today. Talkative and free.

  After breakfast, Alicia takes Dallas to his first group session of the day. They’re doing indoor PE of some sort, since it’s snowing like crazy outside. We left Cinnamon in the guest house today.

  #

  All three primary adults in Dallas’s life meet in Dr. Martinez’s ‘adult’ office—a stark departure from the soft room. I, for one, am glad we’re out of that God-forsaken padded cell.

  “I’m excited to have you both on board for Dallas’s treatment plan,” Dr. Martinez announces. “Zoe, you come with the most knowledge of Dallas. You can give us context, backstory, and evidence-based opinions on strategies.”

  Alicia looks a little uncomfortable, redundant even, like I’ve invaded her area of expertise. I want to tell her I’m not competing — I don’t want the responsibility of Dallas. That's why he's here.

  “Alicia,” he continues, “ You are on the front line of this plan. I have only got five hours a week with Dallas, but you have forty. You have seven times more opportunity to make an impact on his life.”

  She looks less awkward now, and a little more nervous. I would be, too, if I were entrusted with Dallas’s life at her age. I wonder if I should suggest that she start working out, doing some weight training or something. With all this protein he’s consuming, he’s going to get stronger, and Alicia is barely bigger than a twelve-year-old. He’ll crush her like an ant.

  “Zoe,” Luis begins, “Why don’t you start explaining your opinions on where we should go with his treatment plan?”

  “Grief,” I clear my throat. “I believe grief is the driving force behind most of Dallas’s behaviors.”

  Alicia pipes up, “We’ve heard Reactive Attachment Disorder, Conduct Disorder, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Oppositional Defiance Disorder…”

  She bends one finger back at a time as she lists each of the frustrating diagnoses that have been thrown at her. She’s drowning in other people’s fleeting opinions, and she can’t afford to go under.

  “It all stems back to the original trauma of Grey’s death,” I explain.

  “Can you elaborate on the details of the trauma?” Luis asks.

  "Just so you know," I begin, "I got my original information from Dallas's mom, but I'm not convinced it's entirely accurate. There are major gaps, and most of them involve his mother's alcoholism. She changed the story about three times as she told me."

  "Was Dallas in the room when you heard details of the trauma?" Luis asks.

  "No," I confirm. "He was in his room making loud noises. I think he knew what was happening, and he didn't want me to know."

  "I want you to tell us the most accurate account of the story that you know," Luis requests. "We are unlikely ever to get any more information than you already have. I trust that you'll leave your opinion at the door, and just give the facts."

  I think for a moment, about whether or not that is possible. I know, without a shadow of a doubt, I'm going to spin the story in Dallas's favor, but I don't know what else to do. There's a decent part of me that now believes Dallas killed his brother, but in order to save Dallas's life, I'm about to enter into the land of the 'Little White Lie.' My bias gets the better of me as the words leave my lips.

  “Four summers ago, when Dallas was three and Grey was six, they were swimming in a neighbor’s pool. The dad was inside with friends, and their mom, who has problems with alcohol, left them unattended to refill her drink. When she returned, Grey was face down in the water, and Dallas was still playing, because he didn’t understand what happened. Mom immediately blamed Dallas, because she knew she shouldn’t have left them alone. Dad only ever heard the version of the story where Dallas held Grey under the water, even though we have it on fairly good authority that’s not true.”

  OK, I made up some of the story. I know for certain that Sarah left to get a drink, and when she returned, Grey had a head injury and was dead. Nobody but Dallas knows what happened in between A and B. The main point of the story is that Sarah shouldn't have left her kids unattended—especially for alcohol.

  “Was there an autopsy report?” Luis interjects.

  “He drowned,” I shrug. What more can I say?

  “I feel bad for even asking, but, are we sure that Dallas didn’t drown his brother?” Alicia asks. I wince.

  It has occurred to me for a while now, that Dallas could really be a killer. There were no eyewitnesses to my knowledge, and right now, I am Dallas’s only advocate. I don’t know if he held Grey under the water, and he sure as hell doesn’t remember the story accurately. He has only ever had a drunken version of the events regurgitated to him. So, in order to save Dallas’s life, I lie.

  “Yeah, that was concluded in the autopsy,” I insist.

  “How can they tell the difference between him being held under the water, and him just drowning?” Alicia prods.

  “Grey had a head injury,” I report, which I know to be true. “Our best guess is that he jumped off the edge of the pool and hit his head on the side.”

  "Are there any other details to be aware of?" Luis examines. "Some of the story seems kind of fuzzy."

  "I told you from the beginning that the story was a jigsaw puzzle, and nobody accurately knows where the pieces should go," I retort defensively. "I've tol
d you all I know."

  Dr. Martinez shuffles a bunch of papers, and says, “OK. Now that we know the truth about what happened -”

  (I almost throw up, but I don’t. The word 'truth' lodges itself in my throat.)

  “We can start retelling the story to Dallas. He’s assumed responsibility because he’s never been told otherwise,” Luis continues. “I want you guys to work together to create a social story. He’ll probably react to it pretty violently at first, but we’ll persevere. Once he knows the true version of the story, we can get to the grief.”

  “He talks to Zoe about Grey,” Alicia comments, “But he doesn’t mention Grey to me at all. And let’s face it, he flat out ignores you, Luis. How are we going to get to the next step?”

  Dr. Martinez and I react in unison, “Time.”

  “Time’s not on our side. We only have Zoe for another week,” Alicia worries.

  “Let’s just take one day at a time,” Luis cautions. “We can’t project a timeline with kids like Dallas. There’ll be progress, then he’ll regress, and he’ll move forward when he’s ready. His brain isn’t conditioned for consistency, and we have been given the gift of living with him for the remainder of his formative years.”

  “What if he has nowhere to go when he’s eight?” Alicia worries.

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Luis shrugs. “There’s no crystal ball, no magic wand—just brain plasticity and behavior retraining. Truthfully, Alicia, your consistent positive influence in his life is going to make all the difference. You too, Zoe. Your keeping in contact with him will catalyze this process. Don’t underestimate your role in Dallas’s healing.”

  We sit in this sobering moment. Two girls in their twenties who can barely be responsible for paying their phone bills on time and keeping up with laundry, staring down the barrel at raising a broken child from his proverbial coffin. I just hope Alicia stays on after a year.